Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The little dark haired boy sat at the sprawling dining room table, picking at a loose thread on the runner. He didn’t dare get up from his seat despite how his feet were starting to go numb where they dangled. His father had told him to stay; so he would. He could hear the muffled sounds of his parents arguing over something assuredly petty above that chandelier and then the distinct sound of his mother’s heels clip, clip, clipping down the stairs. 

“Timothy.” Her smooth voice entered the room before she did, dressed in a red gown that went all the way to skim the ground at her feet like a swishing pillar. “Look at you. That nanny is always leaving you out too long, you’re all sunburned.”

He met her schmaltzy gaze. He’d read a book that said if both his parents had blue eyes, he had no choice but to also be blue eyed. It was strange to think that of all the tiny genetic things going on inside him to make him look how he did, there was no possible way for him to have been born with brown or green eyes. His parents had known he would have blue eyes before they knew if he would be a boy or a girl. 

She stroked a cool hand down his cheek. “Why don’t you run upstairs and put on some of my vitamin e cream.”

“I already did,” he said proudly. “Like you told me last–”

“Timothy,” she cut in, suddenly cocking her head like a displeased bird of prey. “You know better than to use my things without permission.”

“But you said–”

She drew away, cold, heading towards the front hall. “No buts. You know better. Go get your bowtie. Quick.”

He bounced up from his seat and ran to the stairs, turning around and returning to push in his seat before scampering off again. The halls were empty and the many rooms closed. Only three people lived in the Drake Estate and only one was there for a substantial enough portion of the year to make a dent in its sterile cleanliness. It had the look of something out of a CottageLife magazine.

He burst into his room; bed made, bookshelf full, school books stacked on his desk. One of his posters was drooping from the wall, tape failing an upper corner. 

He glanced over his shoulder and down the hall, quickly closing his door.

It was an F1 poster for the RedBull team. Timothy had never really been any type of car enthusiast, but it had been the biggest wall covering for sale at the Gotham Academy’s book sale in the gymnasium. He neared it and could see the white edges of photographs peeking out from beneath. The emblem on the Wayne Manor gates. A boot print pressed into loose dirt. The shadow of a pointed head cast on a concrete wall. A news clipping about Bruce Wayne’s last minute trip to Belize. 

He quickly pasted the poster back up, tucking the corner beneath an oversized periodic table. 

Timothy felt a bit… fanatical. People had told him his entire life that he was smart. He personally felt quite average. He’d always been Timothy Drake and it was impossible for him to imagine being anyone else, or that anyone might not be able to do math at a high school level in the third grade. That being said, even if he were a genius, could he have truly at eight years old, figured out Batman’s identity? Even with all his spying and information gathering and late nights spent doing research?

He dug through the deepest recesses of his drawer to get his bowtie and disposable camera.

No, obviously not. He could never be the one to find out. He was just connecting dots where they didn’t belong. He couldn’t help but think though, that the proof lined up quite nicely. 

“Timothy!” his father bellowed. “You are not making us late!”

“Coming!” he called, and checking the poster one last time, he tucked his camera into his jacket.

Timothy had lost his parents. 

They were in the same room as him, but when that room was larger than his entire– sizable– house, that wasn’t very helpful. Luckily for him, he was better off without his parents breathing over his shoulder. 

He was leaning partly against, partly behind a column, watching Bruce Wayne plant a firm hand on a young teen’s shoulder. He was maybe three or four years older than Timothy and did not look thrilled to be surrounded by hoards of tittering and simpering socialites ecstatic to be in the presence of the newest dark-haired ward of Gotham’s favorite billionaire. 

Actually, neither looked thrilled to be there, though Mr. Wayne was doing a better job at hiding it. Jason Todd seemed to be trying to bully those closest to him into spontaneously combusting with the force of his will. 

Richard Grayson wasn’t with them. A strange coincidence considering the original Robin had also seemingly fallen off the side of the world recently, replaced by a new, eerily similar one.

Timothy raised the bright yellow camera to his eye and snapped a quick picture. He didn’t get to see it yet but he only had four photos left available on his film before he would develop them. His parents were leaving town by the end of the week so he would have time after– without them having the cleaners snooping around every nook and cranny of the house. 

He wanted to be a journalist when he grew up. He liked the feeling of sleuthing around, the thrill of finding evidence. He liked knowing things that others didn’t and all of the steps that led up to having the knowledge so firmly in his grasp. 

His mother always said that the world was made up of good people and bad people, and that it balanced out. She said she had the ability to sniff out which people could make her the most money, and that she thought he might too. Timothy had grown up wealthy though, he put little value in material items or wads of cash. In his eyes, he could have that whenever. What he wanted to sniff out were secrets.

Like how Mrs. Daly had cheated on her husband with a man fifteen years younger than her. Or how Mr. Wills had once gotten a good business deal by putting heavy alcohol in his partner’s coffee. Or how Bruce Wayne was Batman. 

Possibly.

“Timothy,” someone snapped, breaking him from his trance. It was his father, grabbing the shoulder of his jacket in a strong fist and dragging him away from the column to walk beside him. He peeked back over to the Waynes. “I looked everywhere for you. Benjamin is outside waiting with the Bentley. Your mother isn’t ready to leave yet so you’ll just have to put yourself to bed. I want you asleep by the time we get home.”

“Yes, sir,” he chirped. 

He deposited him in the entryway. “Be quick. It was raining earlier and I don’t want your suit to get wrinkled.”

Timothy nodded and with a smile, disappeared out the golden doors.

He wasn’t yet positive who Batman was, he wasn’t sure he would ever know for certain. What he did recognize was that Gotham would always need the Batman more than Tim needed to know whose face was behind the cowl. 

Did that mean he would stop searching?

Definitely not.

Chapter Text

Timothy Drake would have never considered himself dependent.

On the contrary, he was fiercely, forcibly in dependent. If he wasn’t alone, he was probably unhappy. He didn’t need friends at school, he didn’t need the house staff at the Estate, and he didn’t need his parents ever. Not that they offered much anyways. 

Just then, he was wishing they had offered more often, and feeling pitifully dependent. 

Weak sunlight trickled through the gaps between window and curtain, it was either first thing in the morning, last thing at night, or a cloudy day. Not very specific. Not very helpful.

Timothy was in a bed that wasn’t his, in a room decorated for someone else, in a house owned by a woman he’d never talked to before just a few weeks ago. His suitcase was spilling its contents onto the floor and his box of belongings was unopened beside it. 

Time was slipping by, his eyes were caught between unable to stay open and unwilling to stay shut. His mind was racing with white noise rather than any real thoughts, like a static-filled radio station. 

“Timothy!” Ms. Reid called through the house. “I’m going to that café down the street for tea with Candace. Do you want to come?”

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth but just ended up giving a sigh in response. Pathetic. 

He heard his door creak open.

“I’ll get you a pain au chocolat. Okay? Call me if you need anything,” Ms. Reid whispered. 

She was his godmother but he didn’t remember her from his childhood. Apparently, she had been a sorority sister of his mother’s but they had a falling out when he was young. She was nice enough, getting him take-out even when he said he wasn’t hungry, trying to coax him into watching Jeopardy with her in the living room. He could tell that she didn’t really want him to stay though. She was glad to keep him for now, out of some guilt for never making up with his mother, but she had her own life that he was intruding on. 

The front door slammed and the glass in the windows shook. 

Timothy pulled the duvet up to his chin and didn’t move until his arm started tingling painfully beneath him. Even then, he had to force himself to lethargically rearrange his limbs into a semi-comfortable position.

He wished she was less caring, at times. That she would leave him to fester until he inevitably had to clean up after himself and take a shower. He wished she would expect him to clean for her. His parents didn’t clean, he always prepped the table for meals and tidied little messes they left in their wake when they were in town. He liked the quiet thanks he got for it. The humming glow in his chest that came with his mother’s smile. 

His phone buzzed on the desk across the room. He stared at it, willing it to fly over to him so he wouldn’t have to break the numbing haze that had come over him sometime between then and when last he’d gone to the washroom. 

He dragged himself from bed and over to the desk chair. His phone was blinking and the screen was overflowing with old notifications he’d ignored. 

The new one was from school, the Dean had reached out, finally. They’d been emailing back and forth for the better part of two weeks and after going MIA for days, he was giving Timothy what he wanted. It didn’t feel as great as he’d imagined.

The story of Timothy’s high school experience is not a long one and now he’s successfully brought it to an end for the year. 

It starts with Timothy Drake becoming a freshman a year early. He’d always been a year ahead; something to do with a Montessori education and skipping kindergarten. Not a good look for someone trying to make friends, but a perfectly fine look for Timothy who’d convinced himself he had no interest in that. 

It continues with Timothy Drake getting bumped up into sophomore classes and then the next year into junior. He took night school classes and online courses that taught him to code in three languages. He went to a singular party that he didn’t enjoy, and too many galas to count that he hated even more.

It ends with Timothy Drake talking his teachers into giving him coursework early over Christmas break and then bribing the Dean to let him do the rest of the year’s stuff once he finished it. When he tried to do schoolwork early, he hadn’t planned on finishing all of junior year during his sophomore spring break, but things happen when you have to distract yourself from the fact that your parents are dead and their bodies are lost somewhere in Cuba. 

His current grades would be available as soon as the teachers finished marking his work, the email said, but he would still have to take exams at the end of June. The tech lab will greatly benefit from his donation to the school and the Dean is looking forward to seeing what amazing things he will accomplish in his life. Wonderful.

He just stared at the screen. It didn’t feel as substantial as he thought it would. He didn’t feel any different. He felt like his pockets were six thousand dollars and a year of tuition lighter and all he had to show for it were less distractions to keep him busy. 

He slouched back into his chair and pushed the phone away. The building out his window had crown moulding surrounding the edge of its snow-covered roof. He opened the laptop on the desk and closed all his tabs before opening a new one and looking up crown moulding styles 1900s .  He scrolled through the results. 

The building was probably built in the early 1940s. 

He closed the tab. 

When he got out of the shower later that day, the sun was low in the sky. The skyscrapers lining the horizon were bathed in red and orange. The streets were starting to empty out before the rush of nightlife filled them again. 

Ms. Reid still wasn’t back from tea and the condo was starting to feel– not quite claustrophobic but overwhelming nonetheless. He didn’t like the way he could look down at the street and see little people scurrying around like ants, it felt sinister. Like they weren’t real people, like he could do anything and never see the horror on their faces or everything they were losing. 

He needed to take a walk. 

At the bottom of his suitcase were a Star Labs hoodie he’d never worn before and a pair of greyish khakis that he’d definitely gotten for a birthday gift from someone who barely knew him. He hadn’t realized how much weight he’d lost over the past month. The pants sat low on his hips and were baggy around his knobby knees, he was drowning in the sweater.

For a second, he really, really wanted to get back in bed, but he forced himself out of his room and through the kitchen and into the elevator. He grabbed a few twenties off the counter and a coat slung over the back of a barstool on the way out. 

Nobody joined him in the lift until he got to the lobby and an elderly couple stepped in right as he got off. The main floor had light jazz music playing and a dining room open for dinner. There were a few people coming and going, the wealthy finance types who liked and could afford housing in a building like this. Some were sitting in plush lounge chairs or leaning against columns. There were a few tourists taking photos of the arched ceilings and glittering chandeliers. A uniformed member of the staff stood uselessly beside the rotating doors and tipped his red hat when Timothy passed. 

 The winter air was cold against his neck where water was dripping from his hair. He pulled up his hood and started off, away from the tallest of the skyscrapers. The street lights flicked on. 

He wandered through the streets, turning corners when he felt like it and stopping when he saw a building he liked. Taxis whizzed by, people were bustling around, lights flickered on signs labelling the buildings. He’d never explored the city like this, free to look around and no particular destination in mind. Thick air filled his lungs, it smelled like garbage and alcohol. It was all so unlike the Estate. No orchards or fields or nature at all. Just metal and brick. It had it’s appeal. He liked the buzzing energy it filled him with, but it was hard to believe that the serene setting of his childhood was only a thirty-minute drive away. 

Slowly, with every step, the fog surrounding his brain started to lift. He didn’t feel much better without it but his muscles felt less lethargic, like they were waking up and starting to listen. Even if only a little. 

The buildings had shifted from glass monoliths and 20th-century speakeasies to residential neighbourhoods to crooked apartments and drooping bars. He hadn’t thought to bring his phone to keep track of time. He would have to take a cab back too, not that there were many patrolling this area of town. 

Pedestrians were stumbling around or bundled up in dirty sleeping bags on the side of the road. It was less “fun hitting the town” than it had seemed Uptown, now more depressing and hard to look at. 

He had never even driven through this part of town. None of the street signs were familiar, the buildings had bars on their windows, there was a rusted truck sitting half on the sidewalk missing a front wheel. Streetlights were few and far between, even rarer was finding one that worked. There were no cabs and no payphones. It was truly black out now, the smoggy clouds blotted out the moon and any stars there might have been. 

He should just turn around and try to retrace his steps. 

“Hey kid,” a gruff voice said from behind him.

He spun, stumbling back. 

There were three men standing casually beside a heavily graffitied post box. They couldn’t have been older than thirty. The closest one had his features hidden in shadow but Timothy could see a scruffy beard lining his jaw. He had a baseball hat on and his hands were stuffed into the pockets of a tracksuit sweater. 

Timothy tipped his chin up, half to seem brave and half just to be able to look the man in the face. 

“You lost?” the man asked.

One of the others stepped forward, peering around the first man’s shoulder. He was lanky, with a shaved head and ripped jeans.

“Shit,” he said around a cigarette. “Nice kicks.”

The first man gave a deep chuckle and nodded. “We can help you get back to wherever you came from in return for them.”

Timothy looked down at his runners. They were dark and soggy with melted snow but still obviously of brand name.

“You want me to give you my shoes?” he asked, sounding nervous and young. 

The men nodded. “And if you have anything else on you, we’ll take that too.”

“You’re robbing me,” he said. He hadn’t spoken in so long.

The lanky man flicked his wrist and a blade snapped open, catching a ray of flickering neon light on its edge. “Only if that’s the way you want it to be.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. 

The third one that had been hanging back, took a lurching step forwards and something inside Timothy snapped. 

He turned and bolted. 

The men were shouting. Their footsteps echoed off the pavement. He turned a corner and then another. He was slow and his legs were tired. The men obviously knew these streets. Brackish water sprayed up from his footfalls.

He pivoted into an alley. It was blocked by mounds of trash bags and a dumpster pushed against a chain link fence. He skidded to a stop. His lungs were scraped raw. He was shaking all over. 

The thugs appeared at the mouth of the alley, slowly approaching with menacing steps. 

There was a ladder leading to a fire escape just out of reach. He backed up until his shins were pressed against a garbage bag. He didn’t think the men would kill him. An orange glow hit the side of one of their faces and he laughed from a scarred mouth.

“Please,” he said anyway. “Please.”

One of the others lunged forward to grab him and the world went dark.

There was a shouted curse and then a muffled thump. The street lights came back and Timothy realized that it wasn’t that they had suddenly gone out, someone had dropped down between him and the thugs and their cape had obscured his vision. A cape so dark it absorbed all the light shone at it, like a physical shadow.

The Batman. 

He threw a punch that sent one to the ground. The lanky one tried to make a run for it but he grabbed him and threw him against the wall hard enough that Timothy heard a crack. The man crumpled. He whipped a black blade at the last of the men standing and it embedded itself in his shoulder. He wailed– a delayed, keening sound– and pressed both hands against the wound. The Batman gave him a fierce kick to his gut and he fell backwards into a pile of garbage and gasped for breath before continuing to cry out.

Done. Done. 

Batman’s hulking figure turned and Timothy met the cowl’s white eyes. There was a haze around his mask, features blurred and warped. A sharp pain shot through his head, his vision doubled and he was forced to look away. He knew what he had seen though. In the chin, the stature, the mouth. Bruce Wayne. 

It was satisfying to know that after so many sleepless nights, he was right. After his last encounter with Batman so many years ago. He could still see Robin in his mind, flipping through the air in a combo that had immediately triggered his memories of the circus. The Flying Graysons swinging on trapezes and doing that very move, their signature one. And then the memories of the trapeze rope snapping and people falling into the open air beneath. 

He chanced another look up. Batman was staring at him. Timothy wondered if recognized him from all the fundraisers they’d attended together. If maybe he was thinking of the time Richard Grayson had sat beside him at a debutante dinner and made casual jokes about his sprained wrist and a skiing accident in Switzerland. 

But Wayne was panting and shaking. His hands clenched and unclenched. And without so much as a look around, he launched himself up the fire escape and onto the roof. Out of sight. 

He seemed– unhinged.

And just like the gossip panels had been “reporting”, there was no sign of Robin. 

Timothy ran from the alley.

Chapter Text

He had been kidnapped for two days when he was six and stupid. Thirty-four hours actually.

It hadn’t been all that exciting for Timothy, who was given sugary food he didn’t get at home and free reign over a television. It wasn’t until nightfall that he started to get nervous and not until morning that he started to worry over missed school.

The people keeping him weren’t scary though, and he mostly thought it was a mistake. He couldn’t remember much of the ordeal except the end of his brief stint as a missing person when Batman had burst through the window with Robin on his heels.

They’d made quick work of the criminals but Timothy never forgot one thing. Robin’s neat little acrobatics combo that he did coming into the building. It was burned into his mind. He’d lost sleep over it for weeks while his parents thought he was scared of being taken again. 

And now he knew that his childish eyes hadn’t deceived him. That he hadn’t drawn conclusions from nothing. He was right. 

It was solidly night when he’d gotten back to the condo building and it had been at least an hour since he realized he couldn’t get back into the condo without a key card. The lobby was quiet, the dining room was closed. He was sitting on an uncomfortable sofa and his mind was racing.

He laid his head in his hands. Batman was Bruce Wayne . He tried to equate the boyish billionaire he’d met so many times with the feral, angry person he’d seen in the alley. He imagined trying to paste Bruce’s signature grin over that haggard face. Had he been to any socialite gatherings lately? Timothy surely hadn’t. He wasn’t keeping up with gossip columns about people he didn’t care about either. 

“Timothy?” someone asked.

His gaze shot up. “Ms. Reid?”

She was trying to hold herself tall while obviously being drunk off her feet. Her eyes were drooping and she was swaying on the spot. Her fur coat was slipping off one of her shoulders. 

He stood to steady her before she fell over. 

“I told you to call me Katherine, dear.” She leaned into him heavily. “What are you doing down here?”

“I got locked out,” he said but she wasn’t really listening.

The doorman was staring at them oddly so Tim started guiding her towards the elevator. 

She was murmuring to herself and nodding off when they got there. She sagged against the metal walls and hummed along to the tune playing inside. 

Tim punched the floor number in and they started to rise. He sighed. 

Bruce Wayne . He’d totally called it.

In the apartment, he deposited her onto one of the barstools and took her coat, hanging it beside his in the closet. He searched around for glasses and got them both water, eventually taking the seat next to Ms. Reid’s.

She was just staring down at the cup. Her hair hid her face like a veil. It was a chestnutty brown with strands of grey running through, though she didn’t look old enough for it. Then again, Timothy remembered his mother getting her hair coloured every time she was in Gotham. 

She slurred something incomprehensible before stopping and trying again. 

“Do you think your mother hated me?” she whispered with a little bit of her French accent peeking through. 

He wanted to say that he wouldn’t know, that he rarely saw his parents and when he did, they didn’t talk about hating past college friends. 

“I don’t think my mother hated anyone.”

She tilted her head so her hair fell out of the way and revealed her red, teary eyes. “What were your last words to her?”

Timothy immediately was struck by the urge to get up and go anywhere that wasn’t this conversation. Instead, he didn’t move or blink or do anything really. Rude , his mind supplied, out of line.

Eventually, words got dragged from his mouth by her quiet stare. “I don’t remember.” She looked away and he floundered. “They’d been gone for months, we didn’t call enough, I was busy with school.”

She just nodded to her glass and moved her purse from her lap to his. He looked down and saw that in the unopened pouch was a brown paper bag. He took it with careful hands. 

Inside was a slightly squashed pain au chocolat. 

He took it with him on his way to bed. 

The next morning– or rather afternoon when he got up, Ms. Reid was missing but her purse was still where he’d left it.

It was bowed over on the counter and the contents of it had spilled out from its wide mouth. There was a letter sitting slightly separate from the rest of the pile. It was wax sealed and when Timothy picked it up, he saw that it had his name scrawled onto the back. 

He cracked it open to reveal a black and gold invitation to the annual Kane New Year’s celebration. He immediately walked over to the sick to toss it into the garbage in the cabinet below.

He paused. Bruce Wayne smiling down at him at some function flashed through his mind. He took another look at the invitation. 

It was a stupid idea. What would he even do if he saw him? He didn’t want to be around people who would try to tell him how sorry they were. He didn’t want to smile at dumb jokes and talk about business with people who didn’t run their own companies. 

He set the invitation down and got to work trying to hunt down something for breakfast. He ended up making oatmeal with some tropical fruit he didn’t know the name for and oat milk. 

The invitation didn’t disappear under his stare while he stood and ate and neither did the calendar when he checked the date. December twenty-seventh.

It seemed like he’d have to make some phone calls. 

His freshly dry-cleaned suit was too big for him. Only slightly, but still. He’d had it tailored for his parents' funeral and it had fit perfectly then. He felt like he was somehow disrespecting his parents by wearing it again.

The party was Great Gatsby themed, which luckily meant that Timothy could get away with wearing a black suit and nothing more theatrical. 

He was buzzing with nerves on his way out the door. He didn’t want to be out so publicly. Even people in the lobby took notice of him as they left for their own festivities, though it was the sort of notice anyone would get as they’re escorted to the back seat of a Bentley.

“Mister Drake,” the chauffeur said when he slid in. He was a young man who was hired specifically for Timothy when his parents were out of town. He always looked a bit smug and liked to smoke out the window when Timothy wasn’t in the car, leaving all the leather smelling faintly of tobacco. 

He didn’t say anything back and they merged into the rushing traffic. His tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth, he needed to calm down before he could get anything done. 

It was already dark and snow was drifting down in massive, fluffy clumps. They had to pass over the bridge from Miagani Island to New Gotham and the water below was semi frozen, battering the shore with slushy waves. 

The party was always held at the Kanes’ Royal Hotel but after it had been destroyed by the Joker a few years ago, they’d had to relocate until it was fully restored. They were trying to get business back up by publicizing all of the goings on there. Apparently getting a building blown up wasn’t good for getting people to spend their vacations there. 

He could tell they were getting close when the sidewalks started to fill with people and the streets got less and less crowded. Police had the area blocked off to most traffic, Timothy could see a few reporters vans getting through. People pushed towards the entrance just to get a glimpse of the ones walking up the steps and getting their invites checked. Cameras were flashing.  

The Bentley was maneuvered into a line up and they inched closer and closer to the steps where he’d inevitably have to get out of the warm, quiet car.

“I’ll be in the underground parking when you’re ready to go, Mister Drake.”

“Can I just go in that way?” he asked.

The chauffeur just chuckled and unlocked the door so the man outside could open it.

A blast of cold air hit him and he quickly steeled himself and got out, smoothing the wrinkles from his jacket and getting the invitation from his inside pocket. He tried not to look too long at the news cameras or any one set of eyes behind the temporary fence keeping bystanders back. 

There was a massive Christmas tree in the front square, dripping in lights and heavy with snow. It was several stories tall, Timothy vaguely pondered the likelihood of it being real. 

Behind it, the hotel was lit up from every angle and he could almost forget that it was night while he walked up the stairs towards the front doors. He’d never walked up these stairs alone before. He’d always had a parent on either side or he wouldn’t be here at all. A man in sunglasses took his invite and opened the door for him with its gold handle. Everything inside was red and gold and glittering. Massive chandeliers hung overhead and there was a huge staircase that led up to a section of the hotel he knew held a restaurant and a bar and a stage and many, many conference rooms.

A few people took his name and he just tried to keep himself under control. He didn’t want to seem to everyone like the kid he felt like on the inside. 

He couldn’t remember how to socialize at things like this, did he go up to people? Does he just linger until someone takes pity and adopts him into their conversation?

Instead he went up the staircase where most of the guests were mingling and went to the bar to get something bubbly in a champagne glass that wouldn’t break the law in front of so many police officers watching the crowds. He ended up with some sort of pear cider.

Now it was time to wander and see if he could find the whole reason he was here. 

He made it to the hor d'oeuvres before someone recognized him. 

“Timothy Drake,” they said. And he tried not to seem too frustrated at getting side tracked. “How are you doing, son?”

It was a group of old men that Timothy didn’t recognize. They were all in black and blue suits, one had spiced it up with some pinstripes. They also all had the exact same pair of shoes on, which in their defense, did look like they were from the set of the Great Gatsby.

He realized that he’d been silent for a bit too long and the men were starting to look between each other derisively. He gave them a half-hearted smile that hopefully came across as sad but trying his best .

“I’m doing as well as can be expected, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Oh, well,” the man blustered. “It must be a hard time for you, it’s the least I can do.”

And he wanted to say, I know . But instead he saw him take a sip of his champagne so Timothy does the same, though with less vigour. 

It was some sort of trick he was taught by one of his nannies when he was little. I know why the other kids don’t like you , she had said when they had gone to pick up some dry-cleaning and he had convinced her to stop at the park on the way home but he had ended up playing alone– quite contentedly he may add– until she called him back to the car.

You’re too still. You just stare at them when they laugh or try to give you a high five. She looked at him in the rearview mirror. If you won’t talk, at least move around a bit. Do what they do.

Timothy hadn’t taken the advice at the time, mostly out of stubbornness. He’d been childishly insulted. It was good advice though. 

The men have apparently reached their goodwill quota of the day and turned back to their conversation so he moved on. Two more people stopped him to give condolences before he was pulled into a circle of older ladies trying to talk to him about his plans for marriage. 

“Martha is here,” one of the ladies says. “Should we call her over? She’s a pretty little thing.”

Another scoffs and pets her hair like she’s making sure it hasn’t run away. “She may be pretty but that’s all she has going for her. What about Lindsay’s girl?”

“She’s only ten!”

“Thomas can’t be older than thirteen.”

“I’m fourteen,” Timothy cut in.

“Oh!” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Cissie just turned fifteen, she has a bit of height on you though. I don’t know if her mother would have been invited tonight. She was an Olympic athlete, you know.”

“Actually,” he interrupted again. “Speaking of who’s here. I’ve been looking for Bruce Wayne. Do you know if he’s here tonight?”

They all turned their beady eyes on him in pity.

“Darling, he hasn’t attended anything since that stray of his died,” the oldest of them said. 

“He wasn’t a stray. Wayne adopted him, Mary. Like the Grayson boy,” another corrected. 

“Okay, well thank you, ma’ams,” Timothy said, slowly inching away as they started bickering. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He turned and scampered away. He clenched his teeth and tried not to scowl. He did not want to be here. 

“Timothy!”

He groaned under his breath. 

A few kids his age were approaching him, it took him a moment to realize that he knew them from school. He smiled and set his empty glass on the tray of a passing server. 

“We saw you talking to Mrs. Jones but didn’t want to get too close to her,” Alexander Dumas said, earning a few snickers from the posse. “We were just going to sneak into the kitchens if you want to come.”

Timothy almost wanted to say yes, then he remembers why he came and shakes his head. “I was just leaving, sorry.”

They all had the same overly distraught expression on when Samantha Biolini spoke up, “You don’t have to go though, just stay a little longer.”

Alexander held up his hand so the back of it was in her face and said, “Will you be back at school next week?”

Timothy pursed his lips. “No, I’ve finished all the work for this year so other than the exams, I’m done. I’ll probably start looking at the company.”

He actually hadn’t thought about the family company much since the death of his parents. It seemed like a non-issue. Drake Industries practically ran itself.

Alexander gave a solemn nod, eager to be gone. “Well, sorry about your parents. We won’t keep you.”

Timothy waved and waited for the crowd to swallow them up before heading for the elevator and pressing the down arrow. The nervous buzzing hadn’t left yet, it was life he was infiltrating enemy territory and every conversation could be his last. 

“Home already?” Pedro asked from where he was smoking against the concrete wall with a few other employees. 

He shook his head. “Wayne Manor.”

Chapter Text

By the time they pulled onto Founders Lane, it was pelting rain and the man on the radio was saying that in just a half-hour, he would be counting down to the new year. 

Headlights illuminated trees on either side of the narrow road. A deer’s eyes glowed silver from the shadows when they passed. Sets of gates whizzed by. Timothy looked down before he could catch a glimpse of the Drake driveway. He didn’t want to see the hedges or the mailbox or the jagged stump where a sapling had snapped under the weight of a storm.

The car jumped over the crack in the road where the driveway was and he kept his eyes turned away until he was very sure it had faded into the darkness. 

The radio continued to blare out the top hits of the year. They passed the Elliot house, the Falcones’ family home, and a few other miscellaneous mansions. 

The Bentley rumbled to a stop in front of a black gate. The doors were firmly shut and the metal was twisted into dangerous, vine-like spikes. Stone pillars were on either side and then past that, more black fencing stretching into the night on either side.

The radio got turned down. He could hear the rain pounding its fists on the roof.

“You want me to get out and press the buzzer, Mister Drake?” the driver asked awkwardly, eying the gates.

Timothy shook his head. “He probably won't let us in so I’ll just go by myself.”

“You sure?” he asked. 

He sighed and made sure he had all of his things, which was admittedly only a wallet and a phone. “Just wait here, I shouldn’t be long.”

He pushed the door open before the driver could get up to help and stepped out into the downpour. His shoes were instantly soaked with mud and his hair was plastered down to his forehead. There was not a dry thing left on him.

He looked at the massive gates stretching up to the sky like the leafless trees squeezing in around them. There were no lights except for the Bentley’s and when he peered through the bars, he couldn’t see the Manor through the thick sheets of rain. The thunderous noise of it drowned out even the hum of the motor just behind him.

He trudged through the long, drooping grass to where the fence met the stone pillar and started to hoist himself up. His hands held onto a slick metal pike and the ledge of stone as he tried to find footholds. He only slipped twice before clumsily getting himself over the fence. He could imagine Pedro laughing from the car. 

The gravel sides of the drive were swept away by churning rivers of mucky water. He was forced to walk in the middle of the lane where there weren’t any trees to try and hold back the torrents. It was freezing and he was already sopping to the bone, as if he’d plunged into a winter lake. The suit was definitely ruined. His hand was trembling and numb when he tried to push hair out of his face. 

After too long a walk, a lichen-covered fountain became barely visible in the center of a roundabout. A ghoul in the dark. It didn’t have any water spouting from the cracked spout nor sitting in the basin. He was so busy inspecting it that he almost missed the gargantuan house squatting behind it like one of the many gargoyles lining its walls. 

It was a sprawling, gothic thing with pointed roofs and ivy crawling up one side. Timothy had tricked himself into expecting something like his own Tudor-style house, not this fortress. Ancient stone was worn soft from storms the like of which he was weathering then. Arches hid doorways. A tall chimney puffed smoke into the sky, only to be torn to shreds by the rain. There were only a few lights glowing from inside but it did look more well maintained than the fountain; from the little of it he could see. 

He climbed the steps to the front door and tried to make himself at least semi-presentable before pressing the doorbell and waiting. By the time he heard shuffling from inside, the hair had fallen back into his eyes and there was water dripping from his chin. He squared his shoulders and braced himself. 

The door creaked open and an old man stuck his head out. He looked down his nose at Timothy with vague surprise colouring his features. 

He cleared his throat and tipped up his chin. “I’m here to speak with Bruce Wayne.”

Immediately, the man shook his head. “I’m sorry but that won’t be possible tonight, young sir,” he said. “Would you like me to relay a message?”

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I really need to speak with him. I was expecting him at the Kanes’ party but he wasn’t there so I had to come all the way out here and it’s very important.”

Instead of closing the door as he half expected him to, he hummed. “You’re the Drake boy aren’t you? Timothy Drake?”

“That’s right,” Timothy said, trying to puff up what little height he had. Both of his parents had been short, he was already taller than his mom. He shut off that train of thought, not liking the curling distress it brought to his gut. 

“I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time.”

“Alfred?” came a voice from behind the door. “Who is it?”

Alfred glanced away. Now was his moment. All his teachings growing up screamed at him to stay silent and still until he was addressed again. Politeness be damned. Tim took his chance, rudely shouldering through the door and sticking out his hand before anyone could do anything about it.

“Mr. Wayne?” he said. “Timothy Drake. So glad I could catch you, I’ll try to be quick.”

Bruce Wayne carefully took his hand and shook it. He was wearing a tight black athletic shirt and joggers. His hands were thoroughly calloused.

“Yes, well, I was actually just leaving myself, so, unfortunately–”

“I can imagine,” he said, catching Wayne’s eye and holding it until he was sure the man was good and uncomfortable. Timothy sure was. There was something angry pacing around Wayne and he didn’t like the tenseness of it, like a rubber band ready to snap. Even when he was hiding behind his amicable mask. 

He let go of his hand. Alfred was still holding the door cracked open but watching the exchange carefully, ready to pounce at any moment. 

“Your rug is getting wet,” Timothy pointed out. 

“So I can see,” Wayne responded, not budging. 

Timothy was starting to think that this might have been a bad idea. Either way, he swallowed his heart, which had crawled up into his throat, and barged on. 

“I just had some questions about–”

“Is this the best time, kid?” Wayne asked, his grin slipping towards cold and displeased. “It’s almost New Year’s.”

Timothy startled. “Well, if you had been at the Kanes’ party–”

“Some of us have more important things to do than drink and stroke our egos in public–”

He bristled. He was trying to be courteous, but if Wayne was going to insult him then surely the rules of hospitality no longer applied. He clenched his fists. “I was only there to talk to you, so really, it’s you wasting my time here and not the other way around–”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize I had signed anything saying that I would be there, so it was shortsighted of you to assume that I was going to be making an appearance and moreover–”

“Both of you!” Alfred snapped and they fell silent. “Either say what you came to say or I will have to ask you to leave.”

Timothy took a deep breath. Now was time to put all the reciting he’d done in the car to good use. “I’m interested in your plan of action for when you eventually kill someone, whether it be by accident or not.”

That wasn’t what he meant to say.

Wayne drew himself back. “Excuse me?” 

“Well,” he forged on. “I saw you on the twenty-seventh and then did some research and it seems like after the death of Jason Todd you’ve been–” Timothy paused, seeing the murderous expression taking over his face. His words quieted. “Um, a bit high strung.”

The entry hall was deathly silent for a few seconds. 

“You think you have any place saying something like that here?” Wayne asked quietly, voice dropping down a few octaves from tired playboy to just above angry Batman .

“I’m worried for Batman’s reputation because you’re already on thin ice and you’re obviously not doing anything to fix that. What if you have to stop because the police were hunting you? What would happen to Gotham?”

“What are you insinuating? You think you know–”

“I know enough.”

They glared at each other until Wayne’s eyes iced over and his shoulders lost some of their furious rigidity. 

“Get out.” 

“What?” Timothy demanded. “But–”

“Get out!” he bellowed.

Alfred quickly slid between them and efficiently pushed Timothy out the door. The freezing rain showered down on him again, cold and unpleasant. Wayne’s shadowy form retreated into the depths of the house. Alfred gave Timothy an unreadable look. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Drake,” he said and shut the door, leaving him in the dark.

Chapter Text

Timothy was spitefully trying to distract himself from thinking about Batman but he found that in the Condo, he had suspiciously little to do. He resorted to going out to the campus bookstore and getting the first few textbooks he saw. He leafed through those in the sitting room for a few hours. One was on the neural pathways of the brain and left him looking up a lot of terms and complicated studies that were referenced. The next was on civil law and the last was a first-year classical physics text that held way more numbers than it did explanations on how to solve them. 

Once he got bored of that, he moved on to overproduced reality television and trying not to burn a vegan-cheese toasty. He sat down at Ms. Reid’s little piano and tried to remember his lessons from when he was little but ended up playing the same few notes of some classical symphony he didn’t know the name of over and over again.

Then he went back to the textbooks to see who the authors were and decided that MD, PhD, would look really good tacked onto his name so he looked through college websites. 

Which is how he ended up falling into a rabbit hole of majors, and schools, and professions, and alumni, and deciding that a bachelor’s at an Ivy was what was going to define the next few years of his life. Of course, he still had a year of high school to go and that sinking realization left him both unwilling to absorb any more useless law facts or neurology studies, and in turn sullenly looking up the Batman and scrolling through grainy videos and sensationalized news columns. 

He scrubbed through the videos, watching the most recent footage of Batman jumping between buildings or silently watching over the city from ledges and balconies. It was unnerving every time, when the camera swung around until landing on the rafters or a brooding gargoyle. Timothy knew what he was looking for, he knew Batman would appear, but it sent chills down his arms when the video focused through the darkness and he could suddenly see the faint outline of a person, completely still. He found himself hunching farther over his desk to get closer to the laptop screen with every one. 

There were also the occasional videos of him fighting. He slowed them all the way down and sent each one through programs to try and clear them up. He pulled up an old video he had saved of Batman and the original Robin. Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson. Grayson did that signature flip combo in it, that’s why he’d saved it originally, but the CCTV camera it was taken from was also mounted at a good angle to see all the action.

The different fighting styles of then versus now were almost incomparable, he could see that the old footage used the same moves but the newer one looked almost like an angry imitator. He punched harder, broke more bones, and didn’t give anybody the chance to run before pouncing. In two of the more recent videos, Timothy saw him glance over his shoulder at an incoming criminal and then turn away and let them hit him. Like he thought for a split second that someone was going to be there and have his back.

He found a few clips of Jason Todd. He always came in on Batman’s left before branching off. He always returned there too. And Wayne didn’t look over his shoulder in those clips, he didn’t risk any time to make sure Jason was doing his job. He just knew .

And then Jason stopped appearing in the videos.

His obituary popped up but Timothy didn’t read it, or any of the articles about the sudden and tragic loss. It felt like he was stepping over some boundary. 

He went back to the newest videos and scanned them over and over. Wayne had a weak shoulder now, he was always punching crooked or using the other one to knock the wind out of his attackers. He took more hits now too. He brute forced his way through crowds of people with weapons rather than coming in with any visible strategy. 

He flipped back to old videos of Grayson. Batman knocked out the person holding the camera just in time for it to fall and catch a glimpse of Robin kicking the Penguin into a pile of flimsy wooden pallets. 

Batman took his place beside him and set his big hand on the boy’s shoulder, almost grinning at him before Robin threw a Batarang at the camera and reduced the feed to static before it cut out.

It clicked into Timothy’s head right when the weapon hit. 

Batman needed a Robin. 

It took him seven hours to find Richard Grayson’s address.  

For some reason, he was surprised it took him that long. It’s not like he thought it was going to be in Yellow Pages, he was Nightwing. He could do better than that. 

But apparently, the Bludhaven Police Department couldn’t. It was disappointing, really. They had a quick back door to their database, not the part where reports of crimes and the like were actually stored, but the basic interface that no one was actually meant to see. It held the information for all the people under their payroll and all the ones who used to be. There were startlingly few and it was easy to find Grayson’s name among them. 

It’d started with checking the basics– social media, the news, public legal documents– the only thing he found under “address” was a Gotham apartment complex that had never been completed, built under the Wayne Enterprises name in Midtown. 

Then Ms. Reid had come back with fettuccine alfredo for him so he’d eaten while watching an old Gotham Globe reporting of Batman being spotted in Metropolis after an awfully suspicious “earthquake”.

The next logical step was trying to get into his insurance policy which didn’t work because obviously it didn’t . Reading through every bland detail about his life made Timothy almost forget that he was a Wayne and the dullness was purposeful and despite his dopey grin, he wasn’t dumb enough to get cheap insurance. 

Timothy realized that it was actually the same company he had so he thought about calling them and somehow trying to ask about how everything was going to change after the death of his parents and twist the conversation into spilling information about Richard Grayson but ended up opening more Batman footage and falling asleep over the keyboard.

He woke up not long after when screaming from one of the videos screeched through his headphones and he was immensely thankful that he hadn’t called. He blamed the momentary lapse of higher brain function on exhaustion and scrapped insurance fraud as a possible route forward. 

A Gazette article made its way to him detailing Grayson’s abrupt move to Bludhaven where he was starting a job in law enforcement and from then on it was a straight shot. 

Too easy , he thought when he found the address and checked to make sure it wasn’t a mall or an abandoned waterpark.

He wrote it down on a napkin and stuffed it in his pocket, snatching up his coat and scarf when he stood from the desk. His back was stiff and his neck was sore. 

Then he looked outside and saw that it was pitch-black out. 

His phone lit up in his hand, proudly displaying 4:37 am on its screen.

He set his coat and scarf back down. 

Time to wait.

Chapter Text

While waiting for the sun to rise over the monolith buildings populating Gotham’s skyline, Timothy ended up scrolling through images he’d already seen and rereading articles he’d already scoured through. He didn’t want to . It was painful and boring, he wanted to watch football or do something, anything else. But he couldn’t. His skin was itching and his brain was buzzing and all he could do was try to figure out what was going on with Batman. 

Then he packed a backpack with a few protein bars and the physics textbook he’d bought two days before. He added a little daily agenda he found on the coffee table and a handful of pens and pencils so he could do some of the questions. Then he went through them and picked out the ones that didn’t work and only kept his favourites. 

He fell back onto his bed and ran his hands through his hair. He thumped his head back into the pillow a few times but it didn’t help the restlessness rattling around in his chest. 

He got back up and laid out his boots and everything else he was going to need in a nice little pile. 

Time inched on until suddenly, the sun was starting to peek over the top of the buildings lining Grand Avenue and the sky was stained pink and Timothy let himself rush out the door and pace the lobby until Pedro pulled up outside and Timothy threw himself into the backseat. 

“You want me to drive you to Bludhaven?” he asked skeptically, staring at the napkin with Grayson’s scribbled address.

“Correct.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mister Drake, why?”

“I’m going to visit a friend,” he said coolly. 

Pedro just shook his head and turned up the music. 

Timothy pulled out the textbook and started to puzzle out some of the problems in the first chapter. The restlessness had eased a bit now that he was actively on his way to accomplishing something. 

Once he found the key to what the first chapter was asking and looked up a good formula sheet, the equations flowed quickly. It was nice to do the clean work then check the back of the book to find the same number waiting there that he had on his paper. Then the second chapter started and it was covering a wholly different subject so he had to troubleshoot again until he got it right. It was meditative and he was content for the time being. 

They cut away from the ocean-side parkway and moved through neighbourhoods and business districts and parks. Bludhaven was very similar to Gotham’s Narrows. Brick apartments and grimy strip malls with bars on the windows. The whole place also smelled vaguely of fish. 

“I have no idea where I’m going,” Pedro admitted eventually. 

Timothy leaned over the center console. “It’s near the Police Department if you can find that.”

“Helpful,” he drawled. 

They coasted through the main streets, following the occasional directional sign until they got lots again. 

“There!” Timothy pointed. “Stark Avenue.”

Pedro swerved to make the turn. “You said sixty-four, Mister Drake?”

“Yeah.”

They watched the buildings pass. They were going in reverse order, the numbers on each one getting smaller and smaller until eventually they pulled over in front of the tidy little complex that was number sixty-four.

“This is it?”

Timothy shrugged.

“Not much to look at.”

He threw his bag over his shoulder and popped the door. “Hang around town until I call you.”

“Will do, boss.”

He was barely out of the car before it peeled away from the curb and disappeared down the street. He huffed and trudged up to the foggy glass door. 

It opened without the need of a key and there was nobody sitting behind the front desk. The lobby was actually completely empty, but there was music playing from somewhere nearby. Not very secure in his opinion. 

He wiped his boots and moved through the small space. There was no elevator past the unrenovated entry space so he ended up taking the stairs. His footfalls echoed against metal as he climbed. He needed the third floor. 

By the time he got there his legs were protesting and he’d had to unzip his coat and take off his scarf.

The apartment number was C7 so he wandered down to it, maybe hoping to find something that wasn’t identical to every other door in the hallway. He was disappointed on that front.

He stuffed his scarf into his bag and set his jaw. He was on a mission. He braced himself and knocked on the wood, good and loud. 

Nothing happened. 

He gave it a few seconds and tried again.

Richard Grayson wasn’t home.

Timothy tried the handle to find it locked. The nob didn’t even jiggle like it would with a normal mass available lock. The metal was stiff and cold under his hand.

He sighed and scuffed his foot against the linoleum floor petulantly. Looked like he’d have to wait. He could do that. If there was one thing he was good at, it was entertaining himself. 

He slid down the wall and spread his legs out so they took up the whole width of the narrow hallway. He pulled out the textbook and started where he’d left off. 

Shadows moved across the walls as the sun changed angles, getting more comfortable in the sky. A lady came by at one point, holding grocery bags in one hand and a little girl in the other. She closed herself into the first apartment out of the stairs before Timothy could say anything to her. 

He finished chapter four and was starting to think he’d fallen for another fake address when the door to the stairwell opened back up and in strode a very exhausted looking Richard Grayson. 

Tim leapt to his feet, clutching the textbook and reaching out his hand. 

“Mr. Grayson,” he said. “Timothy Drake.”

“Uh, pleasure,” he returned, shaking his hand but looking like he didn’t know why. 

Timothy suddenly had flashbacks from when he confronted Wayne and hoped Grayson was as nice as he remembered. 

“I was just hoping to talk to you quickly, no pressure, I just have a few quick questions.”

Grayson stared at him. He had dark circles under his eyes and his coat was wrinkled and worn. “What– why– don’t you live in Gotham? How long have you been here? How are you here at all?”

“I have a personal driver,” he responded, a bit taken aback but pleased that Grayson remembered him nonetheless. 

“No, I mean this address is meant to be classified. You’re not with the press are you?” 

Timothy snorted but he saw the look in Grayson’s eye and knew that at some level he didn’t necessarily mean the press. There were always worse people to know your address than the local news.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Come in, I guess.”

“Really?” He put the textbook back. “Perfect.”

Grayson unlocked the door and led him in, flipping on the lights and toeing off his chunky boots. The apartment was small, just a little living space with a kitchen and bar attached, a dark hallway branching off. There was a small window over the sink that looked over the ice rink across the street. The couch had a quilted blanket laying over the back and a mess of mismatched pillows taking up one of the seat sections. 

“Nice place,” Timothy commented. 

“What are you here for?” Grayson said once the door was closed. He had his arms crossed and didn’t bother to take off his coat. 

“Well, um, I’m sure you’re aware of the Batman’s recent loss of his partner,” he said carefully. Grayson flinched, barely. “And well, I’ve been keeping an eye on him and he seems to be in a bit of a bad place right now–”

“Why are you here?”

It was Timothy’s turn to flinch at his cold tone. Grayson was older than he remembered, which made sense, but he was also more hardened. He didn’t smile when he greeted him like he used to, but that too made some sense, when Timothy was intruding like he was. 

“I think he needs a partner.”

“And you’re coming to me as a police officer? Gotham is outside my jurisdiction.”

“I’m coming to you as Robin.”

Grayson went completely still. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He knew this was swiftly veering towards the worst possible scenario but he didn’t know what to do to salvage it.

“He needs someone. I was talking to him and he’s not okay. Batman needs a Robin. He’s going to get killed or kill someone by accident,” he pleaded. “You can see it. You’re his son, you know how important Robin is.”

Grayson swallowed and shook his head a bit. “You talked to him? You think I’m going back to being Robin?”

Timothy gave a weak smile. “Ideally?”

He spun away, chucking his coat at a barstool and opening the fridge. He laughed into it, shoulders stiff. “Kid, I know you’re trying to do a good thing. I’m not even going to press you on how you got here, asking me to be Robin. I’m not trying to be condescending but there’s some things you don’t understand and maybe you should just leave it that way.”

“I understand that–”

Grayson poured milk into a mickey mouse glass. “You think that B needs Robin. What he needs is to let Batman go. He needs to either leave Gotham or learn to fix the city in a sustainable way.”

“Like you as Nightwing?”

“I’m not tearing myself apart all by myself. I have a team.”

“Exactly! He needs a Robin to be part of his team.”

“No, Robin is not sustainable. Robin is not a good idea and never was.” He slammed his glass down on the counter and stared at Timothy daring him to say something. 

“How can you say that?” he asked quietly.

“I was a child. Jason–” he choked on the name. “Jason was a child. Bruce shouldn’t have put him in danger. I was lucky it wasn’t me and if it wasn’t Jason it would have been whatever poor kid replaced him. Bruce forgot that he was still so young and that is what caused Jason’s death. Okay? Batman and Robin are the problem. Not Bruce getting lonely.”

“But–” Timothy wrung his scarf in his hands. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

“I’m not going back to his side, Tim.” He gave him a sad look and came back towards the door. “Go home.”

He opened the door and led Timothy out. Then he hesitated and put his hand on his shoulder, leaning down to stare at him hard. His eyes were very blue. 

“Listen to me. Go home. Forget about Batman. Do not– Do not do anything stupid, okay?”

And then he closed the door on Timothy’s face.

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing, Timothy really did mean to listen. And he did, for the most part, for three days.

But then he found himself wandering the grounds of Wayne Manor. He’d already seen one camera so he was fairly certain someone knew he was there. No one had come to stop him though. 

The Batmobile was pretty big right? He’d see it come through and he was pretty sure he’d found its tracks. 

He was sitting in a tree, trying to keep his feet from getting frostbitten and sipping on the last of a coffee he’d bought on his way. He had his laptop sitting on his knees and was half-heartedly trying to crack into the wifi so he could try to connect to the other devices logged onto it but it was seemingly impossible. Whoever had encrypted the signal knew what they were doing.

