Archive of Our Own

“Oh, Drake, you are such a drama queen,” Damian said, as if he was wasting precious air speaking to Tim. Which to be fair, Tim was quite used to; even though Tim was still hurt that after these past few years, from Damian’s arrival at age 10 and Tim was 15, to now when Damian is 13 and Tim is a mature 18, he and Damian have never able to have just one decent and true chance at being brothers, an opportunity which Tim was ecstatic about having, with everyone around Tim before Damian arrived nearly had an intervention with Tim to tell him to Shut The Fuck Up About Your New Little Brother or else.

Tim heard it, in that current iteration, the other night in the Batcave when explaining why he could not have gotten to Jason and Damian to help with Bane since at that moment, he was going one-on-five against some thugs that Bane had hired, thugs that were at least a one-third hopped on Bane Venom…

Per usual, the haranguing by Bruce and quiet scolding of Dick (boy does he live up to that name) couldn’t be curtailed, and Damian got in the last word with no admonishment, all the while Jason was passed out cold in the Med Bay from painkillers and a nasty broken arm (Tim had started to notice that his harangue sessions from Bruce and Dick were frequently more and more when Jason was either still on patrol, in the showers, or somehow preoccupied, because Jason stood in Tim’s corner more often than not these days. Strange bedfellows indeed)

At least the bare minimum of a sliver of opportunity to be friends would have been nice.

Just the bare minimum. That is all Tim wanted. That and for the lead singer of Waterpark to ask him on a date.

However, none of that happened; not when Damian currently has his number of murder attempts on Tim’s life presently standing at 4, (although it’s been a year and half since the last one, so maybe Dick did make some progress after all this time). Damian had it in for Tim from the moment Damian set foot into the Bat Cave; from the T-Rex to the poison attempt, to the condescending and downright evil remarks and put-downs to the cutting of Tim’s grapple line, and the worst of all, the seemingly unflinching resolution of Dick, Bruce, and even Alfred that Damian was/is the victim because he had been raised in the League of Assassins by Ra’s Ah Ghul (ugh, Tim shivers to his bones just barely thinking of the creepy 600-year-old-man and his rather…concerning interest in Tim) and Talia Ah Ghul, Damian’s mother and once the object of desire for Bruce. Of course, having your love date rape you in order conceive a child pretty snuffs out any chance of a permanent relationship.

***Note: Damian didn't actually cause the lead singer of Waterpark to never ask Tim out, although Tim is sure if Damian could have, he would have ensured it would never had happened, The Demon Spawn Brat***

But it is a broken record on repeat: Tim is older, Tim should be more mature, Tim is over exaggerating, and so forth.

It has become…very tiring for Tim, and not only because he has consumed 6 pots of coffee over 6 days of no sleep between nightly patrols, cold cases, reports for the Bat Fam, reports for Drake Industries and Wayne Enterprises, board meetings, press conferences, Bat-computer updates, and So. Much. More.

And all Tim wants is a smidgen of respect, an iota of privacy, and just a dash of rest…none of which Damian is even close to granting to Tim…hence why Tim’s paper files, neatly numbered AND ordered, stacked, and ready for Bruce; the result of the past 6 days, focusing on potential huge arms bust in Gotham Harbor two nights from now, are spread all over Tim’s bedroom floor.

Because Damian simply stomped into Tim’s bedroom without knocking and took one hand and swooped it all off Tim’s desk.

Right as Tim was exiting his bathroom. Right as Tim is entirely and utterly focused on Damian, who had a smirk that Satan himself would be proud of, as the small yet muscular arm of the 13-year-old swiftly and purposely pushed the hundreds of pages of hard work, all 1.5 spaced and tripled grammar and spelled checked and ten times fact checked, to the hard wood floor, going everywhere. Even being numbered, it would take a long time to reorganize it all and if even one page is slightly wrinkled, Tim knows his perfectionism will cause him to reprint it all and reorganize and restack but be late in delivering it to Batman, which is in the next 45 minutes (of course, Tim could be walking into the cave missing an leg, half an arm and no left eye, in his "Star Trek" boxer briefs, and Bruce/Batman would still just grunt, scowl, and blame Tim for being late with the report).

“Damian! What the fuck? Why the hell did you do this?”

“Tt. Drake, again, you are being nothing more than low-life, simpleton, overestimated usurper, drama queen you always are. It is not my fault you left your work in such a vulnerable position where a simple light breezed could blow some pages off, which is obviously what occurred.”

Damian said it just a tad too confidently, and just a tad too loud, which led Tim to glare at him, with his ice blue eyes narrowed on into Damian’s dark green ones and Tim’s angular jaw set so hard it could grind a diamond. And Tim’s hesitation proved right, as Bruce, Dick, and Jason all came into the room, somehow with enough room to fit, all on the side of the room with Damian, and apparently without even asking for an invite or permission to enter.