He clicked away, content to keep getting the messages that his attempts were failing. He wasn’t trying to be discreet. 

There was a faint rumbling in the distance. At first, Timothy thought it was just the waterfall down the trail, but then it grew louder and lower and noticeably mechanical. 

He slammed the laptop shut and chugged the last of the sludgy coffee before sneaking them into his bag. He clung to the tree and tried to stay as still as possible. An engine revved, mud splattered, headlights shone between the trees. 

He held his breath. The Batmobile whizzed by, only a few feet away. He tried to push down the excited grin threatening to break onto his face. The noise faded and then disappeared completely under a loud splash. 

He carefully lowered himself from the branch and dropped to the ground. He pulled his hood over his head and ducked in the direction the Batmobile had gone. 

The tracks were pronounced and easy to follow. Like he was asking for someone to find him. The Batmobile had very distinct tire tracks, Timothy noticed, big with deep grips and almost serrated edges. He took a mental picture just in case. 

He eventually got to the edge of a shallow creek. Too shallow for the massive waterfall gushing into it. The tire tracks led directly into the water. 

His first thought was that somehow, there was a hatch that opened and let the Batmobile drive underneath the property, but then he saw, deeper in the water, rocks pushed out of the way of two big strips. Exactly like a car would make. And they kept going until all Timothy could see was white water from the falls. Like he had driven right into the cliff. 

He carefully took off his muddy shoes and socks and tucked them into his bag. It wouldn’t close all the way now. He deposited it on shore before rolling up his pants and taking a hard look at the water. 

What was he doing with his life? He stepped in. 

It sent a shock up his leg. It was frigid. Everything submerged tingled and ached. He’d already been chilled but now even his heart was cold, straining with the shock of pumping such icy blood all of a sudden. 

He forced another step, and another. The rocks were like chunks of ice beneath his feet. He bit his lip and awkwardly held his arms out to catch himself if he slipped. He hoped he didn’t slip. The water climbed up his thighs.

Water sprayed up into his face harder and harder the closer he got to the cliff wall. He held his breath. His muscles were trembling with cold. He couldn’t see. 

He took one more lungful of air and plunged forwards. The falls pounded down on him, soaking every part of him. He tried not to gasp. The shock hit him full force. His muscles seized up with a fierce aching. His heart was hammering. 

And then he emerged on the other side. He wiped the water from his eyes with numb, trembling fingers. He was in a huge cavern with dull lights mounted far above and a garage door hiding in the dark. He stepped off the rocks and onto icy metal that burned his bare feet. His teeth were chattering and he was breathing heavily. 

There was a regular door beside the oversized garage one. He tried the handle but it was predictably locked. A red light blinked on and Timothy realized too late that there was a camera watching him. 

“Identification,” a vaguely female, robotic voice said.

He cleared his throat and tried to stop his shaking. “Richard Grayson, alias Nightwing.”

There was a beep. “Voice recognition enabled, recite security code.”

Timothy clenched his jaw and tried to think through the cold induced misery. “First Robin,” he tried.

It beeped again. “Failed.”

He looked over his shoulder, he was not walking back through the waterfall. He would sooner bang and plead at the door. 

“Retry security code,” the robot instructed.

“Flying Graysons.”

“Failed. System lockdown will begin after a third wrong attempt.”

Timothy swore, he felt like he was trying to get into somebody’s iPhone. He paced back and forth and rubbed his arms to try and regain circulation. There was a quiet click. He stiffened and stilled. The robot said nothing.

The red light had gone out on the camera. 

He crept towards the door. The handle turned under his hand and the door opened when he tried. He held his breath. White light streamed out of the opening. 

He stepped in. The space inside was massive. He was standing on a catwalk suspended above a dark lake. The Batmobile was parked ahead. There were floors and floors of tech and things he couldn’t even begin to describe. There was a rocket. There was a dinosaur . He couldn’t take it all in.  

Some of the things he passed while he wandered looked downright alien. It distracted him from his shivering and his shoulders relaxed down from around his ears. A bat swooped towards him from the stalactites above.

Fitting.

He drifted towards a line of glass casings. They were like big bell jars. When he got close, he could see that they each held different suits. There was one that was obviously old, made of fabric and clunky pieces of metal, and almost completely destroyed. One that was fully mechanical and almost a full foot taller than the others. There was one with scuba gear attached. One with a red insignia. Then there was a very small Robin suit. It was garishly colourful beside the dark Batman ones and not very protective. It had shorts instead of pants and a flashy yellow cape. The next one made Timothy stop.

It was a bit duller than the original Robin costume, and bigger but not by much. It had pants too, but he could barely tell by the way it was torn up and singed. A sleeve was ripped off and the mask was missing. More startling though was the spray paint crisscrossing over the chest and marking everywhere. Green, purple, and red. A sharp toothed smile drawn crudely, several blurry ha ha ha s marring other places. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Timothy jumped. 

Batman was behind him, well, Wayne was. He still had the costume on and was glaring in a way that promised violence. There was a bruise blooming on what little of his cheek he could see. 

“Looking for you, actually.” He gave a forced laugh. “What a coincidence.”

Wayne grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and dragged him away from the bell jars. He was vibrating and walking fast, Timothy was tripping over himself trying to keep up.

“I thought you would stay away,” he growled. 

“Well, we left off on bad terms last time so I thought that it was only proper to–”

“To break into the Cave and come pry some more?” He sighed in a way that was very similar to Grayson.

“The Cave is a cool name. Very fitting.”

Wayne whipped towards him. “You are getting on my nerves.”

Timothy pasted the most stoic face he could muster onto his face. He was getting dangerously close to curling up in a ball and crying. He always forgot how scary Batman was. 

“I’m glad we’re being honest with each other because I actually came to suggest that you do more of that. Not with me, of course. But, you know, with yourself. You should take some time, and go through some stuff. Mental stuff. Therapy stuff. Grieving, inner peace–”

“Just like you’re doing?”

“Beg your pardon?” Timothy asked, rocking back. 

“Did your parents not die recently? Are you here as some sort of strange coping mechanism trying to fix someone else’s perceived problems instead of your own?”

He blinked a few times before getting his feet back under himself. “I feel like you’re projecting.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred appeared beside the impressive monitor setup they were lingering near. “Oh, and Mr. Drake. What a surprise.” There was a glint in his eyes that told Timothy he wasn’t surprised at all, even if his tone stayed perfectly neutral. “I’ll fetch a towel.”

At that, Wayne looked him up and down. “Did you come in through the waterfall?”

He scoffed and crossed his arms. “Obviously.”

“Once Alfred is back, he’ll escort you out.”

“No, we haven’t even talked,” Timothy said before he could stop himself. 

Wayne fell back into his chair and turned away. “Exactly.”

“I did not walk through a waterfall in the middle of winter just to be ignored,” he argued petulantly.

Wayne ignored him. 

He seethed before getting himself under control. “Well,” he said in a tight voice. “Because you’re so respectfully giving me space to speak, I’ll go over some of my basic questions.” He stamped down the rage burning in his chest when Wayne clicked a few buttons on his keyboard and said nothing. “One, why do you need to throw yourself into danger at every chance? Obviously you are not reacting well or showing competency in being by yourself again so maybe you should work on being comfortable taking care of yourself before taking care of a city. Again, maybe this is reminiscent of a certain childhood trauma you’ve never gotten over. 

“Two, why not get the GCPD helping? One would think it would be easier to enforce the law when the law enforcers aren’t waging war against you. Of course, there is Jim Gordon. Do you work with him discreetly? Did his daughter keep your identity secret from him for this long? Did you know she has a criminal record from when she was a teenager trying to emulate you?

“Three, the root of the conversation, why don’t you take some time off? It seems like–”

Wayne exploded up from his chair. “I won’t take time off until the Joker is locked up for good! You need to stop talking. You know nothing about me, stop trying to insert yourself where you don’t belong.” 

Timothy stared at him for a few long seconds. “Then why don’t I help you track him down?”

He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. “I do not need the help of a child.”

Timothy wanted to say that it looked like he could use anybody’s help but he knew that he was already pushing buttons he shouldn’t be pressing. Their strained relationship was going from rocky to irreparable very quickly. 

“Any help is better than none.”

Alfred was back, handing Timothy a towel and Wayne a glass of water. Neither did anything with what they were given. 

“Escort him out, Alfred.”

Tim sighed and scrubbed his hair with the soft towel. He was getting better at recognizing when a conversation was tanked.

Chapter Text

Grayson’s parting words echoed through Tim’s head for the next week. Don’t do anything stupid.

He wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t. 

He was just peeking . Not doing anything, per say. Just, casually getting some research done. And so what if that research centered around the Joker and what he was up to. So what if it involved using one of Bludhaven’s recent correspondents with the GCPD to get into their database. 

He was being careful. Pinkie swear. 

Their reports and evidence were catalogued meticulously but a search of the Joker came up with hundreds of results. It was impossible to sift through it all. Most were just reports from officers who got sent to birthday parties when adults got spooked that someone had tastelessly hired a clown.  

There were a few useful ones though. They catalogued suspicious activity around one specific warehouse just outside the Distillery District. It looked like someone had done a shoddy job of trying to bury the files which just made it all the more tempting.

Known criminals coming and going, suspicious crates getting transported from the docks, one officer swore he saw men in masks with weapons loitering. But somehow, whoever had tried to cover it up tacked on edits about the Joker not being spotted, saying there was no evidence he’d been there.

But no one had even suspected the Joker before they brought it up. They’d suspected drug trafficking. 

Timothy was being careful. He even had a VPN.

Before he could sike himself out, he headed to the store and bought a cheap camera and gloves, also grabbing a hat and a few new shirts and sweaters while he was there. Before checking out, he looped back to get a can of spray paint too. 

He paid in cash and then headed back to the condo. Ms. Reid was out at the office and she said she wouldn’t be home till late but she didn’t mind when Timothy was out at odd hours. She said he needed to act more like a teenager. 

He watched an old black and white cop thriller until the sun started to go down. It was still early by the time the sky went fully dark, thanks to it being the dead of winter. The longer he sat around the more jittery he got. He wasn’t sure what was causing it, he was nervous but only in the way that knowing there could be something going on that he wasn’t aware of could make him. Like he had only enough knowledge to say confidently that something could be happening when his back was turned. Either way, he ended up walking the streets until he found a little hole in the wall deli where he got their last turkey sandwich from behind the glass counter. 

The restaurant was small and there were only two people working, neither were servers. He picked out a premade sub and they heated and wrapped it for him. It was surprisingly cheap. He had never gotten food at a place like this before. He felt out of his depth. 

He ate the sandwich while he walked towards the distillery district. It was a Friday night and people were mulling around the bars and grills, he found a little enclave filled with art galleries and a brewery. He took his time, stopping to look at things and exploring streets that were out of his way. 

He liked exploring alone like this, the easy freedom and content silence he had. When the buildings started turning from artfully aged to nearly abandoned, he called a cab and waited outside a twenty four hour convenience store. He read all the posters on the windows and convinced himself to go in and buy an energy drink to help him through what was undoubtedly going to be an all-nighter. 

“I’m going to the distillery district,” he said to the cabbie once he got in.

The man looked stiffly over his shoulder, double chin spilling over. “Anywhere specific?” 

Timothy checked the map on his phone as they started off. “I guess as far east as you can get me.”

“East?” the man asked in his thick Narrows accent. “What’s east?”

It took Timothy a second to realize he wanted to know what he was going to be doing on that edge of the island and not an actual explanation of the concept of directions. 

“My friend just bought a warehouse down there and I’m going to check it out,” he improvised. “He wants to fix it up and start a club.”

The cabbie nodded appreciatively. “You look a bit young to be goin’ around startin’ clubs.”

“He’s a few years older than me.”

They passed under a metal beam that was strung with lights and wove through narrow, cobbled streets. Most were blocked off for pedestrians only but they made it through with practiced ease. There were still a few big Christmas trees set up and a sled with fake reindeer for people to take pictures in.

Then the decorations got fewer and fewer until there were not even street lights lining the roads and the old brick factories transitioned to industrial warehouses. They pulled over and the driver punched the gear shift into park. 

“This is where you want to be?”

Timothy pasted a confident smile on his face. “Yep.”

He handed him a wad of cash and stepped out into the chilly night. 

The cab took no time pulling away and taking off. The air smelled like salt and dried seaweed from the docks. Timothy pulled up his hood and covered the lower half of his face with his scarf. With one last check of his phone, he started marching towards the warehouse. 

The streets were quiet. There was no one in sight. He did hear one group heckling each other near him so he ducked into an alley until they passed.

When he found the destination, he was surprised by how similar it was to every other building he’d passed. There was nothing special about it. Nothing that hinted at sinister machinations. 

One of the windows beside it was open and a faint glow was visible inside. The doors were firmly shut and he didn’t want to get close enough to try them. Instead, he looked around for other options. There was a warehouse glued to this one’s right side.

He moved on. It had the doors busted off their hinges and windows boarded up. He crossed the threshold. Half the walls were collapsing around support beams, everything was covered in tags and other vandalism. 

He held the straps of his bag tight as he moved through the space. His sneakers crunched on debris, he kept kicking cans and other garbage he couldn’t see through the dark. He should have really bought a flashlight while he was at the store. 

He climbed a rickety set of stairs up to the second level and hugged the wall to avoid falling through any holes in the floor. There was one more set of stairs that led to the roof and then he settled him beside the row of windows looking into the building he was actually investigating. 

They were grimy enough that he couldn’t see much of anything. It was only one room with monstrously high ceilings. There were definitely some dull blue-ish lights near the bottom. There were big dark shapes set up throughout, just hidden enough to obscure their nature. 

He scrubbed the glass with his sleeve but it did no good.

Looked like his binoculars wouldn’t be of much assistance. 

He squinted and caught a few points of movement disrupting the subtle light. They were pacing around the edges of the space. Like they were guarding something. 

He needed to get in there. 

Timothy ripped his bag open and rooted through everything in there. There was really nothing of use. He pulled out a spare shirt– one of his new ones– and an idea hit him. 

He raced back down the stairs where there were piles of forgotten beer cans and shards of glass. He tried to fill the cans with the tabs off the tops and a few pieces of glass each before bringing them back up to the roof. He used a rusty nail to punch holes in them and ripped a strip off his spare shirt. He tied it all together and gave it an experimental rattle. The resulting rope of garbage was crude but it did make a decent amount of noise when he flung it around. 

He moved to the front of the building and laid down on his stomach so he could stretch down and get as close as possible to the open window. With a deep breath, he banged his sad little distraction against the wall. The cans banged against concrete and the glass inside shrieked against the metal.

He was going to die. Why was he so stupid?

There were a few moments when he thought it wouldn’t work before the door started to creep open suspiciously.  He scrambled back up onto the roof and dropped the rattler. Quick breaths puffed in the air near his face. Three men appeared on the street. They were holding huge guns and were wearing masks just like the report had said. He retreated back and carefully slid one of the disgusting windows open enough to slip through. He was shaking, he noticed. From the cold, maybe.

He stepped down onto an industrial catwalk and crouched against the wall. It was dark enough that he didn’t think anyone would be able to see him but there was always a chance. His heart was hammering in his ears, he could feel it like a jackhammer in his chest. 

The metal was surprisingly warm through his thin gloves. The building was heated. 

He could see better now that he was inside. There were rows and rows of barrels, all of them set up close to one far back corner. He inched closer to get a better angle and found a furnace that they were obviously all clustered around. Maybe not a furnace, he thought, seeing the overflowing bags of wood chips beside it and the chimney coughing smoke. Whatever it was, it had a flame raging inside and the door slightly opened to give it more air.

 The men were still outside, shouting at each other and looking for what had made the noise. Timothy couldn’t see anybody guarding the barrels. 

He kept moving along the wall until he found a ladder leading to the ground. He grabbed a wrung before he could think twice and started climbing down. He held on tight, his hands were sweaty inside his gloves and his heart was still doing a weird leaping every few beats. He almost felt like he was going to puke. 

He had to jump to the ground when the ladder stopped halfway and a shock ran up his legs. His feet tingled. He ducked his head and sprinted for the barrels, crouching between them and staying low. 

There were no calls or bullet shots. Had they all really gone to check out his distraction? It seemed too easy. 

He glanced up and sure enough, there was another huge thug guarding the barrels. Out of sight from the ladder but perfectly able to see him at his current position. He had his back turned so he could watch the door but Timothy was effectively trapped. 

He really should have thought this through. 

He was hyperventilating. His breath whistled in and out. He covered his own mouth and ducked down further. 

What could he do to make this worthwhile?

Not die.

No. Take samples. Taking samples was always good. 

He stuck his arm into his bag and searched blindly for the little tupperware containers he’d thought to bring. He found one and drew it out. He was truly quaking now. He took a few deep breaths and started to creep between the rusted, battered containers. 

He checked and the man was still facing the door. 

Timothy snuck his hand up and slowly unscrewed the little lid on top. He propped himself up a bit and dipped the container into the thick liquid. 

He snapped down when the hinges on the door squeaked behind him. 

“What was that?” someone asked.

“Nothin’,” the closer voice said. “I’ve been here the whole time. Woulda seen if someone came in.”

He clicked the lid onto the container and put it in his bag. He was barely functioning. He needed to be logical . He could try to wait them out. His muscles were already protesting from his awkward position. 

“No, I saw something. I know I did.”

Timothy froze.

“Just check the cargo,” a third voice commanded. 

What should he do, what should he do, what should he do ? He was looking at the dirty floor, they knew he was here. What was the best option? The door was open, he could see the faint streetlight fading over the floor towards him. He could try to make a run for it. 

They had guns. 

He bit his tongue and threw his body into the barrel he’d opened, hard. It collapsed over, causing a domino effect of destruction. Lids popped off and that thick liquid spilled over the floor, soaking his clothes. 

There was loud swearing and a hand snapped out and grabbed him. He yelped and tried to break his hold but it was useless, the man wrestled him down and pinned him in the chemical concoction. The almost acidic smell stung his nose and he got some in his mouth but those weren’t his biggest issues. 

The only thing he could see was the mouth of a gun. 

He couldn’t do anything but lie there. 

“Don’t shoot him. The boss will want to have a chat first.”

Timothy could have cried. Relief? Fear? He didn’t know.

Someone else reached down and dragged him up, latching onto his hair and lifting him off his feet. He cried out and tried to hold himself up by the hand to relieve some of the pressure. Tears did overflow then, just from the sheer pain of it. He could feel hair ripping from his head. 

The man laughed and grabbed his jaw with his other hand, tipping his head up. He was wearing a clown mask. “It’s just a little kid.”

And then something clicked in his mind. An idea fed by the instinct to get away . A video he’d seen when he thought Grayson looked so small, definitely younger than Timothy was now. He’d been held up by his cape and had brought his knees up and explosively extended his heels into the criminal’s face. 

There was no thinking going on when Timothy tried to emulate it. He forced his muscles to work in ways they hadn’t before, aiming for the eye holes in the man’s mask. He missed but there was a satisfying crunch when he hit his nose instead. 

He was released and he hit the ground hard. He gasped and rolled over his shoulder. 

People were shouting and there was a thunderous bang. He threw himself back so he was shielded by the furnace. They were shooting at him. They couldn’t shoot him.

He held his scalp and panted. He was dying. No one knew where he was. 

More bullets rang out. Footsteps came closer. 

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He closed his eyes and slammed his injured shoulder into the back of the furnace with all his might. Even with three layers between him and the metal, it scorched his skin. He screamed but didn’t back off, and the tower toppled over. 

Before he knew what was happening, flames leaped up. They raced along the floor, along the spilled liquid. The liquid he was currently covered in. 

Green tinged flames climbed up and ate away at everything. The chemical smoke burned his throat. The men fled the building, yelling between each other. The flames were everywhere. He was trapped.

All he could see was fire and smoke. He backed towards the wall. His eyes were watering and he was coughing. His lungs were burning up. His knees were buckling. 

A window shattered inwards and a dark figure launched themself into the flames. 

“Is anyone in here?” A deep voice bellowed through some sort of breathing apparatus. 

A spark jumped out and landed on Timothy’s soaked sleeve. The fabric caught and he rushed to try and get it off. His fingers weren’t working. He didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t get the zipper undone. He was burning alive. 

“Jason?” the distant voice asked. 

Timothy tried to scream but only a hoarse wheeze came out.

The coat was ripped off and he was lifted off the ground. He continued to cough in the toxic fumes and a mask was pressed over his mouth. He gasped, fresh oxygen rushed into his scratchy lungs. 

And suddenly he was cold instead of hot, except for his one arm, and it was dark and wind was whistling around and tousling his hair. Tears streamed from his eyes. The mask was taken away. The person dropped him on hard concrete. 

“Holy shit,” he panted. 

Everything hurt and was numb at the same time. 

“Oh my God,” he said, pressing his forehead against the ground.

“What do you think you were doing?” The person demanded, and Timothy realized that he knew that voice. 

“Good to see you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Do not call me that. Answer my question,” he snapped. 

“Helping,” he wheezed. 

“Helping? Helping!” There was the sound of boots pacing back and forth like Wayne was trying not to punch him. “How does it feel to destroy a week’s worth of stake-outs and an entire building worth of evidence?”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me help.”

“You–” He cut off with a whistle of breath between clenched teeth. 

Timothy sat back on his knees and stuck his good hand into his singed bag. He pulled out the little container. 

Sirens were coming. He was on a roof across the street from the warehouse and he had no idea how he got there. The building was completely engulfed in green flames. 

“I got samples,” he said smugly. 

“Give that to me.”

He smirked. “Only if you let me help track down the Joker.”

Wayne growled. “No.”

He slowly pocketed the tupperware. Batman glared .

“You can help with research.”

Timothy handed over the tupperware smugly and he must have imagined that Batman’s hands were shaking a bit.

Then he fell back and watched the building burn.

Chapter Text

Alfred was hovering over him with a needle and he did not find it comforting in the slightest.

“You’ll want the painkiller, Mr. Drake,” he said reasonably.

“I’m fine. It can’t get any worse than it already is.”

“I assure you that it can.”

He stabbed the needle into his vein with practiced ease, holding his wrist still with a strong grip. Timothy grumbled but it did feel good when the numbness started working its way up his arm and cooling the burning sensation that hadn’t yet gone away. 

Alfred seemed to be able to tell just from Timothy’s quiet sigh. He strode away to get something from one of the many cabinets lining the walls. 

They were in a little infirmary-like room tucked off to the side of the Batcave. It had three gurneys and two sinks and a few chairs with wheels. Almost everything was white and the lights were giving him a headache. He was starting to think he’d hit his head at some point. 

Wayne appeared silently beside his bed in the same black top he’d been wearing when Timothy first showed up at the Manor. He held out a glass. 

“Drink this,” he commanded. 

Timothy furrowed his eyebrows. They had been giving him all sorts of weird concoctions all night. “What is it?”

He gave him a look like he was stupid. “Milk. It’ll soothe your throat.”

“Oh.”

He sat up and tried to grab it but he found that he couldn’t close his fingers. His whole arm was almost completely limp now. He reached out with his other hand which was black with soot and grime. 

“Can I have a shower now that the painkiller kicked in?”

Alfred appeared by Wayne’s side, tweezers in his wrinkled hands. “Not yet, Mr. Drake. We have to sterilize your burns before they get infected.”

The old butler had him shirtless so they could see everything that was injured. It was mostly just the outside of his right arm, the shoulder was starting to bruise and the whole arm was covered in patchy burns. Most were just blisters and redness but there were a few places where at least a few layers of skin were missing and blood had dried around them. The back of his hand looked like it got the worst of it.

Wayne retreated to the cabinets and started digging through different compartments. 

“What are you doing?” Timothy asked. 

“I’m going to start testing your samples.”

Alfred didn’t look up from where he was wiping at Timothy’s arm with an alcohol wipe when he said, “The siphons and vials are in the bottom cabinet third from the left, Master Bruce”

Wayne followed his directions with a mumbled “Thanks, Alfred.” 

He left the room with an armful of supplies and Alfred continued his work. Timothy started dozing off despite the unpleasant pressure on his burns. He didn’t look to see what the man was up to.

After his third yawn, when his eyes were getting heavy and every blink felt like the one that might pull him under, he spoke up. “Alfred? Could you bring me my bag please.”

He did as he asked before getting back to his work. Timothy went through it, finding the spray can and vaguely remembering his plan to play it off like he was a lost graffiti artist if he got caught. With a snort, he pulled out his energy drink and cracked it open, taking a few long gulps. It didn’t mix well with the milk.

“What are you doing, Mr. Drake?”

He looked over and cringed away when he saw Alfred pick a piece of gravel out of his arm. “Drinking an energy drink.”

“I should have been more clear. Why are you drinking an energy drink at three in the morning?”

“Trying to stay awake.”

“Those are terrible for you, and you should get some rest. You’ve had a trying night,” he advised.

“I don’t want to miss anything, and I should be going once you’ve finished.” He took another sip. 

Alfred said nothing so Timothy kept going through his bag, checking his phone, and just trying to keep himself from falling asleep until the caffeine kicked in. 

Alfred worked quickly and once he was done– a tray of little metal bits and glass shards beside him– he slathered his arm with a cold gel and wrapped the whole thing in gauze and bandages. 

“You’ll have to take it easy in gym class next week,” he said wryly. “You should tell your peers you had a bad allergic reaction to a chemical in a hot tub.”

“Gym class?” Timothy repeated before his sleep-addled brain could put the pieces together. “Oh, I don’t go to school. That’s not an issue.”

“You don’t go to school?” Alfred questioned, lifting an eyebrow. “Your formal education is of utmost–”

“No, no, I already finished this year. I’m not– like, skipping.”

“You’ve already finished?”

“Yeah, I did a self study program, sort of thing, and summer school.”

Alfred nodded, face as expressive as a physical mask. 

“We should see how Master Bruce is faring with the samples.”

He swung his rubbery legs out of the bed and dutifully followed Alfred from the room. He tried not to stare too much about the things around him. There were so many machines and pieces of tech that looked ripped out of a sci-fi movie, he hadn’t even known that such advanced stuff existed. It was all he could do to not stop and touch everything. 

Wayne was on a small floor of the Cave, in the center of a hollow round table with test tubes and an entire chem lab surrounding him. He ripped a long paper from where it had printed and gave it a look before scribbling all over it. Alfred clicked the stop button on an orbital shaker that looked close to throwing itself off the table.

Timothy had a moment of genuinely thinking, this is a dream, I’m asleep . Wayne was staring so intently at the results of the test, there were other papers swatched with colours and beakers bubbling away, he couldn’t believe it was the same reluctantly cheerful playboy he’d seen so many times at fundraisers and red carpet events. It seemed impossible. 

Wayne handed over the paper to Alfred and moved on without acknowledging them.

He looked over the man’s arm to read it. He didn’t know what the results themselves were saying but Wayne had scrawled chemical names in the margins and he recognized a few of those. One was circled in a conspicuous red and Alfred was eyeing the words seriously, Timothy had never heard of it. He circled back to the others.

“Succinyl Co-A,” he said. “Is that not, like, really important for cellular respiration?”

Wayne turned to him with mild surprise on his face. “It’s paired with a glucose compound. Very unstable. Looks like it messes with cells’ metabolic rates. Heavily diluted though.”

He held up a petri dish with red circles multiplying under the glass. 

Timothy squinted at it and then looked down at himself. There were splotches of the green-tinted chemical all over his torso, his pants and hair were soaked with it. 

“So, it’s probably not a good thing that I’m covered in the stuff.”

Two sets of eyes snapped towards him and then Alfred was shepherding him towards the nearest shower.

Chapter Text

Timothy used to make the terrible mistake of thinking that Alfred was just some frail old man. Of course, he got over it after one short training session. He cringed at the subtle scoff he’d given when Alfred had offered to show him a few moves with the express instructions to only use them if he was being directly threatened. 

His right wrist went to Timothy’s forearm. A gnarled hand went to his shoulder. There was a slight shift of weight and a transfer of hands.

“You know,” the man said. “You are meant to stay on your feet, Mr. Drake.”

“I tried,” he responded from the ground. 

“Obviously not. Try telling that to a true threat to your security, see what good it does you.”

He pushed himself back up. They were in an unused study and Alfred had gotten Timothy to push all the furniture to the walls to make space for them. 

“So, you must stand with more authority. Believe that you will not fall and the stance I taught you will hold.”

He slid into the stance and Alfred knocked the tip of his umbrella against his back ankle. Timothy made a minor adjustment and then the umbrella was at his back. 

“Straighten,” Alfred commanded.

Like it was on a puppet’s strings connected to Alfred’s hand, his body obeyed.

A phone started buzzing in the man’s pocket and he retrieved it with raised brows. Timothy’s muscles shook with the strain of the strange positioning of his limbs.

“Oh,” Alfred said with a pleased quirk of his lips. “It’s Leslie. I must take this but you will continue your conditioning without me. Focus on your form, don’t be lazy.”

And unfortunately, even when Alfred disappeared into the bowels of the mansion, he still did as he said. 

He couldn’t work out forever and neither could he stay at the Manor so he walked down the street– close enough to lie about being at the Estate– and called Pedro. He returned to the condo in desperate need of a shower and gnawing on the bit for something to do. The air felt charged with whatever the Joker was planning. 

He scrubbed the last of the water from his hair and dumped the towel at the foot of his bed. An old outfit was abandoned on his floor and he picked a pair of pants out of the pile and dug through the pockets until he found a crumpled receipt. It was the only thing he’d had on him at the time, when Wayne had shown him the list of chemicals found in the drug. There was only one chemical name written in Timothy’s rushed scrawl and it looked nothing like any of the others that had been on the list. It was the one Wayne had circled. It didn’t have the prefixes or suffixes of any functional group. It left him at a blank. 

He fell back into his chair and opened up his laptop and tried to flatten out the smudged and crinkled note. 

The computer booted up and he started his research. Well, attempted to start his research. No matter how he tried to look it up, no matter how many chemistry journals he read or studies he skimmed through, there was nothing. He was starting to think that Wayne had read the test results wrong or had only circled the reading because he knew it was a mistake. Then he found a promising scientific journal.

Written by Dr. Chun-Chieh Tsai and translated to English four years after it was published. He was working for the National Taiwan University of Science and Technology when he took a trip to Pakistan while researching a strange bleedthrough of chemicals through the Earth’s crust. 

He’d found proof of deep underground chemical baths, green in colour and containing the same strange compound he had scribbled on his fast food receipt. The doctor had patented its name and had earned quite a sum of money for his discoveries. 

The paper stated that he would be continuing research into its properties in his Taiwan lab. There really was no reason for the text to be so well hidden. It had a lot of solid references and funding. 

He looked up the doctor’s name but nothing came up. He searched through the university faculty and retired profs but still found no proof of his existence. He even tried looking through Taiwanese obituaries. Still nothing. 

He squinted at the screen. Weird.  

Timothy knocked on the Manor door a few nights later, and when Alfred opened it for him, he didn’t look pleased. 

It was pitch black out and the outside lights weren’t on for him. He wasn’t meant to be there. Alfred was adamant that he take days off. He had coffees in a tray clutched in his hands, they had gone cold. He’d walked all the way from the Diamond District when he got bored loitering in the condo. 

He really hadn’t thought it would take him so long. 

His feet were aching and he was fairly sure it was after Alfred’s coffee curfew. 

“Timothy,” the man greeted. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He gave him a tired smile. “Is Bruce still here?”

“He is.” Alfred waited a moment as if debating driving him back home before opening the door wider to let him through. 

He took off his shoes and sighed as his sore feet relaxed against the cool hardwood. He threw off his coat too, his hat and gloves were stuffed into the pockets.

He handed over the tea he thought Alfred might like and rushed down the hallway to the grandfather clock that led to the Cave. The space was lit up as always. Wayne was suiting up and doing his usual checks over his tech.

His loud footfalls alerted him early but he still seemed surprised to see him when he pushed the coffee into his hand and took a seat on the tool bench. Timothy had already drank his own on the way. He watched him take a sip. 

“Why is this cold?” Was the question he settled on.

“I walked here. I was wondering if you were coming to the ball tonight.”

“You– the ball?” He set the coffee down. “Crowne’s daughter’s debutante? Is that tonight?”

“Yeah, you should come.”

He didn’t say anything, leaning against the table across from Timothy’s. 

“Doesn’t the presentation start at seven?”

“I think so.”

“It’s six now.”

He burst up. “Shit, really? I didn’t bring my suit.”

“You can use one of Dick’s old ones. Alfred can drive you,” Wayne offered.

Timothy looked back, eyes catching on the abandoned coffee cup. “You could drive, if you came. I got that drink for you, so you kind of owe me now.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I knew that was a trap.” 

Timothy grinned and Wayne shot him an unimpressed look while packing away his things. 

He led him back out of the Cave. “Alfred will drive me into town too and I’ll go from there.”

“Aw, come on,” he whined. “One night.”

“Crime doesn’t stop for a ball. Get Alfred to help you get dressed while I get my things.”

Timothy gave him one more sulky glare before heading for the kitchen where he would undoubtedly find the butler. 

He’d microwaved the tea and was sipping it out of a mug when he got there, but he left it behind to hunt down a suit for him. He brought them to Grayson’s old room. Timothy felt a bit strange going in. All of his old things were still in there. A few posters on the walls, a pair of shoes tucked under the bedside table, a desk with dusty papers scattered over it. 

“You’re smaller than Master Jason was,” Alfred muttered, digging through the closet. “And your shoulders are narrower than Master Dick’s were at your age. We have to have something back here.”

He pulled a few things out before hanging them back up. All the suits were hung together, all the pieces on one hanger. He tossed a pair of dress shoes at him.

“Try those,” he ordered. 

Timothy did so. They were a bit big but nothing he couldn’t manage for a few hours. 

Alfred pulled out another suit, black and not overly form fitting. He looked back and forth between it and Timothy a few times and measured the sleeve against his arm before shepherding him towards the bathroom. 

He changed quickly. The fit was a bit loose but he couldn’t see it in the mirror. When he stepped out, Alfred gave him a hard look and got him to do a full turn-around with his arms out before giving the nod. 

He rushed down the stairs to the entryway.

“I’ll pull the Porsche around,” Alfred said before disappearing down a dark hallway. 

Timothy raked the hair off his forehead and bounced on his toes, he had a twisting feeling in his gut. Like he wasn’t going to make it in time. Which, thinking about it, wasn’t even that bad, no one was expecting him. The nerves didn’t settle. 

Wayne came down the stairs and threw a white bowtie at him. He was wearing a black turtleneck with a suit jacket over it. He dug through the duffle bag on his shoulder and counted under his breath before zipping it up. 

“I thought you were patrolling?”

“What?” Wayne looked up and shrugged on a coat. “I am. Alfred’s going to drop me off at Wayne Enterprises and I’ll change in my office and leave from the roof.” 

There was a short honk from outside and Timothy pulled the door open. Wayne mumbled something behind him. 

“Beg your pardon?”

He coughed. “You look like Dick.”

A pleasant laugh bubbled up as he watched Wayne struggle to lock the door behind them. “No, Grayson’s buff.”

“Dick is not buff . You’re scrawny.”

“Thanks,” he said drily. “And I don’t know if you’ve seen him, but he’s pretty buff.”

Wayne scoffed and slid into the passenger's seat. “I just mean you need to bulk up a bit. Eat a tomahawk or something.”

“You do need to get some meat on your bones,” Alfred piped in. “I’ll send you home with some beef wellington tomorrow night.”

“I do have food at home,” he insisted. 

“You said your godmother’s vegan,” Wayne said, and Timothy was surprised he remembered him mentioning it. “You can’t bulk up on salad.”

“She cooks a lot of tofu.”

Wayne pulled a face. Timothy had been the same way before he’d started eating it almost every day. It had grown on him.

Alfred drove quickly and precisely through town. He wove between cars and stopped for exactly three seconds at stop signs and before turning left on a red. Timothy knew because he counted. He went exactly seven miles over the limit at all times. Wayne was on his phone but Timothy was stuck holding his seatbelt for dear life and trying to see out the windshield like seeing an accident coming would save him. 

There seemed to be even more press around this event than there had been at the last one, if it was possible. Timothy had almost forgotten how crazy people got seeing other people stand around and clap and drink expensive alcohol.

Alfred navigated to the front of the line of limos with ease.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” he asked Wayne. “People are going to start thinking you’re a recluse.”

“Master Bruce is a recluse,” Alfred said curtly.

“Alfred– I am not. Get out Timothy, you’re holding up the line.”

He laughed as he got out, slamming the door and allowing a woman to lead him into the Crowne Theater. He was surprised to find that the ball wasn’t being held in the theater itself but rather, the top floor. It was a big domed glass room where old people must wait before going to their VIP seats for the opera. There was a stage set up, more fitting for the purposes of presenting a debutante than the one downstairs would have been. 

People were mulling around, a few men had roses on their lapels and groups of friends around them giving congratulations. Timothy figured that he should probably go talk to some of them, a few had been acquaintances of his parents.

That nervous itching had returned though.

There were more kids running around than there had been at the New Year celebration. Their parents were clustered near the edge of the stage. It was lined with white flowers, there were vines draped from the chandelier hanging from the center of the dome. There was meant to be a dinner afterwards, he would probably try to sneak away before it started. 

He made his way towards Mr. Crowne and his wife, it was their daughter whose ball it was of course. There were other girls being presented but everyone knew they had donated the most and were practically running the event. 

People were still pouring in, so at least he wasn’t late. 

The masses around the main families were growing bigger by the second. He wasn’t being aggressive enough to get to them so he was steadily pushed back towards the wall where he lingered, watching the proceedings. Slowly, he inched around the perimeter to get to the stage. He uttered enough “excuse me”s and “so sorry”s to avoid the brunt of anyone’s fury at being bumped into or moved out of the way.

The lights started to dim. People turned delighted faces to the stage. 

He was close enough to the Crownes now to see the alarmed looks on their faces. They too looked up to the stage and then to each other. 

The LEDs above the stage burst to life and bystanders clapped. Timothy pushed to the front of the crowd. There was no music playing. He saw the edge of a white dress step out.

And then Crowne’s daughter stumbled out into full view of everyone. Her white dress was ripped, her hair was tangled around her face, and she was gagged.

Everyone was screaming. 

A man stepped out beside her, not the usual suited escort but a lanky goon in a dirty leather jacket and clown mask. He had a gun to her head. 

The rest of the debutantes were paraded out like animals. Kids were shrieking, adults were running for the doors. People were backing away from the stage. They were locked in. 

The sound of a mic being tapped echoed through the room. 

“Hello, hello?” a nasally voice tested. Timothy’s blood ran cold. “Ah, welcome to this– exciting evening of fun and entertainment.”

Mothers were trying to soothe their children, hide their faces. Timothy could see Lola Crowne under the searing lights, her makeup was running down her cheeks under the weight of her sobs. The girl closest to him was trying to wrestle her arms out of the clown’s grip but he slammed the but of his gun into her face before she could accomplish anything. Someone in the crowd wailed and the girl's nose gushed blood, staining her dress.

“I hope everyone’s having a good time. I didn’t want to ruin this important event for everyone so here you go, you get to see your little show ponies. Isn’t this fun? But I’m actually going to have to be going with them now,” the Joker drawled over the speakers. “So, toodaloo .”

The lights went out. Why was no one doing anything? They were just standing there. Timothy was just standing there. Someone needed to do something.

He launched himself up onto the stage and lunged at the man closest to him. He tried to crouch and kick his leg out to hit the clown’s knees like he had seen Bruce do over the cowl camera. The clown lost his footing and crashed to the ground, taking Timothy with him in a tangle of limbs. His head hit the floor with enough force to make his vision sear white. He used their temporary blindness in the darkness to his advantage and wrestled the gun out of his hand before he could swing it around to get a shot in. 

Manic laughter was playing over the speakers.

They were dangerously close to the edge of the stage. The clown was trying to get up, there was movement around him. The others were fleeing. 

The girl stomped down hard on the masked face with her heel and the thug howled and fell back down. Her hands were tied and she was still gagged but she continued kicking at him whenever he moved. 

He tossed the gun away from them, the cool metal heavy and dead in his hands. It made him queasy.

Timothy grabbed some of the decorative vines off the edge of the stage and scrambled back to the girl. He did his best to tie the man up, focusing on his legs and arms. 

Glass shattered somewhere above. 

His eyes had adjusted by then and he could faintly see the girl through the darkness. He recognized her faintly from school. Cissie something. 

“Timothy?” she whispered. 

And then a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and dragged him off the stage.

Batman was glaring down at him. 

“Do not move,” he growled. 

He jumped up on stage, leaving Timothy at the edge of the room. The girl was gone, the clown was still tied up.

He watched Bruce's silhouette go after one of the other clowns who was dragging a screaming girl towards the curtain leading backstage. As soon as he reached them, at least ten other clowns emerged from the darkness. They didn’t have guns, instead they were wielding bats with nails in them or curved knives that caught the moonlight.

Bruce threw the first punch and sent one of them to the ground. A pipe hit the armour on his side but it didn’t faze him. He threw someone off the stage and they hit a table with a huge bang. 

The doors behind Timothy had opened, he realized. People were running. 

But a clown was creeping up behind Bruce with a huge knife but he was stuck fighting three other muscular thugs who were trying to batter him. There was no time. 

He ran forwards and got back up on stage. There was an abandoned champagne flute that had been crushed under someone's boot, he took it in his hand. He stayed low as he rushed the clown from behind. 

There was a flash of light as a bullet hit Bruce’s armour and ricocheted off in a cloud of sparks. 

He stabbed the jagged stem of the glass into the attacker’s calf and the clown bellowed. Blood was streaming down his leg, there was some on Timothy’s hands. He turned to face him. He hadn’t thought this through. 

Bruce sent the clown flying into the wall with a kick.

He hunched down and grabbed Timothy, picking him up like a sack of flour and jumping from the stage and sprinting through a smaller door he hadn’t even noticed.

“The Joker,” Tim panicked. “The Joker is here.”

“I know,” Bruce seethed, dropping him in a dark corner. “He was luring me in. Stay here. Understood?”

“Understood,” he squeaked. 

And he disappeared again, likely to try and find the Joker.

Timothy didn’t move. His legs were shaking so bad he didn’t think he could even if he tried. He pulled his knees up to his chest and scooted farther back into the little alcove. 

He hadn’t seen the girls leaving the room. He hoped Bruce had gotten to them before helping him. 

There were gunshots going off in the building, the floor was quaking. He stared across the hall at the red wallpaper, it was all he could do. Adrenaline and danger had propelled him forwards before but now it was paralyzing. He was sitting in the dark, alone and even the thought of a clown finding him had him unable to even crawl to the end of the hallway to look around the corner. He didn’t even know where he was in the building. 

The building went quiet but he still didn’t move. He could hear sirens outside. Police cars and ambulances. 

Eventually, the shadows seemed to warp and Bruce stepped out, face grim and lip bleeding.

“Tim,” he said. “Tim, come here.”

Timothy got up and stumbled over. He wasn’t hurt but his muscles weren’t obeying him. Sleeping, almost, while also on high alert. 

“You are going to go down the stairs over there and walk out the back door. You’re not going to talk to anyone. Alfred is waiting in the staff parking lot. Get in the car and he’ll take you to the Manor. I’ll meet you there,” he rushed. 

Timothy nodded feverishly.

“Go,” he ordered, and left as quickly as he had come. 

He walked down the hall as he had been instructed.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure Timothy? I’d be happy to have you. It could do you some good to get out of the city,” Ms. Reid offered again. 

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I have schoolwork and I promised some friends I’d hang out with them more now that things have calmed down.”

“You don’t even have school!” she protested. “Don’t go around thinking I’m that oblivious. But I know how much kids your age need friends. I just don’t think Gotham is a safe place for you. You could always get a plane in a few weeks and join me.”

He gave her a reassuring smile over his mug of coffee. “Batman’s here, he keeps Gotham safe.”

If you want to keep running into danger, you need to learn to defend yourself, Bruce’s voice echoed through his mind. 

Ms. Reid scoffed and kneeled on her suitcase, trying to zip it up. “A fat lot of good that did Mr. Crowne’s daughter.”

Timothy winced. Bruce was beating himself up more than usual over that, no one had heard from her in just over a week. 

“And I do have school,” he lied. “I’m doing that homeschool thing so I have to hand in my work every week.”

She finally got her bag closed and swiped a hair out of her face. “I won’t force you to come. Just know that there’s always a place for you.”

“Thank you.”

She retreated to her room to get another bag of clothes.

Timothy sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was going crazy, Bruce had texted him four times in the last two minutes. 

Are you coming tonight?

Yes, come at five. 

I have something set up. 

Timothy, come at five. 

He did not like the sound of that but texted in the affirmative anyway.

It was already three-thirty and it took a good half hour to get to the Manor when the traffic was light. It was a Friday. Hopefully, he could get ahead of the rush. 

He called Pedro and let him know to pick him up at four fifteen. He’d gotten into the habit of getting him to drive him one way and then having him pick him up somewhere else later in the day or whenever he needed a ride next so he would never know how long he actually spent anywhere. It was probably getting suspicious how regularly he got dropped off at the Manor though. 

A column had come out of the Gazette on the day after the ball boasting a picture of him getting out of the Porche, a stupid smile on his face. One would think they had better stuff than “ Bruce Wayne Adopting Another Stray So Soon?” the day after a high-profile kidnapping. Timothy hadn’t read it but he had seen the word replacement in the first paragraph at least three times. 

Ms. Reid came back, lugging an even bigger suitcase behind her. 

“Do you need any help with that?” Timothy asked. 

“Of course not,” she said, chin up. “See you in a few weeks when you visit.”

He watched her struggle with her things and stuff it all into the elevator, barely getting herself inside before the doors closed. 

“Bye!” he called, and then she was gone and the condo was quiet. 

Timothy used the counter to pull himself off his barstool. His entire back was stiff and sore, his legs ached, muscles he hadn’t even known he had were aching. He’d been excited when Bruce had offered to train him. Excited . 

He felt like an old man. It had been less than a week and he already couldn’t move. 

He went to his room and changed into athletic clothes. 

It turned out that after Alfred stuffed a chicken sandwich into his hand and quizzed him on what he’d eaten that day he did get to see what Bruce had set up. And what Bruce had “set up” was a death trap. 

Timothy stared at the giant pole in the Cave. It was smooth wood, at least twenty feet tall and topped with a small platform. The platform had unevenly knotted ropes dangling from it, none more than ten feet long. And the five feet of pole beneath the platform was covered in barbed wire. 

Bruce clapped once, looking determined. “You’re going to climb up, stand on the platform until that door releases above you and then jump up and grab the bar so you can slap the bell.”

Alfred was watching from the along the wall and that alone gave Timothy the confidence to approach the device. He got close enough to push on it and the whole thing tilted dangerously. 

He jumped back, soreness forgotten. “It’s not even bolted down!”

Bruce nodded. “It’s meant to wobble on an axis. It’s safe.”

“It doesn’t look safe!” Timothy challenged. “How is this meant to help me protect myself?”

Bruce stared at him from under lowered brows before gesturing to the pole. “Just do it.”

He clenched his jaw and hesitated but approached it. When he pushed it again, it tilted far away before coming back. 

He put his full weight against it to try and get an easier angle to climb but as soon as he jumped up onto it, it teetered to the side and dumped him on the ground. The floor felt like a rubber tennis court. 

“Ow,” he mumbled. 

He got back to his feet. The pole was standing straight up again. There were no handholds and it was an awkward size, too big to comfortably wrap his limbs around it, too small to pinch it between his feet and pull up with his hands. 

He tried anyway –both ways– and slipped off both times. When he tried to combine the two, he made it almost four feet off the ground, but his foot slipped and the pole tilted when his balance faltered. 

He was very aware of Bruce and Alfred watching. 

“Maybe you should try taking off your trainers,” the older man suggested. 

Timothy sighed and did as he said, figuring that it couldn't hurt his chances. 

He hit his head a few falls after that and his vision swam when he got up. He lamented the headache that had just faded from the night of the ball, surely to return. He took off his shirt and tossed it away, catching sight of Alfred giving Bruce a slightly worried look. 

That wasn’t boosting his confidence. 

He didn’t always fall, sometimes he got a few feet up and then just landed on his feet when his lower body slipped off. Those times felt even more embarrassing than the others. 

With every minute shift of his balance, the pole twisted and rolled like a carnival game. That’s what this was, really. A stupid, painful carnival game. 

“You know what–” he fumed after landing funny on his ankle. 

“Try a few more times,” Bruce interrupted.

He balled up his fists and turned away. 

His next try was the best yet, out of pure spite. He tried the same frog technique the next time and he noticed that the pole was tilting less and less. He was dizzy though, and his ankle hurt.

He reached up with all his strength but fell again. It didn’t hurt but his hand made a loud slapping noise against the floor. 

“Why don’t you take a water break, Timothy,” Alfred suggested. 

He glared at Bruce and got back up, brushing off his pants. “Nope, I’m actually fine. Thanks.”

The worst part was that he knew Bruce could do it. And Jason had probably been able to do it. And Grayson. And Barbara Gordon. Probably in their sleep. 

But he wasn’t Robin. Or Batman. He was just Timothy Drake. 

He threw himself at it again and hit the ground again. His muscles were straining and he felt like soon, he might not be able to get up off the ground at all. He already didn’t want to. It was a struggle to not let the floor swallow him whole.

With one last bout of strength, he reached higher than the last few times before falling. He was getting very good at twisting in the air to minimize damage. 

He landed beside his balled shirt. It had the Drake Industries logo on it. 

An idea hit him square in the face with the force of all his falls put together. 