Damian set this up and is trying to make Tim look stupid, once again. Make Bruce and Dick lecture him, again. Jason; however, with whom Tim has made great progress in terms of trust and forgiveness and other emotions normally alien (sorry Kon) to the Bat Family, over the last year and a half…actually it was the week after Damian’s last murder attempt that Jason sat Tim down, at the kitchen table over Alfred's chocolate chip cookies and Oolong Tea, to officially and sincerely apologize for anything and everything he could as well as everything he had done to that point, going so far as to say that if he apologize 5 times a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year for three millennia, it would barely scratch the surface of what Jason owes Tim in terms of apologies, was standing a bit to the side, waiting to at least gain both sides of the story…unlike two other vigilantes that occupy the Manor...and to Tim's already fraying fuse, his bedroom.

“Hey, Baby bird,” Jason began, softly. “What’s-?”

“Please, Todd. Don’t waste any more time feeding Drake’s fragile ego with pet names and false sincerity. I really don’t know why you bother,” Damian almost snarled at Jason.

Jason focused his normally hazel eyes on Damian in a brief murderous glare and Tim honestly can’t believe that Lazarus Pit green lasers didn’t shoot from Jason’s eyes at Damian, transforming the Demon Brat into a molten pile of skin and clothes.

Would have been one hell of a mess for Alfred to scrub out of the floor.

“Little D,” Dick said, exasperated and pinching his nose. “Do I need to break out the “Pleasantries Power Point” again?

The Demon Gremlin shivered for a moment and shook his head in the negative.

“Ok, good.” Dick continues, dropping his hand from his face and placing both hands on his hips, “What is going on? We heard raised voices-not surprising given what room we are in, and the parties involved-and came to see what has happened. Tim, what are you blaming Damian for this time?”

Tim, who had just been…just staring at no one and nothing, startled and looked at Dick, taken aback.

Really, Dickwing? So it’s been a little over a year and a half since I brought Bruce back, on my own, without your help, with your banishment, with your ultimate betrayal of our trust and brotherly bond. You are questioning, no, saying straight out, like it is obvious my fault. Really?

This thought runs through Tim’s mind as Jason focuses his glare on to Dick, who looks confused as to why his younger, yet bigger brother is glaring at him, even mouthing a What? in response to Jason’s stare.

Jason's expression reveals he also shares Tim’s sentiment towards Dick and his straight up assuming Tim is blaming Damian for something without just cause…

Good thing Tim and Jason have been helping each other out with breathing techniques, otherwise Nightwing would be Headless Wing.

Without saying a word, barely breathing at a whisper, Jason doesn’t take his eyes off Dick, Bruce, or Damian, and shuffles towards Tim’s side of the room until he is right next to Tim, but slightly in front of him with his shoulder barely in front of Tim’s right shoulder.

“Rephrase your question, Dickhead. Preferably in a tone that is not judgmental, condescending, and most importantly, ready to piss me off,” Jason growls.

“Todd, what is this nonsense? Drake left his papers in a vulnerable position for a simple breeze to upset the so-called organization of so-called important work, which no doubt will be inferior, because Drake is and always will be, inferior,” Damian haughtily huffs.

“Damian,” Dick says sternly, “Power Point.”

Damian closes his mouth, glaring at Tim and Jason. Tim honestly feels safer with Jason barely in front of him than he has felt in a long time, especially when on patrol or a mission with the three Bats in front of him. At one time, such a thought would make Tim nauseous…now he just resigned to it.

“Tim, what happened?” Bruce asks, not as condescending or judgmental, but more in exasperation as if he has way more important things to attend to than anything involving Tim getting some respect and support from his family. “How did these papers of the report, that I now assume I will not be getting at 1800 hours, get onto your bedroom floor?”

Scratch that, it was more condescending as it went on, and Tim knew in that instant, he could have Oracle (who he is still somewhat pissed at since she also hasn’t apologized for abandoning him like all the Heroes did when Dick banished him when Bruce was lost in time and not dead, like they all thought) bring up every single iota of footage proving how Tim has been right about Damian all this time, and Bruce, along with Dick, would still NOT BELIEVE him.

So Tim…SNAP goes the camel's back in Tim's mind at that last straw Bruce just placed there with that remark.

Tim. Is. Just. Done.

“Fuck you," Tim’s eyes cold as a blizzard, voice colder, and the aura coming off him the coldest of all. "All THREE of you."