He scooped up the shirt and wiped the sweat from his hands and out of his eyes. He held both the sleeves in one hand and looped the rest of it around the pole so he could grab it with the other. Bruce and Alfred were watching. He leaned the poll as far as it would go like he had the first time and hopped up. He used the shirt to keep him stuck to it as he pushed off with his feet. He’d found the trick to keeping himself steady by that point, so the poll stayed semi-still. 

He scooted the shirt up and went step by step towards the top. His muscles were trembling, his hands were slippery with sweat. He made it to the first line of barbed wire with a barely-there, breathless laugh.

He looked to the closest rope. It was swaying a bit. He’d have to jump for it. His hands were slipping and his ankle was getting ready to buckle. 

He launched himself off the pole and twisted to catch the rope. His fingers closed around it and the device swung wildly. His hands slipped an inch, The pole hit its max and jerked to a stop. He was flung through the air. 

He cried out as he fell. 

Instead of meeting the cold hard floor, his back crashed into a cushion-like surface. He opened his eyes and found himself lying at the center of a thick mat. Bruce was standing beside him like he’d slid it under right in time. 

“You’re done,” he said. 

Timothy scoffed. “I’m not done now. I was so close!”

“No, you weren’t,” he grunted, stalking away.

He stared after him, his brief euphoria wicking away to nothing. 

Alfred pressed another sandwich into his hand and a bottle of water once he was up. “You eat that and have a shower, I’ll help Master Bruce get ready.”

Timothy, surprisingly, was encouraged by Alfred to stay at the Manor for the next few days and nights. And then told to bring a spare set of clothes. And then a bag. And then his laptop and books. 

And suddenly he had spent two weeks there, barely ever leaving, and bordering on a third. He couldn’t tell if Bruce was mad about this or just a massive grouch, but it seemed like a bit of both. 

Every day Bruce had him training in the Cave with he or Alfred instructing, or swimming laps in the pool when they were busy. The pole had been stored away somewhere but their sessions didn’t get easier. Bruce’s eyes would ice over when they started and he would fall into a loose fighting stance. Timothy would make the first move and then get knocked onto his ass. He’d get back up and try again, and again, and again. Bruce would jab him in the side or swipe his legs out or kick him square in the chest and he’d get the wind knocked out of him. And eventually, Bruce would leave to eat without much ceremony. Clockwork.

The daily schedule went something like this: wake up at nine or ten and putter around the silent Manor doing research or reading, Bruce would wake up and get a mug of coffee then retreat to his office or Wayne Enterprises for a few hours while Tim continued to keep himself busy, usually helping Alfred with anything he could, without getting in the way. Bruce would come home and Alfred would start dinner and they would train. A meal would be served, usually Timothy’s first and Bruce’s second and Alfred’s third. Then they’d prep for a night of patrol, Bruce would go out and Timothy would watch the cameras and speak over the comms until he came back. Then everyone in the house would collapse into a bed or onto a couch and the cycle repeated itself. 

Days passed easily that way. Timothy doing everything to break Bruce’s bitter silence and Bruce doing everything to stop him. 

He was exhausted.

But still, it was early and he was up for some reason. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop. He was restless. He made a cup of coffee he’d made for himself, leaving the pot to get cold for Bruce. 

He squinted at his laptop screen. He’d logged back into the GCPD database to read over the useless missing person reports for Lola Crowne but then he’d pivoted to the reports of what they’d found at the site of the destroyed warehouse. 

It didn’t look like anything he and Bruce hadn’t already extracted from his sample. The police were still doing a bad job of looking into things. A clown mask had been found and they labelled it a coincidence. It didn’t look like anyone was currently investigating it. They’d just submitted what they’d seen and moved on. And there were no reports of he or Batman being there. 

He flipped back to a surface-level search engine and combed through any recent stories or articles about the Joker. It didn’t seem like the press was taking any interest in the warehouse incident, despite the massive green flames that had given the firefighters such a hassle. The ones Timothy had caused. 

He sipped his coffee and refreshed his search. 

Twelve new headlines popped up from within the last twenty minutes.

He saw the titles.

“Oh, shit.”

Chapter Text

Timothy, Bruce, and Alfred were all in the Cave, watching the monitors as the same video played out for the third time. Bruce was in sweatpants. Alfred was wrapped up in a housecoat. He had his hand resting on Bruce’s shoulder, knuckles white.

The Joker stared into the camera with dark, dead eyes and cackled away. 

“Ms. Crowne!” he shouted, turning the camera around to face the girl.

She jerked up but was barely conscious, Timothy could see through the poor lighting a blackened bruise swelling her eye shut and dried blood matted in her hair. 

“Ms. Crowne, are you ready to have some fun?”

She shook her head and the Joker zoomed out to get a shaky shot of her whole body. White dress in tatters. Arms and legs zip-tied to a chair. 

“Aw,” he cooed. “We can fix that.”

Someone in the same dollar store clown mask as always stepped out of the shadows and flicked a huge needle, like the ones Timothy’s mother had gotten for her back pain once. It was filled with strikingly green fluid, the colour so deep it was murky. 

“No,” she sobbed, yanking against her bindings until her already battered wrists were raw. “No.”

The Joker gave a delighted giggle that had Timothy’s hair standing on end and the needle was jabbed into her arm without consideration for veins or arteries. 

He had missed it the first time watching the video, under the girl’s convulsions, but he could see it now. The bruise fading into her skin, the puffiness going down until her eye could open, wide and glassy. She jerked this way and that like she was having a seizure until the ties snapped and she threw herself to the floor. 

A door slammed in front of the scene but the Joker rearranged the camera so it could peek through a window, his ghostly reflection watching closely. 

The man in the clown mask was banging at the door and shouting, trapped inside like a zoo animal. He sent panicked looks over his shoulder even though he was easily twice the size of Lola. She had gone dangerously still. Timothy had thought she was dead the first time he saw it but now he was on the edge of his seat in morbid suspense, waiting to see what he knew was inevitably coming. 

She yanked herself to her feet like a puppet on strings and stumbled backwards, crashing into the concrete block wall and leaving cracks. She was trembling and yanking her hair with her hands. The camera picked up muffled screaming.

Her reddened eyes locked on the man in the room with her. He was still trying to bust down the door, his shoulder visible in the frame. Her face twisted into a snarl.

She threw herself forward and blood sprayed the window as she bashed his head against the door. Again. Again. He howled then whimpered then went silent but she kept slamming him into the metal. The noise changed from loud banging to wet crunching.

The camera turned around again and the Joker looked absolutely manic.

“Tell me, Bats,” he mumbled. “Is that worth saving?”

And then the video cut out. 

Bruce pressed a button on the remote and all the screens went blank. 

The three of them stalled in silence until Tim’s ears started filling with white noise.

“Should I make some tea?” Alfred asked but he wandered away before either of them could respond. It wasn’t really a question anyways. 

Bruce looked down at him eventually and he got out of his seat. He took it and turned back on the computer. Timothy watched him pull up windows and boot up programs that did who knows what to the video. His face was lit in ghastly contrast by the blue light of the monitors around them. He looked like a skeleton.

Alfred came back with tea and Timothy held onto his mug until it started going cold. 

Bruce sat back in the chair with a frustrated growl, his tea untouched as well. 

“I think I’m going to call Barb,” he said. 

Alfred sipped his tea and stared across the Cave at the bell jars. Timothy went to his room and laid down, staring at the ceiling and trying not to see the video repeating in his head. He remembered Lola from school. She’d been years ahead of him and popular. She’d peer tutored one of his classes and they’d briefly talked a few times. She’d said once that she wanted to be a lawyer.

He wondered how that was going. 

The first thing that surprised Timothy when he went back downstairs was the lady in the Cave.

The second was that Barbara Gordon was standing up at the computer.

Her wheelchair was off to the side with her bag propped up on its wheel and she was very much not in it. She and Bruce were arguing under their breaths and she was leaning on the desk. 

“What?” he said dumbly, holding a mug full of an energy drink he’d smuggled past Alfred and squinting.

Barbara stopped talking and turned. Her glasses caught the light of the computer. Her hair was violently red. 

“Oh,” she said, mildly surprised.

Bruce stood from his chair and stared at him until his manners came back. 

“Timothy, Barbara Gordon. Barbara, Timothy Drake.”

He didn’t motion for him to come any closer so he didn’t, just nodding to her in acknowledgement. Barbara whipped around to Bruce and gave him the most venomous look he’d ever seen on a person’s face.

“ If Dick knew –”

“Barb, it’s not what it looks like,” he soothed.

“Don’t explain yourself to me,” she snapped. “What the hell? What do you think you’re doing?”

Bruce floundered and Timothy had never seen him look so off-balance. Perhaps Alfred’s scoldings were becoming less potent on him just from sheer exposure. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re not doing anything,” she laughed, stilted and bitter. “I’ve heard that before.”

Bruce gave a few false starts and lifted his finger. “You– I– You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She took a step forward but said nothing, glaring up at him. He opened his mouth and his eyebrows started to look very, very angry. Timothy subtly leaned back. Between one blink and another Bruce was blowing by him, storming up the stairs and back into the Manor. 

He still didn’t move, Barbara was staring at where Bruce had been and he was fairly certain she was about to turn her anger on him. He wasn’t ready for that. She must hate him to go against Bruce so thoroughly. 

She took a few wobbling steps to her wheelchair and fell backwards into it. She grabbed her bag and set it on her lap before maneuvering herself back to the keyboard. Once she was there, she wound a strand of hair around her finger and sighed. 

Without looking at him, she patted the seat beside her.

He stepped forwards and sat. Still, she said nothing. 

“I thought you were paraplegic.”

She gave him a tight, tired smile. “I was, after the accident, but I’ve been working on it. I can stand now but not for long periods of time. And my walking is shaky.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Sorry.”

She put her head in her hands and looked down at the keyboard. “Don’t be.”

“I heard you’re good at hacking,” he said. “I’ve been trying to be able to see what the security cams are picking up outside in my spare time, you know, for fun, but I can’t do it.”

Now, she looked up and gave him a real grin, however small. “I made that firewall. You want to learn a thing or two about coding while my laptop works on Bruce’s file?”

He definitely did.

Chapter Text

Timothy stared at the smooth marble implanted into the ground.

His knees were dirty where they rested on frosty leaves. Snow was melting from the branches above and dripping down on him. He held a little bouquet of flowers in his gloved hands on his lap. 

Janet and Jack Drake , the biggest font on the rock read. 

He didn’t know what he was doing here. His parents' bodies weren’t here, it was just a rock with their names on it. 

He hadn’t visited the Estate since he’d moved into Ms. Reid’s house. He didn’t want to be sitting here, near the creek in the woods behind the house where the family cemetery sat within a short garden fence. 

He carefully laid the flowers on the slab.

The light filtering through the trees was golden, it was almost sunset. Bruce and Alfred were expecting him. He wasn’t sure why he had thought coming here would make any of the feelings floating around in his chest anything but worse. 

He’d always had to make the hard decisions himself, there had been no one else around to do it for him. Nothing had changed. He didn’t know why he felt so afloat.

He was at a crossroads.

He stood up and brushed off his pants. His joints cracked and popped. He took the long path back to the front gates to avoid the house and jogged up the road back to the Manor. There weren’t many clouds out, Bruce would have to be more cautious with his hiding places. 

His muscles ached but he didn’t break his pace. He’d purposefully missed their training session today and felt a little guilty. Bruce would be mad. 

But that was part of the crossroads. He felt like he was being pushed and pulled between conclusions, his life was spiraling. He didn’t know what he was doing or where he was meant to be. 

He’d gotten a message from Ms. Reid earlier. She was extending her trip for a few months and wanted him to join her and her friend in their countryside mansion. He could go to school there, start fresh where no one knew him. Was he just meant to pack up and leave? Leave the Estate? Gotham? Bruce? 

Bruce, who was pushing him harder and harder as if trying to find the point when he would leave and stop coming back. Who insisted he didn’t want another Robin but wouldn’t tell him to leave and mean it anymore.

Timothy snuck through a side door that opened to a hallway, to the right was the staircase down to the pantry and wine cellar. Instead, he went in left so he could come out at a nondescript study. The grandfather clock leading to the Cave was in one of the secondary living spaces, the one with the big painting of Bruce’s parents. It was far from the front door, the heart of the house really.  He quickly found it and fiddled with the pendulum until the clock shifted out of the way. The code was two to the left, three to the right and once more to the left.

“Where have you been?” Alfred asked once he saw him.

“My room,” he replied, peering over his shoulder to see what he was working on.

“I went to your room with a snack two hours ago and you weren’t there,” the old man said plainly. 

“Two hours ago I was in the library. Did you make gingersnaps?”

He just hummed and kept packing smoke pellets into Bruce’s tool pouch. 

“Timothy,” Bruce called from somewhere deeper inside. 

He followed his voice and found him leaning over the Batpod, checking something by trying to forcefully jerk it out of place. It was starting to get warm enough for him to use the motorcycle without freezing the exposed part of his face. 

“Grab me the papers Barb printed the other day, would you?”

He rushed over to the computer and shuffled them all into a neat pile before heading back and handing them over. 

“Where were you today?” he asked while he searched for the paper he needed. 

“My room,” Timothy repeated. 

Bruce gave that same unimpressed and disbelieving hum as Alfred. He found the page he was looking for and folded it into his pocket and handed the rest of the packet back.

“Do you need me to get anything?” he asked.

Bruce waved him away and left to get his costume from the bell jars. 

Timothy didn’t realize anything was wrong that night until Bruce stopped responding over the comms. 

He could see him running through the abandoned fairground just outside town, his location was pinging away on a different screen. Everything was saying he was fine. The suit was monitoring his vitals and those were normal as ever. 

He’d had to tie up a gang of clowns to get in, which had let them know they were in the right place. He could do a cool trick where when he fought someone, he could consciously slow down his heart instead of letting adrenaline run its course. Timothy wasn’t quite sure what it accomplished but he trusted that it must do something useful. 

His heart was certainly speeding up. It suddenly felt cold in the Cave. Why wasn’t he responding?

“B?” he said into the mic on his headset. “Are the comms down?”

Alfred wasn’t in the Cave, he’d wandered off after bringing him a plate of cookies and celery.  

Timothy watched Bruce stop to glance around a dark corner. There were more clowns guarding the entrance to the Mansion of Mirrors. His perspective changed as Bruce looked down and then Timothy realized that something really was very wrong. 

His hand had been pressed to his side but he pulled it away to reveal something slick and reflective lining his glove. It was too dark to see much of anything on the black fabric but after seeing it a few times, blood was hard to mistake. 

“B, get out of there,” he ordered. “There were seven armed guards around that corner, if you are injured you need to retreat before they see you. Can you hear me?”

“You counted seven for sure?” he growled through the voice modifier. 

“I– what? Yes,” he sputtered. “Retreat while you can.”

And then the camera cut out so he was staring at only blackness. 

“B!” 

He muted his mic. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

His fingers flew over the keys but it was no use. He watched the little red dot of the tracker move through the carnival grounds. The other monitors mounted on the wall continued to show his heart rate and body temperature, take radiation readings, and show what gases the suit detected in the air. Nothing useful. 

He heard a door slide open.

“Alfred!” he yelled. “Bruce turned off his camera. He’s hurt!”

He was beside him in an instant, stealing the headset from off his head and putting it on his own. 

“Report in ASAP,” he ordered. “Repeat, report in.”

The red dot continued to move, Timothy held his breath every time it stopped for extended periods but it always moved eventually. It didn’t help to know that someone could just be transporting his body. His heart kept beating though. 

Alfred continued to talk into the mic but it didn’t seem to be getting any response. Eventually, he pressed the button to mute himself. He pulled up a chair and took a seat.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well,” Alfred responded. “Now we wait.”

“Wait?!”

“What do you suggest we do, Mister Drake?”

“I– We–” Timothy’s legs had started shaking at some point. “We have to do something .”

The man gave him a sad smile. “You have to learn that sometimes, all you can do is wait for things to play out and hope they go well. Especially if you’re working with Master Bruce.”

“We can’t just sit back while he’s out there, injured, alone, fighting who knows how many people.”

Alfred said nothing. Timothy watched him watch the screens. He ended up sitting there, practically paralyzed for a long time. Until Alfred got up and went to the infirmary to set things up for when Bruce got back. If he did. 

Timothy didn’t let himself wander from the monitors, watching Bruce’s pulse stay at a perfect one hundred. His breathing spiked for a second before returning to how it had been. The air quality stayed normal. 

“Do we call the police with an anonymous tip?” he asked when Alfred returned. 

“It’s better if we let Master Bruce decide that. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“But if he needs help–”

“He will call,” Alfred gave him a reassuring look. “This has happened before. Despite what you may think, he does not have a death wish.”

“But–”

“He will return, Tim.”

They sat in silence.

He went and got himself a cup of coffee which only made his shaking worse. 

“Timothy,” Alfred called. “He’s on his way back.”

He rushed back to the computer to see the red dot racing through the streets towards the Manor. Alfred opened the garage door and pressed a button that stopped the waterfall from blocking a slim portion of the entrance.

Timothy arranged and rearranged the first aid supplies Alfred had laid out. It took Bruce too long to get there, but eventually, they could hear the Batpod whirring towards them. 

It zipped through the gap and Alfred closed everything up. The bike skidded to a stop in front of Timothy and Bruce practically fell off of it, holding his side with one arm and ripping the cowl off with the other. 

“The Crowne girl is safe,” he said, blinking hard against the harsh lights. 

“Lola,” he corrected. “I knew her from school.”

He took his cape and belt while Alfred worried over him with gauze to wipe away blood and keep pressure on the wound. 

“You did?” he mumbled.

“Master Bruce, what caused the wound?”

“Uh– a knife,” he slurred, rapidly leaning farther and farther onto the table. 

“So I needn’t worry about extracting a bullet?”

He shook his head slowly and Timothy handed Alfred more supplies, running the bloodied bandages to the garbage.

His eyes were drooping, Timothy tried to help hold him up so Alfred could keep working but he was heavy and the sharp points on the shoulder piece were digging into his side. 

“Did you hit your head?”

He shook his head again and was hopefully conscious enough to know what he was saying. 

“We need to get him on the table,” Alfred decided.

Bruce tried to say something and straightened up a bit, giving Tim room to breathe. He nodded and started trying to maneuver him up and onto the surface. It took both of them working at the same time to get him up and by the time they accomplished it, Bruce was down for the count. They worked together to get the suit off so they could see the extent of the damage. 

His abdomen was bruised but the cut itself was small for how much it was bleeding. There was glass in one of his thighs and he could see a bit of another cut running from his shoulder to his back. 

“Hold this here,” Alfred instructed, handing over the gauze and showing him how hard to press it onto the injury. “I’m going to call someone.”

Alfred was going to call someone? That was not a good sign. And the cut itself looked so small, deep but still. Tim watched blood seep out over the metal table in sluggish drops and awkwardly stuffed some more gauze under Bruce’s shoulder to try to clot the wound. 

He was getting very pale and Tim didn’t know why. He seemed to be bleeding less than he had been. 

“She’s on her way,” Alfred said when he got back, taking the gauze from Timothy with his wrinkled hands. 

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“Dr. Thomkins.”

He nodded like he knew who that was and went to get more of the first aid supplies. He brought over a little bag of clear liquid attached to an IV.

“Do we give this to him?” He shook it a bit. 

Alfred nodded. “Yes. Yes, that will help.”

They got the needle in his arm and Timothy held the bag up. Bruce looked like he was dead. He was so, so pale.

Dr. Thomkins came down to find them by herself. A big bag in her hands and fleece pyjamas on like she had come straight from bed. She probably had, what time was it?

Without a word, she took over. She moved the gauze and cleaned away the blood with a sterile wipe. She injected a few needles around it in quick succession. Timothy had to look away when she started to poke around inside with her gloved fingers. 

He hadn’t realized that Alfred had left but he came back with a coat rack and took the intravenous bag from him, hooking it on. 

The world was swaying and Timothy was starting to feel sick when Dr. Thomkins started whispering to Alfred. He dully noted that she couldn’t have been much younger than the butler. She must have been retired. 

He retreated when he saw her getting tools out of packages in her bag to sit in the corner. He didn’t want to leave but he didn’t want to see them doing whatever they were doing either. Even just seeing a few stitches done here or there made him queasy. He tucked his head between his knees and took deep breaths. 

It didn’t really help.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Bruce’s internal bleeding wasn’t actually that bad. 

But, that being said, it was bad enough to put him on bedrest for three days and under a strict physical activity ban for who knew how long. At least two weeks.

He wasn’t thrilled.

He took bed rest as “mostly out of bed but usually still sitting” and doing as much work as he could get his hands on, whether it be for Wayne Enterprises or digging into cases he’d had on the backburner. 

Timothy was trying to hold a handstand until Bruce’s timer went off but the blood was rushing to his head and his legs were starting to sway.

“Keep your knees together,” Bruce said, not looking up from the laptop. 

Timothy did as he said and stumbled forwards on his hands to fix his balance. 

Bruce’s extended break from vigilanteism had made Timothy realize that his sleep schedule was well and truly in ruins. Trying to sleep through the night was nearly impossible and trying to make it through the day without coffee was even harder. It was like he had chronic jet lag. 

The alarm went off with a cheery jingle and he fell over to recover on the plush rug.

“Go through your stances,” Bruce said.

Timothy groaned and gave himself a few more seconds before dragging himself up. All in all, Bedrest-Bruce gave Timothy a lot fewer bruises in their training.

“Move your left foot back.” He finally looked up from his work. “What are you even trying to do with your arms? Fix your elbows.”

Fewer bruises did not necessarily mean easier though.

“Straighten your hips. You look like you’re doing yoga.”

Or better for his self-confidence.

“Decent. Go to the next one.”

He did and got painful flashbacks to his childhood of ballet and ballroom dancing his parents had forced him into. He moved through a few more until Bruce got up and knocked his knuckles into his chest, nudging him back onto the rug. 

“You do realize, the whole point of these stances is to increase stability and potential force right? You have to be balanced. Plant yourself.”

“It's literally impossible to be balanced with my legs so far apart and my feet facing like that,” he said from the ground.

“It’s literally not.  Remind me tomorrow to show you some Silat, you might pick it up better.”

“Do you not need balance for that?”

He grabbed his phone and swiped through something. “Oh, you definitely do but considering how much you fall over, it might teach you to not throw the fight once you end up on the ground.”

Timothy scoffed. “Thanks.”

“Once Alfred stops babysitting from the shadows,” he said pointedly at the corner of the room where Alfred was indeed lurking. “We can try Arnis too, it’ll give you a bit of wingspan.”

The butler stepped forward from the dark doorway with a disapproving look. “Your guests are here, Master Bruce.”

“Thanks, Alfred. Timothy, do some sit-ups while I’m gone– and eat something.”

“Guests?” he asked, but Bruce was already gone and Alfred was beckoning him up.

He led him to the kitchen and didn’t mention the sit-ups when he pushed a premade breakfast burrito of leftovers into his hands. His dark eyes stared into his soul while he cautiously took a few bites.

“So…” he said, rocking back on his heels. 

“Master Bruce said he was going to be walking the grounds,” Alfred said, wiping the spotless counter. “Probably the outer path. It's nice this time of year, with the flowers starting to come up.”

“Are you saying that I should–”

“I’m not saying anything,” he clarified.

“Okay, well,” Timothy took a few steps back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just be eating. In my room. No need to check up on me.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Yep, okay, thanks. For the burrito.”

“Of course. Bring your coat to your room with you.”

Timothy indeed took his coat with him when he whipped outside and started jogging through the trees towards the outer path. He finished the burrito in a few big bites and slowed down when he thought he was getting close. He tried to avoid any stray sticks and branches that could give away his location. It was cold and frost was crunching under his boots so he went slow, tracing the edge of the path until he started to hear conversation ahead. 

“My niece is going to be part of the new Young Justice team,” a female voice said. “I think it will do her some good to be around other people her age with such different personalities and lives.”

“Clark recruited my little apprentice too, I’ve barely had her for a year and he’s giving her to Red Tornado,” a deeper one responded. 

“Is that so?” Bruce said casually. Timothy could hear him slipping into that practiced playboy mask that he had thought was real for so long. “Is it a girls team this time?”

“No, Barry has a kid in it. Apparently, he and Conner are already pretty close. But there is another girl, I don’t know who,” the guy said.

Timothy could see blond hair ahead. And Bruce was beside a woman, a few inches taller than him. A twig snapped under his shoe. He froze.

“Diana,” Bruce said. “What is it?”

The woman had paused but she continued on now, he was safe.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said easily. “Will there be a Robin on the team?”

It was Bruce’s turn to hesitate. “You know how I feel about that.”

“Of course, Bruce,” the man said quickly. “We’re not pushing you.”

They continued walking in silence and Timothy let the distance grow slightly before he followed. He stayed back from the path and tried to move from tree to tree carefully. 

“If I were to– take a break from Gotham,” Bruce said. “Could I trust you two to take care of the city?”

“Of course!” the man repeated. “We always do.”

“Everyone needs breaks,” Diana said softly. 

“You’ll keep an eye on the Joker? I think I pushed him back a bit last week. The department seized all his materials and blocked off the fairground. But now, I don’t know when he’ll resurface.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Diana said. “How long do you plan on being gone?”

Timothy could feel his frown. “I don’t know. I’ll have to see how things go.”

“Take as long as you need,” the man spoke up. 

They kept talking about Justice League business and people Timothy didn’t know but vouched to look up later. Bruce bid his farewells when the trail looped back to the beginning and the blond man left quickly after that.

Diana lingered, standing eerily still and staring right at Timothy through the trees that separated them. He knew she couldn’t see him. He held his breath. She tilted her head. 

And then she pulled her long ponytail over her shoulder and strode away with clicking footfalls.

He gave a huge sigh and unclenched his fists.

Bruce was leaving.

Chapter Text

Bruce was in his room, on his phone talking to someone at WE about moving any appointments or meetings he might have had scheduled. 

He knew that because he’d found a few days ago that the ducts in Wayne Manor were just big enough for him to fit if he squeezed. The feeling of intruding was getting familiar at this point, after trying to break into the Cave, hunting down Grayson’s apartment, even eavesdropping on Bruce’s conversation in the woods earlier.

To be fair, he’d checked the door first but it had been locked and completely sound-proofed. 

“I’ll be out of the country for at least a month. No, I don’t know when I’ll be getting back yet. I’ll keep you posted,” he said, half in his closet and rooting through drawers. “Thank you, have a good night. Call me if anything comes up.”

Timothy jiggled the old vent cover just right to get it to pop open so he could slide out semi-quietly. His banging was covered by the end of Bruce's call and the way he was trying to brute force his drawer closed. 

“Okay, goodbye,” he said.

Timothy brushed off his fleecy quarter-zip but the thick dust stayed stubbornly glued to it. The knees of his pants were grey with it, he was sure it was in his hair too.

He was slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his chest. His head banged off the wall. 

“Oh, Tim!” Bruce said, dropping him back onto his feet. “What are you doing?”

He gasped and held his heart. More of that dust got into his nose and he sneezed a few times. 

“Your door was locked,” he wheezed.

“Why didn’t you knock? Do you need something? Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head and fixed the collar of his shirt where Bruce had grabbed it. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this conversation to go. 

“I didn’t knock because you were on the phone.”

Bruce stared down at him. 

“I heard you were leaving,” Timothy said. “You know, awfully convenient that when I ask you to take a break you say no, but now that I’m around trying to help you’re chomping at the bit to get away.” He smiled a bit, trying to stop his chin from jutting out like it did when he was being childish. “You know I’ll leave if you really don’t want me around. Gotham needs you more than you might need me, I get it.”

“What?” Bruce said, clamping his big hands on his dirty shoulders. “Tim, you’re coming with me. I’m not trying to run away from you.”

He paused. His eyebrows rose out of their angry furrow. He felt unimaginably stupid. “Oh.”

Bruce shoved him away and turned towards the closet, chuckling. “I cannot believe you. Thinking I’d flee Gotham just to get away from your big mouth. You’re not that annoying, kid.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Right.”

“We’re going to get you some formal training before you get to be Robin.” Bruce laughed again at his face. “Let's go see Alfred, I think I ripped a few stitches in my shoulder.”

Timothy got a haircut and packed his bags at the condo over the next week. He watered the plants, most of them were cacti and would survive in his absence. He moved all the perishables from the condo to the Manor. He was dizzy with it all. 

Bruce and Alfred were going to show up soon and take him to the airport. He didn’t have much more time to sit and stew. 

He sat in his empty room at the condo. It looked like it had when he first showed up, with his bags on the ground and an impersonal abstract painting on the wall. He was on the bed, sheets pulled tight and straight beneath him.

His phone buzzed with a message saying they were out front.

He stood and shouldered his backpack. Every movement felt final like he was signing some sort of contract. In a way he was. 

He hadn’t bothered with his suitcases this time. He just had his school bag and a duffle with wheels for all of the things he needed. It wasn’t much but he didn’t even know where he was going. He figured he could buy what he needed on a case-by-case basis. He doubted he would need his ski equipment for this trip.

He got to the lobby and saw the Porsche loitering right outside the revolving doors. There were people crowding around it, trying to take pictures and bang on the window. He could hear crazed screaming even from inside. The hotel staff were trying to ward people off, giving the car a tight buffer of space. 

Timothy stepped outside but didn’t move away from the doors. Was he meant to get through the crowd somehow?

The windows were tinted so dark he couldn’t see anything inside, somehow the mass knew it was Bruce and their theatrics were drawing even more curious people into the fray. 

“Timothy Drake?” a middle-aged man on the outside of the circle asked.

A woman turned away from the car to stare at him. “Who?”

“Bruce Wayne is adopting him,” someone else said. “They’re probably here to pick him up.”

Suddenly, everyone’s collective attention turned to him. He blanched. They started moving closer and closer, cameras were flashing in his direction. 

It was now or never. 

He picked up his bags and marched through the crowd. He wasn’t afraid to discreetly ram his elbows into anyone that got too close. His hood was ripped down to expose his hair. Questions were attacking him. He walked faster and almost tripped over someone’s boot. A hand latched onto his shoulder but he jerked away towards the SUV.

Once he was inside the bubble, the condo staff did their best to keep them away. He yanked the back door open and threw his things in, jumping in quickly after.

Alfred immediately honked a few times and eased off the brake.

“Alfred, there’s people!” Bruce shouted. 

The man honked again. “That’s unfortunate.” He stomped on the gas and anyone in their way scattered.

“Alfred!”

They peeled out of the lot and into traffic. Timothy quickly did up his seatbelt. 

Bruce leaned between the front seats to give him a once-over. “You good, Tim?” he asked.

He nodded, catching his breath still. “There are going to be some really weird gossip columns tomorrow.”

Bruce smiled and retreated back to the passenger seat. 

Timothy had been on enough long flights to know how to properly structure them. Get something productive done for an hour or two. Start a movie until the food comes around. Have a nap. Wake up and finish the movie. Do some more work. Stare out the window until the plane lands.

Bruce was in the seat next to him, blocking him away from the bathroom despite the first-class legroom. The man dwarfed the cabin. 

His schedule involved working until he passed out sometime after three in the morning and staying completely still with his laptop and files in his lap while Timothy tried not to disturb him. 

He really had to pee.

He was surprised first when Alfred said he wasn’t coming and then again when they were loaded onto a commercial plane instead of a private jet or helicopter. He had kind of expected something more top secret. 

Timothy could tell that if he tried to get past him, he’d wake him up and he didn’t want that. Despite his uncanny stillness, he had a feeling even the slightest disturbance would ruin Bruce’s nap.

They were headed to Paris to meet a friend of Bruce’s. The ocean had given way to the countryside so he figured they were getting close, his butt was getting sore from sitting for so long. Not that it was any different from what he usually did back home. 

“Attention passengers: we will be landing within a half hour. The seatbelt lights will come on soon, please stow any loose items and give any garbage to the attendant when they come by,” the speakers spit out, then repeated in french. 

Bruce pushed his knights' hat up off his eyes and squinted against the morning light pouring through the window. 

Thank god , Timothy thought.

“We’re landing soon,” he said. “Could I get by you?”

Under the fluorescent lights of the airport, two women were waiting for them. They boldly watched them leave customs with blank expressions and dark eyes. Bruce didn’t acknowledge them but Timothy could tell he knew they were there. They took their time wandering around the luggage retrieval though they only had carry-ons, nobody recognized them here. 

The women both had long dark hair and east Asian features, They wore loose street clothes and stood straight and proud. One was young, probably about Timothy’s age. They were patient as Bruce wandered around, wasting their time. He shot Tim a warning look before approaching them. 

He took it to mean “don’t do anything stupid” which had already been the plan. 

He pasted his signature grin on his face and held out his hand, bowing his head a bit to the older one. “Lady Shiva,” he said quietly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Bruce Wayne,” she responded, shaking his hand. She turned her piercing gaze to Timothy and took his hand next, squeezing hard. “And the boy.”

“You have a partner,” Bruce said lightly.

Lady Shiva tipped her head, brushing the small girl’s hair out of her face to reveal sharp, wary features. “Cassandra, my apprentice.”

Bruce reached out for a handshake again. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

The girl didn’t move a muscle to respond or accept his hand. 

Timothy gave her a tight smile. 

“Well,” Bruce said, clapping his hands awkwardly. “Time to get going. Wouldn’t you say?”

Chapter Text

Turns out, the top-secret thing started after the plane ride ended. 

Lady Shiva and Casandra were living in an old, seemingly abandoned girls' school in the slums of Paris. The lights flickered and the floors were filthy, the walls were covered in french graffiti. They had beds set up in classrooms on the second floor and boobytraps everywhere. The pool was empty and the cafeteria was stocked with enough non-perishables to sustain two people for eighty years, give or take a few. 

Lady Shiva brought them upstairs to one of their repurposed classrooms, all of the desks were pushed to the side and two bare bedrolls were set up beside each other. One of them was stained brown and grey but the other looked to be in decent condition. 

“I hope it’s to your usual calibre,” the woman said drily. “We wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bruce gave her a tight smile. “Thank you for your willingness to accommodate.”

She cocked her head and stared him down for an uncomfortable few seconds. Sunlight was starting to get through the boards on the windows behind her. She almost glowed with it.

“We can start as soon as you are prepared, meet us in the gymnasium.”

She stalked silently out of the room and her apprentice followed directly behind her without even a glance back at them. 

As soon as the door closed, Bruce dumped his single bag on the ground and turned on him. He jabbed a finger into his chest and tipped his head so their foreheads were nearly touching.

“Listen to me, Tim. You will listen to Shiva, you will do as she says, you will learn what she teaches. Got it? Don’t talk back, don’t waste her time. You will put your all into every single thing you do while we’re here and you will do every single thing well. I know you have a brain in that head, use it to remember everything she says. Everything.”

Timothy nodded furiously. 

“She is not a forgiving teacher but you won’t find anyone else like her. We are lucky to be here.” Bruce gave him a long look as if to make sure his point was good and pounded in. “Get changed and let’s go.”

He backed out of his personal bubble and Timothy sighed in relief. He dropped his bags and dug through them to find his best athletic clothes. He was tired from the plane ride and didn’t even want to think about what time it must have been back home. The air was damp and full of dust that clouded in his lungs. He didn’t really feel lucky to be here. He felt like his ass was about to get kicked. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t at least a little excited. Apprehensive, maybe.

They both changed out of their flight wrinkled suits and Bruce rushed him down to the gym where their hosts were just finishing dragging mats out onto the floor.

“Warm-up,” Lady Shiva ordered Cassandra.

“Copy her,” Bruce ordered Timothy. 

The teens retreated to a far corner of the room. The dark-haired girl ignored him and moved into practiced exercises. A few push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges as well as others he’d never seen before. Timothy felt the exertion from them in tiny muscles he didn’t even know he had. He was already sweating lightly in his joggers and long-sleeved shirt. 

She sat in a wide straddle and Timothy did his best imitation, facing her. Her eyes were perfectly blank as she flexed and pointed her toes, stretching over to lay her face on her knee and hold her foot in her hands. 

Again, he tried to do the same. His muscles strained against the stretches. He could hear Bruce mumbling in the background, his low voice echoing around the open space. 

When he focused again, Cassandra was staring at him from her folded position. She furrowed her eyebrows and sat up, jerking her hand to get him to do the same. 

He slowly did, lifting his hips up to readjust against the cold floor. 

She purposefully lifted her arms above her head and sank over her other knee. He copied but she scrunched her nose and sat back up. She stretched her arms up again and pointed at her ribs, taking a big breath in and exhaling as she fell over again. 

He tried to do the same but didn’t feel any different than he had the first two times. She seemed to give up and kept going through her routine. 

“Timothy,” he heard as soon as they finished up. “Join me.”

Lady Shiva was standing on the center mat, a white circle drawn around her like a fighting ring. He cautiously stepped up and into the bubble. Bruce was standing against the wall watching but he didn’t let himself look over for support. He squared his shoulders. 

“I want you to attack me with the intent to do harm,” she said in that soft, even voice.

“Attack you?” he repeated and could feel Bruce’s blunt stare from the wall. 

She smiled. “Yes.”

He fell back into a loose fighting stance. Usually, Bruce was the one who started their spars, Timothy was almost constantly on the defensive. 

Lady Shiva didn’t move, just watched him. 

He lunged forwards and she stepped cleanly away, jabbing the soft flesh on his side between rib and hip. He spun to follow her, punching up at her face and earning himself another dodge and jab, this time closer to his stomach.

He kicked and she flashed away, just out of reach. She feigned a punch and lured him into jabbing reach. He chased her around the ring and she danced around him.

Her eyes were cold and calculating. She was playing with him, leaving painful bruises all over his body. She moved like mist around him but hit like a rock, all without trying. Her hair slapped him in the face but never got in her way. 

Without warning, she booted him in the chest and sent him to the ground. 

“You’ve brought me a baby,” she said to Bruce. 

Timothy was staring up at the ceiling but he heard Bruce respond, “I thought it was better for you to start early on him.”

Lady Shiva hummed. “It is good that no one has given him any lasting bad habits yet. He holds himself well.”

He physically felt Bruce's tension ease. 

Timothy pushed himself back up. “I used to do ballet,” he said.

She nodded, filling the information away no doubt. “Cassandra.”

The girl snapped up from where she’d been crouched near Bruce. Lady Shiva waved her hand and left the mat, leaving Cassandra in her place.

The girl relaxed into a starting pose like she’d been born that way, and Tim tried to go vaguely defensive. She was completely still safe for her measured breaths, in and out. 

Timothy tried to hit her where her arms left her torso exposed but she moved almost before he did, grabbing his arm with an iron grip and using his momentum against him to run him into the ground. 

“I could see that you were going to try that from a mile away,” Lady Shiva said. “Don’t let your eyes tell your opponent your plan.”

He nodded while righting himself and tried again. This time kicking out with his leg in that way that had worked out so well with the clown. 

It didn’t work out so well that time. Cassandra easily jumped away, waiting for Timothy to come at her again. She was fast, he knew he had no chance at winning any fight he was going to be put in today. He struck anyway.

She easily tossed him right over her shoulder. 

The adults said nothing this time, just watched from under the dim lights, faces in shadow. 

They went at each other again and again. Well, Timothy went at Cassandra and she easily parried him away. He noticed that she wasn’t correcting him like Lady Shiva had with her jabs. She was patiently letting him exhaust every idea he had until he was mindlessly attacking with no plan. 

Every time, she caught him mid-move, like she was reading his mind. But just once, he saw her eye spark with what might have been the tiniest bit of surprise when he faked a punch and instead hooked his ankle around hers to yank her down in a cheap street move. 

But then he was on the ground and she wasn’t and he thought it might have just been the reflection of the lights.

After a few days of gruelling training, Bruce was out getting food and visiting the Louvre so the press knew he was indeed in Paris and sightseeing. Lady Shiva was out too, though he didn’t know where. He got the distinct sense that she might have been an assassin, not that he was going to ask about it. Plausible deniability and all that.

He had found the library of the school and dug through the boxes of mildewy books until he found one about the solar system. He relaxed onto the floor and opened it up. He needed some alone time. 

He was two short chapters in when a shuffling noise came from behind him. He rolled onto his back to find Cassandra there. She was slouched over on herself, standing just inside the door and watching him almost timidly. Her expression was deadly as ever though. 

She kicked the cardboard box again and stepped forwards. Timothy didn’t move. He didn’t know what was going on. Was there protocol for situations like this?

She crouched beside him and looked at the book in his hands. She pointed at it but watched him. He still hadn’t heard her talk. 

“Oh,” he whispered. “Is it yours? I didn’t know.”

She shook her head and pointed more forcefully, frustrated. 

He rolled over so he wasn’t staring up at her and the exposed beams of the ceiling. She snatched the book away from him, opening it and running her finger along the words. She mimed talking and gave it back, waiting. 

“You want me to read it? Outloud, I mean?”

She nodded vigorously, falling onto her hands and knees to get closer. Their heads knocked together and her shoulder was digging against his.

“Okay,” he opened it back up to where he’d left off and put his finger down so she could follow. He started to read about the moons of Jupiter. He didn’t know if she even knew about that sort of thing but she seemed to be enjoying it. Her head was in her hands and there was a subdued but childish glee on her face.

He finished the chapter, there was movement in the building somewhere. Probably Bruce.

“You owe me now,” he said once he’d finished. 

She tipped her head in his direction so they were uncomfortably close, she didn’t seem to notice. 

“I want to not suck when we spar.”

She giggled silently into her hand and lept away, fading into the terrain of the building.

Chapter Text

Tim couldn’t sleep. The air was damp from the rain leaking through the boards on the window, Bruce was just barely snoring beside him, the building was creaking. He was tangled up in his plasticky sleeping bag and could feel Bruce’s warmth from his sleeping mat, barely a foot away. 

His world was spinning and he couldn’t figure out how he got there. What had led him to this specific moment? These crazy events happening to him? Little, unimportant Timothy Drake.

Light crept over his face and his eyes squinted shut without his permission. Bruce didn’t shift and there was no noise besides his breaths. Not even from their usually squeaky door. 

He peered at the doorway, the light was on in the hallway. 

A figure stepped into view, backlit and ominous. His heart lurked and he scrambled up, trying to free his legs as quickly as he could.

Slowly, they lifted a finger to their mouth for him to be silent and he finally recognized Cass. It was obvious once his night-addled brain put it together. Her clothes, the way she stood, the shiny column of hair falling over her shoulders. 

She waved him over with her other hand and he more carefully stood. He was only wearing a pair of joggers. The tile floor was cold on his feet. 

He scooped up a t-shirt and glanced at Bruce to make sure he was still asleep. 

When he got close enough to see her face she bit her lip and grabbed his wrist to drag him down the hall. They left the door cracked open and she led the way to the gym. Her footsteps were uncannily silent and he tried his best to mimic her. 

They entered through the side door leading them through the dingy stage. They were surrounded by moth-eaten curtains and forgotten play pieces: too many doors and a fabric-covered wooden chair. The rain pounded on the walls of the building. Cass jumped down from the stage and onto the floor of the converted gym. 

“So...” he said.

She predictably didn’t respond. He ended up in the white circle with her. She fell into a fighting stance and a revelation dawned on him. 

“Oh. This is me learning to stop sucking, isn’t it?”

She smiled, small and amused.

She kicked, but not in his direction. She made the smooth movement slowly and then returned to her resting place. With furrowed brows, he copied but she just shook her head before pointing at her foot. She kicked again. Foot pivot, hips twist, leg above her head, back. 

“Your foot shifting?” he guessed. 

She nodded enthusiastically and did it again, faster. The same pivot happened right before her right foot left the ground. She settled back into her starting stance, lower than Bruce would be and more dynamic. She could move in any direction with even a slight shift of her weight. Her fingers urged him forwards through the darkness in the universal signal for come at me so I can kick your ass.

He did as she wanted. 

To his surprise, she simply dodged every attack without her usual flare. She led him around the ring as if he were on a leash. He relaxed into a type of rhythm. 

Then her leg came out of nowhere and he was knocked to the ground hard enough to bite his cheek and taste blood. 

“What the hell?” he said without vitriol, staring up at the ceiling. 

She leaned over him looking vaguely apologetic. His ear was ringing. He propped himself up on an elbow and she pointed forcefully at her foot again. They tried over and over, he attacking and her defending until she would decide to kick him in the head. 

He didn’t think he got the hang of it by dawn. 

He poked at the swollen cut in the pocket of his cheek with his tongue. The news was playing on Bruce’s laptop. He’d charged it at a cafe earlier but it was already dying, he had some malware eating the battery life. 

Shiva had been gone for seventeen hours and some French parliament member had been found in his mansion with his left hand cut off. 

“You know, B,” he said. “I’m really trying to believe that you haven’t brought me to a team of assassins to train.”

“I haven’t,” he mumbled through a spoonful of some quinoa bowl or something he’d found at a granola fast-food chain.

“Hm.” He nodded and kept watching the news anchor standing in the mass of police officers chattering about the upcoming election. 

The cafeteria was wide and empty, with many overturned tables and smashed bottles scattered around. The boards over the windows were gapped there and the cracked glass let enough sun through for them both to be able to sit in a patch of it. 

“I haven’t,” he repeated, mouth empty. “Shiva is adamant that her apprentice girl won’t kill. She’s sensitive or something.”

“What the hell?” he demanded, he felt like it was becoming his catchphrase. “You did bring me to an assassin!”

“Listen, kid,” Bruce said, icy eyes sliding over to him. “I’m thrilled to have a Robin who’s got a moral compass and all but also, there’s a blur between evil and necessary evil. You need to be trained, Shiva’s the best.”

“A blur? She kills people.”

“She kills bad people. I’m not a fan of what she does, okay? But she’s a better ally than enemy. I trained with assassins when I was about your age and I made the mistake of screwing them over. Don’t do it. Just do what you need to do and keep yourself clean,” he instructed, sounding dismissive.

“What about justice?” Timothy floundered. “What about Batman? And good vs. evil? And– and–”

“Tim,” he snapped. “You don’t have to like it– I don’t– but in the grand scheme of things, she’s a lesser evil.”

He closed the laptop and stood from the dusty cafeteria table. “I don’t think I believe in lesser evils.”

 A few nights later, Tim was wiping sleep from his eyes and watching Cass show him a set of completely new fighting stances and moves. 

There was something almost cat-like in them. The way she hunched her shoulders and hugged the ground. She used all of her limbs equally to propel herself forwards and up for attacks. She lunged at the practice dummy loaded with sand and immediately knocked it over. 

She set it back up and motioned for him to pay attention, though he already was. She patted her stomach and lowered herself into a crouch. Her hand moved between her torso and the ground. 

“Center of gravity,” he guessed groggily.

She nodded and jumped into a handstand twisting motion that flipped the dummy between her legs. She stood and called him forward. 

“Cass,” he groaned, going towards her anyways. “When I said I didn’t want to suck, I didn’t mean I wanted to spend every night training.”

She shrugged and he took it to mean that he needed as much help as he could get. 

He crouched on the cool mat and she adjusted his posture with gentle hands. Shoulder away from ear. Wrist better supported. Ankle less crooked. 

He snapped to attention at a crack that rang through the echoing room. She’d clapped her hands and was holding up two fingers. He went to the next pose. There was more wrong with it than the first. The third had his muscles shaking and the fourth was barely recognizable. Even he could tell. 

“Cass,” he begged again. 

With careful consideration, she laid the dummy down beside him and pointed between them.

“I’m a dummy?” he said weakly. 

She nodded and kicked it hard enough to send it across the room in a lopsided roll. It spilled a wobbly trail of sand behind it. He watched it go, cheek pressed into the dirty mats. He didn’t even care. He’d showered in a public gym the other day. 

Finally, she laid down beside him, far enough away that they weren’t touching. She rolled over to stare at him. He mirrored her. Black hair framed her face, dark as the shadows behind her.

“ Dummy ,” she mouthed. 

He snorted and was asleep before the sound had faded from the air.

Chapter Text

“Bruce, what are you trying to do?” Lady Shiva snapped, walking in on their warm-up session. 

He was going through the stances he practiced at the Manor. He was sore from training all day every day. He could barely remember what he’d thought was bad back home. B was trying to break their uncomfortable stalemate but they were both too stubborn to yield.

“You’re turning him into a bull like you,” she said. “Does he look like a bull? All these– things you're teaching, you’re going to make him slow.”

“Slow isn’t bad,” Bruce said, standing straight.

“When you’re his size it is.” Tim’s face heated up. “Treat him like a girl. He can’t hit hard yet, he has to be fast and unpredictable. Don’t soil him with your rules.”

Bruce scoffed. “I learned those rules from the great masters. They’ve kept me alive.”

“You doubt me?” Lady Shiva said, eyes sparking. “You come to me for help and you work directly against me? Who do you think you are, Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce seemed to come back to himself, eyes going wide and backing off. “I meant no disrespect.”

Timothy could have laughed. Don’t talk back, blah, blah, blah . He knew how to keep his mouth shut. Apparently, Bruce needed a taste of his own medicine. 

“Go sit at a cafe or something,” Lady Shiva said. “Something you’re good at. Get out of my hair.”

Bruce looked furious but left anyway, probably to mope in their room. 

“Forget everything you just did,” she commanded. “We’re doing real work now.”

She stepped up onto the mats and twisted her wrist to let a wickedly curved blade slide into her palm. She stepped forwards into a low stance, weight on her back leg and ready to pounce at him. 

Timothy had a moment of almost numbness, like his mind was separate from his body and all he could think was: Why would Batman bring me to an assassin to be trained? And he met Lady Shiva’s eye, his mind tentatively putting her into the box for bad people and criminals. He glanced over at Cass, silent and still as ever, watching vacantly like she was actually somewhere far, far away. She was probably in that same box.

Why had Bruce brought him here if he was so staunchly against anyone in that evil box?

There was a blur of movement and Timothy automatically threw himself to the side. He managed a messy dodge then a half-hearted punch in Lady Shiva’s general direction. Sliver whizzed past his face, close enough that it just barely grazed the bridge of his nose. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, popping up just to jump back away from a high kick. 

Shiva was using graceful but heavily controlled movements that didn’t flow the way Cassandra’s did when she handed him his ass. She was holding back, hard. Giving him a chance to get a few moves in before finishing the fight. 

Even with her restraint, all of his moves were sloppy. It was like the one time he’d tried hockey at a Christmas party, sliding around semi-upright and getting the puck by flailing his stick and trying not to fall over. 

Eventually, she got bored and knocked his legs out from under him, squatting down to press her knife to his neck.

“What did you do wrong?” she asked.

Timothy stared at the light right above him, letting it burn colourful shapes into his retinas. “Everything.”

She scoffed and backed off. “You didn’t prepare yourself beforehand. You went into the fight unorganized and without a plan.”

Timothy pushed himself to his feet, shaking out his arms to try and get rid of the uncomfortable tenseness that had taken over his shoulders after nights of sleeping on the ground. 

“What’s the most important part of a fight?” she asked.

He thought back to Alfred’s lessons from before Bruce had even wanted him in the Cave. “The first move.”

She shook her head and tossed her hair over her shoulder, the blade already gone from her hands. “Five minutes before the fight. You should know how the fight is going to look before it even begins just by watching your opponent exist. You should know that their left elbow is weak from an injury. That they step before they punch. That they don’t cover their right side. Then, once you make your move, you can see what they’re going to do before they do it because you can read what their body is giving away. Watch.”

Cassandra stepped up and Timothy backed out of the circle. Her lessons from the past few nights were starting to connect in his brain. Lining up in a satisfying pattern he was finally starting to see.

They traded slight bows before colliding at the center. They fit against each other in an easy give and take. They moved forwards and back, nearly too fast for Timothy to catch. And like Shiva had said, they seemed to block before the blow even started to come and take advantage of minute weaknesses that Tim couldn’t even identify until after they’d moved on.

It came to a peaceful end and Lady Shiva excused herself, telling Cassandra to keep practicing with him.

They did as she said, he tripped himself more than once when he was more focused on her movements than his own. She changed her fighting style almost every time, throwing new attacks at him and purposefully letting him see obvious weaknesses he could try to use. He remembered Cass’ foot pivoting before she kicked the other night. 

She was a good teacher despite her silence. She was patient, but he could tell she was a bit confused as to why he couldn’t effortlessly see into the future like she and her mentor did, even after it had been explained to him in words. 

His stomach growled loudly sometime after his twentieth fall and she held out her hand for the first time to help him up. With surprising force, she yanked him to his feet and pointed at the door to the cafeteria.

“Thank God,” he sighed.

He was less thankful when they got there and any semblance of fresh food was gone. Cassandra grabbed a protein bar and unceremoniously shoved the whole thing in her mouth. He dug through packages and boxes to find a single bag of freeze-dried apples. He ate a few but they weren’t very satisfying so he passed them to her and kept looking. 

“Do you want to go to a restaurant or something?” he asked. 

When he turned around, Cass’ eyes were big and she was holding the apple chips close. A shy smile spread over her face. She nodded. 

He grinned back.

Getting to the center of town wasn’t hard. Convincing Cass not to get distracted in the crowds was harder. Finding a way to get euros was almost impossible considering they had no money to exchange. 

He ended up using his mediocre French skills to get a street vendor to trade him a few bills for a pair of rip-off Nikes he’d found in one of the lockers at the school. 

They ended up in an overpriced cafe where they both got sandwiches with croissants for bread and Timothy got himself a coffee. He’d missed it.

They ate on the second floor, Cass staring out the window and Timothy savouring his drink. It was sunny and busy out on the streets, tourists taking pictures and tour guides waving little flags. They were near a museum but he didn’t know which one.

Cass grabbed his wrist and leaned over the table towards him. Her eyes were dark and intense, she was holding on very tightly. With her other hand she pointed at the empty wrapper in front of her.

“Good,” she murmured so quietly that he was almost certain he’d imagined everything but her lips moving.

He was shocked, he hadn’t thought she could talk at all. 

A couple came up the spiral stairs and caught his eye. Two women, one short and blonde, the other– 

Ms. Reid was in the cafe, three tables away. 

“We have to go,” he hissed immediately, grabbing her wrist like she’d grabbed his. 

He pulled her up and carefully navigated between tables, holding his coffee up to his face and hiding in the hood of his sweater. They passed not two feet from Ms. Reid’s turned back.

He didn’t let go of Cass’ arm until they’d made it out and away from the cafe, blended in with the crowds. 

“My godmother was in there,” he explained quietly. “She can not know I’m here. She thinks I’m staying in Gotham for school.”

Cassandra nodded, sticking close. Then, almost imperceptibly, her eyes sharpened at something over his shoulder. 

He spun but it was too slow. Strong hands grabbed him, dragging him into a shaded alley blocked off by an overflowing dumpster. Sometimes Paris was eerily similar to Gotham. 

Cass struck, knocking the figure away from them with a few precise punches. 

“Ow,” they said in a familiar, unimpressed voice. 

“Bruce?” Timothy said before Cass could do any real damage. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Tim?” he snapped, massaging his side. 

Now that his eyes had adjusted, Timothy could see his face, drawn and verging on truly angry.

“How did you find us?” he asked. 

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. “You do realize that anyone could have spotted you? You were meant to stay in the hideout–”

“You never said that–”

“-How would we even explain you being in Paris with me? You’re here to train, not to sightsee. I can’t believe–”

“My godmother was in that cafe and almost saw us,” he cut in, knowing it would get his attention.

Bruce stared down at him. Cassandra gripped his arm. B pulled Tim’s hood further down over his face and led them out of the alley, keeping his collar popped up and his face hidden in his shoulder. 

“She didn’t see you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. ”

“Okay, we have to move on soon anyway. I was going to tell you tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked, he felt like he could learn so much more from Lady Shiva and Cass than they had already given him. Assassins or not, they were good at what they did. 

“We don’t have time to linger. There are other places to go.”

“We’re going to other places?”

Bruce glared down at him, subtly angling them away from Cass. “I’ll talk to you later. Be quiet and pull your hood down.”

Tim seethed but did as he was told.

Chapter Text

Tim ended up saying goodbye to Cass two days later in the blue-black parking lot of a train station. The Eiffel tower shone yellow in the distance, barely visible. The western wind was strong enough to make the air crisp and salty.

He stuck his hand out for a shake. She threw herself at him for a rib-crushing hug. He froze before carefully returning it, making eye contact with Bruce over her shoulder. 

“See you,” he whispered. 

“Bye,” she said, barely more than a breath.

They let go. Cass gave him one more good squeeze. Shiva gave her an unimpressed look. Tim smiled at her and waved, thanked Lady Shiva, and followed Bruce into the station. 

“Where are we going?” he asked once Bruce had gotten the tickets from the tired man at the booth. 

 “Bulgaria,” he said shortly.

“What’s in Bulgaria?”

“Can you please just sit down and be quiet?” Bruce snapped. 

Tim took his seat, feeling like a young child on the family trips he used to get taken on.

He slept on the train and they got off to find a few men waiting for them. Bruce didn’t seem to know them but he was very familiar with the old man waiting for them at their gym.

And it turned out, Savate was in Bulgaria. And Savate sucked.

It was a fighting style that involved having very fit people punch him in the face and do spinning kicks that would probably make even Lady Shiva proud. When he wasn’t getting beat up, he was told to stand on one foot with the other raised above his head in a pose that looked almost like a kick and almost like he was trying to have one foot on the ground and the other on the ceiling at the same time. It was a generally painful experience.

Savate also led to him being in a straddle with Bruce pressing down on his back so his chest folded towards the ground.

“Point your toes,” he coached.

“What is up with you?” Tim asked, trying to breathe through the pain in his legs and back.

“We’re going to Iran in three days,” he said as if it explained anything. 

“What’s wrong with Iran?” he asked.

“It’s near Pakistan.”

“Bruce, can you please just spit it out. What’s in Pakistan?”

“Thomas,” he corrected, like a warning. 

They were going by Jackson and Thomas there, though the old man running the gym didn’t bother with their aliases.

He leaned harder until Tim’s face was pressed into the cold ground.

“ Bruce . Remember that time you guilted me into telling you about how I knew lemon poppyseed loaf was Alfred’s favourite? Or how I knew Hush was Thomas Elliot when he tried to disembowel you? You totally owe me.”

He sighed through his teeth. “The League of Assassins is in Pakistan and we’re not on good terms right now.”

“Hold on– You– You’re not on good terms with something called the League of Assassins ? That sounds like a video game.” He sat up to stare at him and make sure he wasn’t messing with him. 

“It’s a long story,” he said, crossing his arms.

“We have time.”

“Not that much time.”

Tim groaned and got up to do anything that wasn’t trying to communicate with a brick wall.

By the time they left, Tim could say “yes”, “no”, and “come at me” in Bulgarian and he knew how to wrap his hands for boxing mitts and to keep his knuckles together once they were cracked and bloodied from all the time they’d spent trying to get him to punch properly. 

Iran was interesting despite Bruce’s paranoia. He wasn’t allowed to leave his side or talk to people he didn’t know. It really was like he was a kid again. Bruce was always keeping an eye on him and dragging him away from market stalls or delicious-smelling restaurants.

They stayed in two different towns. One was modern, like a smaller Gotham, but with buses that were actually on time and taller skyscrapers than he thought possible. There, he was taught a fighting style that was very similar to Krav Maga. Efficient, brutal, dangerous. They didn’t play around him like Lady Shiva and Cass, nor give him space to throw a punch like the Bulgarians. They had a job to do and they did it well.

The other was a small village farther South where a group of tiny, burqa-clad women showed him how to find the best pressure points in the human body to paralyze someone temporarily. They stood perfectly still before striking and perfectly still afterwards. They called it the Art of the Cobra.

Tim wasn’t sure if they wore the burqas to help their fighting style or for religious reasons, but either way, he never successfully hit their pressure points beneath them. It was nearly impossible to predict their moves as well, with how the fabric hid every muscle and joint in its folds.  

That being said, after practicing Lady Shiva’s teachings while with the Bulgarians, Bruce was becoming almost easy to read. Not that he wasn’t still losing every spar against the man, but he always knew how he was going to lose before it happened. He was bordering on predictable with his moves. A punch here, a kick there, a neat little combo, and a few blocks to trick Tim into thinking he was accomplishing something. And that was all. He always went with the obvious choice of move and rarely ever surprised Tim with something he hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was because he’d memorized his move sets thanks to years worth of videos on the internet and his younger self’s stalking habit. Maybe it was because Bruce didn’t see him as a big enough threat to try anything other than his usual.

He was bulky and Tim realized he was faster than his mentor, though only barely. The few hits he managed thanks to it didn’t even make him flinch. He tried his hardest anyway.

During one early morning fight, he watched Bruce step forward for a roundhouse and as if the world was in slow motion, he saw the faint hesitation in his muscles when he went to put all his weight on his left leg. He saw the way his knee had to lock to allow for enough force to torque his body while staying upright.

Tim ducked and rolled over his shoulder to pass under Bruce’s attack. Kicking from the ground and hitting the tender point on the back of his knee perfectly after so many hours of practice. 

His leg gave out and Bruce tumbled to the ground. 

Tim scrambled to his feet and threw his hands up.

“Yes!” he shouted, spooking a few nearby goats. “I beat Batm–”

And then a strong hand clasped around his ankle and yanked his foot out from under him, leaving him on the ground again in a cloud of dust. 

He was in hysterics, laughing hard enough to make his ribs hurt and then sucking in lungfuls of sand that sent him into coughing fits that made him laugh harder. 

“I beat you. I beat you,” he chanted, rubbing it in Bruce’s face. 

He sat on the ground until Tim was ready to get up, saying nothing. It was okay, the fond quirk of his lips was enough.

It was that night that he told him they were moving on from Iran.

They took a helicopter over Pakistan and India to Tibet where they kept flying until they got to a valley between huge mountains with lush green plants covering every inch and no signs of humans for miles. 

Bruce directed the pilot to let them off in a field of long yellow grass at the base of a string of mountains so tall, the tops were hidden in thick clouds. 

While they gathered their things– Tim had given up on his second bag, instead just running with whatever he could fit in his backpack– Bruce gave some spiel about backpacking and the wonders of nature and also “do you happen to know if there’s a Starbucks in a city near here? I can’t go without my americano for too long, I’m practically addicted. Ha ha ”. 

They jumped out and the helicopter didn’t waste any time lifting off again. Bruce let the smile slide off his face in favour of a grimace while he squinted up the mountainside.

“I can’t remember where the stairs are,” he said. 

“The stairs?”

“Yeah, do you have a compass?”

“No.”

He nodded in determination, still staring at the mountain. “Looks like we’re doing some climbing.”

Chapter Text

Eventually, they did find the stairs. They were so steep that they made the climb tedious as well as tiring, and so narrow that a gust of malevolent wind could have easily peeled them off the wall. They climbed for hours, taking a single break to eat some of the food the women in Iran had packed up for them and try to coax their feet into not feeling like they were about to fall off. He was going to wear through the soles of his sneakers before the end of the day. Bruce set a brutal pace that managed to get them to the top of the path by sunset. 

The red sun cast long shadows through the valley below. Tiny flowers growing in cracks of rock stretched towards the last wisps of light for the day. The stairs twisted to rise through the mountainside, cracked walls on either side and the orange sky above. Bruce’s wide shoulders blocked Tim’s view ahead and when he managed to spot the craggy plane they led to, he welcomed with the gratitude of someone who’d received a miracle. 

On the ledge was a breathtaking monastery built into the edge of the cliff. White walls and golden roofs. Staggered levels growing from the mountain and hugged by lush vegetation. Water was trickling down one side into a serene river. There were people wandering the grounds, kids messing around in vines on the rock wall, a man was watering plants out a third-story window.

Everything but the river stopped to stare when they finally made it to the top. One kid fell from his vine, a woman almost fell down the steps to a rectangular entryway. They looked like they’d seen a ghost. 

Bruce said something in a language that could have been any dialect of Chinese or something completely separate and suddenly there was movement everywhere. People rushed up to them and grabbed their arms to pull them along, kids sprinted to the building, everyone was talking in a language Tim didn’t know. 

They were dragged inside. The floors were mosaic, the air was warm, and columns held up plaster and rock ceilings. 

His legs ached, his stomach growled, he felt light-headed from the altitude. His eyelids even started to droop in the low light.

“Tim,” Bruce said at one point, shaking his shoulders. They were in a little room filled with woollen pillows and blankets. “Stay here, I’m going to talk to the Abbot.”

He dumped his bag and went with the group, leaving Tim in the center of the room alone. Well, a few of the kids stayed back to stare at him from the curtained entrance. They scattered when he met their leader’s eye. Tim fell asleep in the nest of pillows without even taking off his shoes.

When he awoke, he was oddly, uncharacteristically peaceful. Colourful woven blankets covered him and a nest of pillows cradled him. Bruce was nowhere to be found. The room was little more than his improvised bed and a tiny wooden desk. 

He sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. His mouth was fuzzy and his muscles stiff. Just how long had he been out?

The hallway outside was wide and barren of life. Tapestries covered the orange rock of the walls. The altitude made the air crisp, he could feel it in his lungs like water. Where in the valley he’d had to take one breath, in the mountain he had to take two to keep himself from getting light-headed. 

A group of women with baskets perched on their hips fell silent when they crossed paths. They were draped in red, yellow and white fabric, thick enough to keep out the chill. Beaded jewelry hung from their necks and clacked together as they bustled by. 

He remained lost in halls and courtyards and sloping paths between buildings for too long. The place was built like a maze. 

He swung around a corner and came face-to-face– or rather face-to-chest– with a solid, black-clothed figure.

“Tim!” Bruce said jovially. “I heard you were out and about. Come on. What are you doing all the way over here? The only thing that way is the Nursery. The lawn is this way.”

He led his back the way he had come, though with much more mastery of the passages than Tim would ever have. Doorways got larger and larger and windows more common and soon, they were at the entrance they’d first encountered upon their arrival. 

Tim knew the monastery was going to suck for his aching body the moment he got outside the next day and a pole was set up, eerily similar to the one Bruce had set up in the Cave months ago.

He tried to retreat back inside before anyone saw him but Bruce grabbed his arm before he could even stop walking. 

“You’ve been asleep for seventeen hours, Tim. Don’t you think it’s time to train?”

He groaned and Bruce laughed at him, a private sympathetic thing.

Men were huddled around it, waiting maybe because they didn’t seem phased by the device. They had bald heads and casually proud slopes to their shoulders. Tim got a sinking feeling that what they were waiting for was him. 

One of them turned and his glasses shone with a gentle glow. He gave them a smile that wrinkled the corners of his mouth. 

“Ah, young Wayne,” he said in a lilting accent. 

The other three turned at his greeting and Tim quickly shook his head.

“No– uh, no. I’m Timothy Drake. Not Wayne. Sorry.” He smiled.

Another monk nodded sagely. “Yes, Timothy Wayne.”

Tim sighed and eyed the pole. It was made more terrifying by its nearness to the gaping edge of the cliff. Smooth pale wood and weather darkened ropes. 

“I guess you want me to climb up there and stand on the platform?” he asked.

The first monk wheezed out a chuckle. “Bright boy.”

He sighed.

Kids were tumbling around the outcropping but stopped to watch him as he walked up, round faces open and curious. It was a strangely melancholy sight, so similar to what he’d seen in the streets of Gotham, a world away. 

When he laid his hand on the device, all his memories of attempted strategies came back to him in a nostalgic wave. The wood was smooth and easier to grip than the metal had been. The whole practice seemed easier than the first time, though it didn’t feel like he’d progressed at all. 

That didn’t mean he made it to the top though. 

“Bruce,” he said over a bowl of rice and steamed vegetables. “You good?”

He was staring into the valley. A group of red deer were passing through in a thin vein, running alongside the river and disappearing in and out of tree clusters. His eyes were dark and he was lifting mechanical spoonfuls of food to his mouth before slowly chewing and swallowing. 

“Just thinking about Gotham,” he responded eventually.

Tim nodded. He was thinking about Gotham a lot too. He hadn’t realized he’d become so entrenched in the web of the city’s underbelly until he got separated from it. No intel coming in. No action going out. He felt like he’d been locked in a cushioned room. 

“Has Wonder Woman given you bad news?”

Bruce cracked a wry smile. “I’m starting to think she’s your favourite superhero.”

“Of course she is,” Tim said, mouth full. “She would kick your ass any day of the week. Did she say something?”

“I don’t think she knows how to work a cell phone. It’s Oli and Alfred who’ve been giving the reports. They’re all quiet.”

“So?” he pressed. “Are you missing your one true love?”

“Wha– Gotham is not my one true love.”

He tried to get his shoulders to still but they continued to shake with his suppressed laughs. Bruce reached over and pushed him. Some of his rice fell from his bowl onto the steps of the monastery. 

“Hey! Don’t stifle the truth.”

“Alfred thinks Gotham is bad for me,” he said, sounding a lot younger than Tim had ever thought of him. “But I don’t think I’d be able to walk away. When I’m anywhere else, I’m always thinking about what I could be doing there. He told me it would kill me.”

He nodded. “A jealous lover.”

Bruce growled good-naturedly. “Tim, I swear –” Exacerbated.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Do you understand what I’m staying?” he asked. “Everyone’s always trying to find their purpose and I think changing Gotham is mine. I won’t be able to leave it until I have a legacy that can continue it. Something that will change it and its core. For the better.”

Tim finished his rice. “You know what? I’ll protect Gotham for you until you make your legacy.”

Bruce smiled at him and it was only a little bit condescending. 

Tim had dreamt of his parents. He could only remember bits and pieces when he woke up and even less later in the day when he was going through bo staff stances with the monks. His mother’s hand in his hair, his father tying his bowtie for him, a proud smile during parent-teacher meetings, and them giving him their spare heating packets during family ski trips. It left him feeling hollowed out and sadder than he had been about their deaths in quite a while. And that only made him feel worse because he should have still been torn apart and mourning. Bruce was still mourning his parents. Why didn’t he care?

The crowd of men and boys and a few little girls flowed from one stance to another.

“I thought you guys were pacifists,” he said to the young man beside him. “Why teach martial arts?”

“It’s not violence,” he said slowly, translating his thoughts to English. “It’s art. Body and mind and tradition all together. Flowing together.”

Tim nodded. Standing in a single pose for a half-hour did make one feel very in control of their body. His mind was still storming and tumultuous though. A sea in a hurricane. 

“About going slow,” the monk said.

They worked in silence, the monk on his form and Tim on going slow. 

“You quite good at this,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Tim whispered.

“Yes, like extension of arm. Very fluid.”

Tim smiled. The monastery wasn’t sucking as bad as he had originally thought. 

“Yeah!” He shouted from the platform on top of the pole. “I did it! Suck it!”

“Excellently done, young Wayne.”

“We always knew you could do it.”

“Good job,” Bruce called up, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. “Now you have to figure out how to get down.”

He glanced around. The column was perfectly still beneath him, ropes swaying in a breeze. His hands were cut up from their frayed ends digging fibres into his skin. He could see all the way down the mountain and it made his head spin. 

“If I jump, would you catch me?”

Bruce said nothing. 

He sat down and grabbed two opposite sides of the platform, lowering himself over the edge carefully. It barely tilted. 

The top quarter of the pole was cut to make climbing it nearly impossible. Like a splintered palm tree. 

“I’m just going to jump!”

“No, you’re not,” Bruce said.

He bit his lip and looked around again, hanging twenty feet off the ground. He hadn’t thought to plan that far. 

Finally, he threw himself from his hold and twisted to grab one of the ropes. The pole angled under his sudden weight flying towards one side. He slid a few inches and his fingers protested. He let go at the furthest point of his swinging arc and grabbed the branch of a nearby tree. The thin limb dipped and he deposited himself on the ground. He stumbled, took a huge lungful of air, and kicked started his heart.  

The monks clapped politely and Bruce looked paler than usual. 

“That was so cool,” Tim finally said. “I kind of want to do it again.”

The monks approached him in a neat bundle and the one with glasses– the only one to have stayed for all the long days of his training– reached into his red robes.

“For you, young Wayne.” He extended his sun-spotted hand, closed around a wooden staff.

It was retracted to its smallest size, about the length of his forearm. He reached out to take it. His hands were raw and shaking.

“Thank you,” he breathed. 

Bruce ruffled his hair and a few long leaves fluttered down around Tim’s shoulders.

“Time to go, I think.”

Chapter Text

“After Shaolin Kung Fu in the south, we can stop in Korea and then catch a flight to Thailand. I know someone who runs a Muay Thai school there. We need to work on your defence so I think those will be good choices. I don’t know how much time we have but there’s always Arnis in the Philippines like I mentioned before.”

“Can we not just sightsee, or something?” he begged. He pointed out the train window at a waterfall. “Look at that. We should go see that.”

“I’m not leaving Gotham at risk so you can sightsee,” he said from the other seat, clicking away at his keyboard. 

“You’re not leaving it at risk,” he whined. “You have like half the Justice League looking after it. Have they even contacted you since we left the monastery? Nothing is going on there.”

“Their reports have been consistently quiet.”

“Exactly!” 

“We’re not sightseeing.”

Tim groaned and slouched in his seat. “I’m tired.”

“That means it’s working.” 

Tim lifted the magazine he’d bought at the train station, it was a business insider rip-off and the only thing that had been in English. He flipped to an article about Bruce’s supposed billion-dollar deal with LexCorp that someone had leaked exclusively to that magazine. He was just getting to a part about how Bruce was hiding a Russian mistress with millions in debt from the press when the train came screeching to a stop.

Bruce immediately looked up, pausing his typing and looking around at the other passengers. There wasn’t first-class seating on the small train but there weren’t many other people with them, they’d come from a small town that didn’t seem like many people were keen to come or go from.

“Apologies for the delay,” a female voice said over the speakers with a faint accent. “The train has encountered a slight mechanical disruption and we have been forced to make an emergency stop. The problem will be resolved shortly, please stay in your cabin until further notice. Thank you.”

The message repeated in a few other languages but Tim had stopped listening. Bruce had slammed his laptop and was stuffing it into his bag while pulling on his coat. He shoved a beanie onto Tim’s head and glanced around again.

“Shit, shit ,” he hissed. 

“Bruce,” Tim whispered back, giving a family a few seats up from them a reassuring smile. “What are you doing?”

“Get your things together,” he snapped.

Tim immediately did as he said. “What’s going on?”

“We need to get off this train. I know that voice.”

He stood and Tim quickly followed, pulling his hat down on his head and hunching his shoulders. 

“You’re about to find out why we stayed out of Pakistan.”

“What?” Bruce pushed open the door of the car to a little connective space. Tim squeezed into the small space with him and slid the door closed. “You can’t just say that. How did they find us? Why are they here?”

“Let's just say that I was put in a position where I had to make some promises I didn’t necessarily keep and they didn’t take it very well.”

“So now the League of Assassins are after you?” he said disbelievingly while Bruce tried to bust the exit door open.

He grunted something and slammed into the door with his shoulder. It flew outwards and he stumbled out onto the gravel path the tracks were laid on. 

“What?” he asked, jumping out after him.

“Us,” Bruce repeated. “They’re after both of us. Now come on.”

Tim’s brain was spinning, he couldn’t keep up. “Into the forest?” he asked stupidly.

“I promise that whatever is in the forest is less dangerous than what's in that train, Tim.”

He followed close as Bruce nearly jogged through the wilderness, meaning that Tim was fully jogging to keep up. He jumped a log and ducked under a branch that snapped towards him once Bruce let go of it. His boot crunched on a brittle twig and suddenly he realized something. 

The forest was very, very quiet.

“Bruce,” he whispered. “ Bruce .”

He stopped and turned around, looking furious. They couldn’t see the train anymore, only dark trees in every direction. He tapped his ear and Bruce seemed to get the message, immediately falling back towards him silently. 

There was a piercing whistle.

Movement erupted from every shadow.

Tim gave a startled yelp and dropped to the ground. Figures jumped out of the trees. Bruce already had knives in his hands, throwing them at their attackers without hesitation. 

On the ground, Tim ripped open his bag and grabbed his staff from within. Someone grabbed him by the hood and lifted him straight off his feet. 

The face he ended up staring at was monstrous. Warped and inhuman, sharp doglike teeth, stretched and furry ears, red eyes, a leaf nose like a bat. The monster was huge, its muscled arm ending in clawed fingers. It had patches of blackened, charred looking flesh. It leaned closer and sniffed him, growling and panting.

Time to find out if that monk had been telling the truth about him being good.

He whipped out the staff to its full length and with a furious cry, swung it as hard as he could at the thing’s head. It dropped him with a howl but lunged forwards just as fast. It snapped its jaws at him and he jumped back. It moved like a feral dog, jerking forwards and back as if on strings.

How was he meant to beat something like that with a glorified stick?

He dodged behind a boulder and glanced to the side to see Bruce with three of them practically on top of him. But he watched him throw a bone-cracking punch, throwing one of the beasts backwards against a tree. Another advanced and threw the same punch back at him but Bruce dodged and kicked. The third used the kick against him just as the first two were getting back up. A four-way mirror.

His monster reared around the rock and came at him again. Tim flipped away, barely landing on a fallen tree. 

Instead of keeping it at bay with his staff, he tried to kick it in the face from his elevated vantage point. It was bleeding from where his staff had connected but didn’t seem to mind. 

He made contact but not hard enough to do any damage.

He waited instead of striking again. Instead of kicking back like he had expected, the thing rushed him and sent its knee into his stomach. He was tossed away, gasping and heaving. 

The beast was coming back. He forced himself up, clutching his staff in both hands. He swung and it caught it with one hand. It used his own force against him, swinging him off his feet before letting him go. 

And then he realized. It wasn’t mirroring moves.

It was using Bruces. 

He couldn’t predict its moves when it was lurching around like a monster, but when he looked at it as if it was a strange, twisted version of Bruce– 

He ducked when it lashed out with its clawed hand, hit its knee with his staff, and rolled to the side when it tried to rush him again. 

The monster was Bruce. He could even see some similarities in build and bone structure. 

“What the fuck?” he panted.

He used a tree as a springboard and soared over its head to spin and hit the back of its neck. It crumpled and Tim hit it a few more times for good measure. 

Two of the three monsters were still swarming Bruce. He was bleeding from his forehead and his cheek was already turning a deep purple. 

When the closer beast wound up for a punch, Tim swung as hard as he could to break a few ribs. It only stumbled before turning on him. 

Red eyes focused on him with fury; an exact copy of the one he’d just taken down. 

His arms were shaking, there was definitely blood streaming from his nose. He planted his feet. 

It ran at him and he jumped away. He watched its feet, waiting for it to choose a move. It was slower than Bruce. And stupider. Somehow easier and harder to fight.

It decided to uppercut and Tim decided he didn’t want to be anywhere near it. 

He jumped away, accidentally stumbling back into a tree upon landing. He climbed quickly, getting to a low branch and leaping. His staff barely reached the monster’s head but the force of the hit ran up his arms into his shoulders. He nearly dropped it but didn’t let himself let go. The beast wasn’t fazed, it was still coming at him. 

Another whistle cut through the growls and gibberish the monsters were spouting and like robots, they froze in their spots. 

Bruce still carried through with a kick that sent his monster to the ground. 

“Beloved,” a husky voice came from behind him. He recognized it from the train speakers. Tim turned to see a woman standing on the boulder he’d used for cover. She was pouting, staring down at Bruce almost lovingly. “Why do you try to hurt me? You made so many promises, why do you not keep them?”

“Talia–” Bruce said lowly.

“Don’t worry, beloved, I’m not here to kill you.” She gave a teary laugh. “I want you to know that even if you don’t plan on honouring your word, I do. I just came to see who you thought could take the place at your side instead of what I’ve offered.” She turned to Tim and her mournful expression soured. She snarled and warped her pretty features into a terrifying sneer. “The runt. Supid little boy. Not deserving of the title, of the knowledge, of anything. Disgusting pest.”

“Talia,” Bruce snapped. “This is between us.”

She flipped moods again, swaying away and sweeping her hair over her shoulder, forcing a wobbly smile. “You’re right, beloved. But my side of the promise isn’t ready yet. He will be, though. I know it. He will be glorious.”

Tim had only half a second to see her expression turn to stone before she snapped, faster than he could see.

He didn’t have time to flinch. 

She snapped her fingers and disappeared into the shadows with the monsters who were still able to follow her.

He took a deep breath. There was a long knife embedded in the tree beside his head, he could feel the cold metal against his cheek and ear.

“Bruce,” he whispered, eyes wide open. “What the fuck?”

He rushed over and pulled the knife out, inspecting it with a worried expression.

“What the fuck, Bruce?!”

“It’s nothing, Tim. Are you okay? Can you walk?”

“It’s not nothing!” he shrieked, dropping the staff from numb, bandaged fingers. “What was that?”

 Bruce grabbed his shoulders. “I think it’s time to go back to Gotham. I’ve already alerted Alfred.”

“You– I almost died! Is she going to try to kill me? What was she talking about?” 

“No, no, you’re fine,” Bruce insisted. “I don’t think she finds you worth it.”

“You don’t think– You don’t think ?! Oh my God.”

“Tim,” Bruce finally snapped. “I need you to stay here while I grab our bags and by the time I’m back, you need to get a grip, okay?”

Tim slowly nodded. Bruce left. The train started up somewhere in the distance.

He slid down the tree and waited for him to get back.

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t really remember getting on the helicopter or flying to Chengdu but he does remember having to hide behind a plant in the airport while Bruce made a scene about his trip to China. And then suddenly he was on a plane on his way back to Gotham. 

It was a private jet with only one flight attendant that seemed to know Bruce well. Just before sunset, she served steaks with vegetables and smashed potatoes and black butter but they went untouched by both passengers. They were sitting at opposite ends of the small cabin, there was faint music playing but it was otherwise silent. 

Tim’s phone was charging for the first time in weeks. He’d taken his shoes off and reclined his seat in an attempt to sleep. He was wrapped around his small pillow and had his hood up, the lights had dimmed after their dinners had been taken away. 

He was numb again. He’d almost forgotten what it was like. 

He powered on his phone and scrolled through the notifications, most were just meaningless suggestions from social media apps he didn’t use. Two messages were from people he’d been acquainted with at school. Ms. Reid had called once. There were a few emails: spam, something from his lawyers, a few reporters that had gotten ahold of his email address somehow, the principal of GA.

The principal? He scrolled back up. 

It was a reminder that his exams were in two weeks. It had really been that long. He hadn’t even thought about his classes in months. A few teachers’ emails were linked in case he wanted help reviewing. He added the dates to his calendar and deleted the email. 

He put his phone down and pressed his face into the arm of the chair.

Alfred picked them up from the airport. They still weren’t talking. The butler looked unimpressed. 

They listened to the news over the radio while speeding back to the Manor. It was comforting to be back in the city again after so much time spent in near isolation. It had been peaceful at some points, he could admit, but Tim liked the high-speed nature of Gotham. All of the people he could disappear between, the way he could be a nobody in the crowds. 

They passed over the bridge and kept going until they hit forest and then the gates of the Manor. The Estate was only a few properties away, probably sitting dusty and abandoned when the cleaners weren’t around. 

Alfred parked them in the garage and pressed the button to close the door behind them. They were between the Lamborghini and Maserati and had to be careful opening their doors.  

“Let me know when Diana and Oliver get here, Alfred,” Bruce said.

“Of course, Master Bruce. Will they be joining you in the Cave?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He disappeared into the house with his bag, closing the door a bit too hard behind him. 

“I heard you ran into a bit of trouble in China,” Alfred said, closing the car door behind Tim and leading him to where Bruce had just left.

“Yeah, Bruce won’t tell me what it’s all about.”

Alfred gave him a sympathetic smile. “Master Bruce can be unnecessarily careful when showing his cards on occasion.”

“On occasion?” he mumbled.

“That being said, it is not my place to tell you what he will not.”

Tim glowered at his back, they were headed towards the kitchen and the air was starting to smell like baked goods. 

“You won’t say anything? Not even about the things that attacked us? Those were monsters that fought like Bruce. He didn’t even seem surprised.”

“I do not see any harm in telling you that Bruce’s DNA has been harvested to be used in some questionable experiments.”

“By the League of Assassins,” Tim filled in as they entered the kitchen.

Alfred made a noncommittal sound and pushed a gingersnap into his hand.

“So who’s Talia? I feel like I have a right to know.”

Alfred grabbed a shortbread cookie for himself. “Talia al Ghul is a sore spot in Master Bruce’s history.”

“That isn’t very helpful.”

“I have a gift for you in the Cave if you’d like to come see.”

Tim knew he was being tactfully distracted but he also knew that he wasn’t about to get anything else out of the old man. He went with him, still carrying his bag but it was a natural weight on his shoulders at that point. 

Alfred got the grandfather clock to move aside and they went down the dark staircase. The butler flipped a few switches at the bottom and all of the lights leapt to life. Tim squinted against it.

Alfred kept moving without pause. Tim quickly followed behind him, trying to shield his eyes with his hand. 

“Ta-da,” the man said with a pleased smile once they made it to a familiar level. 

The bell jars were standing before them, a new one on the far right holding a brand new Robin suit. It was slightly darker than the others, with more padding and pockets, the fabric had an almost metallic sheen.

“Bruce had Lucius make it when you left but it may have to be adjusted to your new measurements.”

Tim stepped forwards to look at the details through the glass.

“Thanks, Alfred,” he said quietly over his shoulder.  

“It’s no trouble, Master Timothy.”

Tim was still in the Cave when Bruce’s guests showed up. Logically, he knew they were part of the Justice League and who he should expect. That being said, he wasn’t prepared when Wonder Woman suddenly appeared at his shoulder looking over the monitors and different screens he had open. 

He scrambled up from his seat, nearly knocking over his mug and sticking out his hand.

“Hi,” he forced out, staring up at her. 

She smiled down at him and took his hand. She was very warm.

“Aw,” someone drawled. Tim leaned over to see around Wonder Woman, Green Arrow was holding a grappling gun and pretending to shoot it at the ceiling. “You have a fan.”

Tim winced. “You probably shouldn’t be messing with that.”

“Psht. What’s going to happen? Bats isn’t even here.”

“Oliver,” Bruce said from the bottom of the stairway.

The blond man dropped the gun and spun to face him. “Bruce! Hey, how was the vacay?”

Wonder Woman chuckled and left Tim’s side. He quickly closed his tabs on Gotham’s news sources and anything else he had open. He spun his chair so he could be part of the conversation from across the platform.

“How was Gotham while I was gone?” Bruce asked.

“Quiet,” Diana said. “No sign of the Joker. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Maronis gave us a bit of a hassle for about a week down at the docks but they settled down.”

“Diana sank one of their fucking cargo ships! Like with her bare hands,” Oliver yelped.

Bruce nodded, lost in thought. “You know what was in it?”

“Just weapons,” she responded, ignoring Oliver’s sputtering. “But there must have been another shipment we missed. Drugs. A new one’s been all over the streets the last few weeks.”

“You didn’t mention that in your reports.”

“They weren’t reports, they were text messages,” Oliver said. “And why would we mention that? For all we know it’s just a fad that’ll fade by next month.”

“We have no reason to believe it’s linked to the one you found in the Joker’s possession,” Diana assured him. 

“Tim, did you see anything about that?” Bruce asked.

His heart swelled up. “Yeah, the Globe mentioned it. I looked through some coroner reports and everyone who's died with it in their system had a different reason for death. Cancerous tumours, heart attacks, weird enzyme or hormone malfunctions. There’ve been no official overdoses but it seems like doctors are getting suspicious.”

“You think the drug could be causing all those different symptoms, or that someone’s covering it up?” he wondered aloud.

“I couldn’t say.”

Bruce hummed into his fist.

“Can we go? I need to get back to Star City, Barry’s been on my ass about ditching him.”

Bruce waved him off and he gave Tim a two-fingered salute on his way out.

“How was your trip?” Diana asked softly, leaning against the table beside Bruce.

“Good,” he mumbled, still thinking about other things. “Until Talia showed up.”

Diana took off her golden headband, letting her hair fall around her face. “And then?”

“We had to get out of there before she tried something. She’s gone off the deep end.”

She laughed. “Oh, I know. Is it worse than before?”

“Yeah, she still wants to drag me to Nanda Parbat with her but now she’s off the rails. Talking about promises and gifts, threatening Tim, strange stuff. I don’t know what to make of it.”

Tim sat silently, half-heartedly pretending not to listen.

“Was it a threat?”

“Not to me, I don’t think. But it wasn’t benign. Ra’s would have killed me by now if she didn’t want me alive.”

“Should we let Clark know?”

“No, you know how he gets. He has his own problems to worry about. I think we’re fine here. She won’t come to my home turf.” 

Diana raised her eyebrows. “Just like you won’t go to hers? Sounds like wartime rules.”

Bruce sucked in a deep breath and stood. “It’s always wartime.”

She gave him a gentle smile that shifted to Tim. “You haven’t seen wartime, and you should keep it that way.”

“I plan on it.”

Diana left without another word. Tim felt like she had given some form of indecipherable advice that had nothing to do with avoiding war. Bruce spun him around by the headrest of his chair and leaned over the keyboard, unfazed. 

“Time for me to show you how to do some real detective work.”

Chapter Text

It was nearly two weeks after their return to Gotham and Tim had finally figured out how to use his grappling gun without smashing into walls or falling midway through swings. His suit fit him perfectly and he was rarely as sore as he had been during his training. Lucius made him a new staff and Bruce showed him the trick to lurking in the shadows so no one could see him. Sometimes he spotted his reflection in puddles or storefront windows and didn’t recognize himself in the suit.

Things were going well. 

Which was honestly his first red flag. 

He jumped from one building to another, following close to Bruce. They were deep in the Narrows, scoping out any signs of gang activity or petty crime. The police radios they were tuned into were mostly quiet. Alfred would pipe up over the comms with bored comments once in a while but all in all, not much was going on.

Bruce had him wait on a fire escape while he stopped a car break-in. Tim had walked a tiny kid back to a convenience store after she explored a bit too far from her mom. They handcuffed a would-be mugger and left him in an alley to wait for police.

“I’m tellin’ you,” a weaselly voice squeaked. “I don’t have any more.”

Bruce held up a fist and Tim skidded to a stop on the gravel roof of a sagging apartment complex. He leaned over the edge to see the alley below. The white lenses of his domino mask let him see down clearly even though the streetlights didn’t reach the figures.

It was three men. Two were blocking the third in, looming over him and pacing the width of the alley. They were practically vibrating. Never standing still, jerking their hands around, almost seizing with uncontrollable energy. One was shivering and twitching, absently swinging a piece of bent pipe.

Bruce caught his eye and crouched lower against the roof.

“Even if I did,” the short man said, backing up against the brick wall. “I wouldn’t give it to you. You’ve gone too far; look at yourselves. That last batch I gave you should have lasted weeks.”

“It obviously didn’t,” one of the druggies pointed out, words fast and syllables crushed together. “So do your job and give us what we’re here for.”

 “You should go home. You guys aren’t looking good.”

Tim crept forwards. It almost looked like– it was. The man who was holding the pipe was shaking worse, barely staying on his feet. His coat was moving on his shoulders, swelling and shifting. 

His friend turned around. Tim could see the bloodshot whites all the way around his irises. His body was warping too, bulking up and creaking like old wood. He howled in agony and threw himself against the wall. 

The building shook, cracks raced up the bricks. 

The one with the pipe gave a wet cough but otherwise didn’t react. He was staring at their cornered dealer with vacant eyes. With a swaying step and a gurgle, he fell to his knees, spasming. 

Bruce threw himself down onto the street. Tim followed down, rolling when he hit the ground to try and diffuse the momentum, pain still hit his legs and shoulder with the force of it. 

The man with the pipe was getting back up. He looked a lot bigger when Tim was up close. He rushed Bruce immediately, holding the pipe above his head and going for his back. Bruce was trying to restrain the other one but he was thrashing violently against him. His very bones seemed to be moving like rubber under his hands. 

Tim whipped out his staff and blocked the pipe with it. The improvised weapon easily sailed from the man’s hands but the assault didn’t stop. He kept moving forwards, crooked with the bubbling mass on his shoulders. Part of his jaw was swelling even though he hadn’t been hit, his breathing was rapid and there was sweat on his forehead.

“B!” Tim shouted, luring the man away. “Should I actually hit him?”

“Incapacitate him with the force necessary.”

The man hadn’t actually done anything though. Tim figured that he had been threatening another person for drugs, he was attacking him. The man launched forward and sent a punch at Tim’s face, snarling.

He swung the staff and made clean contact with his leg. He felt a snap and saw his calf bend unnaturally.

But the man continued moving forwards. He limped on the broken leg, not showing any signs of pain. Tim watched him approach and as he came, the bend got worse and worse until suddenly, there was another crunch and a wet ripping. He gagged. Bone was sticking out of the man’s leg. He was still trying to walk on it. 

He jumped up and used the wall as a base to send a flying kick right at his face. It knocked the man over, his nose gushing blood onto the cracked pavement. Red flowed into the indents and spiderwebbed outwards.

He couldn’t help himself from looking at the bone again. He found something he wasn’t expecting: it was growing. It looked like a deer’s antler, branching off in jagged sprouts. Veins were raised under skin, muscles were weighing down his limbs instead of helping him up.

The man was struggling against whatever was happening to his body, trying to get up. Tim jumped forward with a length of cord out from one of his pouches. He tied his hands together and looped it around his feet, attempting to rope it up and get it to stop moving. 

He tied a tight knot once he was satisfied.

The man was crying out, either angry or in pain, still shaking. His hair was greasy and tangled, definitely longer than it had been when he’d been watching from the roof. 

Tim pulled out a few plastic tubes. They looked like EpiPens and he stabbed them into the man’s thigh as if they were. The glass chamber inside filled with blood. He put them back in his pocket and grabbed a plastic bag to place a few hairs in.

“Robin,” Bruce growled in his artificially deep voice. 

Tim glanced over, Bruce’s thug was already tied up neatly and leaned against the wall. Bruce was hanging from his grappling gun, halfway up the wall.

“Let’s go.”

It felt like the second he put his head on his pillow that morning, his alarm was going off. 

He never set any alarms. 

He rolled over and grabbed his phone off the bedside table, silencing it. Advanced Functions Exam 9 am  the screen read.

“Shit,” he breathed.

It was already eight. He was in sweatpants. He didn’t need to go, he’d still pass the class. His legs hurt. He’d jammed his thumb on patrol. He was tired .

“Pedro,” he said into the phone, pushing his head into the pillow. “How fast can you be at Wayne Manor?”

“Wha– Mister Drake? I haven’t heard from you in weeks,” the driver said, also sounding like he was still in bed. “Wayne Manor? Uh, sure, si, yeah, I can be there in a half-hour, sir.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you on the road somewhere. I need to be at Gotham Academy by nine.”

“See you soon,” he mumbled.

Tim hung up and laid in bed for another few minutes until his drooping eyelids almost dragged him to sleep again. 

His school uniform wasn’t there. Of course, it wasn’t. He pulled on a pair of straight grey pants and a white button-up, both could have used an ironing. 

With what little guilt his sleep fogged brain could manage, he jogged down the hall and burst into Grayson’s old room. He dug through his drawers and wardrobe. The school uniform wasn’t there but a hoodie with the school emblem on it was. He dragged it over his head and went back to his room to brush his teeth. 

He poured coffee into a travel thermos in the kitchen and rushed to the front door. Bruce and Alfred were both still asleep. He left a nearly illegible note letting them know where he was. 

The sneakers he chose didn’t fit the strict dress code but they were the only black shoes he had on hand. 

The coffee tasted even worse than usual after brushing his teeth but he took a few big gulps anyway. He ran out the door and down the driveway to the street. He tossed himself over the fence, nearly dropping his coffee, and jogged down the street. 

He did not want to be awake. 

Pedro and the Bentley appeared in front of him just before he got to the Estate gates and he jumped in the back seat. The driver pulled a neat uey and they kicked up dust in their wake. 

Pedro was yawning and rubbing his eyes, his suit was rumpled. Tim was glad to see he wasn’t the only one miserable to be out and about.

The streets were starting to get busy with cars heading to their nine to fives. They beat the worst of the traffic over the bridge and took residential routes towards the school. 

Tim had not missed it. 

He tried to go over the units they’d covered in class but was fairly certain he was forgetting a few. He’d always been good at math though, he could probably wing it. He knew his square roots. He’d be fine. 

The Bentley pulled up to the front doors and Tim jumped out. He had seven minutes to get to the gymnasium. 

He drank more coffee and ran up the steps, pushing through the doors and cutting left down the main hallway to the very end. 

“Hey, Timothy!” a girl shouted from the end of the hall. He couldn’t see her yet, he’d forgotten his glasses. 

“Hi,” he said, approaching the people-shaped blob.

“Haven’t seen you in months,” Alexander Dumas said once faces started coming into focus.

He forced out a stiff laugh. “Yeah, I know. It’s been crazy, almost didn’t make it here.”

The group quickly shuffled around so he could wait for the gym doors to open with them. They’d never been so nice when he was actually in classes with them. They were a big group, Samantha from the New Year’s party, a few boys he’d done sailing with for a few seasons, a blonde girl with her hood up.

“Cissie?” he said. “Long time no see.”

“Oh, Timothy,” she responded, like she hadn’t noticed him show up. She seemed to be hiding in her hoodie, not looking him in the eye. “How have you been?”

“Good. You didn’t get hurt at the debutante ball, did you? I saw you there.”

“Yeah, no I’m fine,” she giggled. “I was just a bit shaken up. That was months ago though.”

The others started talking over each other then, the girls talking about how their sisters or themselves had been on stage. They bragged about it or lied about how they’d punched the real Joker in the face. It seemed like they were trying to talk over how nervous they were about their exam so they’d forget about it.

“Cissie,” Tim whispered.

She looked up finally, startled. Her hair fell away from her face to reveal a yellowing bruise on her jaw, badly covered with makeup. 

He was going to say something about the ball but instead just ended up with: “Do you have a spare pencil?”

Chapter Text

“Okay, so you’re going to want to squeeze the throttle until the engine revs then you change gears with your petal,” Bruce called.

They were outside in the courtyard behind the Manor and Tim was attempting to drive the Robin motorcycle that had been sitting in the Cave for who knew how long. He kept stalling it, and steering using his body weight made him slightly nauseous.

“You’re going to grind second gear! Count in your head, remember which number you’re on.”

He swerved away from a tree. Hit the brakes. Tore up some grass. Held his breath. Put on the gas again. 

“Do you know how to ride a bike?” Bruce asked.

“I’ve done it once or twice!” he yelled over the rumbling of the engine. 

“Don’t linger on the clutch! Christ. Only once or twice?”

“Yeah, I mean it wasn’t something I did regularly.”

He turned another corner, cutting close to the garden wall. The engine gave an angry growl and he punched his heel down. It sputtered but didn’t stall.

“When I said faster is easier, I didn’t mean gun it directly towards immovable objects.”

“Right, right,” he gasped, loosening his tight grip on the throttle. “Is the Batmobile automatic?”

“Of course,” Bruce said, stepping back as he sped by. 

“Why don’t I drive that instead?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t have your driver’s license.”

That was not the answer he was expecting. “I don’t have my motorcycle license.”

“That’s not a motorcycle.”

“What?” he asked, losing focus and looking over his shoulder.

“Pay attention!”