Jason swears to several gods he doesn’t believe in that the room temperature itself dropped like 10 degrees…and cannot believe Tim has just said what he said. He loves it, there’s no doubt about it, but believing it has happened (long time coming, and he remembers when Tim has gotten-and still does get-in his verbal and physical revenge, because Jason insisted it was something that Tim could, and should do, even after all the apologies. Even though the two black eyes, split lip, fractured jaw, and two bruised ribs and broken wrist hurt like a motherfucker, it was when Tim has delivered his verbal harangues before the physical beatdowns, or just the harangues in themselves alone with no physicality, that Jason truly felt exposed, weakened, and like he wanted to die than endure anymore of Tim’s cold, angry yet calm, murderous monologues or his feral verbal shots. It was during those times that Jason found himself almost wishing for The Clown’s crowbar again.

Almost.

So whatever is fixing to occur, Jason knows it is in his best interest to just not move, stay silent, and enjoy the show. Damn, he wishes he had some popcorn with melted butter and Himalayan Salt.

Oh well…

Bruce, Dick, and Damian are gobsmacked. Whether it is the overall coldness Tim that is rolling off him, or the just words he spoke, whatever the three of them suspected it wasn’t being told to go fuck themselves.

“T-t-im, what did you say?” Dick stuttered. His dark blue eyes wide open, pupils huge.

“You fucking heard me, Dickhead.”

“TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE! Apologize to your brothers, and me, right now! That attitude will not be tolerated in this house!” Bruce roars but doesn’t move.

Jason notices that all three of the Bats opposite him and Tim are not moving forward, if anything, Damian stepped back and Dick, like Bruce, stands still. It is almost like they know that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne so done…

And it is not good.

“Again, Fuck. You. Three. Asshats.” Tim coldly and more frightening, calmly, replies.

Now Damian has recovered and starts into his Demon Gremlin persona.

“Drake, how dare you! I shall fin-.”

“Damian, shut your damn mouth before it needs to be wired shut."

Damian’s mouth closes, teeth clicking, eyes wide at the interruption Tim delivers, all the while simultaneously looking at all three while also somehow looking through them.

Bruce has never felt so exposed in his life.

“Three. Goddamn. Years,” Tim hisses.

Jason again feels like the temperature is being controlled by Victor Fries because it keeps getting colder.

“Three years,” Tim repeats. “Of putting up with murder attempts-.”

Dick, as if he can’t help himself because it is second nature apparently, barely opens his mouth to contradict Damian when Tim’s ice storm blue eyes move and target Dick.

Tim doesn’t say anything. No one does. But Tim’s eyes are almost literally burning a hole into Dick’s forehead. Tim just glares. Dick still has his mouth open, yet nothing is coming out, not even a breath.

Tim slightly cocks his head.

Dick clicks his mouth shut.

Tim goes back to looking at all three at one time.

“Murder attempts: pushed off the T-Rex. Impaled. Twice attempted poisoned,” Tim coldly states, raising a finger for each attempt mentioned. “And each fucking time, I was made to blame. I was made to apologize. I was made to endure the hurt of being ignored and having not one miniscule iota of support. All the while a spoiled, entitled, violent, psychopathic, murderous demon raised and trained by other murderous demons walks around the Manor like he is king of the fucking goddamn world.”

Damian goes to launch at Tim for his words, but Bruce places a placating hand on Damian’s shoulder, stopping him.

Tim smirks.

“Should have let him go, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce visibly flinches and his face falls in hurt at how Tim addresses him.

Jason places a hand over his mouth, trying to look as if he is shocked, not trying to smother his chuckles. Yeah, he is shocked at Tim’s words, but Jason can’t help but enjoy himself at these three, what was it Tim called them? Asshats, that’s it. That these three Asshats are getting a taste of their own medicine and a much-needed humbling.

“Because yes, all the things that he did to me does make it seem that I am the weaker one, that I am inferior. So does the past misdeeds and words from Jason,” Tim places a hand on Jason’s shoulder without looking, but Jason can tell through the touch Tim isn’t taking aim at Jason, just making a point.

Jason knows this, just through the touch of Tim's hand. He is ok with that.

“I was alone in the Middle East, searching for you, Mr. Wayne, because Richard couldn’t take his head out of his ass.”

Dick’s bottom lip is trembling.

“Oh wait, or was that Slade’s dick that was stuck up there?”

Everyone’s, except Tim’s-who now has slight grin that would make Joker tremble-are blown wide. Like nuclear explosion wide.

“Or was it Wally’s? Starfire with an 8-inch dildo? Maybe it was all of them that put you into a 'spyral' in addition to your ego-inflated head that blinded you to the pain, the desperation I was, and to a degree, still am, in,” Tim pretty much snarls coldly.

“Yeah, I can see how all that can portray me as ‘inferior’, well at least inferior to Richard as we now know why he focuses on his ass looking good all the fucking time. Must have a lot of glute power to handle all that penetration…”

Damian looks both murderous and mystified at what is happening.

Bruce is paling as if a vampire is standing beside him, drinking his blood from his jugular vein.