He jerked away from the treeline, tipping dangerously. 

“It was built to evade the laws that dictate what does and doesn’t need a license so technically, it’s not a motorcycle,” Bruce said. “But Jay liked to tinker with it in his spare time so I’m not sure if it’s still legal. It goes a lot faster than I’d intended.”

The not-motorcycle sputtered then died, coasting for a few feet before dumping Tim onto the lawn. It fell to the other side, wheels still spinning. He rolled onto his back and pulled the helmet from his head, sucking in a deep breath of cool air. His hair was stuck to his forehead in sweaty clumps. 

Bruce appeared above him, blocking out the sun. “You’re going to break something if you keep throwing yourself off.”

“Master Bruce!” Alfred called, sounding more alarmed than Tim had ever heard him. 

He sat up, seeing Alfred half out the french doors. His glasses were sliding down his nose and he was wearing blue Sperry slippers. It was sunset, they wouldn’t usually prep for patrol for a few more hours.

“The Joker was spotted in the industrial district.”

“Show me,” Bruce ordered, nearly jogging into the house.

Tim jumped up, leaving the bike and helmet behind. They squeezed down the stairs to the Cave together. The monitors were glowing with a dozen different street views of the same area. The police radio was turned low, the staticky voices were talking about a robbery. 

“Where?” Bruce demanded. 

Alfred zoomed in on an overhead map, pointing to an old Elliot Pharmaceuticals lab. “A black van dropped off a group of men ten minutes ago, the Joker among them. There doesn’t seem to be anyone surrounding the perimeter and there have been no other signs of life.”

“Have you scanned for phone signals?”

“Nothing.”

Tim looked away from the live feed. “We need to go!”

Bruce didn’t redirect his attention. “He could be gone by the time we get there. Our best bet is to try and find out why he’s there and catch him when he leaves.”

“What if by the time he leaves, it’s too late? What if we miss him?”

“We’ll head out. Alfred will stay back watching the cams, he won’t be able to leave the premises without our knowledge.”

Alfred left up the stairs and came back with a pasta casserole as well as a bag full of mixed and matched foods like bananas, chocolate, and leftover sweet potato. He set plates out and started scooping steaming heaps of penne onto them. 

Bruce stole his portion and took it with him to change into his base layer. Tim shovelled scorching hot forkfuls into his mouth. He’d barely eaten all day. Alfred forced a water bottle into his hand.

“Should we contact Mister Kent or Miss Prince?” Alfred asked once Bruce was back with his empty plate.

He shook his head, chugging a water bottle of his own. “This is personal. Between me and him only.”

Tim hadn’t even thought to call anyone else. It felt wrong to get them involved. He ran off to get changed before Bruce could tell him to stay back. 

The lab was deceptively quiet. Even their infrared tech couldn’t see through the layers and layers of concrete and metal. It was barely dark out and they were crouched across the street on the exposed beams of a forgotten factory. 

Bruce had pulled up blueprints to the building before they’d left and they were burned into Tim’s mind. Still, they didn’t know what had changed or been destroyed over the years. The best they had was an exploring video from some Metropolis vlogger who’d visited a few years back. 

“That third story window is broken in,” Tim whispered.

“Too small for me to fit through. We can’t go in yet.”

“Why not?” he pushed, his heart was hammering with the anticipation of waiting. His stomach was rolling with nerves. 

“Never enter a building you don’t know how to get out of. We could be walking into a trap and we can’t risk getting blocked in.” Bruce had fallen into a determined blankness. He wasn’t showing any emotion, just locking his jaw and focusing on the job at hand. 

Tim scanned the building and caught sight of a silver box on the roof. A duct fan missing two blades and terribly rusted inlaid into a hole in the metal. 

“The vents,” he said. “In big chemical manufacturing plants, they always have wide vents to siphon out all the harmful fumes they’re messing with. We could get to any part of the building we need.”

Bruce nodded. “We can scout it out.”

They swung down from the beam and sprinted across the abandoned street, capes flapping and boots making no noise on the pavement. Bruce let him climb the creaky ladder up to the roof first, eyeing the road for any new signs of life. 

Tim inspected the fan and what he could see past it. Bruce followed the snaking trail of the vent to the point where it disappeared into the building. He checked the bolts and the thickness of the metal while Alfred explained the ventilation layout to them over the comms.

“Take us to the Stockrooms,” Bruce whispered into the mic.

“How do you know he’ll be there?” Tim asked. 

“I don’t,” Bruce said. “But I’ve been playing this game with the Joker for a long time, even someone like him gets predictable.” 

Bruce yanked the fan from its place in one clean motion. He nodded and jerked his chin for Tim to climb in first. He did as he was directed, army crawling into the dusty space, elbow pads quickly getting covered in thick dust. He made it all the way in before Bruce followed, filling the tight space with his shoulders.

There was no going back. 

He tried to make his movements as quiet as possible. He held his breath. Any banging or talking would be a death sentence. 

They got to a chute and he had to awkwardly put his hands down before handstand-maneuvering himself into a crouch and moving on. He couldn’t look over his shoulder to see how Bruce did it. 

It was pitch black for too long. All he could hear was Bruce’s shuffling. Someone was going to notice them. His heart was loud enough in his ears to give them away. 

“First left,” Alfred instructed into their earpieces. Tim gasped at his voice. 

“Go past the next two openings then go right.”

“Take the first down then keep going straight.”

He slowed when a grate appeared, light shined up through it. He carefully looked over the edge. There was no one in the room below, it was mostly empty tables and bare cabinets.

After who knew how long they spent crawling through the tunnels, he started to hear voices. Bruce grabbed his ankle, forcing him to stop.

He listened closely, holding his breath. It was echoing up from the right. 

He slowly moved forwards and did another handstand shuffle down to the next level. The conversation got louder, he could make out four different voices at least. They were laughing and shouting. 

There was another grate, straight in front of his face this time. He crept up to it, delicately, silently. It looked across a wide-open room to the wall across. 

Bruce grabbed his ankle again and if he’d been on his feet, he would have jumped. His nerves were fried. He was going to give himself a heart attack before they ever made it to the Joker.

He craned his head. He could see the tops of silo-like tubes, pipes running across the floors and up the walls. The voices were definitely close.

He couldn’t see how many people were down there, just barely out of sight. They were surely armed. He flicked on his infrared. 

A startlingly loud gunshot rang out. Tim lurched back from the cover. There were a few startled yells and a creative string of curses. He saw a red and orange blob spreading into a cooler-coloured puddle on the floor.

“Uh, will you bozos shut up?” a nasal voice growled, tone at odds with his childish words. Tim went cold. “Careful work goin’ on over here.”

“Sure, boss,” one of the others responded quickly. “Sorry, boss.”

There was a scoff.

Bruce finally yanked hard and Tim finally moved back from the grimy vent cover. His skin was crawling. Was that his breathing he was hearing?

“Robin,” Bruce’s nearly inaudible voice rasped through the comms, unfazed. “I’m going around. When I give the signal, kick off the cover and distract the thugs. Do not engage the Joker.”

“Understood,” he whispered back. 

He felt small inside his body, separate from what was going on. His eyes were cameras showing him things happening to someone else. 

Bruce crawled away, looking claustrophobic in the tight space. He had to duck his head to stop the points on the cowl from hitting the ceiling. Tim contorted himself so his feet were facing the vent instead of his head. 

He could see the heat signatures mulling around in the room. The Joker was pacing around a separate section from his goons. They were lurking near the fading blob, blue and green light taking over the oranges and reds in their limbs.

It was very quiet without Bruce’s little noises. Alfred had gone silent too. He laid on his back and stared at the metal above him. Inhale, exhale. He clenched his fists and relaxed them, flexed and pointed his toes. He needed to focus.

“On my mark,” Bruce said.

Across the room, shadows were shifting behind the opposite vent cover. He pulled his knees up closer to his chest. He stuck his hand in one of his belt pouches. Clear mind.

“Three, two– now .”

He busted the vent off with a deafening bang. Before he could think, he was sliding out and hurtling towards the ground. Smoke exploded up from the ground as Bruce had the same idea as him. He tossed smoke pellets at the weaker points of coverage. 

“Bat!” the Joker cried.

Shots were being fired. Metal was hitting metal. The thugs were yelling between each other. He hit the ground and rolled towards a beam, snapping his staff open. 

“Fuck! It’s the Batman!” someone was screaming. 

The Joker was laughing maniacally from the smoke. Tim could see his heat signature wandering around, unafraid of his smoke-induced blindness.  

“Come out, come out,” he crooned, giggling. “ Batsy .”

Tim came out from behind the beam, crouching and running towards the cluster of people-shaped blobs of red. 

Bullets were still flying. He could see them like flashes of light. The thugs were going to hit each other. They were shooting wildly in every direction. 

He almost fell when one sparked off the thin armour on his arm. His heart stopped. Started. Beat fast enough to make up for the missed time. 

He threw himself forwards, swinging his staff to knock the gun out of the man’s hands. He yelped and fell backwards. Tim clicked magnetic cuffs onto him that mechanically dragged his arms to the beams on either side of him. He kicked out and swore but couldn’t do anything to stop the cuffs from pinning him to the posts that kept the ceiling from toppling down on them.

The smoke was holding up. He stayed low to avoid stray bullets. It seemed like they’d either stopped shooting so crazily or had run out of rounds. 

He kicked the legs out from another thug, cuffing him as quickly as he could. It was not a time for flashiness. The smoke would fade eventually. The other two were dangerously close to the Joker who was trading blows with Bruce. 

Why was the clown still standing? Every time he took a punch, he laughed harder. 

He jumped, rolled, and hit a tall woman right in the knees with the staff. She went down with a loud shriek. He was out of cuffs. He needed to ask Alfred to stock up. He whipped out a rope and tied her legs together. 

She threw a nasty punch that connected right at his jaw and snapped his head to the side. He shook his head to recover and she was already trying to unwind her legs. It sounded like she was sobbing through her coughing from the smoke. He didn’t want to hurt her. But she was a criminal.

He jabbed her in the shoulder and her arm sagged, limp. He found the end of the rope again and wrestled with her to get her arms wrapped up. 

“Stay still ,” he grunted. His face hurt. 

A bullet hit the ground way too close. Concrete exploded up towards them. He flinched.

The knots were tied. He lurched back to his feet. There was one more. The Joker was on the ground. His laughter continued, it was echoing through his head. 

The infrared switched off. The smoke was as good as gone by then. A sturdy blond man was swinging a sawed-off shotgun around, eyes watery and reddened. 

He ran forward. The man saw him. Adjusted the gun. But no bullet came. He was out or at least jammed. Tim was trembling. The thug held the weapon like a bat, winding up. 

They swung at the same time but the gun flew away first. The force of the block rang up his arms. He gritted his teeth. 

The thug immediately lunged and rammed him with his shoulder. Tim gasped, dropping the staff, and kneed him in the groin. The thug swore and dropped him, letting him roll away. 

He turned back around to face Tim, spitting onto the floor. Tim dodged a messy punch. He caught sight of the Joker, standing again, his back to Tim. 

Bruce was facing him, panting and almost incoherent with rage. He was shaking with it. 

But from that angle, Tim could see the gun held behind the Joker’s purple back.

The world slowed down. He kicked up at the thug’s jaw with too much force and not enough form. There was a crunch. The man fell backwards, clutching his face and wailing. He spun and started running. 

Where was his staff?

There was a Batarang on the ground. He scooped it up. His aim was always terrible. He threw it with as much stability as he could muster. The Joker was still laughing, pulling out the gun. 

He was aiming for his wrist but hit closer to his shoulder. The black blade sank into clothing and flesh. 

Either way, the Joker turned and Bruce snapped out of his haze to look at Tim, even angrier than before. 

The Joker had blood all over his face. It looked like it was seeping from his stretched smile, from his eyes, from everywhere. Underneath he was still that dead, chalky white. He looked like a skull. Like a demon. 

His eyes were crazed. His smile soured into an infuriated snarl. He took a lurching step towards him. 

“What?” he shrieked. “I killed you! I killed you before! I saw it! I made sure of it!”

Tim froze.

“It was my greatest achievement! My ultimate–  You! You were going to break Batman!”

He thought Tim was Jason. Back from the dead.

No.

The clown doubled over with something that should have been laughter but wasn’t quite. He was wheezing, clutching his hair even with the gun in his hand. His black eyes never left Tim’s.

“That’s okay. It is. It is.” He smiled, teeth bloody and crooked, eyes cold. “I can do it again.”

Suddenly, his arm was out and the gun was trained directly at Tim. And then it wasn’t. He was on the ground in a green and purple heap, Bruce was on top of him, the gun spinning away. It glinted in the sterile light and Tim was enraptured, watching in until it finally went still. 

Bruce punched the Joker hard enough that finally, the laughing stopped. His eyes continued fluttering and Bruce was scrambling to get him tied up and cuffed. 

The other criminals were all on the ground, either rolling around or fighting their bindings but not getting up. 

He pressed the button on his earpiece. 

“Agent A,” he said numbly, still feeling strange about Alfred’s code name. “Have you alerted the police?”

“They’re on their way.”

He nodded even though Alfred couldn’t see him. Maybe he’d know through the mask cam. 

He was standing in the middle of the fluorescently lit room, body aching, unable to move. 

He stayed that way until Bruce dragged him into a dark hallway so they could watch the police arrive and pack people away. The officers put so many precautions on the Joker that it was surprising he could even breathe. 

They stayed there until all the criminals were in cars or trucks and being towed away. Bruce was panting. He didn’t speak, just stared at what was happening. No one noticed them or cared when they left.

A few blocks away, back in the direction of the Batmobile, Bruce grabbed him and gave him a bone-crushing, heart-stopping hug. It was warm and he could feel Bruce’s breath ruffling his hair. His armour was cold against his cheek. His muscles relaxed, and all he did was stand there.

Chapter Text

Time passed fast as Robin. 

A Robin. 

He took the rest of his exams, surprisingly passing them all with nearly acceptable scores. Except for AP World History, but he had expected that one. You couldn't miss an entire semester and just know what date the war of 1812 officially ended and who the major figures were in some WW1 battle he’d never heard of. 

Then it was summer. Not much changed in his schedule. He was invited to a few nights on Samantha Biolini’s yacht and declined. He explored the Drake Industries and Wayne Enterprise buildings then dove into their servers. His birthday came and passed without any commotion. Alfred somehow found out and made him a black forest cake. 

Bruce took more nights off. They watched StarTrek in the basement cinema and Tim kept having to shoot down Bruce’s predictions for the plot. Most of them were pretty good. He told stories of his childhood or places he’d travelled or young Grayson’s mishaps. 

School started again and it was painful trying to drag his body out of bed every morning to attend classes. He had a less than stellar attendance. He fell asleep in class. He did well on assignments and tests. He tried not to talk to anyone. 

Patrol was an almost ritualistic practice. A silent time for prep, long hours of constant vigilance, the blessing of a warm bed afterwards. He and Bruce clicked during patrol. He always knew exactly what he needed from him without needing to be asked. He knew where he needed to be. The subtle ache and strain of his muscles was a welcome constant. He could predict what Bruce was thinking about because he would be thinking the same thing. 

He remembered a conversation he’d had back in elementary school with a young girl he couldn’t picture the face of. She’d moved to Florida sometime after their talk to chase a dream of horse shows and from what he knew, she’d been pretty good. She’d told him that after you’re thrown off enough times, you stop being afraid of plummeting towards the ground. She said she forgot that she could even get hurt by it, that it was something she should be wary of.

He hadn’t understood at the time how she’d been surprised that getting dumped onto the rail of a wooden jump could leave her with a broken wrist and a concussion. Now he did.

His heart was pounding pleasantly. He raced through the hallways of the business complex. It was a mob-run money laundering front. The lights were off, the emergency generator not yet engaged. 

There were hostages in the building, people who weren’t completely aware that they were working for criminals until more criminals busted in to steal whatever information was lying around in their databases. 

Bruce was shuttling people out. Tim was still too small for it, he couldn’t efficiently get them out without wasting time untying them and coaxing them into supporting some of their own weight.

So he was on his own, trying to get to the server room where angry thugs were lurking.

“Shit,” he swore.

A bullet flew past, dangerously near to his head. He was getting close. 

He threw himself to the ground, rolling and getting back up in one swift movement. His staff was already out. There was a woman and a man at the end of the hallway. They had tiny handguns trained at him, shooting over and over. They didn’t look very experienced. He tossed a few trusty smoke bombs and zig-zagged towards them.

He was thoroughly addicted to something lying in the dangerous air of the situations he was consistently putting himself in. Maybe the adrenaline, supplementing his hours without caffeine. His hands trembled with it, an anticipatory buzz humming in his ribcage. 

Surprised by the smoke, it was easy for him to take out the two guards and burst through the door they’d been stationed at. He knew what he was walking into, rows of server boxes– extremely large for such a small scale insurance firm, two more people. The big bads.

What he wasn’t expecting was that they seemed to be waiting for him.

“Don’t make another move!” a bald man shouted.

Tim almost laughed, crouching in an easy position to launch himself right at the criminal. 

“We don’t want any trouble,” the scrawny woman beside him said, her voice wavering but sure.

That was new. Ish.

“You have to know that this is a mob business,” she continued, a pleading look in her wide eyes. “They’ve been extorting the locals in this area for years. All their blackmail, all the records of what they’ve done, it’s all in these banks.”

He stepped to the left, inching around the room. He lost sight of them behind a server rack. He wanted to get to the wall of windows and try to push them back into the narrow hallway where they couldn’t surround him. He wasn’t sure when the “guards'' would start to stir in the doorway.

“Sounds like something you should leave to the police,” he said, masking his voice. 

He made it around so he could see them again. They’d turned to face him again, both had guns. He had to be very careful with what he wanted to do.

“The police don’t do shit,” the man insisted, waving his weaponless arm. He too looked inexperienced with a gun, the kickback from a shot would probably cause him to drop it. His wrist was rubber, his bullet wouldn’t fly straight. “We’ve gone to them. They’re just as bad as the Falcones, worse even, because they act like heroes then turn around and accept their dirty money. Money that comes from our pockets!”

Tim took a deep breath. Slow movements.

“I need you to leave the computers and back up so I can get you out of the building. We can help, but not if you keep breaking the law. Police are already outside.”

The couple traded a look, fear or worry staining their faces. Neither stepped back. 

The woman faced him head-on, a grim set to her thin lips. He moved towards them, holding his staff at a low, unthreatening angle. 

“If you won’t let us do what has to be done, we’ll at least make sure no one has to suffer any longer because of what’s in these archives.”

And then he realized that it wasn’t worry, the expression on their faces was desperation. 

The man lifted a device he’d had hidden between their bodies. Tim spun, running for the window. 

A shock wave hit him like a train. It slammed him through the glass. His vision was white then red and then he saw the ground hurtling up at him. It was scorching hot and he couldn’t breathe. 

He hit the road, two stories below, his bones screamed. He tried to scream. He skidded and rolled across the pavement. 

Everything hurt. There was fire in the building across from him. Blue and red lights were flickering everywhere. 

All he could hear was a loud ringing. The ground was shaking. He was gasping for breath. He couldn’t get up. 

There were people near, not quite on top of him but close. White lights flashed behind his eyelids. 

Was he on fire?

No. That was good. 

Strong arms scooped him up from where he was plastered to the ground. Every step jolted his body. He couldn’t hear anything now. Batman’s cowl was fading in and out of focus. There were two monstrous cowls staring down at him. 

The cape wooshed around him, cool air on his hot face, and then the world went dark.

He knew he woke up a few times in the medbay. Eyes crusty and unwilling to open. Body fuzzy and numb with drugs. Mind caught somewhere between seeing the room around him and being tangled up in the strange dreams he was having while trying to keep himself alert. 

The first time he managed to pull himself fully from sleep’s grasp, it was to the sound of arguing. 

“How did I not know until now? Until it was on the news ?” someone shouted from outside the door. “What the fuck, Bruce? How could you do this?”

“Dick, you don’t understand. It’s not like that,” Bruce responded in a much more level voice.

“It’s exactly like that! You did what I explicitly told you was a terrible thing, and then you hid it from me.”

“I didn’t hide it from you. You haven’t been the most present lately for me to tell you.”

“You could have called! You could have told Alfred to call! You could have done something.”

“I was busy, I didn’t realize you took it so personally. I thought you were past that,” Bruce said coldly.

There was a tense exhale. “This isn’t about me, Bruce. This is about that kid! I know you took out the Joker, that doesn’t make this safe.”

The hall was silent. Something was curdling in Tim’s stomach, he didn’t want to listen to their argument. He clenched his tender fists. His raw skin and new scabs pulled with an itching pain.

“You got him before the Joker was locked up, didn’t you?”

Again, there were no sounds. Tim’s ear was making a low noise to fill the space, almost like static. He could feel the tension leaking under the door.

“I didn’t get him ,” Bruce growled. “I didn’t go looking.”

“You never do!” Grayson shouted, louder now. “Maybe when I fell into your lap, you didn’t know better, but now? You’re an adult now, Bruce. Take some responsibility for once.”

“I take responsibility, Richard. It’s all I do.”

There was a sharp, unhappy laugh. “No, you feel guilty. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t want him, do you understand that? I didn’t tell him that he was going to be Robin. He just is.”

“You know what– I– He’s–” Grayson gave a frustrated growl. “I’m going to see Alfred.”

Tim stared up at the ceiling, the medbay was silent. He wanted to be anywhere but there.

Chapter Text

He left the Manor in a self-contained fit as soon as he could feel his legs enough to get out of bed. His parents always told him when he was little that tantrums were unbecoming for someone of his status. It always left him with burning eyes and a choked throat and an angry, jagged feeling in his chest. 

He felt like that then, storming down Founders Lane. Limping down Founders Lane. Slow and painful. 

He was sure he looked like a wreck. His face was all cut up from pieces of glass, his arm was in a sling, his ankle was badly sprained. A stretch of his back and thigh was burned and chafing against the fabric of his clothes. He still couldn’t hear out of one of his ears but Alfred assured him that it was temporary. 

It was discomfiting, hearing the trees rustle on one side but not the other. His brain was tricking him into seeing shadows moving in the trees, convinced that he could hear threats lurking just out of sight. He shook his head. 

The Estate’s gates were close, less than twenty feet ahead. He could stop and rest there. He was wheezing with the effort of not falling apart. He wanted to get to the condo. He needed space. So he was walking all the way there, of course.

It wasn’t like he could call Pedro to pick him up in the state he was in.

His attention snapped up. Leaves rustled across the street. The forest was thick enough to hide any animals that could have been there.

It was nothing. 

But he kept scanning the foliage, waiting for something to make a move. A wave of tingling raced down his limbs and his hair stood on end. Nothing.

A car rounded the hill coming from the direction of the Manor. Tim pulled up his hood and casually looked away from the road, hoping there wouldn’t be any suspicious neighbours ready to pull over and interrogate him on why he was there.

It was just his luck that the rusty Charger cruised to a stop right in front of him. It was weird too– rather than just unlucky. Nobody on Founders Lane would be caught dead anywhere near a speck of rust.

“Tim,” a familiar voice said. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t look up from the grass. “Going for a stroll.”

There was a sigh he could barely hear. “Get in the car, please.”

He didn’t move. His mood had gone even sourer. It was a long walk to the condo. His ankle was throbbing. 

He got up and went around to the passenger side. Grayson leaned over his center console to pop the door open for him. He slid into the car and awkwardly twisted to do up his seat belt with one arm. 

Over his shoulder, something deep in the trees caught his eye. He froze. It could be a deer or a coyote. It looked like the shape of a crouching person. He could have been making it up. It looked just as much like a bush as a human.

“Do you want to go back to the Manor?” Grayson asked. 

Tim spun back around to sit straight, looking only at the road in front of them. He couldn’t see Grayson’s face but his hands were perfectly at ten and two on the wheel, waiting.

“No, I’m going home.”

“Not here?” he asked, gesturing at the Estate.

Tim shook his head, he should just get out. He wasn’t getting out. “I can give you the address.”

Dick let the car surge forward and Tim glanced over his shoulder again. The forest was empty and still again. It was possible that he’d just imagined it. 

“So, you got your Robin,” Grayson said, pretending not to be frustrated. 

Tim didn’t say anything, just sat back down so he wouldn’t think he was inspecting the backseats of his dirty car. He was, a little bit. There were two blankets, an assortment of takeout boxes from four different restaurants, running shoes, a soccer ball, an exhaust pipe, and much more. There was a package of beef jerky in a cup holder.

“Are you happy now? What’s next?”

Tim ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t know what Grayson wanted from him. “Next, I’m going home so I can get some sleep.”

“School tomorrow?”

He ground his teeth together, he’d forgotten about that. “Is it Sunday?”

He could feel Grayson’s eyes on him. “Tuesday.”

He groaned and slid down his seat. He wanted to lie in bed for the next week. Bruce said muscles start to atrophy after three days without use, he couldn’t risk missing a workout. School was important too, he was due for a Calculus test soon.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Tim closed his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I asked you to be Robin first, I didn’t–”

“I’m not attacking you, Tim.”

He studied him discreetly, Grayson was staring intently at the road. He looked stiff, not quite like he was about to snap though. He was wearing the same jacket he had been when Tim went to his apartment. He was angry.

He looked so much like he had at the galas they’d met at when they were young. Tim could remember one specific time, at a charity auction when the adults had been busy, Richard and Jason standing together between two paintings of old mayors. They’d rarely ever shown up, and almost never together. 

He’d always wondered what they were talking about. He’d known they were Robins at that point, he’d wanted to get close enough to hear what secret plans they were discussing. He’d taken a photo of them; not realizing how weird it was at the time.

And then his parents had swept him away, gloating about the ancient Egyptian artifacts they’d purchased and instructing him to smile for the cameras before getting him home so they could go out privately. 

“It seems like you’re attacking me.”

“Okay, well–” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I just want you to answer me honestly.”

“Why do you drive a car like this when you have access to Bruce’s bank account?”

Grayson pulled his hand off the wheel and slowly set it down on his leg. Trees blurred by as they bumped down the road. “You’re Robin now, what’s next? What are you going to want next?”

“I didn’t become Robin because I just wanted it,” he snapped, the dark cloud that had been lingering over him all day finally becoming too much, too heavy. “I did it because Batman needed it. Bruce was going to get himself killed and Gotham needs him. You know what a mess the city would be if he disappeared! It’s already a mess!”

“You are so much like B,” he remarked, a bit frustrated, a bit exasperated. 

“I am not. You don’t know me.”

“Do you want to be Batman?” he asked suddenly, looking over at Tim who jerked his eyes back to the road.

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“You’re thinking about it now.”

“No– I– This is the place,” he stuttered.

Grayson slammed on the breaks and swerved into the lot. Before he could say anything else, Tim unlocked the door and fled into the lot that definitely wasn’t attached to where he lived.

Chapter Text

“Mister Drake, honestly, I don’t even know why you’re paying for tuition. I understand that you’ve had a hard year and it can be tough to stay on top of school work, but you really should be at least making an effort to come to class.”

Tim stared at his teacher. He was sitting on his desk, trying to look understanding, he was young, new to the school. He wanted to say that he was good at his job, but Tim wouldn’t know.

“When can I make up the test?” he asked. 

His ankle was still aching. He hadn’t worn his sling to school and his shoulder was complaining because of it. He wanted to get back to the condo before leaving for the Manor. 

“When will you be ready?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he repeated. “You’re sure you know the material?”

“Do you have a review package I can go over? If not, I can just use the textbook.”

 He stood up to dig through his drawers for some worksheets. Tim eyed the door, everyone else had already left. 

“Here you are,” Mr. Cowan said, handing over the hastily stapled stack. 

“Thank you, sir,” Tim sighed, finally getting to turn away.

“Timothy,” he said. “How are you doing with everything? Do you need to talk about anything?”

Tim gave his most reassuring smile. “I’m well, thank you.”

“Do you have a support system you can talk to?” he asked, looking genuinely invested in Tim’s answer. He kind of reminded him of Grayson. 

“Yes, sir.”

He finally relented, leaning away to start a new task. “Okay. Remember, Mister Drake, I’m always here if you need help with anything. Email me tonight if you have any questions about the homework.”

“Will do, Mr. Cowan,” he lied.

Tim had to walk back to the condo. It was close to the school, but it would have been nice if Pedro had picked up. He didn’t even know why he was still paying him. 

The streets were crowded, his leg nearly gave out and got him trampled while passing over a crosswalk. The tourists were out. A group pointed at his school uniform. At least one person took a picture of him, it could have been because of some scandal he didn’t know he was involved in or just because people were creeps. 

He stood in line at a coffee shop. The long, long line. 

Eventually, he gave his order and tapped his card. People were bustling around outside, out of the corner of his eye he could see a point of stillness through the windows. He kept his eyes down to wait for his drink, standing against the wall out of view from the street. 

He glanced up from his phone, around the till.

There was someone in a dark hoodie standing outside the store. They casually looked in, taking in what was going on. He couldn’t see their face with the way they were standing.

“Timothy?” one of the baristas called out.

He stepped up to get his drink, and immediately the hooded figure faded into the crowd.

He had meant to get to the Manor early. He wanted to go through his utility belt and replace the oxygen canisters for his rebreather. He’d had to use some when Bruce had decided it was a good idea to swim through the canal to get into the sewers before the whole building explosion incident. He needed to wrap his ankle before they left too. 

Lucky for him, he had his toolbelt with him at the condo. 

Unlucky for him, he was using his supplies instead of restocking them. 

If he was caught going around the door of the condo, and most of the lobby, and maybe a secluded spot up on a nearby roof that happened to have the perfect view into his bedroom, it wasn’t to set up little motion-activated cameras. No, of course not.

Even if he was doing that, he was only trying to be safe. He just needed to be very sure that no one was stalking him. Simple. 

From that chilly rooftop, he could also see Alfred idling in the street far below. He was making him wait. It was unprofessional. 

He mentally thanked the safety codes that ensured that every building had fire escapes as he rushed down towards the car in the dark. He’d taken just enough ibuprofen to feel a bit tingly so speeding down the narrow stairs wasn’t even an issue.

“Sorry, Alfred,” he panted when he jumped in the back seat.

The man jumped, he’d been watching the condo building for his approach, not the one he’d come from. He was probably unused to being snuck up on. At least without knowing that he was being snuck up on. 

“Good evening, Master Timothy,” the man said. “How was school?”

He shrugged and pulled the textbook out of his backpack. It turned out that the teacher knew what he was talking about when he doubted that Tim knew the material. “The usual.”

Alfred whipped through traffic. Tim got vaguely motion sick in the back seat. His physics textbook was in his room at the Manor, he could probably find it and connect it to his math somehow. The test was on related rates, it seemed like something physics would use. Some of it even looked a little familiar. 

“Supper is in the kitchen,” Alfred said as they pulled into the drive. 

“I already ate,” Tim replied easily, grabbing his bag and flipping a page in the book. 

“Eat again.”

He ran from the garage up the stairs to his room. The textbook was there, on his desk under a collection of his assorted other ones. School books, tombs from the Manor library, more textbooks from the Gotham College bookstore. The whole room was a mess. Photographs printed out for cases, notebooks, dirty clothes, an unmade bed. He really should get around to cleaning.

There wasn’t time though, so he gathered anything useful up in his arms and left the room again. The whole house smelled delicious. He practically threw himself down the stairs to get his mandatory second dinner.

Alfred was waiting for him with a knowing look, a plate already made up for him. It was steak and mashed potatoes and vegetables and bread and gravy. He held out his hand, using his knee to keep the books from falling from his arms. His ankle decided it was time to act up and he winced, rearranging his things and scampering from the kitchen towards the open passage to the Cave. 

“Tim!” Grayson greeted. 

He froze at the bottom of the stairs. Bruce looked angry. He always looked angry in the cowl, but this time– something about the way his shoulders were up and tense and his hands were clenched at his sides. Grayson was cheery as ever. He was wearing his Nightwing costume.

“Good news,” he said, strolling over with his arms extended. “You get the night off.”

“What?” Tim asked dimly. “Night off?”

“Your recovery period isn’t over yet,” Bruce said, turning away. “We’ll reassess at the end of the week.”

Grayson looked less happy at that. 

“I don’t need a longer recovery period,” Tim insisted. 

“You have a concussion,” Grayson said, putting on his domino mask.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly, stepping forward.

“Timothy,” Bruce snapped. Tim clamped his mouth shut and quickly backed off from Grayson, shrinking towards the stairway. “You are not to go on patrol until I tell you otherwise, understood?”

He nodded, carefully avoiding Bruce’s gaze.

“Alfred, keep an eye on him. Dick, let’s go.”

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump. Grayson gave him an apologetic look and ran after Bruce, vaulting himself into the Batmobile with a dramatic flip.

At least he had time to study.

Chapter Text

Tim did his best to listen to Bruce. He wanted to stay on his good side. He wanted to keep him from pushing him away. He didn’t want him to fall back into the shell he’d been when Tim had first started hanging around. He wasn’t sure when he had started to become something other than that.

He’d always been a good kid. Even when his parents were out of the country, he’d followed their rules. It didn’t stop them from being angry when they got back though. They would give him the cold shoulder over a less than satisfactory reaction to a souvenir, scream at him if he was late to greet them because of school, throw his things when one of their own possessions went missing. It was always Tim at fault. Always. 

He wasn’t sure what had them haunting his mind. He felt guilty, thinking about them in such a negative light. They’d never hit him, there was always food in the house, they bought him what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday. He felt guilty because, after everything, it didn’t feel like they were really dead, it felt like they were just away on a faraway archeological dig or exploring Machu Picchu. 

All those memories reminded him of one important thing: it was always easier to ask for forgiveness if you absolutely had to do something against the rules.

Technically, he wasn’t breaking the rules. 

He felt like he was saying that a lot recently. 

His cameras were completely empty of any useful footage when he checked them, four days after putting them up. It was pitch black out and he was squatted beside the rooftop entrance to the building. He was staring at his dim phone screen, the camera was attached with an adaptor and the last of the footage was loading.

Bruce wouldn’t be in this area of town. Richard was still out with him. Tim didn’t know his rotations but he doubted he’d be scouring Uptown roofs for crime. 

The last photos were just birds squabbling over a shawarma wrapper and a maintenance worker. He should probably change the locations, maybe set a few up at the Manor. 

A crushing weight fell onto him. His knees buckled. His vision went black. He thrashed and grappled with whatever– whoever was on him. His face was pressed onto the ground by a strong hand. He had an opening for an elbow jab but the sling wasn’t letting him get his arm in position. 

He took a precise blow to the shoulder and his arm went numb. 

“Saw you set them up,” a female voice whispered, breath warm on his ear.

“Get off me,” he ordered into the concrete. 

His whole body was tense, he wouldn’t let himself shake. His glasses had been knocked from his eyes. They must be able to feel his pulse racing. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins. He was pinned. Nothing he could do. He couldn’t even breathe.

“Get off me,” he said again.

The hand moved, clamping onto his chin and twisting him to face his captor. 

A familiar face stared down at him in the darkness. Dark eyes big and cheeks smeared with mud. 

“Cass,” Tim rasped. 

She gave him a small, barely-there smile.

“I can’t breathe.”

Her mouth made a little “o” and she jumped off him, relieving the pressure from his lungs and numb limbs. He found his glasses and shoved them up his nose.

“You cut your hair,” he said from the ground.

It was short now, jagged around her chin instead of long and silky. She looked almost the same other than that. Dark clothes, childish expressions, faint scars on her hands.

“Why are you in Gotham? Is Lady Shiva here?” 

Cass squatted beside him like a frog, swaying back and forth slightly while she worried at her lip. She shook her head, eyebrows pulled up.

“Where is she?”

Cass was concentrating on the ground like there was a puzzle there she was trying to solve. He almost thought she wasn’t going to respond. “Mountains,” she said, drawing it in the air with her hands. “Group– group of bad people.”

“She got kidnapped?” he said, knowing it was impossible. 

She shook her head, pushing her knuckles against her chest. “Group of–” She huffed. “Assassination.”

“The League of Assassins,” he filled in, earning himself a vigorous nod.

His joy at seeing her was rapidly fading. He only knew one name associated with the League. Talia Al Ghul. No internet or legal records. No information anywhere except locked up inside Bruce.

“They’re angry,” she said.

Tim was surprised at how much she was speaking, no matter how stilted. It was off-putting how difficult it seemed for her.

“They– their plan– the city–”

“Take your time,” he said, dragging himself up to sit against the wall properly. “Are they coming to Gotham?”

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. 

“They are coming to him.”

“Bruce?”

She nodded, hair flying around her face in violent lashes. “They have–” she clapped silently. “They have– You!”

Her eyes lit up and she tipped forwards onto her toes.

“They have me?” he said dully. 

She clenched her jaw and reached out. He flinched back but she just tugged on a lock of his hair and pointed her finger unnervingly close to his eye, waving a chaotic bubble around his general area.

He paused. “My DNA?”

Memories of the Bruce monsters flicked through his mind. His thoughts stopped. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.

She shook her head, dragging her hands through her tangled hair. She poked him hard in the chest. 

“You,” she affirmed. “Like you.”

She made a circle with her fingers and aligned it over the left side of her chest then his.

“My heart ? I don’t know what you’re saying. The League of Assassins has me?”

“ Like you!” she pushed.

“Family?”

She shook her head, jumping to her feet to turn away. She was small in the night, tense and frustrated. A massive hoodie shielded her from the scraping winds

“Cass,” he said quietly. “I’ll figure it out, okay?”

She sat down hard beside him, leaning on his side but still chewing over whatever was blocking her from putting her thoughts into comprehensible words. 

“You don’t know how to write,” he presumed.

She said nothing.

“Have you thought about sign language? It might be easier for you. It’s all movements and stuff that mean different things. I don’t know how you’d learn it though.”

She sullenly nodded. 

It was silent on the roof for a long time. Occasionally he thought he saw Bruce’s silhouette racing over neighbouring buildings but it was never real. He wouldn’t have seen him even if he was there. An ambulance raced by below, sirens wailing. 

“You’re sure they don’t have my DNA?”

She nodded again.

He hoped she was right.

Chapter Text

Ms. Reid had been back from her trip for three weeks when he finally noticed. 

It wasn’t that he was never there, it was that he was there when she was sleeping or out with friends or staying late at work. Her obsessive need to have all of her belongings hidden out of her bright white, empty home, had somehow tricked him into thinking that he was still alone. 

Some detective he was. It scared him. That someone could be so casually hiding out of his view without even trying.

So he was back at the Manor, locked in his room.

He’d long since adjusted his vent covers to stop them from sliding off their hinges like the others in the house but he checked them again just to be sure. He was too big to get through them anyways. He set a sensor up that would send an alarm to his headphones when the door opened. He made sure his windows were well locked. He also anally measured the location of every stationary supply on his desk so if they got moved, he would know. 

He felt out of control.

And he had two German assignments due. But making sure a terrorist organization didn’t have his DNA took priority. 

Nothing was coming up. Not for Talia, not for the League of Assassins, not for Lady Shiva. He checked public and private search engines, the GCPD server, even Wayne Enterprises. The best he’d found was a mention of the League on a fringe conspiracy theory Reddit thread from five years ago. Which was saying something.

He was sullenly typing out his terrible project, all of his grammar nearly incomprehensible. His mind was a tornado trapped inside his skull. All he could think about was that he knew where he could find information on the League. 

Bruce was going to be very, very angry.

So he stayed sitting at his desk, his comforter arranged on his lap, headphones blaring, hood up, mug empty. He’d already gone over his calc and chem, German was all that was left. He could feel his teacher crying as he struggled to remember the gender of a table. 

Instead, he looked up ASL resources. Complex hand gestures and a backwards sentence structure. 

He laid his head down on the cool wood surface. 

Coffee, then he’d decide what to do with the rest of his day. 

He grabbed an empty USB and dumped his blanket back onto his bed. 

There was a roast in one of the ovens but Alfred was nowhere to be found. Tim hoped he was hiding somewhere reading or watching one of his period dramas, the man worked too much. He turned on the coffee machine. It was the best thing they had in the Manor, he didn’t need to refill the water or replace the grounds, just sit and wait.

So he did, lounging against the island and stealing a croissant off a baking sheet. 

He was jittery. He knew he should just go back to his room and finish his school work. Bruce would be angry. He was at WE for meetings all day, Tim didn’t know when he’d be back. It could be anytime, it was already four.

The brewer beeped and he let the mug warm his cold fingers. He got to the kitchen doorway and hesitated. He was being pulled in two different directions. Bruce didn’t deserve to have his trust broken, after all the work Tim had put in to make sure he saw him like a partner. 

But his works to Grayson were echoing through his head. That he didn’t want another Robin. That Tim had just shown up and stuck around. That he was just letting it happen for now. 

Tim needed that information before B inevitably decided to get rid of him. Send him back to Ms. Reid and school and stupid fundraising galas.

The grandfather clock moved to the side when he asked it to. The Cave waited at the bottom of the stairs, dark and foreboding. The echoing sound of water dripping from the stalagmites to the lake below got louder and louder as he inched down. 

He wasn’t forbidden from being in the Cave alone, he wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. 

With a flip of a switch, the Cave came to life. Monitors woke up, lights shone, machines started whirring. He hurried over to the computer and typed in the passcode, screens showing what they’d left open the night before. 

He fell into the big office chair and pulled himself to the desk. 

He could just go back to his room. He could get Pedro to drive him to the bookstore to try and find some sign language texts. 

He took a sip of his coffee and pulled up the data archives. They were perfectly, neurotically organized. Year, subject, people involved, hazard level. Every night of cowl footage, case files, mission reports, all the evidence Bruce had ever collected. 

His skin itched. He felt like he was jumping into the dark water beneath him, something he wasn’t ready for. Cass and her confusing warnings, Talia and her veiled threats, the Joker lingering in Arkham, strangely quiet.

He plugged in the USB and started his search. Talia had piles of files that he moved over to his drive, the League of Assassins was the same, there were never-ending lists of connecting cases and personal feuds. 

When he tried to open one of the files, a text box popped up center screen. It was encoded. He moved on to the next one. Also encoded. The box offered a password slot but Tim didn’t even try. He’d have to find a way around it another time. 

The next one he tried opened up without a hitch. It was a video file from Bruce’s perspective. He was in a dark jungle, staring at a massive metal complex. It was surrounded by barbed wire fences and people with guns. Bruce was carefully reciting the date, time, and location into the receiver.

Tim closed it, he needed to get as much as he could and then go over it later in his room. 

“Hello?” a familiar voice called from the stairway. “Tim-tim? Timmy? Timotée ? You in there?”

He jumped and closed all the new windows, yanking out the USB and stuffing it into his sock. 

“Yeah,” he responded, taking a sip of coffee as Grayson came around the corner. 

“Hey, I was wondering where you ended up,” he said with an easy smile. “I forgot how quiet the Manor gets.”

“The Estate was usually quiet too,” he said, casually spinning the chair to face him.

Black hair, blue eyes. The same as Tim. Graceful steps and years of training. Less like Tim. The croissant turned to lead in his stomach. No wonder the man was trying to convince Bruce to get rid of him. He couldn’t live up to any of them.

“What’cha looking at?” he asked, leaning towards the screen.

“Just a new case. Mr. Freeze is trying to make a device that can send things to Absolute Zero.” He glanced away from Grayson to make sure those were indeed the tabs opened up. 

“And?” he questioned. “What’s your professional opinion?”

Tim leaned back against the cushioned headrest. He had a headache brewing, his ankle and shoulder were feeling better though.

“I mean, it’s not going to work but–”

Grayson laughed and backed off. “No? You don’t think he’s going to break the laws of physics anytime soon? Not even a little?”

A reluctant smile tugged on Tim’s lips. Grayson’s optimism was contagious. 

“You want to train a bit? The gym stuff is still set up.”

Tim glanced back at the computer, there was so much to do. He needed to figure out what Cass was talking about. But if Grayson was going to be in the Cave he wouldn’t be able to do it anyways. He’d been lagging on his training too, he was going to lose all his moves. Bruce was being a hypocrite and keeping him in bed. 

“Come on, Timbo,” he nagged, bouncing around in a bad karate pose. “I’ll go easy on you. I don’t bully cripples.”

He let him pull him away from the computer.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t heard from Cass in four days. The lack of her incessant stalking left him both relieved and worried for her. 

The night was an especially gloomy one and Tim had been left sulking in a shadow, wrapped up in his new cape, while Bruce talked to some police officers. Two Face had burned down half a building. He didn’t seem to have much of a motive. 

He’d scoured through some of what he’d gotten on his USB, only the tip of the iceberg. And it was a big iceberg. There were innumerable videos of Bruce fighting beside a tiny Grayson or a rambunctious Jason. There were mission reports filled out by them, obviously done by a distracted child. 

And then there were those pesky encrypted files. He still hadn’t cracked them, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. It was some of the best work he’d seen. He had half a mind to call Barbra Gordon for help. 

Obviously, he didn’t.

“Robin, let’s get moving,” Bruce said, appearing beside him and jolting him out of his thoughts. 

The police officers were looking around suspiciously, apparently, Bruce had decided their conversation was over and took the chance to disappear while they were distracted. Tim snickered at them. Their eyes roamed over the balcony they occupied over and over, never spotting a thing. 

“Where to?” he asked, momentary cheer dissipating as he eyed Bruce’s scowl. 

His fingers twitched restlessly, he’d been practically sidelined all night. He just needed to do something to prove to him that he wasn’t just some kid. He needed to prove that he could be Robin so long as Batman needed him. Anything. 

“Back to the Cave, we’re done for the night.”

Tim checked the display on the inside forearm of his glove. It was almost four in the morning.

“It’s only three,” he argued. 

“Did you or did you not email me a graph you made during your recovery period of the most common hours for major crimes during a twenty-four-hour period, and did you or did you not find that it was virtually zero between four and six am?”

“You read that?” he asked, squinting through the dark at B. He scanned the streets, not paying any attention. “It wasn’t virtually zero, and obviously you didn’t read the whole report because the data changes in the fall when the sun rises later. We still have two or three good hours of cover.”

“It changes by less than two percent. We’re heading back to the Cave.”

He mentally cursed himself and followed Bruce. He shot his grappling gun at a building across the street and leapt off the railing. 

Cool wind ripped past him and caught his cape like a sail. It flared out, yellow inside visible to the cops mulling around below. His shoulder protested only a bit as gravity caught up with him and he was yanked upwards. He flung himself up onto the roof Bruce had landed on. 

The Batmobile wasn’t far from where they were, inconspicuously hidden in an alley. 

They didn’t speak as they methodically made their way there. Tim had barely spoken all night. Bruce’s few, pathetic attempts at getting around the cold shoulder had puttered out some time at least a week and a half ago when Tim had still been stuck on computer duty. By that point, he was ignoring him as much as the other way around.

It probably didn’t matter to him. Bruce had said that he didn’t want him around. Probably better to have a quiet Robin if one was determined to stick around.

The Batmobile was parked right where they’d left it. They’d moved it three times that night, driving it to different parts of town as Alfred and the police radios told them where suspicious activity was occurring. 

Tim silently slid into the passenger seat, crossing his arms and looking out the window.

Bruce pressed some buttons that sent the engine roaring to life. He didn’t hesitate or waste any time speeding from the alleyway, sending them fishtailing around the corner. 

They wove through traffic, gunning it back to the Manor. The silence was pressing in on him in the small space. He tried to distract himself by thinking of school the next day. He’d dropped bio in the mornings to get a spare period he could use for an extra hour of sleep. He was like a zombie most days but he figured people just thought it was his usual. It kind of was. Dark bags under his mask were a constant, he was running exclusively off caffeine and a drive to succeed. Probably the insane amount of carbs and protein Alfred forced on him each day too.

“Are you feeling okay?” Bruce asked lowly, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“What?” he responded eloquently.

“You–” He paused. “Your injuries, are they bothering you?”

“No, I’m fine,” he assured him. “Grayson showed me some physio movements to stop any setbacks from the joints being in work again.” 

It was quiet for a few beats and Tim thought Bruce was done.

“Why don’t you just call him Richard? Dick even?”

Tim stilled his hand where he’d been picking at the seam of the seat, not seeing the world outside the window. He hadn’t thought about it. He certainly hadn’t expected the question.

“We’re not that close,” he finally said. 

“But you are,” Bruce insisted. “I saw you two training together the other day, he talks to you all the time, you get along great.”

Tim shrugged. His anger towards Grayson had dimmed to an untrusting flicker under the weight of his pure niceness . He knew– at least at some level– that the man really only wanted the best for him. But even still, he wasn’t close with him. They were acquaintances, a friend of a friend. His parents always said that it was proper to call someone by their last name to maintain polite distance. Bruce ought to know that, considering his position.

“Jason called him Dick even when they hated each other. Early on.”

Tim was quiet again. What was this conversation? What was Bruce trying to accomplish? “Well, I’m not Jason,” he said before realizing his snappish tone. “I mean– I– Do you want me to call him Dick? I can. I just mean–”

“Tim,” Bruce interrupted. “I don’t care what you call him, I just wanted to know.”

They swerved onto a narrow dirt path parallel to Founders Lane. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Bruce sighed. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he said, even quieter.

It wasn’t too long until the waterfall appeared through the forest. Bruce hit some buttons and they flew through the lake and the falls. Water obscured the windshield, pounded on the roof, washed the dirt off the windows. On the other side, the hanger door was already open. Light radiated from it, making the shadows squirm away, though they still clung thick and deep to the walls and ceiling. 

He jumped out before the vehicle had even come to a halt, fleeing the tense confines.

“Tim,” Bruce called out, the awkwardness leaking out of the car to chase him. “You know I don’t want you to be him? You’re a great Robin as you are. You definitely make the podium.”

He squinted at him. B had taken off the cowl, his face softened and hopeful. He looked like he’s just extended the grapevine that would save his wedding or something. All determined and optimistic.

“You mean the podium that usually has three people on it?” he mocked, trying not to laugh. “Wow. What an accomplishment. Who knew that in a race of three people, I’d be in the top three?”

“No! That’s not what I– You know what I– ” Bruce scrambled, coming closer.

Tim was laughing, covering his mouth with a hand. Diluted relief poured through him. “That’s such an inspirational speech. No wonder you’re a leader of the Justice League.”

“I can’t believe you. I’m trying to be genuine. Focus.”

Tim stood straight and tried to salute. “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.” He giggled.  “I can’t believe you rank Robins.”

He pressed his lips together and slapped him on his good shoulder. “You’re a good kid. Now go get changed.”

Tim was still laughing faintly as he wandered towards the bell jars. He wondered what Bruce’s IQ was. 

“Beloved,” an all too familiar voice suddenly sang through the Cave. “You kept the pest even though you knew I didn’t want you to. Did you not get my letters?”

A chill ran up his spine so forcefully he was tempted to slap it as if it were an insect. He carefully surveyed the massive space, all the different levels, the jagged ceiling, the water below. Nothing. He backed up so he could see Bruce, still lingering with his back to the Batmobile. Her words echoed from every corner.

“It’s okay,” Talia assured him in that watery, manic voice. “I’ve brought my darlings for you to meet. They’ll take care of it.”

Bruce’s attention jumped over to him. There was a thunderous bang that shook the metal under his feet. Bats whipped by in a screeching squall.

Tim threw himself to the side. A dagger plunged into the control panel that would allow them to contact the Manor above.

He rolled behind a bell jar, peering around for who’d thrown it. He found the two figures easily, they weren’t being discrete. They were positioned at the center of a platform only one set of stairs away. He couldn’t see their features but one was tall and bulky, possibly bigger than Bruce. The other was harder to see, crouched low to the ground. Beside the first man he appeared tiny, all in white and curled in on himself like a cornered cat. 

“Talia!” Bruce roared. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keeping my promise, dear,” she said, definitely closer than before. 

The two figures were coming closer. Ambling along. They looked around, touching things and veering off track like they were at a boring museum. The taller one was wearing a red helmet, he could see now. It covered his whole head, with little slots to see through. 

Tim carefully pulled his staff from its sheath on his leg but didn’t extend it. He could probably get behind him and use his decreased peripherals to his advantage. Only if the little one strayed a bit further away. It was a risk, the helmet could have enhanced tech that would give him away.

“Do you not want to meet the boys?” 

“Talia,” Bruce warned. 

“The pest does.”

Both sets of eyes snapped over to him and suddenly he was being attacked. He snapped out the staff and immediately managed a hit at the larger of the two. They hadn’t expected the weapon and he was slower than Tim, but only barely. The small boy continued coming forwards, aiming precise punches and kicks at his weakest points. He barely dodged in time. 

It was obvious he was no older than ten or eleven, just a kid. He scowled and leapt forwards, fury written all over his face. 

Tim jumped back onto the railing. He nearly tipped over into the water, just barely keeping his balance and running along the thin metal. He could hear them following him. 

He launched himself up to the next level and took a solid stance, planning to defend his high ground. His lungs burned with his gasps. He needed to control his breathing. 

It was only instinct that let him duck under the katana aimed at his throat. He was met by a punch to the gut that threw him across the platform. He rolled to his feet, dizzy and winded. 

It seemed like the young kid was going to be uncoordinated but also unpredictable because of his anger. That was okay, Tim could handle angry, no matter how skilled the boy seemed. 

The red helmet though. Tim had already taken a hit and wouldn’t be able to manage many more from him. He’d have to rely on his speed and try to bait him into giving up more of his style. So far, he didn’t have the same trained grace as the younger one, rather more similar to a street brawler. 

Tim sent a throwing star at the boy which he dodged easily. It gave him time to feint and toss a handful of smoke pellets at the ground. 

His domino mask let him see the heat signatures of both. He snaked forwards. The distraction was quickly dissipating through the holes in the meshy metal flooring. He swung the staff with bone-breaking force but the katana parried it perfectly. The boy’s stance didn’t even budge. 

Tim kicked at his knee and he was forced to give up his balance and back off to avoid a mangled leg. He spun just in time to meet the red helmet one, who still managed a crooked hit off Tim’s nose. There was a crunch and blood gushed. 

“Fuck,” he swore as his eyes teared up.

The man paused his attack and Tim turned again to stop two shorter blades from cleaving him in half. His arms shook. He could barely see. 

A knife caught his arm and tore through the material of his costume. That wasn’t meant to happen. 

Instead of backing off from the attack, he pushed forwards. It sacrificed his reach and gave him the disadvantage. It obviously wasn’t the move he was expecting. His blue eyes widened and he could do nothing to stop the knee Tim sent into his diaphragm. 

It was nice fighting someone shorter than him. 

One of the knives fell from his hands as he fell backwards, situating himself out of range with a neat twist. 

Tim spun again but surprisingly, there was no attacker getting ready to bludgeon him.

Red helmet was quite a ways away. It took him a second to realize that he wasn’t giving Tim space. He was aiming a gun. 

He threw himself out of the way, and up to the next platform. The computer monitors loomed. Alfred was nowhere to be seen. 

A black streak hurtled at the man and suddenly Bruce was on him, raining down punches. His face was swelling and a cut on his eyebrow was bleeding but it all looked to be superficial. Tim’s anxiety lessened somewhat but the kid was still after him, deadly quick. 

They parried blows, bo staff ringing against sword. His arms were going to fall off. He was going to die at the hands of a ten-year-old right in front of Bruce.  

No. He pushed forwards, chancing a glance at B. The red helmet man was trying to fight back but Bruce had the upper hand. 

Tim could see the attacks coming at him from the kid before he sent them. A tensed muscle or adjusted foot was the only thing that kept him from getting swept away in the speed of his blows. His world was a pinprick surrounded by black.

He broke his focus to catch a glimpse of B sending his fist down once more at the battered helmet. The faceplate flew off. 

Instead of getting in a good blow. Bruce turned into a statue, arm raised but no attack coming.

Tim ducked under a kick, he could feel the gust from it rustling his hair. “Bruce!”

He could see out of the corner of his eye. The man was still frozen. Something must have been wrong with him. 

And then through the silence of the Cave, nothing like fights in the streets where people were always swearing and police sirens were wailing, Tim heard Bruce whisper one word: “Jason.”

And then Tim took a hit that snapped his head to the side and filled his mouth with blood. Jason. Jason was under the red mask? No. Jason was dead.

He tried to look but the kid didn’t let up.

“Pay attention!” he shouted. “I am the only true Robin. I will be the one to kill you!”

Tim’s mind was reeling, he could barely keep his feet under him. He swung the staff in a messy arc and it was thrown from his hands. 

Cass had said that Talia had him. She had pointed at his chest. Not at his heart. Not at him. At where the Robin insignia would have been if he were in uniform. 

He got kicked in the chest and fell back, barely avoiding hitting his head off the floor. The katana came down and he rolled out of the way. It snapped with the force of hitting the metal tip-down. From the ground, he caught sight of something under the desk.

“You are nothing,” the boy spat. “Nothing compared to me! I will show Father that I am the rightful heir.”

Tim clamoured away. Hands still on the ground as he scrambled for the monitors. His strength was failing. He didn’t think he’d be able to get back up if he tried. His ears were ringing, vision swimming. 

He hit the red button under the computer desk. 

The reaction was immediate, a hissing filled the Cave. The boy stopped his approach, looking around. Tim dug his rebreather out of his belt and pressed it over his nose and mouth with a shaky hand. 

The boy started to cough violently. Once, then twice, then nearly falling to his knees with the force of the fit. 

A sharp whistle cut through the air and in the blink of an eye. The kid was gone. 

Tim laid back on the cold floor and stared at the ceiling.

Chapter Text

The problem with living a double life was having to actually live the life, rather than merely haunting it when it became convenient. 

Tim wanted to be in bed. He wanted to not be stared at for the bandage on his swollen nose or the blood that had pooled in the socket under his eye. He didn’t want to present a German project. He didn’t want to put up with the well-meaning questions he kept getting.

So almost as soon as he got to school, he turned back around and started packing his things back up out of his locker. It was only an energy drink banned in fifteen countries and an unhealthy amount of ibuprofen that had him standing at all. 

The bell rang loud over the dozens of conversations going on. He shook his bag to get his textbooks to fit enough for the zipper to close.

“Timothy,” someone said as students poured into classrooms.

He stiffened, holding the door of his locker in a white-knuckled grip.

“Timothy? Are you headed somewhere?”

He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Cowan. Glasses on, meter stick in hand like he’d just walked out of the school brochure. 

“Oh dear,” he said, propping himself up with the stick. “What happened to your nose?”

Tim closed the locker and gave him his best smile. “Fell down a set of stairs,” he laughed. “I kneed myself right in the face.”

The teacher winced sympathetically. “Are you headed to class?”

“No, I just found out that a slot opened up at the clinic I go to so I’m going to make sure it’s not broken.”

“Do you get hurt often, Mister Drake?” he asked.

Tim knew this was coming. Of course, it was; he didn’t have the same “gym accident” excuse that Richard did. He smiled wider, scratching the back of his head. 

“Yeah, I’m a huge clutz. I was never able to play any sports or anything ‘cause I trip over my own feet constantly.”

Mr. Cowan gave a hardy laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. “Just let me know if you need anything, okay? Does Mrs. Keddle know you won’t be attending class today?”

“Yep,” Tim lied. “I already let her know.”

“Okay, hope your appointment goes well,” he said, backing towards his classroom.

“Thanks!” he called with a wave.

The teacher closed the door to his class and Tim sighed. He needed to go home. An image of his room back at the Estate crawled to the front of his mind. It had always been blank and empty, he’d never really considered it home. He would be lying to say the grey walls and book-filled shelves didn’t offer some comfort though. 

It was probably better for him to head back to the Manor anyways, he decided, heading down the deserted halls. They couldn’t locate Talia after she escaped the Cave. Couldn’t locate Jason. 

Jason. Who had Bruce acting barely human. Who had Richard pacing around the Manor on loop. Who had Alfred baking pies. Alfred only baked pies when he wanted to keep himself busy. They had four at the house already. One was a custard . 

And that little kid. The self-proclaimed true Robin. He seemed so familiar. Tim couldn’t have met him before, he would have remembered. The same dark hair and tanned skin as Talia. The same subtle accent. 

Tim chewed on the inside of his cheek. Cass had been following him around for weeks, he didn't even know the true amount of time. He’d had no idea for the majority of it. Anyone could be watching him. 

He glanced into the open door to a classroom and caught a pair of blue eyes. Cissie. Her eyebrows drew down in concern. He trudged on.

The Manor was hulking and silent at the end of the drive. Autumn trees framed the house. He let himself in through the front door and left his shoes on the mat. 

He was having trouble breathing, his side and stomach were both covered in purple-black splotches. Existing hurt. His muscles were stiff and his ankle was acting up again, only when he flexed his toes though. 

He passed the grand staircase, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He dragged himself into the main living room and dropped his bag. His body finally gave up as he tried to lower himself to the couch, flopping over like a sack of potatoes. He grabbed a throw pillow and curled up. The fireplace was crackling. He was out before he even thought to take off his blazer. 

He woke up too soon. The light coming through the stained glass window was golden and pink and blue. All that was left of the fire were embers. There was a blanket tucked up around his shoulders. Richard was sitting in a wingback with his feet propped up on a little ottoman, typing away at his phone. 

His contacts felt dry and irritating against his eyes. His feet were still pinched into his shoes. His clothes were wrinkled. His hair was stuck to his forehead. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Richard said, not looking up. Tim’s bad ear was facing up. His voice came muffled and distorted through the pillow. “Did you know that you snore?”

“I do not,” he mumbled, pushing his face into the pillow. 

“Don’t worry, it’s quiet. Not like Bruce, he sounds like an air horn.”

Tim was sent back to their time travelling and training. Bruce’s room rattling snores. His insistence that it was because he’d broken his nose a few too many times. 

“It’s because my nose is swollen.”

“Um-hmm,” he hummed, unconvinced. 

“Where is Bruce?” Tim asked.

“I don’t even know,” he sighed, putting down his phone and tipping his head back to stare at the chandelier. “Freaking out.”

“And you?” 

He gave a strained smile. “Freaking out. Did you see him? Bruce said he– Does he– I don’t know. Did you see him?”

Tim pulled the blanket up to his ears. “He was wearing a mask when I saw him. I was far away when it came off. He was– tall, I guess. Really strong too.”

“He was shorter than me when he–”

The space between them fell silent and they both sighed at the same time.

“Alfred’s making pies,” Richard said eventually. 

Tim wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Rattled, for sure. A bit numb other than the itching, needy sensation in his chest. It was something he had never been able to pin down. Triggered by some unidentifiable sight or a flash of a memory. Not quite deja vu, not quite melancholy, not quite panic. He’d be sitting alone or walking through the courtyard at school, anywhere really, and it would come down on him with enough force to make him gasp then fade just as quick. But just then, it stayed. It was not a comfortable sensation. 

“I’m going to go down and start some research. There should be traffic cam footage of them if they’re out and about,” he said, pulling himself up. He was a collection of wayward limbs and indolent muscles. “I want to see if I can find anything on Talia and the little one.”

“I’ll come,” Richard immediately offered. “I know a bit about Talia and Ra’s.”

They dutifully trooped to one of the dreary sitting rooms closer to the center of the house and got the clock to open for them. The Cave was dark so they quickly booted everything up. Tim’s paranoia had him doing a quick lap of the space, checking for anything out of place. He found nothing.

Richard had the computer up and running by the time he got back. He was leaning over the desk, leaving the chair for Tim. He seemed to be running some sort of diagnostic, a still of Jason’s outraged face from Bruce’s cowl cam the other night was in the corner. Video footage from the last few days flew by. It scanned every visible face but wasn’t finding any matches. 

He found a snapshot of the young boy and moved on to scanning it the same way he’d done to Jason. Tim recognized it from his own footage, right when their weapons had clashed and held for a few drawn-out milliseconds. 

“Does he not seem familiar?” he asked, squinting at the screen.

Richard swivelled the chair back and forth, tapping his fingers on the metal desk. “I don’t know. A little bit, maybe? You think you’ve met him before?”

“No,” Tim hummed. “It’s just something about him.”

“Weird.”

The program came up with nothing again, and nothing for Talia either. 

“She is looking rough ,” Richard said. A smile tugged at his lips though his voice was grim.

“Huh,” he acknowledged. “Did she not always look so…”

“Insane?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Bruce used to have, like, a thing for her. For a week or something.”

Tim chuckled somewhat uncomfortably. Her photo really was bad. Wide green eyes sparkling and hysteric, smeared makeup, a smile showing too many teeth, hair tangled in her face. 

“Literally though,” Richard continued. “Then she started going on about how he was her perfect genetic equal and that they were going to populate the world with superhumans. He ran so fast.”

“And that was it? She just never gave up on him?”

“I guess.” He shrugged. “They’ve had a few run-ins. B doesn’t really like to talk about her, I don’t know what all went on.”

“Bruce doesn’t like to talk about anything,” he snorted.

“Too true,” Richard agreed, leaning back in the chair. 

The dour mood had broken somewhat, like the sun through storm clouds, but Tim was as unnerved as ever. 

It wasn’t as if Tim expected patrol to go smoothly. Richard was out with them, on high alert. He hadn’t left Tim’s side since he’d woken up on the chaise earlier that day. Neither he nor B had fought to keep him in the Manor to nurse his injuries. Tim thought that maybe they were dragging along any help they could get. Barbara was in the Cave with Alfred. Lucius had made an appearance too although Tim hadn’t been in any state to thoroughly interrogate him on his mechanical genius. No one had. Bruce was carrying a frantic, worrying energy with him everywhere he went. It left Tim on edge and glancing over his shoulder too often.

He hadn’t expected a building to blow up directly next to them though. Barely an hour into the night too. 

Bruce launched himself over both Tim and Richard, covering them both with his cape. He barely felt the warmth of the blast or the force of debris hitting them through the sheer shelter. B was up and running before the dust settled. 

Richard dragged Tim up, coughing into his elbow. 

“Maybe I should invest in a cape,” he wheezed.

And then it was Tim’s turn to bowl him over when he caught sight of shining metal flung at them from the darkness. 

He rolled and went for his throwing stars instead of the staff. They were closer to jagged circles than actual stars, it made it easier to cut instead of impale. He threw two but got no indication that they hit. 

Richard unclasped two batons from his back, striking them together and causing strands of electricity to run down them away from his hands. Sparks floated to the ground. 

Another knife flew back from the direction of the first. Tim dodged, another came after it, and another. None for Grayson. But they were both already rushing for the shadows of wreckage where they’d come. 

The boy jumped out at them. He was still an unknown. No name, no background. His white and grey outfit was dark with dust and soot.

“I am the true Robin!” he snarled like a war cry. 

Richard blocked one of his knives with his baton. “Technically, I’m the one true Robin. No offence, current Robin. I came up with the name.”

The boy’s icy eyes locked on Richard, finally sizing him up. 

“I’ll defeat both of you,” he declared. “And Father will recognize my status.”

Father. He’d said that before. He pushed forwards. Tim’s brain wasn’t working. What did that mean? He nearly got a blade in the gut. 

“Jason,” Bruce’s voice came through the shadows. Bruce’s voice, not Batman’s. “Jason, I won’t fight you. Jay, please.”

Richard hesitated, his ever-graceful movements stalling. Tim picked up the slack, blocking move for move. He tried to predict attacks to get off the defensive but the kid swapped between styles like someone who’d been training for centuries. 

“B!” Richard finally called. Bruce’s silhouette came into view, and Jason appeared seconds later. He rushed forwards, getting in the fray. “What are you doing? Don’t call him that.”

Tim was left alone. He finally snapped out the staff. He wasn’t going to be able to keep up hand-to-hand.

The boy pulled his katana out of its sheath and pressed forwards. Tim was more confident in his abilities with the staff. The attacker was out of his face, he had room to strategize.

He kept him at a distance, meeting the katana swing for swing. The boy pushed into his space but Tim tried to stay passive, he needed to see how he held himself before he could make the right moves. The kid was skilled for sure, a better fighter than Tim, any hasty mistakes would get him stabbed. 

But it wasn’t fear that had him reeling. It was that while the style was only slightly similar, he moved with the same fighting rhythm as Bruce. Exactly the same weight shifting and countable, predictable move timings. 

He had said that his Father would realize he was the true Robin. 

It couldn’t be. 

He saw the determined set of his jaw. The blue eyes. Something just a bit too thin about his nose and mouth.

No.

On instinct, he glanced over at Bruce just in time to see him tank an uppercut from Jason. The former Robin was seething and feral. Richard was trying to get at Talia but she was easily batting him away. Tim caught sight of Damian glancing at her just as he had looked to Bruce, but he didn’t look like he was trying to relay a message. It looked like he was confused. 

She absently dodged the blur that was Richard. “Beloved, beloved! Join me. It could be just the two of us. It’s where you belong. By my side. Please, darling,” she begged to Bruce.

The kid’s lip curled up and he lunged at Tim.

He flung himself to the side just in time, feeling the blade skim his chest. He grabbed the hilt of the sword and viciously twisted his arm until he felt a sickening pop. 

He got behind the boy and held his own blade to his throat. It felt evil. It felt wrong. 

He didn’t shout to get anyone’s attention. Bruce was still taking blows to the face and chest. At least he wasn’t crying out Jason’s name anymore. Talia was only becoming more unhinged.

Tim was gasping for breath. Adrenaline was coursing through his body. His little hostage wasn’t even struggling. 

“Your hands are shaking,” the boy said. “I could break your hold easily.”

Tim just pressed the blade a bit closer. He felt almost centred in the fight. Nothing outside the right-here-right-now even existed. The entire world was rubble and fire and the dark, dark night.

“Damian!” Talia finally shrieked, causing Richard to look over as well. They’d gotten on top of a pile of crumbling concrete and the Nightwing suit was looking worse for wear. “Unhand him, pest!”

Still, strangely, Damian didn’t move. He was perfectly still, perfectly silent.

Tim just stood there, trying not to shake, trying to hold out until something, anything happened. Talia’s voice was harsh like the cry of a bird of prey. 

“Unhand him, I said!”

“I’ll let him go if you leave Gotham,” he finally forced out. He barely recognized his own numb words. “Just take him and go.”

Finally, Bruce looked over. Jason was panting, knuckles bloodied and clenched. His eyes almost glowed in the darkness. Tim could barely make anything out, even with the mask’s enhancements.

“But leave Jason,” he added. 

“I will not leave my beloved on request of you! Filth! He loves me! He needs me! We will be King and Queen and Damian will be our perfect, faithful son. Perfect me and perfect Damian and perfect Batman. Nothing else matters! Nothing but our love and the promises he made!” she cried.

She slithered down the rubble, it fell away beneath her feet but she didn’t stumble. Her hair was wild and her eyes were vivid and glassy.

“Mother?” Tim heard Damian whisper, only because he was pressed so close. 

Talia was close now, less than ten feet. Tim should be dead. She reached out. He tightened his hold on the sword. But instead of going at him, she took Damian’s face in her hands. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll come back for you,” she said, smiling. “Take your place and I’ll return to take mine. Make me proud.”

And just like that, she was gone.

“What?” Damian asked, still so quiet.

Jason lurched backwards. Bruce reached out.

“Don’t go again,” he pleaded, voice hoarse. 

But Jason had already turned his back and ran.

Chapter Text

Damian tried to stab Tim as soon as Talia and Jason were gone. Luckily, Richard stopped him from succeeding. 

He tried two more times while they carted him back to the Manor, wiggling out of his bindings like a snake. By the time they’d got him into the Cave and trapped him in a bell jar like an oversized insect, Tim was ready to go to bed and never get up again. 

He was working on it, curled up in a nest of blankets wearing only his boxers, when a cold wind hit his face. He shuffled the blanket pile up to his chin and turned away.

The wind ruffled his hair again, sending a shiver down his spine. 

He bolted upright. He hadn’t left his window open. It was locked and trapped with an alarm when he’d gone to sleep. 

He blinked hard to get his eyes to adjust, squinting through the little light in the room. A shadow appeared over the side of his bed. A ghost. He yelped and threw the batarang he had under his pillow. The figure ducked out of sight. 

Tim was squatting on his bed trying to slow his breathing as he crept towards the edge. Slowly, slowly. 

A hand snaked up and grabbed his wrist. 

A sickening whoosh and he was lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. His shoulder blades dug into hardwood. Black eyes appeared over him. Close enough to be blurry without his glasses. 

“Timothy,” they whispered. 

“Cass?” he asked, voice scratchy from sleep. “What the hell?”

She backed out of his face, out of sight in the shadows. He pulled himself up to sit. The floor was cold. There was a forgotten sweater shoved under the bed that he wrestled over his head without checking its cleanliness. 

The girl was pressed against the drawers of his desk in a crumpled ball. She was shaking– badly. 

“Cass?” he said again. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, greasy hair swishing to and fro. She didn’t look good. Her black clothes were clean enough, but she looked thin and smeared in some grimy substance. He would have said that the look in her eyes was fear if he didn’t know her better. 

He leaned towards her. She unclamped an arm from around her knees and reached out to hold onto his shoulder. 

“Found the others,” she breathed.

“Talia? Yeah, I figured out what you were getting at with the warning. Too late, but still.”

She nodded. “I fixed it.”

Her deft fingers were tugging on a loose thread on the seam of his hoodie. He went still. “You fixed it?” he asked. 

She tipped her chin. Eyes vacant in that way they were sometimes, when she wasn’t quite with him in the room, though now it felt foreboding. 

“What did you fix, Cass?”

She moved her other arm from around herself. In her fist was the batarang he’d thrown. She waved it absently between them. “The– the–” she shook it more vigorously and sat back.

“Cass,” he warned. “What did you do?”

“Something bad,” she whispered, almost too low to hear, even in the silent house. “But it will be good.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. What did you do? How will it fix the problem? Please, come on.”

She bit her lip till it went white and clenched her fingers around the batarang. “I– It– Common enemy. Common enemy.”

“Common enemy?” he repeated.

And then he saw it, the unusual shininess of his floor. Spreading farther and farther out from her abdomen where her legs were curled up. 

He jolted to his feet and flicked on the light. All he could see was white. He flinched. And then it was red he could see. Red on his floors, red on the carpet, red on Cass’ hands. 

“Oh my God,” he said, rushing forwards to hover his hands over her, afraid she’d break. “Who did this? What happened?”

Her head was tipped back against the desk. Her fingers were twitching slightly where they rested in the puddle. He backed off to grab the first pair of pants he found strewn out over the floor. 

“I’m going to get you up,” he told her. “Hold on, okay? Bruce and Alfred can help.”

He carefully, carefully scooped her into his arms. She was small but heavy. He didn’t want to make it worse. 

“Oh my God, oh my God,” he chanted, shouldering open his door. 

The hall was dark and too long on either side. Bruce and Alfred both slept in the North wing, he wasn’t even close. 

Richard. Richard was right down the hall. One door away. 

He kicked the door with his bare foot to knock.

“Grayson!” he called. Cass’ eyes were drooping, she looked too pale. “Richard! Richard?”

He pushed his way in. Nobody. Lights off. Bed empty.

“The Cave,” he said to himself.

He held Cass closer, her head against his chest and ran. He never had a sibling that he’d ever had the chance to be worried about. It felt like he was the one at fault. Like he could have stopped it if he were paying a little more attention. Like all his crisis training was falling out from beneath him so the only thing he could do was try and find someone else who would do more. 

“Bruce! Alfred!” he cried.

He would have to put Cass down to get the clock open. He didn’t want to do that. His hoodie was sticking to his torso where Cass was pressed against him. 

“Bruce!”

Alfred appeared at the end of a hall, wrapped in a housecoat with feet stuffed in fluffy slippers.

“Master Timothy,” he said quietly, calming, before spotting the body in his arms. “Oh my . This way. Come on.”

He put his steady hand on his shoulder and rushed him through the house without any questions. He got the clock to move aside even in the dark and waved Tim in. His eyes were flickering over Cass’ limp form. It was not comforting.

The lights were on. Voices murmuring out of sight. 

“Bruce!” he said, losing his strength. “Cass is hurt. Cass is– she needs– Bruce, help.”

The man came around a metal pillar, confused before he too rushed towards him. He lifted her from his arms, scanning her for visible injuries. Her clothes were dark, blood barely visible. Under the fluorescents she looked like a skeleton, with dark bags under her eyes and a green tint to her skin.

“Is this Lady Shiva’s apprentice?” he asked. 

Tim nodded, jogging to keep pace with his massive strides. “Cass has been in Gotham for a few weeks, she warned me about Talia.”

Bruce shot him a look and Tim finally saw the sharp edge to his features. Not just the grief that had been lingering since Jason’s reappearance. It was that same look of vengeance that Tim had seen in the alleyway all those months ago when he was still just Timothy Drake, orphan and nobody. “It seems to be a night of surprises.”

“I’ve lost visuals, Bruce,” Richard’s voice came, sounding more grim than Tim had ever heard it. “He’s off the radar.”

“I need you here, Dick,” he said, easily carrying Cass’ limp frame to a tool table that Tim hastily cleared off. 

Alfred was already gone to get supplies. He could hear Richard coming. 

“Cass. Cass ,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

He squeezed her hand but she didn’t so much as twitch. The shallow up and down of her chest was her only indication of life. 

“Is this a…” Bruce trailed off as he pulled a thin mask out of her pocket. His gaze shot over to Tim, piercing. “What did she say before she passed out?”

“Nothing. Nothing that made any sense. She said she was going to fix the problem. Something about a common enemy. Did something happen?”

Bruce stared down at her, face suddenly blank. “We’ll fix her up then she’s leaving.”

“What?” he demanded, straightening. “She can’t leave. Look at her!”

Alfred pushed them out of the way as he started assessing her wounds, pushing up her shirt to expose a grotesque hole in her side. Tim looked away but didn’t release her cold hand. 

“Tim, what did she say she did?”

“Nothing! She needs our help!”

He stared at the corner of the room, gripping her hand like he could keep her alive through sheer force of will. His shoulders were tense around his ears. 

“Bruce,” he begged. It hurt to push him in such a straightforward way. To demand to get what he wanted. He was overextending his place. He would do it for Cass though. She needed him. “She needs us. She’s just a kid!”

He forced his gaze back to him but he was focused down on the wound. 

“What could she have done to you?”

His eyes finally snapped over, furious and ready to snap.

“The Joker was broken out of Arkham tonight.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, in a blur. Tim ended up outside the Manor gates with Cass once again in his arms. She was freshly patched up and he was reeling.

His mind was slow and numb with fog. Sludge in his skull.

Without thinking, he put one foot in front of the next. Leaving Bruce and his Joker induced trepidation, leaving Richard and his conflicted guilt, Alfred and his silent loyalty to Bruce. Leaving the safety of the Manor. 

He took one heavy step after the other. It was pitch black out, there were no lights lining the road. He was completely alone, save for Cass who was barely breathing. Her face had relaxed with the painkillers though. She looked young and peaceful. 

One arm supported her back, the other looped under her legs. He stumbled along the uneven street shoulder. Deep breaths through his nose. 

Eventually, the gates to the Estate came into view. Almost invisible in the night yet still a beacon of relief. The rocky drive wound through the lawn, far into the property where the house lay. They’d been about to get it retiled, with the death of his parents it would be left forever unfinished. 

The gates didn’t have a keypad to open them from the outside, they were mechanically locked but still mostly for show. He could squeeze between the bars but only barely. He’d gained bulk during his time with Bruce. He had to put Cass down on the rough gravel to do it and then carefully maneuver her through as well. The only signs of consciousness she showed were a few subtle winces when he distrubed her fresh injuries. Alfred had practically poured painkillers into her. 

He barely got them to the steps. Again, placing Cass down to open the door. Like a troublesome bag of groceries. There was a keypad here that held the same code it always had.

The door drifted inwards and even in the dark, even with his brain wrung and confused, memories poured out. Maybe it was because of it all. 

He was stuck on the doorstep, staring in for too long. Stuck until Cass moaned from the ground and he blinked hard to clear his head. It was a very human sound to hear from her.

The fresh clothes she’d been given at the Manor were dirty already and her smaller wounds were still leaking blood onto the fabric. He stepped over the threshold with her.

There was a set of antique masks on the wall. A blue-painted vase on a side stable. White walls and red rugs and warm wood floors. He caught the door with his heel and absently swung it shut.

He didn’t want to be here. 

Cass shifted and groaned again, her eyes were open but only barely. 

He left the light off, stumbling towards the sheet-covered sofa and setting her down. He fell down in the process, boney knees hitting the hard floors. 

“Cass,” he begged. 

Her eyes fluttered and shifted around the room, unfocused. 

“Water,” he mumbled. “I’ll get some water.”

He did as he said, wandering to the kitchen and getting a dusty glass from the cabinet beside the fridge. He opened the fridge, it was hidden among the cabinets pretending to be a pantry. It was turned off. The light was out, there was no food inside. No water came from the sensor so he moved to the sink. There was a mini tap beside the main one for drinking water. His mother had always feared unfiltered water like a plague. The water was still on for the cleaners that came by, prepping the house for ghostly occupants. 

Cass was trying to sit up when he got back. She held her head in one hand, the other was braced on the arm of the couch and trying to prop herself up. 

He gently helped her and pressed the glass into her hands. She took a few greedy sips. He felt– blurry. He wasn’t sure. Like his mind was superimposed on his body but not quite lined up right. He was confused. Bruce had kicked him out. He’d stuck his neck out for Cass. Who he barely knew. Who had let the Joker out of Arkham. 

“Cass,” he said for the thousandth time. 

She just looked up at him with her dark, empty eyes. Her hair fell back to expose her soft face.

“Why would you do that?”

She just kept staring at him. Silent as ever. 

“Why?” he demanded.

“I–” she pursed her lips like she was speaking a language she didn’t know well. “Family shouldn’t fight.”

Tim turned away. He ran his hands through tangled hair. The fireplace was empty, not even a log or the remnants of ash left from his time living there. 

“You said good people fight bad people,” she said, desperate. 

“I didn’t say ‘release the Joker’!” he screamed suddenly, surprising even himself. “I was trying to explain why Batman does what he does! He’s already fighting bad people, he doesn’t need more!”

Her eyes were very wide. “But they will fight together. Against the bad people.”

He felt frustrated tears prickling behind his eyes, he was being choked. “It’s not that simple, Cass.”

“Good people fight bad people.”

He spun away again. He couldn’t face her, instead, he looked blankly to where the wall met the ceiling. “It’s not that simple . Talia and Jason and– and Damian won’t just stop because a worse person is on the loose. Not everyone sees things that way. They won’t just drop what they’re doing to– to deal with somebody else’s problem.”

“But Jason,” she said.

“Jason doesn’t even know who he is right now!”

“He’s a good person. He was Robin. You said he was a good person.”

He gritted his teeth. “There’s a first-aid kit upstairs. Stay as long as you want.”

He’d never taken off his shoes when he came in, so nothing stopped him from storming back out into the frigid night. The door slammed behind him. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Time to start walking.

Chapter Text

Tim couldn’t identify what made him so desperate . He’d never really been desperate before.

Before Batman. Before Bruce Wayne and Robin and fighting crime and living a double life. 

Something about Batman made him desperate. He couldn’t identify it. In the beginning, he’d thought it was heroism. He wanted to save Batman and in turn, save Gotham. He’d wanted to be a good person so badly. He’d never been a hero, someone strong and capable. He hadn’t wanted to be Robin. He’d wanted to be someone Bruce could rely on. 

Why, though? Because it wasn’t heroism; not really. Selfishness, maybe. 

And now, when he should be celebrating his life free from Batman. Another fallen Robin. But instead, he was out, like he had been for ages, trying to make Bruce realize that he was serious. Trying to get it all back. 

He was in an old iteration of his Robin suit that he kept at the condo, it was almost too small. And he was hunting the Joker. 

It worked the first time, right?

He remembered Bruce’s hug. His genuine, weightless smile. The pride that had swelled up in Tim’s chest, threatening to overflow. He wasn’t proud of himself often. 

The GCPD files were a mess regarding the breakout. No one could figure out how it happened. How a single outside force could get through all of their security to the deepest bellies of the institution and then just disappear after releasing one captive. 

That was Cass. Stupid, stupid Cass. He wasn’t angry anymore. Frustrated, confused, guilty. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to be angry. 

He sighed, sliding through the shadows of the Narrows. It was tedious work, being on his feet all night searching the forgotten crevices of Gotham for someone who had endless experience being purposefully seen then forgotten. There were signs of the Joker everywhere. But no Joker. 

He’d been trying to scrape together evidence for days. Two clown masked goons had known nothing about their boss or his location the day before. The harbours were quiet. All the old Joker haunts were abandoned. Even other criminals were laying low. The whole city felt braced, like everyone was collectively waiting for a bomb to blow. 

That being said; there was one person who wasn’t laying low. Jason Todd. He was theatrically baiting Bruce out. He’d killed four people in the last three days, seemingly randomly. 

Surprisingly, he was also baiting Tim out. He didn’t seem thrilled at being replaced. The media was calling him Red Hood. Creative.

Luckily, Tim had a tunnel vision that was even more unwavering than Bruce’s when he wanted it to be. And his sights were currently trained on the Joker. 

He’d put trackers on the goons he’d interrogated on the side of the road the other day and originally, he’d thought it was all for not. The bugs were on their jackets and they lingered nearly forty-eight hours in a duplex downtown and he hadn't slept for a wink of it. It was possible they’d ditched them and moved on. But then they started out again.

He watched the little red dots move over the screen of his new phone, he’d gotten it second hand for the sole purpose of tracking the clowns. 

They steadily traced the lines of the roads up to the Industrial District. Stopping at intersections before continuing on, perfectly unhurried. And then they stopped and moved into a grey block that must have been a building of some sort. 

Tim had a lead. 

It took him two hours to get to the building the red dots were sitting in. Travelling on foot was a pain.

The building was not much. An old dentist's office. Disturbing but also fitting. 

He paused outside the door. He could go to Bruce, show him what he’d found. He could probably earn forgiveness. But he didn’t want forgiveness. Not out of guilt or pity. He wanted to prove that he was worthy.

He scoured the perimeter. It was a small building. Boarded-up windows, a rusted back door, sun-bleached sign. Locked.

And still, the idea of running back to Bruce was there. It felt like uncertainty. Weakness. He could do this himself. 

Silently, he pulled open the front door. The only way in. 

He was met by darkness, the faint silhouettes of waiting chairs and a desk. But then, a barely visible shift.

“Little birdie,” a rough, nasally voice drawled. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

And then the world went truly black.

The first thing Tim noticed when he woke up was the pounding in the side of his head. The next was the fibres of the rope keeping him tied to a dental chair digging into his wrists. The third was the single working pot light that lit the room. Very theatrical. 

He yanked at his bindings. Twisted, pulled, slammed his head back against the headrest. He didn’t scream. His suit was gone. He was wearing the tight black tee-shirt and some athletic pants he’d had on underneath. He could feel his mask still stuck to his face, thankfully.

The window was covered on the outside, blocking any light that could have snuck in. His hair was in his face, bangs getting long again. They fluttered with each shallow breath. 

“Shit, shit,” he whispered, sounding too close to crying for his liking. 

He contorted his fingers to try and get at the knots. The strap around his chest stopped him from leaning forwards and using his teeth. 

All the training Bruce had given him for a situation like this scattered like leaves in a chilly breeze. He was in freefall. 

He slammed his head back again. It made the ache worse. 

The air smelled mouldy, it was thick with dust around him.

Rattling came from outside the door. He was facing away but logically he knew that was what it must have been though in his fear, it sounded like a monster made of bones. Clicks and muffled grumbling. He tried to rein in his hyperventilating. Brave face, brave face. He locked his jaw. It would have to do. 

The door creaked open and marginally fresher air rushed in. In his peripherals, he could see a purple suit.

The Joker leisurely sauntered over. His hair was freshly green, his face was perfectly painted. He had a bucket in his arms, water sloshing over the edges. 

“Oh ho ho,” he said with a pleased smile. “Sleeping Beauty’s up.”

He threw the water and bucket at the ground. There was a metallic bang, Tim jumped. It rolled out of sight. 

All his muscles were clenched. He pressed himself into the seat to get as far away as he could. 

“How was your nap? Good?” he teased, leaning over the chair to get closer. Dark eyes glinted. “You know, I really thought I killed you the first time. I did! I did. Bats sold it well. I thought he was going off the rails.”

He threw his head back and gave a skin-crawling cackle. He paced back and forth, hands twitching.  Tim saw a flash of green and his mask was being ripped off. He flinched. It gave a violent shock that had the Joker shaking out his hand and snickering. It was too late, he could already see it laying on the ground.

“I knew it,” he mumbled. “Different kid. Different kid.”

Tim was stuck staring at the mask.

“You know how close I was to getting him to break his one rule? To getting him to break himself?” He slammed his fist down next to Tim’s head. “ You .”

“You know who Batman is?” Tim asked.

His scarred mouth twisted into a yellow-toothed smile. “No, of course not. I don’t want to know. Ruin the magic . I didn’t know the last kid, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know. It’s not important. It’s the mask that matters, the part he plays.”

“I could tell you who he is,” Tim said even though he knew he wouldn’t.

“No, you can’t. I know how you all are with your secrets.” He giggled to himself, pacing again. “That’s not what you're here for. I have new ideas for you.”

Tim was shaking, he couldn’t stop it. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams.

“You know, I’ve tried a lot of things to get under Bats’ skin. Civilians, friends, the other Robin of course. I don’t often get to do things just to get under a person’s skin. Metaphorically speaking. They’re always a means to an end.”

He leaned in and his rancid breath blew over Tim’s face. His painted scars were gruesome, so close, like they were still weeping blood down his jaw.

“I want to try something… new . How do you feel about being special?”

Tears started leaking out against his will. He clenched his teeth. He looked anywhere but his eyes.

The clown forced himself closer. “I said: How do you feel about being special ?”

Tim shook his head. It was all he could do. His airway had closed itself off, choking him before the Joker ever could.

He backed off as quickly as he’d come. 

“That will change,” he assured him. “Don’t worry. You’ll be just as special as Batman.”

Chapter Text

Bruce was coming for him. He knew it. 

Maybe not yet. Maybe he was still looking. But he was going to show up anytime. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been tied to the chair. His muscles were cramped and immoveable. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten or drank. 

The Joker was back. He’d been back for a while, lurking along the wall. Watching. 

He was holding takeout in his hands. It had been steaming when he came in but it was probably cold by then. He didn’t speak or twitch or pace. Just stared. 

“Do you want something?” Tim finally asked. His voice was raspy from the screaming he’d tried for a bit after he’d been left alone last time. 

He cocked his head and the light hit his eyes. Empty. Black iris on black pupil with no life behind them. “I’m making up my mind.”

Tim’s heart was crawling up his throat, he couldn’t handle the waiting. 

The Joker nodded, greasy hair swaying. He set the takeout down on the floor where Tim could see it and stepped over it to go to the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Leaving,” he growled back. 

“What?” he demanded. “Nothing?”

“Nothing, yet .”

The door latched with a clang and Tim was alone again. His breath and the buzzing of the lights were the only things he could hear. And that ringing in his left ear, always there. He could smell the food. His stomach growled. He stared at the ceiling.

Bruce was coming. 

The next time, Tim was dozing off when the Joker showed up. He was stuck in a loop of heavy eyes falling shut before his paranoid thoughts snapped him back to attention. It was almost preferable to have the Joker in the room to keep him alert.

That was, until Tim saw how much he was flinching and mumbling to himself he was doing. He scooped the old, grease-stained takeout box off the floor in one fluid motion, setting it on Tim’s lap. 

“I’m not the first Joker, you know. There was one before me. Just like you’re not the first Robin. We’re both replacements. There’s only ever been one Batman though. He’s better than the rest of us. He can’t die . He will kill though. He’ll kill me one day, even if it’s an accident. And it will be wonderful.” He traced an invisible circle around the chair, shuffling his feet and swaying. “But the cycle can’t just end. Perfect balance, offset. I’ll need another. Gotham will need another.”

Tim was staring at the food in his lap. Cold, at least a day and a half old for sure. 

The Joker slammed him back with a hand on his forehead. He stuck a blade in his mouth. Tim gasped at the sudden pain, a drip of coppery blood falling on his tongue. 

“No, no,” the Joker said, backing off just as quick as he'd come. A dog yanked back by a leash. “No.”

He was watching him again, like a zoo animal or a lab experiment. Tim cringed away even though he knew it was the wrong thing. He should stay still, silent. 

“Stay away from me,” he commanded.

It just lured him closer. The shallow light hollowed out his painted eye sockets, the planes of his cheeks. He looked like a monster. 

“Stay away.”

The ropes dug into his skin.

He pressed the knife to Tim’s arm. Slowly adding pressure until blood started to well up at the tip.

“I think you’ll make a good replacement.”

The knife jerked, slicing a shallow line from his elbow to his thumb. Just enough to let a few uneven drops well up along a raised red track. The rope binding fell away. Tim knew it was a trap. Some sort of lure to get him to do something he’d regret. He didn’t move and the Joker danced out of reach.

I’ve already been a replacement , he wanted to say, words stuck in his throat. I think I’m over it. 

The door slammed shut and he was alone.

There had been something in the food. Of course. 

He’d managed to untie himself before eating. He didn’t want to succumb to the hunger but he’d always been weak to his bodily needs. He couldn’t control his physical being with the same willpower that Bruce wielded so masterfully. 

The drug left him shaky and stuck in a blurry world. He faded in and out of consciousness, lying on the floor in the corner of the room because he couldn’t even keep himself upright. His laughing had subsided at least. Now it was more rapid gasps and shaky exhales than anything else. Almost sobbing. His wrists were rubbed raw from the ropes, itchy. He stared at the bottom of the door past the base of the chair. Closed, for now. He twitched his fingers and dragged his hands along the floor. It was like his muscles were asleep, heavy and numb to his demands. 

With every prolonged blink, flashes of strange dreams appeared, pushing him down into something similar to unconsciousness but not quite. 

The rattling came from the door. It was muffled. His bad ear was facing up,  the other pressed into the cool floor. All he could do was scrabble back against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit as he moved even the tiniest bit. 

It was pushed open and a dirty wingtip appeared. The Joker approached. The shadows lurking around the edges of his vision stopped him from seeing anything but the shoes and a little bit of purple pant leg. He left the door open behind him and Tim was stuck staring at the little bit of light that trickled in. Entranced. He could escape, if he could only get up.

“Lit–tle bird,” the Joker mocked, nudging his arm with the toes of his shoe. “Looking a bit– uh rough are we?”

Whatever was in that food stopped Tim from panicking, he just watched the doorway, slack-jawed. Escape.

“Ahem,” the clown said, rousing him harder. “Got anything to say?”

“Mmm,” Tim forced out.

His thoughts weren’t connecting. He was dreaming. The Joker kicked him hard. Delayed pain raced up from his stomach to his brain. A little gasp came out of his mouth without his permission. He was forced over onto his back.

The Joker was slouched over him, head cocked and hair shining with grime in the dim light. He had a bat slung over his shoulders. 

He tried to force himself up. To escape. To get out of the corner. To sit up. To hide his exposed chest and stomach and throat. 

“ Mmm ,” he mimicked with a grin, twitching hard to the left. “We can wake you up. No problems.”

He raised the bat above his head.

Tim was back on the chair. Not tied up but stuck there nonetheless. 

He didn’t want to pull back his shirt to see the bruises beneath. It would just make him feel worse. He was alive. That was all that mattered. His legs and arms were still functioning. He had to subdue the Joker. 

Subdue because Bruce wouldn’t like it if Tim killed him. Tim himself still wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea. Was there really a way around it? Alone, without cuffs or sedative or rope. He’d tried to fashion something out of the feeble scraps of what had held him in place before, but they were sliced to useless ribbons.

His stomach growled. 

Some of his ribs were definitely broken, he could feel them when he breathed. Shifting with every breath. The fingers of his left hand had been stomped on. Old injuries that had never quite healed were acting back up. The cut along his arm was red and swollen, probably infected from his stint of lying on the floor.

He just sat there. He should be trying for escape. There was a little vent cover he could try to pry off, though he didn’t know what good the opening would do. He should try something with the blocked window. 

He was shivering, faintly. The room was cold enough that he could just faintly see his breath in the air when the light hit it right. 

The door had creaked open a while ago, he could see the Joker’s shadow spread out over the wall. They were both silent, waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Tim couldn’t bring himself to be truly scared anymore. He wouldn’t be killed. The Joker wanted him alive. So he just had to bear it until an opportunity arose or Bruce inevitably showed up. 

“Come here,” the man finally growled.

Tim twisted around and it hurt like he was about to fall apart. The Joker was standing in the doorway, suit jacket discarded so his orange patterned button-up was visible. Everything about him was garish. His cheek pressed painfully into the headrest so he could see the man. Tim was tired, frayed around the edges. Drooping eyes staring at a ratty suit because he couldn’t force himself to look any further up.

“Eat shit.”

“Come. Here.”

And just like that, Tim was off the chair. What else was he meant to do? Refuse? He limped forward, clutching his torso to keep it together.

“Good little bird,” the Joker hummed. “Stick out your arm.”

Tim glared up at him. He didn’t look as unhinged as he did sometimes, like he had a good handle on whatever was rustling around in his skull. He’d gotten good at telling when people were about to throw fits when he was young. He supposed the skill never really went away.

His vision swam suddenly and he almost stumbled over his own feet. He felt faint. Vertigo made him blink hard. The narrow wound on his arm felt like it was pulsing fire into his veins.

“I’ll make it worth your whi–le,” he sang.

He slowly moved his arm out, the cut-up one with the broken fingers. There was fog clouding his brain. His veins stood out, a bruised purple around the wound. 

He grabbed his wrist, nodding, licking his chapped lips. Tim didn’t even try to pull away from his clammy hands. He’d do what he had to do to take the Joker down. He felt like he was dreaming. Like he would wake up any second and have no consequences for anything he did.

A metallic glint caught his eye and then there was a pinch.

Like his brain was still catching up, he saw a needle in his arm. Minty green liquid getting pushed in. 

He gasped and finally yanked his arm away. He felt the drug racing through his system, his own traitorous heart spreading it with every rapid beat. 

The Joker was laughing. Laughing at him. Laughing at everything. It echoed through the room and then he slammed the door and it disappeared. 

Tim could still hear it. Echoing. 

He grabbed where the needle had gone in, letting out a forced breath. He wouldn’t cry out or yell. His lungs were spasming against his aching ribs and there wasn’t much else he could do. His legs weakened and he slid to the floor, staring at his arm. There was acid in his blood. He could feel it. Burning. Reacting. Changing him. His muscles tensed without his control, seizing. 

Finally, he screamed. 

Chapter Text

Tim woke up on the floor. Again. 

But that was hours ago. Maybe. He was hungry if that was any sign of time passing. He was almost always hungry. 

But surprisingly, other than that, he felt good. Surprisingly, really, extraordinarily good for the circumstances. Human and whole.

At first, he’d coasted on the relief, from the pain, the brain fog, the lingering worry of infection and improper healing. Waiting for it all to come rushing back. 

It didn’t. He waited and waited, dread filling him to the brim, and it didn’t come. 

He looked down and realized that his arm was healed up. No scar to be had. His fingers weren’t black and purple anymore. His brain didn’t pound with a concussion. His ribs fell sturdy and settled. 

It was bliss.

So he knew he’d died. 

He laid there, thinking about how unfortunate it was. How Bruce would have to deal with it. If he’d get buried beside his parents’ empty caskets. If Ms. Reid would get rid of the few things he had stashed at the condo. He hadn’t written himself a will. Who would inherit Drake Industries? The Estate?

He pushed himself to his feet. His muscles didn’t protest, his vision didn’t go black, his hands didn’t shake. Wait. Scratch that. His hands were still shaking. 

His stomach growled. 

So he wasn’t dead. 

He’d counted the cabinets and drawers during his hours alone. Thirteen cabinets, upper and lower together. Only four drawers. 

He threw himself at them. He yanked them open, one after another. Got down on his hands and knees to peer in. Didn’t close them behind himself. Empty. And empty. And empty. 

With an angry yell and clenched fists, his attention shifted to the window. He clawed at the wooden panels and tried to get his fingers beneath them. They were screwed in well. 

“Ow!” he yelped when a splinter got caught in his thumb. It didn’t hurt that bad. 

He roamed the window, trying to find any slivers of light or space between screw and wood. Nothing. He slammed his fist against the wood.

Fury was melting into something less firm inside him. Fury kept him on his feet and fighting. The sad desperation snuffing out the flames left him staring at the wall, gasping, hungry, weak. 

The door started its familiar rattling. 

Tim slid to the cold ground. 

For all his shortcomings, no one could say the Joker wasn’t creative. 

His’s brain was– not fuzzy. Mushy. Dripping out his ears onto the floor. He could hear it. Drip drip drip .

He didn’t know where he was. His teeth ached. There were bloody crescents imprinted into the palms of his hands. 

He’d been there for too long. Right? It felt like it. Someone was looking for him.

He forced his eyes open then closed. There was a pain in his head like someone was hacking at it with a dull axe. He would remember soon. Salty trails tracked from the corner of his eyes across his temples, he wasn’t even sure if they were tears. 

He wasn’t crying. He was pretty happy. Not actively. It was a lurking, creeping thing. Over the hill and out of sight but coming. It would arrive like a sudden nihilistic abandon. Cloying in afterthought but captivating in the moment. 

The room was silent. His room. He was stuck in the chair, tilted so far back he could have been upside down. The world when he opened his eyes and his mind spun when he closed them. 

It tasted like something had died in his mouth. I was all he could focus on. 

His heart was doing a funny lurch-stop every few beats. Like he was being repeatedly startled or about to go down a drop on a rollercoaster. Recovering from too many volts plugged into his nerves. 

It was getting better. He could almost think about moving without puking all over himself.

There was giggling somewhere. Down the hall. Outside the door? Maybe the window. The Joker, he’d almost forgotten.

How could he? That was the whole reason he was here.

Tim was barely functioning enough to sit near the vent and try to listen to what was going on throughout the building. It was more of a habit than anything. He wasn’t going to hear anything. He never did. 

There was food sitting across the room. He wasn’t going to touch it no matter how hungry he got. 

Why wasn’t Bruce there yet?

No.

He was done thinking that. No more. 

The food was out of its packaging. It was a cheap burrito. He’d unrolled it so all the ingredients were visible, as a type of timekeeper. So far the guac had gotten a bit brown and the cheese was looking greasy and wet. 

He really had thought that Bruce would show up. 

He was still going to. 

Tim would do what he could with the Joker, if an opportunity arose. That was why he was here. That was his only goal. Nothing else mattered. He could remember nothing else. 

His hair was grimy and lank, itching his scalp. His face was scuffed and he had a goose egg from hitting the ground. Alfred would be disappointed. The first thing he’d taught him, before Bruce would even look his way, was to properly take a fall. His shoulder was almost certainly subluxed. There weren’t many outward signs of injury, but everything had a vague ache. 

None of it mattered. He would do what he’d come to do. No matter what. With or without Bruce.

He could hear ringing, only in the one ear. And– laughing. No, that was just the silence playing tricks on him. It was doing that too often for his liking. 

He held his hands together in the small space between thighs and chest. He tried to work feeling back into them. The room’s just-below-body-temp average was finally getting to him.  It was a subtle, quiet cold. One that was always there, enough to make him uncomfortable but not quite shiver. He could tell it was night when the temperature plunged even further.

He noticed suddenly that he could see the ripped fabric of his pants and his pink hands without the cover of darkness. He jerked his head up. The door was open and the Joker was within arm’s reach. He hadn’t noticed. How long had he been standing there? Not long, surely. He didn’t remember the door opening. 

Gloved hands reached down and grabbed him by the arm– luckily not the injured one– dragging him to his feet.  All of the fear that had once arisen in Tim just from the thought of the Joker was gone. There was nothing left, just numbness. 

He was puppetted around the room. Placed down on the chair. He really should lunge at the clown. They were close enough. He wasn’t expecting it. Tim could barely stand on his own. 

“How are you today?” the Joker asked mockingly. “Good? You seem good. Much better than when I first– took you under my wing. So to speak.”

He cackled and licked his lips.

“Today is an exciting day for you. For us. It’s better to think of us as the same person.”

He took a can out of his jacket. The purple was now nearly brown with dirt and wear. It couldn’t have been that long, he must have kept it on all the time. He reached out and grabbed a chunk of Tim’s hair, giving it a painful tug. He lifted the can and the air filled with a hissing noise. Tim could smell chemicals in the air like he was in a drug store. 

The hissing went away and the Joker fiddled with a few more things he had hidden in his jacket. 

“Very exciting,” he mumbled. “You know what my final plan is for you? I don’t think I’ve told you yet. No, probably not. You,” he said, looking up and smearing his cold fingers all over Tim’s face. His forehead, nose, eye sockets. “You are going to kill Batman.”

He backed off and laughed. A loud, monstrous thing that took up all the space in the room, leaving none for air. 

Tim felt sick. He should have dealt with the Joker right then. Instead, he sat there dumbly. Kill Batman? It must have been a joke. 

The Joker grabbed his arm and pulled him up again. He was surprisingly strong, there were going to be bruises from his fingers. 

And then he steered him out the door. 

Tim’s pace lagged. He looked back at the doorway, at the chair, and the covered window.

“Hurry up,” he snapped, all cheer left behind. 

“Where are we going?” he rasped, slowing further so his arm was held between them like a thin banner. 

“ We are about to see.”

Tim continued forwards. Escape wasn’t an option. He was taking the Joker with him when he left, no matter what. It seemed to be only him in the dark building. That would make it easier. 

He pushed open a door identical to Tim’s. Even inside it was practically a carbon copy. Same chair. Same window. Same sad little vent. Same thirteen cabinets and four drawers.

Tim froze in the doorway. There was a woman tied to the chair.

He couldn’t see her face but her curly hair was spilling over the headrest. Her sobs were loud. She was wearing a yellow dress. 

“Who is she?” he asked, not budging at the Joker’s insistent tugging. 

He gave one sharp yank and Tim stumbled into the room, barely maintaining his balance. His vision went black for a second and he was sure he was going to hit the floor but it came back and he was still stuck beside the Joker. 

The woman was pretty in a plain kind of way, even with her features twisted in terror. Terror at both of them, watching her. 

“Here,” he growled. 

Something smooth and heavy was pressed into his numb hand. The grip around his upper arm was released and the Joker’s wingtips clicked off the ground as he backed up. 

Tim looked down. He wasn’t surprised to find a gun in his hand. He didn’t have the strength for even that. To be surprised, one would have to have their expectations disproven. It was hard to have any expectations at all when one could barely stay awake standing up. 

“Do it,” the Joker prompted. Tim could see him out of the corner of his eye, a purple and green smudge. “Do it, do it, do it.”

His vision was fading in and out. He couldn’t tell if it was the Joker laughing or just the silence again. Maybe it was him. Probably not. Hopefully not. 

He lifted the pistol. He’d only shot a gun a handful of times. It wasn’t that complicated once the safety was off. 

The woman was still sobbing. Tears and snot dripped from her chin. She wasn’t fighting her bindings anymore. Just sitting there. 

Tim wondered– somewhere in the back of his mind, almost unconsciously, like he did for all of his actions– what Batman would be doing. Surely not lifting the gun to an innocent girl.

Why wasn’t Bruce there?

His arm was shaking. The woman was too close to miss. 

“Pull the trigger,” the Joker pressured. His breath was on his neck. “ Today .”

Tim’s finger tightened on the little lever. Capable of so much. 

Closed his eyes. Swung. Pulled the trigger. Froze. 

The Joker was smiling at him. He was always smiling. A demon in the dark, warped and manic. 

The gun was pointed at his purple-suited chest. 

And out of the muzzle, instead of smoke. A little flag with the word Bang written in big letters. 

The Joker started to laugh in earnest. Howling with it. 

Tim dropped the gun with an insignificant clatter. His knees buckled. He just wanted– wanted–

He stared at his hands on the linoleum. 

He wanted to get a good night’s sleep and eat one of Alfred’s gingersnaps. 

A shadow erupted from the hallway. It whipped past. The Joker hit the ground. Laughing and sobbing continued to oppose each other. Tim put his hand on the chair and tried to get to his feet. He got as far as his knees before sliding back down. 

“B?” he said quietly. “B?”

He saw a streak of blue. A crackle of electricity. 

And then the laughing stopped. 

Dick Grayson was standing over the Joker, a baton right through the clown’s chest.

Chapter Text

Ms. Reid hugged him when he got in the door of the condo. It didn’t hold the same depth of understanding that Dick’s had, but she had only done it a few times before so it still held value, no matter how drenched in secrets. 

“Timothy,” she said, pulling away with genuine concern in her green eyes. “How are you? You look ill. Has there been a flu at the Academy?”

That’s right. He’d told her that he was boarding at Gotham Academy to finish his schooling, to excuse his absence from her life. He’d have to make something up for the school as well. Illness seemed feasible. That worry felt distant and insubstantial. 

“I’m not sure, Ms. Reid,” he replied dully. “I’ve been feeling off for a few days now.”

“You should visit more often,” she chastised, fleeing to the kitchen to boil the kettle. 

She’d thawed somewhat, after her trip. Now that he was still her ward but no longer under her roof. Morphed from reluctant guardian to cheerful aunt. 

“I know. I’ve been meaning to but school has been busy.”

“Are you staying the night?” she asked, prepping mugs and tea bags.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied, feeling foreign in the center of the open space. “Most of my things are at the school.”

“I see. You know you are always welcome.”

They sat and drank the tea. She chattered about her job and her friends, sometimes in English and sometimes in French. Tim could appreciate the normalcy. 

After tea, he gracelessly vanished to the guest room. It looked just as he’d left it. Which meant that almost all of his things were missing, holed up in the Manor. A few suits were hanging in the closet and changes of clothes were hidden in drawers. His laptop wasn’t here, nor were his school supplies or any other little belongings he’d amassed over the last many months. He couldn’t even remember where his phone had last been set down. 

He buttoned up a collared shirt and picked a suit at random from the hangers. It was one of the ones he’d had tailored right after his parents’ deaths. He was sad to see that it fit him again. 

He called Pedro on Ms. Reid’s phone while she was in the washroom.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked when she returned.

“I want to grab my things. I’ll be back.” He hesitated. “I think I'd like to look into the company a bit more. Would you mind if I stayed here for a bit while I figure things out?”

She gave a sunny smile and twisted her hair over her shoulder in a way that made her seem younger. “Of course, you may. I can give you my contacts.”

It was exactly like the first time. 

Trees stripped of leaves. Manor looming. Suit too formal for casual talk. 

Nostalgic. Almost.

All his confidence had left him. He used to be sure of every step, every choice. He used to know his allies and enemies. Bruce had taught him to make every movement slow and purposeful, in public or in the shadows. Now he was a jittering mess. 

Even so, he climbed the lattice without hesitation and let himself in through the laundry room window. The only one to get left open regularly. 

It smelled like lavender detergent and dryer sheets. He dug through the machines but none of the material inside belonged to him. A few shirts were too small for even his frame and he scowled. 

He didn’t like the feeling coiled in his chest. Dark, dirty, volatile. He’d never been jealous before. He didn’t think it was quite that. Maybe a distant relative to jealousy. It felt like something he’d worked hard to cultivate slipping right out of his hands. 

The halls were quiet as a sleeping beast. It was late enough that the others were probably eating or starting to prep for patrol. 

He had to wonder, was Dick there? Stopping by after work and telling Bruce all about Tim’s pathetic failures? Was Damian slowly sinking claws into him until Talia could get her way? Whatever that might be. Did they know that the Joker was dead? Were they wondering where Tim the traitor had disappeared to with the little assassin girl?

His room was cold and messy, though nowhere near as unorganized as the chaos he’d gotten used to while with Dick. 

He dragged his school bag out from under his desk and dumped his books out in a huff. It felt so stupid . School while people were out to kill him. After the Joker himself had been killed. 

If we kill, it makes us no better than those we fight to stop , Bruce had said at one point. 

Was Dick a monster now? Tim didn’t know. He didn’t seem tainted, cruel, or bloodthirsty. He seemed scared; for himself, for everyone else. 

The laughing was getting louder again. Tim could barely hear his hands rasping over his bundles of clothes or his grumbling breaths. 

He kicked his bed frame and it banged off the wall. The delirium faded, lingering in his bad ear. He started counting under his breath. First in English, then French, then downwards in German. The taunting laughter stayed back. 

His bag filled quickly. He started shoving things into his laptop satchel, files and notebooks mostly. He flipped through one and found the first drafts of essays dispersed between the riddles and codes he’d solved while the Riddler was loose, a few months back. 

“ Replacement ,” a deep voice rasped. 

Tim froze. He could live with the laughing, but talking? He wasn’t crazy. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t. He was shaking with the force of all his muscles tensing at once. 

“Replacement,” it called again, just behind him. 

He wanted to swear or cover his ears or scream but instead, he just stood there. A deer in the headlights.

“You’re just ignoring me? I see how it is.”

Suddenly, Tim found himself flung into the wall. His bones rang with the impact. His teeth went through his lip. His head slammed against the wood panelling. He was sprawled on the ground. 

Jason Todd was standing over him. His eyes had faded almost completely from haunting green to icy blue. They kept their dangerous edge.

“Shit,” Tim finally said. 

A wave of relief hit him and he giggled slightly, euphoric. He wasn’t crazy. That was good

Jason glared at him, fists clenched and waiting. The dread came creeping back. A physical threat was more dangerous than a mental one he imposed on himself, he supposed, though it didn’t really feel like it. He stifled the helpless giggling as best he could.

“Are you here to kill Bruce?” he questioned.

“I should kill you . I was in your doorway for ages.”

His neck was starting to cramp from the weird angle it was forced into. It was hard to act confident when he was cowering on the floor. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No. Bruce has offered me– sanctuary ,” he said like the words left a foul taste in his mouth. 

“Dangerous plan,” Tim said neutrally.

“Being Robin is dangerous work, replacement.”

He touched his swelling lip and his fingers came away smudged in red. He couldn’t find his footing in this conversation. “I’m not Robin anymore.”

Jason stared with those sparking eyes. 

“Damian is ecstatic,” he finally said. “He’s an arrogant little ass.”

“Go mess with him then,” Tim spat with too much vitriol too quickly. 

Jason swooped down and grabbed him by the neck. Tim tried to knock him away but his body wouldn’t obey him with the precision or strength he needed. He got pinned to the wall. 

“What did Bruce see in you?” Jason sneered. “Huh, replacement? Brother ? It had barely been a year .”

“He didn’t see anything in me,” Tim forced out, clawing at the hand around his airway. “You should ask what I saw in him.”

Jason chuckled and loosened his hold. Tim took a gulp of air and lashed out, hitting the pressure point on the inside of his elbow. The hand spasmed and released him. 

He scowled, massaging his neck and panting. “Get out.”

Jason just shook out his arm and gave a savage grin. It was twisted by the scar dragging down the corner.  “I’ll find whatever it was, eventually.”

Chapter Text

Tim was furious while he stomped up the drive to the Estate. The snow was drifting down to the frost-covered grass. 

Was Jason good or evil? It was even harder to discern than for Dick. Though he was also still under observation. Damian? Tim had never really spoken to the kid. He didn’t like him though. Cass? Bruce? Himself?

He had figured one thing out, even if the morality of those around him was still in question. Well, he had a hypothesis at least. What had Bruce seen in Tim, Jason had asked. 

In Dick, he’d seen himself. In Jason, he’d seen Dick. And in Tim, he’d seen Jason. The one he’d lost too soon. The one that haunted him. Hope, hope, and despair. A grim legacy to live up to.

He pushed open the door to the dark entryway and toed off his boots. He wasn’t sure why he was so put out. Robin had never been his goal. Bruce didn’t need him anymore. Surely that was a good thing. He nodded to himself. Of course, it was. 

“Timothy,” a hushed voice called out. 

He whipped around, discomfited by so many surprise appearances in one day. It was only Cass, hair dripping from a shower and half faded into the shadows of the hall. He gave himself a pass on catching her before she snuck up on him, he knew he would never catch her. 

“You’re still here.”

She made a few clumsy signs with her hands. He only recognized the one for leave . 

“You can stay here as long as you’d like,” he sighed, letting her follow him to his third-floor room. “I told you that.”

He could see the entrance to the path that led to his parents’ headstones from his window. Not quite graves, because their bodies were never found, but markers of them nonetheless. It made him queasy. 

Cass was lingering in his doorway, fiddling with the cord of a sweater she must have pilfered from his closet. 

“Bruce got Damian and Jason under control, no thanks to you,” he said, even though he knew it was mean. “They’re at the Manor.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

And there it was again. Good or bad. Was Cass truly a good person? She always seemed to be trying to do the right thing. Was that enough? She’d been an assassin, broken the Joker out of prison, probably done other terrible things he didn’t even know about. But she was trying to be good, trying to do things for good reasons. She seemed like a little kid trying her hardest.

Did the reasons matter?

“It’s fine,” he sighed. 

Was it really? 

She sat on the floor while he set his bags in his closet. The sun was coming through the window, casting her face in a warm glow. She didn’t look evil. 

A calculus textbook slid out of his backpack to lie on the floor near his foot. Right, it was a school day. He could barely even think about that. It felt so insignificant. So useless. He’d already emailed lawyers and the higher-ups about the Industries. That too felt like a joke.

He turned back to Cass, feeling like he was underwater.

“I’ve actually got to go,” he told her. “I have some loose ends to tie up.”

“Listen, Mister Drake,” the principal said from beneath his bushy moustache. He looked like some old oil tycoon rather than someone who worked with children. “You can do what you wish and I will not be the one to stop you, but I don’t understand why you would do this so late in your academic career.”

“I’ll do what I wish!” Tim snapped, feeling like a petulant child.

“Mister Drake, you have a marvellous mind. Do you know your own IQ?”

He clenched his fists. “I know that my grades have been falling and that I don’t have time to attend classes. At the rate I’m going, my grades won’t get me into any of the colleges that I would like to attend. There’s no reason to continue.”

“In freshman year your IQ was 142. You could change the world, Mister Drake. Don’t throw it all away,” he said over the thin frames of his glasses. 

“I’m not throwing it away.” Tim scowled. “You’re trying to convince me that I’m a genius while treating me like an idiot. You already have my semester’s tuition, cross my name from the registry. Goodbye, Mr. Moore.”

The man’s pudgy face went more vividly red. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Tim was standing. He’d worn his uniform to be polite but wished he hadn’t, the office was way too hot. Even for him. He couldn't breathe. 

“Goodbye, sir.”

He opened the stained glass door and stepped out. The cool air was a blessing against his frustration. 

“I’ll keep your records in case you choose to return,” he grovelled. 

Tim closed the door behind him. His stomach was rolling with nerves, worse now than when he’d originally gone in. He felt like he was making a huge mess. One he’d have to clean up. He didn’t know what he was doing. Alfred would kill him if he knew.

The halls were passing in mahogany and green blurs. Class doors closed, windows frosted, old wooden beams keeping the ceiling up. He was caving in on the inside. Lost, confused, on edge. He just needed to finish his errands and get home. Just paste on a sociable face and bear it. 

Was he going to become Bruce?

“Timothy?” a girl's voice asked. 

He turned back. The girls' washroom was there, Cissie just emerging and pocketing her phone. 

“You haven’t been in class in a while,” she said, blonde eyebrows pulling upwards in concern. She always looked a little concerned. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, for sure.” He smiled. “Just busy business.”

He was becoming Bruce. 

“Okay,” she said, her own reluctant grin spreading over her face. “Busy business is good business, I guess.”

It was something he’d heard Alexander Dumas say a million times. She had always been part of his little clique. Popular for being nice rather than being rich. Attending school on a sports scholarship, his mind offered, with a mother popular among the upper class. A junior olympian daughter to an olympian mother. 

“I’d better be getting back to class. I’ve been gone for too long anyway,” she said. Eyebrows still concerned, forehead still wrinkled. It looked like she was about to say something else but in the end, she just pressed her lips together and nodded.

Tim nodded back. “See ya, Cissie.”

She hurried off and he continued on his way. He should probably stop somewhere and get food, even though he wasn’t hungry. His stomach was roiling. Lurking nerves had kept him from eating yet.

It was time to harass people into letting him run his own company. He’d need all the energy he could get.

Chapter Text

It was surprisingly easy to get people to give him work. Well, easy to get them to allow him to look over their work. 

It was harder to get them to take him seriously. 

Apparently, it was distasteful to have owners that didn’t even know what Drake Industries produced like his parents. That being said, it was even more distasteful to be bossed around by a teenager. Distasteful but severely needed. 

They’d set him up with a top-floor office. He’d been coming and going regularly, burying himself in the numbers. 

By his count, this time, he’d been in the building for twenty-seven hours straight. 

There was music blasting from his headphones, loud enough to rattle his teeth like an explosion. His deaf ear was ringing with it. Files were everywhere in messy, toppling stacks. Completed piles, piles that still needed to be looked at, piles of correspondents, piles of spreadsheets, piles of tax returns, piles of improperly filed reports. 

A thorough comb through was definitely needed. 

He could recognize that there were too many empty styrofoam cups around him, that his eye was twitching from a lack of sleep and an abundance of caffeine. It didn’t stop him from wanting to go get another. 

Once he was done going through the bookkeeping for 1992 he’d go get another cup of coffee. He was already halfway through September, it’d take no time at all. 

Accountants at this company really didn’t know how to do their jobs. There were spreadsheets that simply didn’t add up. Not even close. There were taxes from years ago that had never been taken care of. Both for the company to pay and collect. 

Some surveyors should have shut them down by now. He’d have to go through all the departments one by one to make sure jobs were being done. He had a feeling managers were going to need to be replaced. And maybe a CFO.

The condo was like a tomb while Ms. Reid was out. Cold and quiet and barren of any decent food. 

That wasn’t what was plaguing Tim though. No. It was the itching. The itching to do something , to help out. His blood racing around under his skin, transporting useless chemicals around to make him restless. 

He was staring out of the vast windows at the street below. It was blocked off for all traffic. The bank down the street had been robbed and police were trying to get all the clues they could before opening the isolation zone back up. 

He wanted to be down there. Seeing if anyone was hurt, investigating, hunting a culprit. Not waiting for the news anchor to catch him up. 

The tiny figures looked like pieces on a game board from all the way up in the condo. It wasn’t the same rush he got from being in the thick of it. Not the same clicking feeling that let him know that he was doing the right thing . 

What could he do, sequestered up in his own little untouchable bubble?

An ambulance and fire truck zoomed by.

“In other news, there was an explosion in a Narrows apartment complex early today,” the news anchor read indifferently. “Fire department officials commented that it seems to be due to insufficient heating in the building causing renters to be forced to use other means of unsafe climate control such as electric heaters or so-called ‘oven-heat’. The Martha Wayne Foundation has offered temporary housing to anyone affected by the destruction…”

The Martha Wayne Foundation. He hummed and turned away from the window.

The financial sector was more than happy to have Tim’s eyes off of them for a few days while he worked out the basics of his plan. They were less happy to hear that they’d have to start managing the numbers for not only the main branches of the company but also Tim’s flight of fancy nonprofit. 

The PR team was thrilled though. They were plastering the startup news everywhere, pushing the fact that they were trying to get it going as quickly as possible and that they were going to change Gotham for the better. It was just the thing they needed to get the company name back in the press. 

Tim was being paraded around like a show pony for all to see. He was told to plaster on a smile and look confident. He could do that. He’d grown up doing that. He was on the news, in the newspaper, talked about on social media. It was a frenzy. 

He felt almost guilty. 

He wasn’t trying to help Gotham. Well, he was . But only to make himself feel better. It wasn’t the selfless sacrifice that Bruce was subjecting himself to, Tim just didn’t like the way his chest ached when he sat in the condo and thought about how much he wasn’t helping. 

Was he a good person? Probably not. He was a coward; couldn’t even face Bruce. 

He’d found proof of his parents’ purchases in the company files. Ancient art pieces or ceremonial artifacts, probably not suitable for a private collection. It stank of soft money laundering. He couldn’t imagine his parents doing something like that. The parents who had sneered at crime their whole lives and told Tim that crime was for people who couldn’t put in the hard work to get the things they wanted. 

Were they good people? He was just starting to come to terms with how little he really knew them. 

The fundraiser was– blurry. 

Tim had forgotten to put in his contacts. 

He’d made a speech but he couldn’t remember actually being on stage. He was stuffed into a new suit and holding a glass of untouched champagne. People were coming and going around him like a revolving door, praising him for doing such a great thing and pledging to donate. He didn’t know why they bothered letting him know; they had to donate to get in.

He saw dozens of his parents' old acquaintances, all simpering and fawning over him. Madame MacDougal in her mink-fur coat. Mister Langley with his constant talk of urbanization and globalization and expansion. Thomas Elliot who was always a bit too thin and a bit too twitchy but must have started working out or at least eating too much fast food because his expensive suit stretched uncomfortably over his chest and legs in a way that was hard not to wince at. He thought maybe he saw Barty Crowne through the haze. 

They’d rented out Gotham University's banquet hall for the night. He was surprised how many people had shown up. A small group of hand-picked reporters were buzzing between socialites. The air was stuffy with too many bodies too close together. There was an hors d'oeuvre buffet along the far wall but Tim figured it would run out before too long. 

“Tim,” a cold greeting came. 

He turned carefully, he was shorter than most of the people in attendance and didn’t feel like earning himself a lung full of elbows. 

“Bruce,” he responded, surprised. Dread pooled in his gut.

Bruce levelled him with a stare not fitting the sparkly smile on his face. He looked furious. Tim hadn’t expected him to show up. He hadn’t been to social outings since Jason. If Jason was back, Tim supposed, it only made sense that Bruce would return to the way he was before as well. 

“Good to see you’re doing well,” he said lightly.

“Same for you,” Tim said, matching his tone. “How’s Damian adjusting to Manor life?”

Bruce’s smile became strained. “Good as can be expected. Care to speak to me privately for a moment?”

No , Tim wanted to say. I want to hide under a table like I’m five years old.

Instead, he followed silently to a dim hallway leading to the boiler rooms. 

“Listen,” Bruce said once they were out of range of any prying ears. His face was doing a weird twitching, maybe he was trying to be civil. “I understand that you like Cass and you feel like you have to be loyal to her but it would have been nice to at least hear from you. To know that you weren’t coming back.”

Tim was frozen. His hands stuck where they were fixing his cuff and his mouth slightly open. It was undignified. 

“You think this is about liking Cass?” he asked. “You kicked me out.”

“I kicked her out and you went with her,” Bruce snapped. “She’s an assassin. She broke the Joker out of Arkham. You have no idea how dangerous she is. She was a liability to keep at the Manor.”

Tim seethed. “You’re saying that Jason isn’t a liability? I saw that he’s been staying at the Manor. What about Damian?”

“This isn’t about Damian–”

“Where is he by the way?” Tim demanded, stepping towards him and craning his face up. “Out protecting Gotham for you?”

He clenched his jaw. “ Damian is grounded at the moment.”

Tim gave a harsh laugh. “Maybe you should try kicking him out.”

“No, Tim,” Bruce growled and his expression stopped twitching. “I didn’t kick you out. I don’t kick my own kids out of the house, no matter what. Never! But you know what? You’re not my kid– no matter how much I might have believed it. I know the rumours about your family, how your parents left as soon as things ever got tough. How they handed you off to a nanny and disappeared for months. I thought you were different but no. When things get a bit rough, when push comes to shove, you run away. Just like your parents.”

Bruce was panting, his eyes wide. Tim didn’t realize he’d backed up into the wall. Hadn’t realized the subtle shaking of his whole body. There was champagne on the carpet.

“Tim,” Bruce breathed, reaching out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re just a kid–”

“B!” another voice boomed from the direction of the fundraiser. “What do you think you’re doing? Back off right now, or so help me–”

Dick Grayson was storming down the hallway, his fuzzy shape rapidly taking form. If Bruce had been furious, Dick was livid. Tim’s stomach rolled.

“Dick!” he snapped. “I don’t need you always running in to save me!”

He turned his glare on Tim. “I don’t care what you think you need, I’m doing it anyway. Just like I did before and I’ll do again. Don’t take this shit from him!”

But he’s right , he wanted to say. “I’m not taking anything. I don’t need some saviour coming to scoop me up again–”

“What do you mean ‘again’?” Bruce interrupted, his eyebrows were drawn down in a very Batman-esque way. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Tim said at the same time Dick shouted: “Yes!” 

“Dick,” Tim warned. “You promised.”

He didn’t feel like he was in his own body. He felt like he was floating above himself, just barely seeing through his eyes. Like he wasn’t really the one in control.

“I’m doing it anyway,” he repeated. “I made a promise to myself before I even knew you, and that was to always do the right thing. No. Matter. What.”

“Dick,” he pleaded. 

“What is going on?” Bruce demanded. 

“Tim got kidnapped by the Joker and almost died,” he spits out. “And then I killed him.”

The corridor, empty save for the three of them, went still. Dark hair and light eyes and suits. A three-way mirror in which they all seemed too young and too stupid for the roles they were meant to fill. Even Bruce, the crone between them. Tim was their history and they were his future. A type of unbreakable fate once he'd tumbled into it. 

“I did not almost die!” he shouted. “I just needed a few more days to trap him and then I could have brought him back to the Cave. And then you got in the way. I was fine.”

“You looked like a skeleton! I have no idea how long you were there. I hadn’t heard from you in ages. I didn’t even realize you’d been taken! I was tracking that girl!”

Tim hadn’t let himself do the math to figure out how many days he’d been there. He wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. He scowled. “I was fine.”

Bruce was staring at him with the kind of sad, broken look that didn’t belong on his face. The kind Tim had become Robin to stop. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m fine,” Tim assured them.

And then he took off down the hall to make sure the fundraiser was running smoothly.

Chapter Text

When a knock came from the door the next afternoon, Ms. Reid was already long gone to her firm and Tim was fresh out of bed. He waited as long as he could bear, a pillow over his head on the sofa, but the knocks kept coming at perfectly even intervals so, despite his judgment and desire, he went up to answer it. 

Alfred was in the hall looking prim and proper with a little woven basket in his gloved hands. 

“Master Timothy,” he said, tipping his head. “Did I wake you?”

Tim opened the door as wide as it would go and quickly beckoned him in, guilt gnawing at him for keeping the old man waiting. “No, no. I was just getting ready to shower,” he lied. 

Alfred hummed and stepped inside, surveying the space. 

“It’s good to see you,” Tim said, closing the door, but they both knew he really meant why are you here ? Though he wasn’t unhappy enough about him showing up to ask outright. 

“I brought gingersnaps,” was all he replied. 

Tim took the basket to the table and peeked under the towel to see the cookies beneath as well as a few other sweets. “Thanks. Tea?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re making. With milk and sugar, please.”

He pulled a box of tea bags down from the cabinet and sorted through them to find the only decent earl grey they had. Ms. Reid always liked the fruity teas that she could oversteep. 

“We only have oat milk,” Tim mentioned, feeling unbearably awkward for no reason. 

Alfred just nodded from across the island. “It will do.”

He got the kettle going and picked out mugs to keep his hands busy. He didn’t look up from his work, Alfred’s eyes were boring into him. 

“I heard about the fundraiser,” he finally said. “From Master Richard, not Bruce.”

Tim set the sugar bowl down too hard on the counter. “It went very well. We surpassed our expectations for donations.”

Alfred went through his basket and pulled out a shortbread biscuit. He took a small bite and stared Tim down while chewing. He looked tired, older than Tim had ever seen him. Less patient, too. Less willing to put up with Tim’s games. 

“I didn’t mean what I said to them, I was angry. I know I was rude,” he finally caved. It felt good to say it, even if Bruce might never know.

Alfred ate the rest of the cookie. The kettle started to whistle and Tim took the excuse to turn away.

“It is not you that needs to apologize, from what I've heard. How are you?” he asked once tea had been poured and handed out. “Lots has happened since we last got the chance to speak.”

Tim wanted to laugh. He’d been held hostage, drugged, starved. He’d dropped out of school, taken the position of CEO in his dead parents’ company. It felt like so much longer than just a handful of weeks.

“I’m fine.” 

The old man patted the seat beside him. 

Tim took it, slouching down so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. The tea was too hot to drink but the mug felt nice against his chilled fingers. Alfred set a gingersnap on the marble in front of him. 

“You know,” he said. “A few members of the Justice League have been hounding Master Bruce about you. They are quite relentless. They want you on their little Young Justice Team.”

Tim glared at the cookie in spite. “You mean because I’m not Robin anymore.”

“I mean because they’ve wanted you since they heard about you but Bruce wouldn’t give you away.”

He wanted to say no. His mouth was forming the word before Alfred had even finished talking. But it wouldn’t come out. He could feel the everpresent itching under his skin, he’d never had it before. Before . But now, it was like he couldn’t stand knowing that there were bad things happening out in the world without him being there to do something about it. To at least try.

His goal had been to help Bruce before Gotham fell apart on top of him. When had his priorities gone so severely sideways? When had helping Gotham become the most important thing in his life? The thing that kept him from falling apart. 

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” Alfred said softly.

Tim finally took the cookie, breaking it in half and causing crumbs to rain down on his wrinkled pyjama shirt. “I’m out of shape.”

He chuckled, sipping his tea. “It’s always easier to get back in prime condition than it is to do it for the first time. Muscle memory will come back quickly.”

“I don’t want to be Robin.”

“Oh, I know,” I said sadly. “There are always other names.”

They sat in silence until Tim burned his tongue on the tea and then sat in more silence until he finished it. His back was starting to hurt from the slouching. 

“Before everything,” Alfred finally started. “Master Jason told me that he wanted to start moving away from Robin. He said that he would call himself Red Robin until he was old enough to be completely independent like Master Richard. He had a whole costume designed and everything.”

“And now?”

“And now I think he’s moved well past Red Robin and made his own name for himself. No matter how much I wish he hadn’t had to.”

Tim didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Why not Drake or something?” he said eventually. “That’s still a bird.”

Alfred looked down, eyes twinkling. “You cannot use your last name as an alias.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Tim sulked. “It was just an idea.”

“I’m not laughing,” Alfred said. His face was a mask of professionalism. 

He scowled. “If I do– and I’m not saying I will– I want to design the suit.”

“I can get you in touch with Lucius. What were you thinking?”

“One, I want a cowl instead of a mask. Like Bruce’s so it shields my ears from loud noises and my head from impacts.”

“Very logical.” Alfred nodded.

“Two, I want boots with hollow soles that I could hide things in so if I’m ever searched they won’t think to look there.

“Three, I want my gloves to have fingerprint imitating nanotech so I can scan a fingerprint then use scanner locks without delay.

“Four, I want the cape to be more easily removable than it was on the Robin suit.

“Five–”

“Should I have brought a notepad, Master Timothy?” Alfred asked.

Tim sighed and stood to take the mugs to the sink. He’d known this would happen– he and Alfred both really– he was caught on the idea now that he’d put even the tiniest amount of thought into it. Hooked on the line. Of course, he was. This was probably the old man’s plan all along.

“I have one,” he mumbled. 

Alfred beamed.

Chapter Text

A week and a half later, Tim told Ms. Reid that he was going to return to his room at Gotham Academy and told Pedro to take him to the Estate.

The hallways were dark and quiet and despite his best effort, he couldn’t find Cass anywhere. He did find a post-it note on his pillow though, only a small smiley face drawn on it in sparkly purple pen. He could only assume that it meant she was okay. 

He was still worried though. Somehow, in his mind, she’d gone from ruthless fighter that would knock him on his ass before he could blink to some sort of younger cousin in need of protection. 

There was not much he could do about it. He supposed. It didn’t help him feel any better about her roaming the streets of Gotham alone. He’d seen some of the worst his city could offer, it really was a dirty place. 

The walk from the Estate to the Manor was a familiar one by now. He made it quickly. It had been a week of bulking and getting his strength back up. Alfred was right in saying that it was easier than it had been the first time. He was also feeling a lot better than he had been the last couple of weeks, though he was reluctant to admit it. Stupid exercise and endorphins and accomplishments and dopamine.

The fence surrounding the Manor had been lined with twinkling lights for the season but Alfred hadn’t yet started putting up any true decorations. It was only a matter of time before he started humming Christmas carols and covering every available surface in garland.

Tim had his bag on his back, filled with his possessions, the same one he’d travelled through Europe and Asia with. He was bundled up in his puffy winter coat and had pinned his hair down with a knit beanie. Even all his layers didn’t keep out the cold like whatever tech was in the Robin suit. Bruce should really get the company to start up a new activewear branch. It would make a killing.

He was shivering by the time he got to the front step. He tried to convince himself it was only the cold. He wasn’t nervous. He’d lived here. What was there to be nervous about? Nothing, he should have been embarrassed more than anything. He’d made a fool of himself at the fundraiser. 

Well, he supposed, he could always be both. Embarrassment and nervousness usually went hand in hand.

He had stood on the welcome mat for too long and the door swung open without even the courtesy of letting him knock. 

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said from the other side. “Do come in. You’ll be glad to see what was shipped in earlier today.”

Tim stepped inside, nose immediately starting to run from the change in temperature. He took off his boots before he could track mud and water all over Alfred’s mirror-clean floors. 

“How have things been?” Tim asked politely, folding his coat over his arm.

Alfred led him through the labyrinth of walls leading to the entrance of the Cave. “The house has been busy,” he said cryptically. “Master Bruce is always in and out.”

There was a muffled bang very obviously originating from behind the grandfather clock. And then another, and another.

“Uh– do you know what that is?” Tim asked, slowing to a stop a few feet away. 

Alfred frowned. “I do not.”

Tim crept forward on socked feet. The noise sounded familiar but it was too quiet to tell its true origins. He glanced back at Alfred to find him only a step behind. He set down his coat and reached up to rearrange the hands before fiddling with the pendulum. 

The clock moved aside and the noise instantly got louder. Gunshots. He had hoped his suspicions were wrong. 

“Stay here,” he murmured. 

“I was about to say the same thing,” Alfred whispered back. 

He had to move quickly to stay ahead of the man, stealthily flowing down the stairs. The noise was only getting more and more thunderous. Whoever was in the Cave was close, no further than the training level. 

Tim knew better than to rush out into active gunfire, especially without his suit on. He stopped himself at the bottom of the stairwell. His heart was pounding in his ears. 

He cautiously stuck his head out past the barrier. His gaze immediately caught on a lone figure standing in the training ring. A dismembered dummy stood a few dozen feet away. 

“Oh,” he whispered as they jammed a new magazine into the slot. “I didn’t think Bruce let guns in the house.”

Alfred, who had also surveyed the situation, stepped fully out with an unimpressed look staining his face. “He does not.”

Tim followed him out, muscles tensed to react. 

“Master Jason!” he called. 

Jason spun, the gun immediately trained on them. Tim threw himself back into the stairwell. Alfred didn’t even flinch.

“Do not point that thing at me, young man!” he chastised. “You know better than that.”

Tim risked a glance out again to see Jason tucking the handgun behind himself with a sheepish grin. It was the least bloodthirsty Tim had ever seen him. 

“ Alfie ,” he drawled, wandering towards the steps.

Tim again left the safety of the stairs and Jason’s expression immediately soured.

“And you,” he said, stopping his meandering steps. “Replacement.”

Tim scowled. “Good to see you looking less like a rabid dog. I was worried about getting infected.”

“Boys,” Alfred snapped. “Be civil.”

“I was being civil,” Jason grumbled. 

Tim just slouched further down and moved to Alfred’s other side. 

“Master Jason, Master Tim was just about to try on his new suit. Do you wish to stay?”

Jason stuck his tongue out at Tim who was trying very hard to forget the feeling of running out of oxygen while Jason watched carelessly all that time ago. His senses were on high alert. 

The two of them dutifully wandered behind Alfred over to the bell jars where all the costumes were displayed perfectly. There were new cases in the lineup, nearing the end of the platform. They’d have to start a new row soon. 

Batman’s was there, along with many specialized variations. Dick’s original Robin costume was beside them. Then Jason’s destroyed one. It was even worse seeing it now. Knowing what must have happened to it. The burns, the rips, the paint covering anything else.

He glanced over but Jason was just trying to get the gun to fit into his waistline, not paying any attention. Or trying not to. 

In the jar where Tim’s used to be was a similarly destroyed one. It was the small costume that had been burned up in the explosion that had cost him part of his hearing. The cape was almost completely singed away and the colours were blackened. 

He supposed his most recent costume was forever lost to the Joker. 

“Did you fall into a volcano?” Jason asked, tapping on the glass. “You’d have to be pretty clumsy for that but I’m sure you could pull it off.”

“A building exploded on me,” he said. 

Jason just laughed. 

The last case had a tiny Robin suit in it. Smaller than Dick’s, though that wasn’t surprising considering he’d said he’d been seventeen when he moved on to Nightwing. Or got fired, depending on who you asked. It was smaller than Tim’s too. A new design with darker colours and a hood. Fitting for the son of an assassin. 

“Master Timothy,” Alfred beckoned. 

He was holding a black and red suit, a mix between Batman and Robin. Too close for Tim to fool himself into thinking that he was separating himself from Bruce but satisfactory enough for him to accept it. There was some sort of bird’s head logo on the center of the chest. 

“The new Red Robin suit.”

Tim couldn’t help smiling a little. 

“Red Robin? Really?” Jason scoffed. “Seriously, replacement? Have you ever had an original idea?”

“I was the one who suggested the name, Master Jason,” Alfred said.

Jason just glared harder. “It’s fine, I don’t care. I’m going to see what Damian’s doing.”

He stormed off, mumbling under his breath about creative license and art theft. 

“Maybe we should change the name,” Tim suggested.

“No bother,” Alfred said. “If we cater to his tantrums he’ll only get worse. He’s always been sensitive.”

“He’s always been like that?”

He approached the suit, feeling the fabric and checking for the adjustments he’d asked for. 

“Worse when he was younger. He mellowed out after about a year but now it seems he’s regressed slightly.”

“Slightly,” Tim scoffed. “You know he tried to kill me right?”

Alfred ignored him. “Did you know he’s jealous that Master Damian likes Master Richard so much? He believes that all the time they spent together in Nanda Parbat should make him the favourite.”

“He hates Damian.”

“That’s why it’s amusing. He can’t decide which one of you three he should be fighting.”

Bruce got back to the Manor in time to throw on his gear and drive Tim to the Young Justice Headquarters. He had his new costume on and his bag in his lap. It was like he was being dropped off for a sleepover. 

“So,” Bruce said, not looking away from the road. “What’s rule one?”

“Don’t reveal my identity,” Tim grumbled. 

“Good. Two?”

“Protect civilians.”

“Three?”

“Protect teammates.”

“Four?”

“Stay vigilant. I do know these. You don’t need to quiz me.”

“I’m just confirming,” he said, the audio processor altering his voice. “Did you get the blueprints of the building?”

“Yes,” he insisted. “This was your idea.”

They flew around a corner and he was convinced two of the Batmobile’s wheels came off the ground. 

“It was Alfred’s. I’m making sure you’re prepared. Dick had no idea what he was doing when he joined the Titans.”

Tim just stared out the window. They were walking on eggshells, ignoring the elephant crammed into the back seat.

They raced towards the water where a steep cliff dropped off. The city had dwindled away a few minutes ago, leaving only yellowed grass blowing in the wind on one side and thick forest on the other.

“You’re going to go to the edge and rappel down. There will be a cave opening that you need to get to before the tide comes in. Red Tornado will let you in.”

“I have to rappel?” he asked, head falling back against his seat. “Ugh.”

Without warning, Bruce swerved off the road into the field grass. They bounced over the uneven terrain and skidded to a stop too close to the edge for Tim’s liking. He realized he was clutching at the edges of his seat and released it. Their position seemed random but there was a nice boulder for him to attach his rope to. 

“Well,” he said awkwardly, popping the door. 

Bruce grabbed his wrist. He was stuck half out of the car, leaning in to stop his shoulder from dislocating. 

“Tim, I– I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have done more. I should have done so much. I’m so sorry.”

He yanked his arm out of his grasp. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” he forced out. 

He hesitated, waiting for something else, even though really there was nothing else to say. Bruce turned away, staring out the windshield once again. Tim nodded and slammed the door. 

He didn’t hear him pull away until he’d already disappeared over the edge of the cliff. 

Chapter Text

The wet sand had already coated his shiny new boots. Algae from the slick cliff walls stained his gloves green. The air smelled like salt and dead fish. The tide was coming in, though he probably had another hour before it became problematic. 

He could see the cave opening ahead. It was wide and not attempting secrecy, the location was probably protection enough. 

He trudged down the beach, gulls overhead and seals bobbing in the water. Mist was settling in as the temperature dropped. He passed between two jagged rocks covered in muscles and strands of seaweed. A crab scuttled past his foot. 

The mouth of the cave was much larger up close. It put the Batcave to shame, both in size and darkness. He held onto the straps of his bag and took a deep breath. The tunnel didn’t get any narrower as he progressed, though he doubted he’d be able to see it if it did. His infrared vision was doing no good, the cave was one solid temperature level, too cold to register. He kept one hand on the wall and tread lightly to avoid slippery patches. 

He couldn’t find the button to activate the suit’s night vision. He should have checked everything over before leaving the Manor. He hadn’t even checked the pockets, just taken Alfred’s word that everything was in its proper place. 

“Robin,” a robotic voice called through the darkness.

He’d stopped himself midstep and almost lost his footing on the rocks, clutching the wall to stay upright. His tech didn’t pick up any body heat. He didn’t breathe. He had a shuriken in one hand. At least Alfred had told the truth about his supplies being in the usual places.

“Apologies,” the voice said again. Suddenly a beacon of light was shining from ahead, reflecting against the slick ground and blinding him. “I always forget that humans cannot see in the dark.”

He could see Red Tornado’s legs in the light and he sighed.

“I’m not called Robin anymore,” he said, voice echoing through the cavern. “Is the door close?”

“Indeed, just this way.”

Tim started forwards again, tucking the shuriken away and shielding his eyes against the light. 

“The others are inside,” Red Tornado said. “They’re excited to meet you.”

A shiver went down his spine. Why did meeting other vigilantes scare him more than fighting a supervillain? He had been hoping he’d get lucky and have time to get set up before he had to introduce himself. 

“I asked them not to hound you at the door,” the robot informed him, floating half a foot above the rocks next to him.

The dark was all encompassing, eating up their beacon and hiding most of Red Tornado’s body. Tim felt a bit like some ancient pilgrim chasing his secretive god. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Tim said. “Did B tell you to?”

He tipped his head and the light swung across the walls. “If by B you mean Batman, then no. I took it upon myself to teach the team some manners on my own accord.”

“Are they really that bad?” he asked. 

They reached the end of the tunnel at last and with a spark from Red Tornado’s finger, a metal bomb door unlatched and slid open. The hall behind it was a similar metal. Fluorescent lights and a little cleaning robot kept the place from looking abandoned. The Justice League had left this place years ago.

“No,” Red Tornado finally answered. “They can simply become overeager at times.”

He muffled his steps, aware of the slimy footprints he was leaving behind him. The cleaning robot rushed over to start vacuuming over them. 

Once they turned a few more identical corners, he started to hear voices. He would have been lost if he hadn’t memorized the blueprints. They were getting close to the center of the base, where the main elevator was located. The blueprints had labelled it the Mission Room.

“Get off me!” one of the voices hissed. “Stand still.”

“Will both of you shut up?” another snapped. 

“I wasn’t talking,” a third piped in. 

There was an unfamiliar rustling that filled the air when they fell silent. He couldn’t identify it. Not quite fabric, not quite white water.

“How many are there?” he whispered. 

He should have already known. He should have asked Bruce in the car or even before that when he was getting his briefing.

“Five.” 

Five. He didn’t think he could name five sidekicks or teen vigilantes. 

They passed into the center room and he beheld his new teammates. For some reason, he’d expected people who looked like Bruce and Dick and the Justice League. Not… children. It settled his nerves to see that he wasn’t the odd one out. 

His eyes were drawn to a boy, obviously a speedster. Even without catching a glimpse of the telltale goggles and lightning motif, he was vibrating in place. His red hair flopped over his eyes with every bounce of his head. There were red spots dotting his cheeks and forehead. A teenager, not just a hero. 

Beside him was a large boy, built like Jason. He actually looked quite a bit like him: dark hair, blue eyes, strong jaw. No, he didn’t look like Jason, he looked like Superman. Exactly like a younger Superman. But he was frowning deeply, arms crossed over his chest. Unimpressed and the slightest bit intimidating. Tall.

Then two girls. Three actually. He hadn’t spotted the third initially, cowering behind the first two. Once he did notice her, he couldn’t draw his attention away. She was sand. Not blonde, not tan, actual sand. From head to the pool of it around her feet. Completely formed of shifting, whispering sand. 

The other two were opposites. Warm versus cool blonde. Tan versus pale. Short versus tall. Stocky versus lean. Both were smiling though. 

And none were bothering to hide their faces. 

The speedster had his goggles on, though they did nothing to mask his eyes. The sand girl’s features were admittedly hard to make out, blurry like she was underwater. But the rest? Nothing. 

That wasn’t the most surprising thing though. No. The thing that nearly knocked him off his feet was Cissie King-Jones standing there in her school uniform like he was in some sort of fever dream. 

“Uh, hi,” the speedster said, in his face with a flash. “I’m Impulse. You can call me Bart. What’s your name? No one’ll tell us anything. You’re awfully mysterious, you know that?”

He did a twitchy three-sixty around Tim to look at him from every side. 

“I think I like you, mystery man. Nice suit.”

He blinked.

“Thanks,” Tim finally said. “I go by Red Robin.”

“Never heard of ya,” Bart said.

“It’s new,” he explained numbly, eyes drifting back to Cissie.

Cissie of all people. How had he not known?

“You were just Robin before?” the Superman knockoff said. 

Tim nodded though he wasn’t sure if it was really a question. They were all drifting closer, like a pack of hyenas. 

“Conner,” not-Superman said, sticking out his hand.

Tim took it and gave it a firm shake. If there was one thing his parents had taught him, it was how to give a good handshake. He met the boy’s angry eyes for a tumultuous second.

“Do you have a name?” the other blonde girl asked. 

She had a subtle accent that he could almost place. Her arms were lined with visible muscle and she had abs shown off by her crop top. He was jealous. He still looked like a stick man.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” she said when he took too long answering. “I’m Cassandra, Princess of Themyscira.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I have a friend named Cassandra.” He paused. “You’re related to Wonder Woman, right?”

“She’s my aunt,” she explained before pointing to the other girls. “This is Cissie, and that’s Suzie.”

Cissie was staring at him, straight in the face. His hands were starting to sweat. 

“Your mask gives me a headache,” she finally said. 

He gave a relieved smile. Thank God for Lucius’ resonance tech. Bruce would have been so mad if he got recognized within the first ten minutes. 

“That’s the point. It shields my identity.”

She squinted as if trying to see through the cowl. 

“It changes your voice too?” Conner asked. 

“Yeah,” Tim said, thrilled to have something he could talk about to break the ice. “The computer alters it so it can’t be traced or identified by any programs people might be using. Batman has all the same stuff.”

“We wouldn’t know. The Justice League doesn’t visit often,” he said a bit sourly.

“So you guys are just left to your own devices until they have a mission for you?”

It got quiet, sand against sand keeping true silence away. More than a single pair of eyes slid over to Red Tornado but he was standing against the wall, white eyes dim and vacant. 

“For the most part,” Cissie said lightly. 

They were staring at him. What has he meant to do? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance ? No, he wasn’t at a gala. That was too formal.

“Nice to meet you all,” he tried. 

That won him a few smiles.

“I should probably drop off my things…”

“I’ll show you around!” Bart offered. “Your room’s next to mine.”

Chapter Text

Tim’s room was barren. Smaller than the one he had at the condo, the size of his closet at the Estate. All metal and white sheets and sterile lights. He had a desk and a chair, a single bed that was nearly too short even for him. 

He was doing Russian twists to keep himself busy when Bruce texted him back. 

So no more patrol? He’d asked nearly an hour ago.

You’ll be busy , Bruce responded. And then in a separate bubble, I'll need you once and a while.

That wasn’t too bad. He was excited to see what kind of missions Young Justice would get sent on. 

He’d started his work out in his Red Robin costume but felt too stupid to continue. He’d changed into athletic clothes and a spare domino mask. His head pounded with a white-hot pain behind his eyes. With every sit-up, his vision was dotted with startling black stars before clearing. It was something that was becoming progressively more and more common, for no reason he could discern. A staple in his everyday life.  

A few rapid knocks came from the door and Bart rushed in. Tim was already up on his feet, phone shoved into his pocket and forgotten. His fingers were numb, like he’d plunged himself into an ice bucket.

“Red Tornado wants you to come train with us,” he said with a wide grin on his face. 

Conner appeared in the doorway. “He wants us to ask you if you want to.”

Tim hesitated. He really should get some work done for the Industries. Bruce had sent him a tax bracket to look over for WE too. 

Whatever. He hadn’t been doing it anyway. 

“Sure,” he said. “Should I bring anything?”

“Nah,” Bart said, looking around his room without shame. “I’m pretty sure we have every piece of equipment on the planet down there. For some reason, I thought you’d be blond under your helmet-thing.”

Sure enough, after Bart babbled his way through a long elevator ride and they got to the training room, there were all sorts of things set up. A pummel horse, rings, dummies, one of those stupid poles from Tibet. He scowled at it. Bruce was a sadist.

The girls were already there stretching, or in Suzie’s case, just kind of existing in a certain pose that didn’t quite look right for a human body. A knee a bit too close to her face, a hip twisted too close to her spine. She didn’t seem to notice. 

They each did their own thing for a while. Bart, bouncing from station to station. Tim, trying to do his normal routine despite already being warmed up. Cassandra, instructing Cissie in Themysciran battle stances. Conner, standing against the wall. Suzie, getting sand all over the bench beside him. 

Eventually, Cassandra dragged Cissie into the uneven chalk ring drawn on the padded floor.

“Get into first position,” she said, stepping into her own stance.

Cissie mimicked her. It was strange watching her do anything other than sit behind a school desk. He could see that she had the muscle to support herself but she was very obviously inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat. 

What sport had she gotten the scholarship for? Not rowing, not field hockey. Archery, right . Her mother had gone to the Olympics for it. 

Cassandra paced around her, sturdy and strong like Bruce liked to fight. There was no doubt she needed good foundations to keep her own blows from knocking her off her feet. He’d seen videos of Diana crumpling cars with a single kick. 

She went slow for Cissie, letting her get a few hits in. She had the technique down, it was just confidence and practice she needed. It was like Tim used to be, he always knew how to do everything in theory . 

It was easy to know what she was going to do before she did it. She had a steady rhythm to her. She ended up falling to a leg swipe at the back of her knees. She had seen it coming but didn’t dodge in time. 

“So, Mr. Robin,” Cassandra said while Cissie picked herself up off the ground. “You want to spar?”

He looked around. He wasn’t ready for an Amazonian. Suzie would be interesting but he’d have to gauge her a bit more before going against her. Conner was a no-go. After Jason’s days of rampage through Gotham he’d sworn off fighting anger issues. Conner seemed the type. 

“I’ve never fought a speedster,” he said. 

He was sitting in a straddle one second and yanked to his feet the next.

“ Yesss ,” Bart said. “Haha, Cassie. I get the new kid.”

She scowled at him and he stuck out his tongue. Tim had a feeling this was going to be very embarrassing for him. He took a position in the ring once the girls were out. He’d seen videos of the Flash. He knew the speedster fighting style, many light blows used mostly to disorient. Bart would probably try to get the fight to last. 

Tim’s hands were shaking. Pathetic, he thought self-deprecatingly. He’d chosen this for himself. 

The redhead bounced on his toes. He was in loose cargo pants and a baggy band shirt, not ideal for seeing pressure points. 

What tips had Bruce given him? Don’t try to match their speed. Stay grounded. Go for the legs or lungs with a single strong attack. 

He could do that. It was against his usual strategies, but Alfred had always said he was adaptable.

“Okay?” Tim said. 

“Okay.”

Bart exploded into movement. A red and grey blur around him. He’d expected it, but he was still shocked by the magnitude of it. Teasing laughter came from several places in the circle at once. He bent his knees further and brought his hands up to cover his face. 

The women in Iraq had told him the best defence was a cloak of casualness. No one expected an attack if the muscles looked at ease. He hadn’t liked the philosophy at the time, it relied too much on underestimation. Now, he figured, it was probably worth a shot. 

He relaxed his fists but didn’t lower them. Dropped his shoulders. 

The rapid footfalls became slightly uneven. Tim twisted towards the noise. Bart had made the mistake of not coming from his deaf side, not that he knew it existed. The blur had changed its course. It rushed towards him. It was only instinct that had him ducking a punch in time. He felt wind raking through his hair. His heart stuttered.

His body worked while his mind tried to catch up. To unfreeze. To get a hold of himself. Bart thought he would dodge then go on the defensive. He wouldn’t give him the chance to throw another punch, he surely wouldn’t be fast or lucky enough to get around it again. 

With practiced grace, he used the twisting motion of his duck to launch a kick before Bart thought to back up rather than push forwards again. He lashed out, foot landing flat on his exposed stomach and knocking him to the ground. 

Tim straightened and dropped his arms. 

“Fuck, bro,” Bart whined, hand covering his stomach.

“Bartholomew,” Red Tornado warned from the hall where he’d floated in.

 He was panting. That was not a reliable way to beat a speedster. He was lucky Bart was so terrible at keeping his defences up. Tim would have to call Bruce to get more tips. And info on his teammates. Maybe he should text Barb too.

Something was wrong. He didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t feel anything. Tired, maybe. 

Bart wasn’t getting up. He’d known speedsters were fragile but he hadn’t thought he’d hit that hard. He hadn’t meant to.

“Do you need a hand up?” he asked, peering down at his grimacing face. 

“No, just winded. Give me a sec.”

Tim could sympathize with that at least.

“Okay,” the boy finally said. “You guys want ice cream?”

Chapter Text

“So can you hear out of this?” he asked. 

Suzie was beside him at the table, a little pile of sand between them. Her face had changed a bit as they talked. He could recognize his own features in her. A sharp chin, boney cheeks. She still had Cassie’s nose and Conner's eyes though. And a few characteristics he couldn’t place. It was unnerving. 

“That’s just a pile of sand,” she said softly.

He felt his face starting to get warm. She swiped her arm over the table and the pile disappeared into her. 

“Now it’s part of me. Any strand that’s still attached, I can use.”

“So you can see and hear out of everywhere?” he questioned, squinting through his mask. The tech was tracking each thin strand whipping around her face like hair in the wind. 

She giggled. “I guess, if I focus.”

“And how thin could you spread it?”

“Well, as far as it will go, I guess.”

“Huh,” he said, propping his head up. 

It could be very useful for recon and any spying they might need to do. He wondered if Bruce knew about her. He must, at least to some extent. 

They were the only two in the kitchen. She’d caught him eating a midday breakfast. He’d been getting antsier and antsier as time passed. His sleep schedule was getting worse and worse as he tried to keep himself busy with work. Surprising, considering how terrible it had been before. He’d gone through all of Cassie’s Dune books. The others kept catching him wandering the complex at odd hours. He was fairly certain months of patrol every night had ruined his circadian rhythm past the point of repair. Not to mention the strange dreams that kept waking him up after every REM cycle he had the nerve to try to get into his system. He could never remember them upon waking. Water between his fingers.

He put the last spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “If you were to–”

Red flashing lights burst to life. Tim jumped up from his seat. An alarm was blaring. He held his spoon like a weapon. 

“Report to floor one for briefing,” Red Tornado’s voice said through a speaker mounted on the wall. 

“Looks like we have a mission,” Suzie said, unconcerned. 

The lights strobed over everything. Suzie looked demonic before they fell into darkness. When the room was lit again in red, she was standing. 

“What?” Tim demanded. “That’s the mission announcement? It sounds like we’re being attacked.”

“Let's go,” she said with a quiet laugh. 

“I’m not in my suit,” he protested. 

“I’m not wearing anything,” she pointed out, getting the door to slide open with the push of a button.

He’d never thought of it that way. It looked like she was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. 

Halfway to the elevator, the lights came back on and his heart started to slow. He compulsively checked that his mask was still in place. 

He clicked the button to call the elevator to their floor. They were somewhere deep beneath the ocean or cliff. The whole building was secure enough to need fingerprint scanners in every button on every door and elevator. He briefly wondered how it worked for Suzie.

The doors dinged open. Conner and Cissie were already inside, standing on opposite sides of the compartment. He could feel the tension spilling out. Conner eyed his pajamas critically. He wanted to flip him off. He’d never flipped anyone off in his life. He felt like it would be very therapeutic.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” he asked Cissie instead.

She gave him an eerily similar condescending look as Conner. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh,” he said dumbly. He could have sworn it was a Thursday. “Oops.”

“And everyone but Suzie and Cassie go to school. Not just me.”

“Right.”

He wondered what had her so short, she was usually quite pleasant, if not a bit suspicious towards him. 

The rest of the ride was silent save for Suzie’s whispering sand. She was leaning beside Conner, dwarfed by him. Her sand wisped around before contracting back towards her. She was a blur and then a solid form and then a blur again. 

When they got to the first floor, Cassie and Bart were already there. And surprisingly, so was Batman. 

“B?” he said before he could stop himself. 

Bruce gave him a once over, making Tim want to curve inwards on himself. He could feel the blush spreading up his neck.

“Very professional, Rob– Nigh– Red Robin.”

He tried to walk confidently despite wearing only the jack-o-lantern pants Alfred had gotten him during Halloween and a Batman logo shirt he’d stolen from Dick’s apartment.

“Too many of us to keep track of?” he asked jovially, covering any edge the others may have been able to hear.

Bruce just gave him a look that said, not now .

Everyone had lined up in a rough queue. He took a spot on the far left beside Conner. 

“Within the next twenty-four hours, I want you six to apprehend a criminal named James Carter. He is not dangerous but is a master at evasion,” Bruce growled. Tim’s heart was steadily sinking. “He’s needed for an investigation so once you have him secured, you’ll take him to a safehouse of which I will send you the address. I will also send you his profile and a list of frequented locations.”

He recognized that voice. It was the voice he’d used when he didn’t want Tim to be Robin and he was giving him time-wasting jobs to keep him busy and out of the way. He recognised that name too. James Carter, early thirties, hacker for the Maroni’s. He would probably be found in some shithole apartment on his computer. He got snagged by police often enough that he wouldn’t even try to put up a fight. 

That’s it? He wanted to ask. 

But no, he needed to act confident and capable for the team, and loyal and dependable for Bruce. 

“Yes, sir,” the others said, shoulders back, chins up.

“Yes, sir,” he mimicked half-heartedly.

Bruce’s eyes passed over the group, lingering on Tim. “Red Robin is experienced in retrieval missions so you will refer to him.”

Lies. The only thing he’d ever retrieved for Bruce was coffee or the occasional batarang. They always did their interrogations on location. Harder to get caught that way.

Conner glared down at him. Tim kept his gaze before casually looking away. He hoped it exuded dismissal instead of cowardice. He would become a problem if he kept undermining everyone. Cassie had already almost decked him twice over the past few days. 

He was nothing like Superman. Had he been his sidekick? He couldn’t have been. 

“Meeting dismissed,” Bruce said, turning away. 

And again, that’s it ?

“Let’s get ready,” Bart prompted, vibrating with what could only be excitement. 

He disappeared up the stairs.

“I have a feeling this’ll be a good one,” Cissie said, linking her arm with Suzie’s and leading her towards the elevator. 

He shared a look with the last two left but walked away before he could even start to decode it.

He had already felt like he had walked into years of drama when he joined Young Justice, but he hadn’t even seen the tip of the iceberg. 

That iceberg decided to show itself during their patrol of the building before going in. 

Night had fallen and they were all dispersed around a deteriorating semi-detached. 

“Is everyone in position?” he asked. 

His place was on a sagging balcony across the street, hiding in the shadows above streetlight level. 

He got a chorus of yes’s and yeps in return. 

“Of course, Your Highness,” Conner’s voice drawled. 

“Superboy!” Cassie snapped.

“Don’t call me that.”

“ Don’t call me that ,” Bart mocked. “It’s an alias. Just use it or think of a better one.”

“What’s the matter, Impulse ? Past your bedtime? Forget your snack?” Conner said.

“It’s past my bedtime,” Cissie piped in. “Can we hurry up?”

“Who asked you, blondie?” Conner said.

Tim rubbed his hands over his face. He’d thought he was done with this when he dropped out of school. 

“Yes, let’s hurry up,” he said drily. “And don’t use the comms to argue.”

“My sincerest apologies, My Lord.”

Tim just sighed. This was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He understood why Bruce had wanted to work alone for so long.

“Okay, my infrared sensors are only picking up one person inside. Top floor. Arrowette, do you have a visual?” 

She hummed, he could see her on the slanted roof of the house neighbouring the target. Her red suit didn’t blend in well. And she must have been cold with all the skin showing. “The room is dark but it’s a male. I can only see the back of his head, blond. Looks skinny.”

“Affirmative, nobody use force until we’ve identified him for sure.”

“Jesus,” Conner said. He was in the backyard out of sight. “Can we just do what we came to do?”

“Things would go a lot faster if you stopped talking,” Cassie snarled. 

“I’ve lost Impulse,” Suzie said quietly.

Tim banged his head against the banister of the balcony. The cowl had very nice padding. That migraine was still persisting though. Maybe he was dehydrated.

“You had one job,” Conner hissed.

“It’s fine, Secret,” Cissie assured her. “I can see him, he’s running.”

“Impulse,” Tim said, leaning against the banister. “Report in.”

“Just doing a perimeter check,” he panted. “Looks all clear.”

“Okay,” Tim said. 

Cassie dropped down beside him from the roof above. The balcony swayed dangerously. The gold on her suit glinted in the moonlight. She was so much louder than the other Cass. 

Her vibrant eyes met his and she shook her head empathetically. Her arms were crossed and she did not seem impressed. He was glad he wasn’t the only one.

“Wonder Girl and Superboy can come in with me. The rest of you, watch the streets. Let us know if anyone shows up.”

“Ugh, Bart whined. “Lookout duty? Seriously?”

“You’ll play a larger part later,” Tim assured him. 

“Why are you coming in with us, Red?” Conner asked. “Don’t trust us? You know you’re the weakest link, right?”

“I have the zipties,” he said before anything could come out of Cassie’s mouth.

“Zipties?” Cissie asked.

“To secure the target.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you would just knock him out.”

“That was my plan,” Conner responded. 

“That’s messy. I don’t want him groggy for whoever’s interrogating him,” Tim explained, aware of the time they were wasting. Their window could close at any moment. “I have drugs if we need to sedate him.”

“You have drugs?” Bart screeched over the comms.

Tim just sighed and stood. “Superboy, Wonder Girl, move in.”

Chapter Text

Two other terrible, no good, waste of time missions later and Tim was done. He was done with Conner trying to get under everyone’s skin. Done with Cassie falling for it. Done with everyone acting like the missions were anything more than goose-chases designed to keep them out of the Justice League’s hair. 

What’s the outlook on the Lazarus drug? He’d texted Bruce.

No response.

Still on the streets? He’d asked.

Nothing. 

I’ll look into it , he’d said. 

No need , Bruce finally responded. Under control .

He did it anyway. He was going insane, trapped in the hideout. He’d gotten through his whole list of the things he’d wanted to do for the Industries, the non-profit was basically running itself at that point. When he tried to do anything, it felt like micromanaging. He did a few email or phone meetings. He worked out. A lot. Boredom was good motivation. 

GCPD files had proof that the Penguin was receiving shipments from the harbours, though they hadn’t done anything to stop it. There were a few other reports that caught his attention. Poison Ivy caught growing Angel’s Trumpet. An increase in violent robberies in the Narrows. 

They hadn’t found the Joker’s body.

But the Penguin seemed like the most promising one.

He could remember the needle stuck into his arm. Vibrant. Burned into his memory where everything surrounding it was smoke. He used to play a game when he was little, where he would go through his memories of the day and try to pick out individual details and narrow his remembering to its most potent form. He still tried to do that, sometimes. Going through his vague, miserable memories to try and pick out stupid, mundane things. It increased his lurking panic to a dull roar in his ears and kept him from sleeping but he persevered. Like getting a shock from a prank toy then continuing to touch it over and over. Rough wool against his cheek, the smell of old cleaning products, the burning of that green drug in his veins. Right, the Lazarus drug. The Penguin.

He dug into anything regarding him. There was enough to distract him for an entire night. Records on the Iceberg Club, drug and weapons trafficking, art theft. The Penguin had his fingers in all the crime pies and he wasn’t discrete about it.

He tapped a key on his computer and a screen popped up detailing the stockpiling of whatever was coming into the city by boat. No one had been able to locate where it was being held though. Or what it was. 

His chair tipped back dangerously when he leaned into it. He’d need to do his own searching. But how?

He pushed his hair out of his face. The Joker had lured him in by setting up clues for him to follow. For all that he was deranged, Tim couldn’t say that the clown wasn’t a strategist. 

His eyes slid to the Red Robin costume laying out on the foot of his bed. He checked to make sure his mask was still on.

A plan started clicking together in his mind.

A bang rang out from the door. It shook with the impact. Tim nearly fell out of his chair. 

“Ow!” Bart cried from the other side. 

“What are you doing ?” Tim shouted.

“I was coming in,” he shouted back. “Is your door broken? It won’t scan my fingerprint.”

Good, he thought.

“No, I changed it so no one can get in without my permission. It’s an identity precaution.”

“Oh,” Bart said with little of his usual cheer. He regained it quickly. “Okay. Cool! That makes sense, yeah.”

Tim typed in the command to get the door to open. Bart was standing in the hallway rubbing a raised welt on his forehead. 

“Do you need something?” Tim asked, quickly closing all the tabs he’d had open.

He got up and subtly pushed Bart out of his room by joining him in the hall and pushing him back to arms length rather than breathing down his collar. 

“I was just seeing what you were up to.”

Tim closed the door behind him. “Well, I need more coffee, so that’s what I’m doing now.”

Bart squinted at him. According to their files, they were the same height, but Tim felt good being taller with the way Bart slouched around. 

“Do you think you drink too much of it?” he asked innocently. “I’ve never been allowed to try it.”

“You haven’t tried it because you’re a speedster.”

He just shrugged. “So, I was thinking… on the next mission, I could, like, scope out the building before we all go in. And like steal all their guns ‘cause they won’t be able to catch me.”

“We don’t even know what the next mission is,” Tim said. 

He was glad at least one person was treating him like a leader, no matter how tiresome the role was. He was used to delegating. Who was he meant to delegate to here? Cassie? Conner ?

His mind was still ironing out the plan to find the Penguin’s stash. He had to either capture or destroy the drug before more of it made it onto the streets. He still didn’t know all its properties. It was too dangerous.

A chill went down his spine at the thought of what it had done to him. Healed him, sure, but what else? He’d seen bodies that had ingested it and had minor cancers progress and tear them apart in just hours. 

He hoped his plan would work. 

It’s not hard to sneak out of the hideout. Surprisingly. 

All the defences were made to keep things out. Not even Red Tornado noticed him slipping into the night. 

His backpack was heavy on his back and the black motorcycle they kept at the headquarters was loud and unfamiliar beneath him. He’d never really gotten comfortable with the vehicle but it was his only choice. 

The Narrows weren’t a long drive from the cliffs. The streets were quiet on the way in. It was cold enough that he’d probably draw attention on a motorcycle, even with his cape pinned down. He had to be quick. 

The building he was looking for was a dilapidated multiplex. The company had bought it not long ago for a revamp and then to make it into a homeless shelter. Then they’d found out the inspector had declared it a total tear-down. So he was using it as bait. 

If it was destroyed, so what? The insurance would be worth more than the building itself. 

He parked the bike in a shed out back where he could retrieve it quickly. 

Inside, the apartments were damp and just as run-down as the outside. He chose one with a view of the street and an old coffee table still sitting in the center of the living room. On it, he set up a laptop. Not his usual one. He’d gotten this one from Barb as a gift so the IP address couldn’t be traced back to him. It was slow but did its job with all the dependability of an old workhorse towing a plow.

The first thing he did once it was booted up was carefully dismantle all of Barb’s painstaking VPNs and other safety measures. It hurt his soul to do it. It was beautiful work. 

And then, with the carelessness of an idiot. He went to a link he’d found after hours of digging through Oswald Cobblepot’s financial records. Those were easy to find. The harder part wasn’t seeing what money he spent but where he was keeping the stuff he didn’t. 

He’d located it the other day. A private bank in Crete, but that didn’t make it any easier to get to. He had to jump through so many hoops. 

And he did it terribly. 

He sat on a dusty couch and propped up his feet. He got through firewall after firewall and left his fingerprints everywhere .

And then, as a final cherry on top, he donated a few million dollars to his own non-profit. As a treat to himself. 

Then it was time to wait. 

It was only an hour later when the rest of the money started getting pulled out of the account, funnelled into other investments or moved somewhere he couldn’t see. The account was frozen but his work was done. They were probably already hunting him down. 

People started texting him not long after. He regretted giving them his number.

You good? Bart asked. 

Where are you? Cassie said after.

And then Cissie: Hey, heard you’re not at the hideout.

He ignored them all, putting his phone on silent and abandoning it to set up the computer where it would be visible but he could be hidden. He ended up going with a kitchenette with a gaping hole in the ceiling above it so he could look down on whoever found it. 

He stomped on the laptop until the screen was in shatters and wires were spilling out the sides. It felt great. 

He retrieved his burner phone and went upstairs to find the other side of the hole.

He realized that something was going wrong when he checked the phone and all of his teammates had gone quiet.

The window was cracked open for a quick escape if he needed it. He was crouched near the hole, computer visible below. The floor bowed under him. With every shift of his weight, debris came loose and rained down.

He palmed a throwing star just in case. 

A door creaked below him. Out the window, the street was empty. He’d thought he would have to wait longer for the Penguin’s men to come. 

He could hear whispering but not the words themselves. 

He crouched lower and listened for the squeaking of the hinges that would notify him of them entering the apartment to search for the computer. 

It didn’t come.

The whispering continued, at least two voices. And there was another noise alongside it. He strained his ears and held his breath.

His stomach dropped. 

He knew that sound. It was that of sand rushing back and forth like the tides. Expanding out and retracting in to bring information back to Suzie. 

“Fuck,” he breathed.

The rustling stopped and then so did the whispering. Footsteps sounded, coming up the creaky stairs. He glanced outside but it was still barren, he thought he saw a flash of red streak by. 

The door to his hiding place burst open without care for secrecy or the stability of the building. 

“Red Robin!” Cassie immediately shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The three girls piled through the door looking murderous.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “ How are you here?”

“Batman let us use your tracker when we realized you’d left,” Cissie said.

A familiar, gripping anger settled in his chest. “My tracker.”

“Um, yeah. Can we head back now? Are you doing a stake-out?” she continued.

Suzie was barely holding a human shape in the back, sand rushing in and out the door. He couldn’t bring himself to wonder what it was telling her. 

Cassie strode towards him with heavy steps and grabbed the cape sitting on his shoulders in her fist. She yanked him to his feet so they were at eye level.

“This. Is. A. Team ,” she snarled. “You do not run off.”

“Okay, okay,” he protested. “I’m just trying to do some stuff right now that is a lot easier with fewer people. You know, quiet things that need to be done extremely precisely.”

“So you ignored our texts and left without saying anything?” she said, unimpressed. 

“I have my reasons!” he finally snapped. “Can you please just let me–”

“Guys,” Suzie whispered. 

Conner slammed through the door, sand caught in his hair and eyes wide. Tim hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. 

“You!” he seethed. “There are people here. Who is here?”

Tim froze. Cassie didn’t relent her hold on him. He glanced down through the hole at his feet. 

“Do they look like they could work for a mob boss?”

“Yes! Bart’s holding them off.”

“This is exactly why I tried to do this alone,” he hissed. “Now I have to figure out–”

“No,” Cassie interrupted. “This is why you should have told us in the first place. We were out of our minds when we realized you were gone.”

Cissie nodded. Her bow was slung over her shoulder and her suit was twisted like she’d thrown it on in a hurry. 

“Speak for yourself,” Conner huffed, still in jeans and a t-shirt.

Cassie turned a venomous glare on him. 

And then Tim heard the entryway door creak open again, much more carefully this time. He held his hand up and even the sand went silent and still.

The building groaned with every footstep. Rooms were being searched.

He shared a look with Cassie. Her dark eyes were wide and her mouth parted as if to say something. His heart stopped when the door to the kitchenette below them opened. Too close. If they looked up, Tim would be spotted hanging above them.  

He could just barely see the muzzle of a gun poking into the room. 

“You think that’s it?” a deep voice asked. 

Two figures entered. They wore black suits and each had automatics in their hands. A chill raced up his spine.

“Looks like the brat fled,” the other responded. 

As if in slow motion, Tim saw the door to their little room open wider. Bart fell through. He caught himself with heavy feet, struggling with a barbed net draped over his head and tangled around his legs. His mouth was open, ready to speak. 

He forced his finger to his lips. Bart stilled, taking in the tension, biting back words. 

It was too late. Chunks of plaster dislodged and rained down on the room below. 

Tim made eye contact with the bald man directly underneath him. The gun swung up at him. 

“Scatter!” he shouted, throwing himself away from the hole. 

Cassie was on his heels, Bart already in the hall. Conner and Suzie didn’t bother moving. Tim had never thought to use them as tanks. 

Bullets flew up through the floor in all directions. The sound was barely muffled by his cowl. One hit him in the side hard enough to throw him across the room. The suit held up though, not letting the bullet reach flesh. 

He gasped, pain radiating out from around the point of impact. He couldn’t breathe. The world flickered. Here, there, here, there. Dingy apartment, dark office. He dragged himself towards the hall, half crawling. 

There was a scream and he immediately whipped his head around to search out the source of the sound. 

Cissie was on the ground, holding her leg and taking fast shallow breaths. Red was seeping out between her fingers. The colour of her suit. Cassie was at her side instantly.

“It ricocheted,” she cried out. “It ricocheted off my armour. Oh no. Oh, Aries. She’s bleeding.”

Cissie was staring at the wound with blank eyes. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Tim said, pushing himself fully onto his shaky legs. “Prop her leg up!”

The bullets had stopped. Orders were being yelled somewhere in the building. Cassie did as he said. 

He dug through his pouch for his med supplies. He tossed a few long zip ties at them.

“Staunch the blood flow,” he said without looking up. 

“What?” Cassie shrieked. “Do I look like a medic?”

Tim couldn’t find his… there it was. He skidded to his knees beside them. Cassie was trying to connect the ties around Cissie’s leg. Cissie herself had laid back on the dirty floor, ashy hair a halo around her face. He jabbed the needle into her leg near the wound. It looked like an epi-pen and held a few of the same chemicals. Adrenaline, painkillers, some platelet booster. He didn’t know. 

He jolted back to his feet. Out the window, black cars were lined up out front. Three of them. 

The building shook. Tim latched onto the windowsill to keep his feet under him. He spun. 

The floor had fallen out from beneath them, only the edges still holding out. Conner was standing down in the wreckage, panting like he had brought it down himself. Bart was gone. Cassie was holding up Cissie along the other wall to keep her from sliding into the pit.

A few men jumped into one of the sedans. He only barely caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. Its engine roared to life. The building trembled. 

Tim hiked himself up onto the sill to lean outside. Attention caught on the car. His ears were filled with static. 

“What are you doing?” Cassie demanded. “Help us!”

Tim glanced back. She had the small girl in her arms and was inching them towards the door. They would be fine. 

“I have a mission to finish,” he said.

And then he was out the window.

Chapter Text

Tim abandoned his motorcycle in an alley, distractedly watching a group of heat signatures descend lower and lower underground until they disappeared completely. 

He scanned the brick wall. It was covered in graffiti. He’d seen one of the figures open a hatch. But how?

He skimmed his hands over the surface. There. Cracks in the mortar surrounded the brick-like it wasn’t properly sealed. He pressed it in and it flattened with a click. A section of the wall pulled away and slid over to reveal steep stairs and a foul smell.

His heart was racing when he stepped in. The opening slid shut behind him and he was plunged into the inky shadows. He slowly started down, cloaked in shadows. He could hear voices from below. 

“That was a bust,” someone drawled. 

“The others will deal with the gnats. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Gotta see if boss feels the same way. You know how he is– Hey, short-stuff! You’re meant to be guarding the entrance.”

He paused. So he’d have to get by at least one person before he could see inside the lair. He could do that. Right? Right. His ears were ringing.

He pulled his cape around himself and slid a throwing star out of his belt, back pressed against the wall. He didn’t hear footsteps coming up the spiral stairs. He almost started moving again before a dark head of hair appeared around the bend. 

He launched himself forwards immediately, forcing a hand to their mouth and trapping them against the wall. Their hands snapped to his neck and he recognized the dangerous hold from a far-off memory. A forgotten teaching.

They hesitated and he broke out of it before they could snap his spine. 

He didn’t remove his palm from their mouth but they didn’t try to scream.

Black eyes met blue. He ripped his hand off her mouth. Confusion whipped through him.

“Cass?” he whispered. 

Before she could respond, he snapped back to attention and pressed the blade of the shuriken to her neck. It was an empty threat but a useful precaution. 

“Investigating,” she returned, equally as quiet.

“How can I trust you?”

She stared at him blankly. He eyed her, scanning the set of her jaw and the minute wrinkles between her eyebrows. 

“Why are you here?”

She shrugged against his blade as best she could. “Helping.”

He sighed and she looked up at him with innocent doe eyes. Sometimes she was infuriating. He couldn’t be mad at her though, something was stopping him and it wasn’t guilt. There was just a naivety to her that nearly negated all possible repercussions of her actions. Hopefully, she would grow out of it. Finally, he backed off.

“Four,” she said. “Penguin coming with more. Lots of boxes.”

“You know what’s in them?”

She shook her head.

“Lost your edge, have you?” he asked with a wary smirk. A grapevine or an icebreaker.

She looked affronted and stuck out her chin like a stubborn kid taking a dare. Cissie made that face at Conner quite often, usually during his scathing critiques of her sparring skills. He really hoped she was okay. Even though they had tracked him down and screwed up his mission. 

“So?” he asked. “In and out before the Penguin gets here?”

Cass peeled off the wall and led the way without question. He was quick to follow. He tossed two smoke pellets over her head when they got to the bottom. 

She jumped into the haze with confident ease and he plunged in right behind her. The smell only got worse in the central chamber. He ran into a stack of crates and flicked on his infrared sensors. There was someone feeling their way around not far away. 

With a swift kick and probably too much force behind his punches, he disarmed the goon and got him tied up. His mission would finish things once and for all. He needed to destroy all the drug that was left. 

The smoke cleared and Cass was standing over a pile of the three other goons, moaning and grimacing. She sent him a cocky grin. 

They were in a wide room, blue light giving it an ominous glow. There were barrels on one side and crates on the other. Everything looked vaguely slimy. He shuddered. 

He lifted the lid of one of the crates. Guns. Another. The same. Another. Cellphones. He moved to the barrels. The black ones were full of gasoline and the blues were explosive jelly.

He clenched his jaw. The goon he’d tied up was shouting obscenities and threats into the echoing space. He turned back to him and squatted next to him. 

“Where is he keeping the drugs?” he asked, voice low.

“Like I’d tell–”

Tim gave him a sharp jolt of electricity from his wrist cuff. He jerked violently on the floor.

“Tell me,” he ordered. 

“Fuck, bro!” he shouted. “I don’t know. I don’t think the boss even messes with that sorta thing. No girls, no drugs. He has weird morals, dude.”

Tim stood, abandoning the man to his cries.

“Fuck,” he sighed. 

Cass cocked her head.

When he stormed back into the hideout, he was properly furious. Hands itching with it, his eyes burning. 

He hadn’t found the drug. He hadn’t accomplished even a simple mission on his own. He’d heard that his entire stake-out building had collapsed after he left over the police radio. The only good thing that had come of his failure was knowing that Cass was alive. She had even refused to come with him and run off again. Peachy.

He faintly registered his footfalls echoing but couldn’t bring himself to soften them. He was clenching his teeth hard enough to worsen his headache. He was trembling, enough to feel it but not see it.

He needed some alone time. And a sandwich. And a nap. It had been a while since he slept.

Unfortunately, when he got to the elevator room, three of his five teammates were waiting for him. As was Bruce. 

And he did not look pleased.

Good. That made two of them.

“I was just getting a report of your teammates’ retrieval mission,” Bruce said tightly. 

Retrieval mission . Like he was some lowly criminal in need of corralling. He didn’t bother hiding the nasty look on his face as he glared at the three of them. Only Suzie bothered flinching. 

“Have lots of tips for them?” he asked mock casually.

“I have lots of suggestions for you .”

Tim stopped walking, crossing his arms, condensed bo-staff still in his hand. “Yeah? What would those be? To let you know what I’m doing twenty-four-seven so you don’t get dragged into looking for me?” He scoffed. “No thanks.”

“Don’t give me that attitude,” he snapped, looming closer than a second before. “I have enough to worry about without you running off doing who knows what–”

His vision went red around the edges. “Don’t patronize me! If you had just answered my questions when I asked, if you had trusted me then I wouldn’t have had to go off on my own.”

“You think I don’t trust you?” Bruce growled.

“You put a tracker on me!” he shouted, losing any semblance of calm. “Like a dog!”

“I put it on you to make sure you were safe. I didn’t expect this reaction from you. I’m doing a good thing.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “You’re doing a good thing? No. You’re trying to get rid of how guilty you feel about the Joker. Just like you always do.”

“You’re acting like J– Red Hood,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re comparing me to criminals now. I see. Sorry for trying to deal with a problem you’re obviously not concerned with anymore now that the immediate threat to you is gone.”

“Red Hood is not a criminal!” he snapped. “And I have been dealing with it my–”

“He’s killed people, B! He tried to kill me . Multiple times! You’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment.”

“He was being manipulated,” he stated firmly. 

Tim was vaguely aware, through his haze of fury, that the others were staring. Blatantly staring. They were making a scene. It was very unprofessional. 

“Everyone’s been manipulated! Not everyone kills people! This isn’t even about him!”

He scowled. “Right. It’s about your inability to work as part of a team under any circumstance. I’m just trying to keep you safe . Why do you not understand that?”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spat. “It’s about you putting a tracker in my suit!”

“Don’t think you’re so special. Everyone’s suits have trackers in them now. And two of your teammates were injured because of your recklessness.”

“No, it’s because you sent them to do your dirty work,” Tim said but guilt was already gnawing on his heels, forcing him down from his angry high. Two teammates, injured .

He sent one last withering look around the room. Suzie had disappeared. The remaining two were caught somewhere between interest and worry. They were rooted in place, Conner leaning forward and Cassie back. 

“I’m going to my room,” he announced, stepping around Bruce’s menacing figure. “Don’t bother stopping by before you leave, my door won’t open.”

Chapter Text

Once he cooled down some and was sure that Bruce wasn’t lingering anywhere, Tim made the short trek to the med bay. There were only three beds, curtains pulled back from around them.

Cissie was dozing in the one closest to the door. She did admittedly look worse than when he had left her. Her leg was wrapped in tight bandages, there were bruises leaking out from under them, as well as from under her sleeves. There was a shallow cut running from beneath her left eye, nearly slicing through the corner of her mouth. She had an IV dripping into her arm. Whoever had cared for her wounds was nowhere to be found. 

Bart was in the furthest gurney. He hadn’t noticed Tim yet, he had his back turned and the glow of a screen spilled across his face. He should work on being more aware of his surroundings. 

He wandered over silently, not wanting to disturb Cissie.

“Bart,” he whispered.

He could see now, through the dark, that he had earbuds in. He could hear the music coming from them too. He gave one a couple sharp taps.

Bart jolted up faster than Tim could follow. The room went completely black without the light from his phone. 

“Jesus,” the boy wheezed, pressing his hand to his heart. “Warn a guy, will you?”

Tim just shrugged. “I did.”

His mask quickly activated its new night vision tech he’d upgraded in his fury and he caught sight of the cast covering the boy’s arm. He furrowed his brows.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“Oh,” he shrugged. “Conner got a bit over eager and knocked down too many supports.”

“What?” he asked, brain reeling to catch up. “A building fell on you?!”

“Yeah, I mean, it was a pretty sad building. I’m fine.” He swung the sheets off his lower half, revealing a bulky brace on one of his ankles. “Sprained ankle and broken wrist. I’ll be totally fine by the end of the week.”

“The end of the week?” he echoed.

He nodded smugly. “Speedster healing. Bedrest is going to suck though.”

Tim chuckled in relief. He could always count on Bart to lighten the mood. He knew the pains of bedrest all too well.

Bart squinted at him, he probably couldn’t see in the low light.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “It’s like four in the morning.”

His circadian rhythm was ripped to such negligible shreds at that point that it didn’t even surprise him. He’d already gotten a few hours of rest after he and Bruce’s– altercation.

“Are you usually an early riser?” he asked instead of explaining. 

Bart laughed too loudly for Cissie to be so close. “I haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling a bit better about himself. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get to it.”

Bart didn’t even argue, just picked up the earbud that had fallen out and pushed it back into place. The light of the phone returned and Tim turned back towards Cissie and the door.

“Hey, Red?” his soft voice called once he was half out of the room. “Just so you know, I’m not mad at you or anything.”

Tim stepped out and shut the door behind him. 

He eventually found himself in the kitchen. The lights were off. There was no window to stare out of. He was lost in his own head, miserable but unwilling to break the dangerous spiral. 

Where could the drug be? And who was supplying it? The League of Assassins, surely. They had to be the only ones with access to the Lazarus Pit. But anyone could have gotten a sample. The drug on the streets could even be different than the original that the Joker had been pedalling. Where had he gotten it?

Every question led to three new ones. 

Why would someone want to sell a drug like that? It killed so many people that he doubted anyone would rationally ingest it. Whoever it was was literally running their clients into the ground. The Joker, he could understand, it was never about money with him. But not a single other rogue came to mind who would continue it without some hidden reason. 

He tapped his fingers on the metal table. The chair was digging into his shoulder blades. He couldn’t stop thinking .

How was he meant to track a phantom?

A traitorous thought hit him, immediately making him feel angry and insubstantial. With Bruce’s help . Bruce had experience, connections, an extensive database. Everything Tim didn’t.

He growled and stood. He was pacing before he could stop himself.

He would do it himself. If Bruce didn’t want to include him, that was fine. He was done reaching for his approval. Tired of it. He was fine by himself. Always had been.

They had never found the Joker’s body. 

The image of Dick sending his crackling baton through his chest was burned into his mind. The screams of the girl that had been trapped there watching. Tim’s own mess of feelings and emotions.

Talia had disappeared from Gotham sometime after. Just as Bruce was losing his footing to Jason’s rampage.

The kitchen was getting loud. Blood was rushing through his ears. The air felt stuffy. 

The Joker was dead, he reassured himself. 

But there was laughing in his ears. Mocking him, promising violence.

He shook his head but it did nothing. It was following him through his pacing. No relief. He’d been ignoring it for too long for it to suddenly come rushing back full force. He hummed tunelessly to drown it out. 

No help. 

He dug his hands through his hair. Kicked his metal chair so it skittered across the floor rather than toppling over. 

“Agh!” he shouted. “Goddammit– stupid–”

He was pacing, pacing, pacing. The kitchen was blurry. The world was falling in on him.

Finally, he snatched his phone from the counter and called the first name in his contacts. 

“Hello?” the comforting voice answered immediately.

“Alfred,” Tim said, sounding pathetic even to himself. He hadn’t realized he was close to crying. He wasn’t sad. He was out of control. “Did I– wake you up?”

He didn’t want to be in this dark kitchen alone. He didn’t want to be stuck underground with people who hated him. He didn’t want to worry about the Joker. He just wanted to fall asleep and not dream.

“No, Master Timothy. I was just starting a babka.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. “Um, how’s that going?”

“Well, I have yet to put anything in a bowl but I believe it will be promising.”

Tim forced a chuckle and looked around desperately. There was a mixer on the counter and the cabinet was open, exposing a row of spices he could guarantee had never been used by his teammates. 

“Could you teach me how to make your gingersnaps?”

Chapter Text

“Bruce,” he begged into the phone. He felt like he was back to clawing for any shred of attention, trying to prove himself. “I swear, I saw Talia! She was in the traffic footage on Fifth and Rosewood at two in the morning yesterday.”

“Tim,” he sighed. “I’m sure you think you saw her–”

“I did see her.”

“But she’s been out of town for months. If there’s one thing she does, it’s keep her promises.”

He clenched his teeth. “I saw her. I’m certain.”

“Tim,” he warned. 

“When she called her cease-fire, what did she say? You said she promised to leave Gotham. What were her exact words?”

“Please, I’m at work. Everything’s fine. Let it go.”

Tim kicked his bed frame and doubled over, clutching his foot. “Can you just send me the cowl footage? Just to make me feel better?”

“Tim, get some sleep.”

And just like that, he hung up. 

Tim groaned and thought about kicking the bed again. Instead, he hurled the phone at his pillow. He pushed his fingers into his hair and spun around the room. He felt manic from lack of sleep. The laughing was louder than usual, cawing from behind his sealed door. 

He had seen Talia. He wasn’t crazy, or stupid.

Of course, Bruce didn’t believe him. He had half a mind to call Dick but knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything. He was back in Bludhaven, way disconnected from anything that might be going on in Gotham. 

He had seen her.

But he should trust Bruce. He knew her better than anyone. If she had insinuated something, he would have caught it. He had experience with people like her. What could possibly make him overlook a potential threat to his beloved Gotham?

The fact that she’s the mother of his child , his mind chipped in. 

No. He was too logical for that, he would never let something so sentimental get in the way of an investigation. That was the first thing he’d taught Tim; complete the mission no matter what. 

There really was no reason to doubt his words. 

He also had no reason to doubt what he had seen. For what reason would Talia Al Ghul be lurking in Gotham?

Maybe supplying a certain Lazarus drug.

He took a shuddering, uncontrollable breath. 

He needed to get that cowl footage.

Tim was sopping wet. 

His very bones were shivering, his teeth were chattering hard enough that he was worried about cracking one, his fingers were numb. He was in his Red Robin costume and it helped. It kept the water out and a majority of the cold, but even it could only do so much. His face was exposed and the barrage of icy water overwhelmed even the suit’s advanced insulating tech. 

“Red– Red Robin,” he stuttered to the voice recognition software.

The cavern was pitch black. Bruce would be out and Alfred was asleep, he always took the Saturday-Sunday night off, on Bruce’s vehement request. Hopefully, Tim’s security clearance would protect against any alarms or traps. 

The door clicked open the same way it had the very first time he visited the Cave. Though this time the inside was no brighter than the night outside. The thunder of the falls was completely eliminated when he stepped in and latched the door behind him. 

His cowl already had its night vision activated, not that he needed it to navigate the behemoth of a space. He wrung his cape out over the banister into the water below.

He’d told everyone back at the hideout that he’d gone out for a few errands and to visit a friend. They’d seemed skeptical but unwilling to push him on it so soon after coming to their tense peace treaty. At least no one had followed him– of that, he was sure– and he’d removed all the bugs in his suit he could find. Obviously. 

The computer hummed awake under his fingers, monitors lighting up one after one to illuminate a semi-dome around him. Familiar and almost nostalgic. The seat in front of the keyboard was as comfortable as ever.

He pulled a thumb drive out of one of his tool belt pockets. He didn’t know the exact date of Talia’s departure when Bruce captured Jason but he should only have to do some light skimming. He knew his way around the new organizational system. He was the one who’d come up with it.

Files upon files loaded. Bruce’s cowl, Damian’s mask, Tim’s cowl, Dick’s mask, the ground cams from the Manor yard. Hours upon hours. It was fine. He could find what he needed. 

He narrowed it down to just Bruce’s stuff and started scrolling. Even Justice League meetings were saved. Tim caught sight of a snapshot on one file from the night Bruce had hijacked his plan to find the Penguin’s storage hole; his own furious face blurred by the tech of his cowl. 

Suddenly, every light in the Cave flicked on. 

He was on his feet in an instant. Too slow. A blade was already at his throat. 

“Does Father know you’re here?” Damian asked, a scowl on his young face.

Tim knocked the sword away with the armour on his wrist and extended his staff. He kept him at a careful distance.

“No,” Tim said confidently. “I’m just doing some of my own research.”

Damian hummed and looked at the computer, reading the filters he’d put on the footage logs. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he said.

“Not out with Bruce tonight?” he asked, trying to distract him from the monitors. “Grounded again?”

His blue eyes snapped back to him, his glower promising violence far too graphic for someone of his age. “Of course not.”

Tim laughed and knocked his sword with his staff. “And here I thought Jason was the liar of the family.”

Damian launched himself forwards, graceful as a cat. Tim was expecting it and easily dodged to the side. 

“And here I thought it was you,” Damian sneered, his accent coming out. 

Now, Tim knew he was playing a dangerous game. Metal hit metal and they danced around the platform. A game of intimidation rather than an actual fight. He needed that footage. 

Damian caught his half-second glance. 

“Looking for something in particular?” he asked, swinging his katana in a deadly arc towards Tim’s neck. He blocked it and twisted the blade down and away from him. “I noticed my mother’s name quite a few times.”

Tim didn’t bother to answer, opting instead to hop the guard rail to the level below. Damian was on his heels, landing on a wheeled desk that barely shifted under his socked feet. 

The game was getting faster, Damian running at him and Tim lunging to meet him before he could get more force behind his blow. They were both impatient to accomplish their goals. A block from the kid had Tim’s arms shaking with the impact.

“Always better to be safe regarding a potential threat,” Tim finally said, trying to swipe out his legs with one of his own. 

His training with Lady Shiva and Cass gave Tim an edge. Damian’s movements were too similar to Bruce’s for him to not see them coming before he started an attack. But the kid kept up well, it was obvious that– like Cass– fighting was the thing he had been born and raised to do.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said darkly.

And Tim was under no illusions that he could beat Cass in a fair fight.