Dick’s face just crumbles. Jason is quite certain that if Dick could physically crumble to dust like a sand castle in a Sahara dust storm, he would. Because Jason had heard the rumors, but Tim now has seemed to all but verify them, and if anyone was to know with five peer-reviewed pages of research and proof, it would be Tim.

And damn, Jason needs a fucking sweatshirt. It is getting very cold here.

Tim continued, “Because it should be known that since I returned from the overseas training that you, Mr. Wayne, sent me on, I have acquired, mastered, and unless completely solo, kept secret the several different fighting styles I maintain in my arsenal, as well as interesting advantages that perhaps is unknown to you all, perhaps not. But the point being: has it ever occurred to any of you-and yes, Jason and I have already had this conversation-that if I am able to take on Joker and kick his ass to the Phantom Zone with nary a scratch, fight both Two-Face and Killer Croc with two only two minor bite marks and a bullet graze as injuries, and earn the unfortunate admiration, attention, and respect of Ra’s Al Ghul, even matching him move for move in a sword battle to a degree, that it is also possible that perhaps I have been letting you three get the upper hands in training? Sparring? Murder attempts? Hmm? That, in fact, I am NOT inferior?

C’mon, Richard, never occurred to you that all those sparring sessions were just a wee bit too easy and repetitive in your victory/loss ratio? Or you, Li-tt-le Ah Ghul, you brag about how easy it is beat me up, to almost kill me, and you have yet to succeed. Heart not into it like an Ah Ghul should be? Are you soft? Are you yourself, dare I say…inferior, Li-tt-le One?”

Tim’s words are cold hisses and snarls, yet so calm it is unnerving to the core. Jason does remember the conversation, one of many "the conversations" he and Tim had, and where they had it.

The Tower.

The sight of their first showdown…and Jason’s biggest regret ever. EVER.

And Jason remembers how it finally struck him, later on when hearing of how Tim made several of his teammates regret EVER trying to prank him, that back in Titans Tower, on that horrible night, it seemed that Tim fought to just survive…until Jason mentioned his Titans teammates. And that was when Tim turned…almost feral (not to mention later examples like the Joker being kicked into the Phantom Zone as well as how Tim took over LexCorp and made Lex Luthor a middle-management stooge, and when Tim’s fellow Young Justice/Titans teammate Greta had been kidnapped by the assholes known as the DEO, leaving Jason was flabbergasted with the ruthless, and bloodless, efficiency Tim had taken down an entire base that was fucking government funded,) and Jason had to deliver a little “zap” from his pocket-sized taser to gain the upper hand, which had led him to getting extremely pissed off, followed by the whole slitting of the throat, breaking of the bones with the bo staff, writing on the wall in Tim’s blood debacle.

Jason remembers that he felt then, even though he wouldn't admit then, that there wasn't a snowball's chance on Apokolips that Tim was in anyway inferior, and if those he truly cared for and loved were slightly threatened, Tim switched to something that scared Jason, and Jason now admits; to himself, to his therapist, to Tim, that being scared that night fed the Pit and led to the Red Hood doing something that will forever mar his legacy, even if no one else knows about it: the Red Hood-who doesn't hurt kids, who kills child traffickers without as so much a half-breath, had hurt a kid and almost killed him.

And that kid forgave Jason. Had looked up to Jason. Still looked up to Jason. Had worked hard to make amends. And if that makes someone inferior, then Jason is ready to sign up for the classes that teach that shit, because it is better inferior like that then whatever fucked up notion of superior the Demon Spawn Brat has, be it his own creation or whatever Rao-forsaken training Ra's, Talia, and the League literally beat into him.

Not to mention that if any proof is further needed that Tim is not inferior: Kon, Cassie, and Bart have met a nice medium with Jason, encouraged by Tim himself (who basically said he would cut off all contact AND finances with all four of them if they didn’t find a middle ground and quit the hostilities) where they admittedly can never fully forget nor forgive Jason for what he did (Jason understands as he can’t either) but if Tim is willing to and has forgiven Jason, then they would at least be civil and not make things tense when in the same room.

That was six months after Damian’s last murder attempt; the year following up until two nights ago has been bond building, weekly sessions of movie night on Tuesdays and game nights on Thursdays. Kon has invited Jason to the farm (shovel talk included but it was fun. Having to muck stalls in his boxers because he foolishly challenged the young man to a strength contest was not), Cassie and Jason have regular strength competitions (which she always wins after making him feel he has a minute chance, and it did nicely feed his ego at her poor attempts at hiding an apparent crush and flirting with him, before an honest but kind conversation made it clear it would never work. She almost seemed relieved...after she sat on him for two hours while eating Oreos and not sharing as her "heartbreak therapy"), and Bart…Bart is Bart and goddamnit if Jason hasn’t grown to love that little, wild-auburn haired speedster. Has come in handy on a few Outlaws’ missions.

Not to mention the only reason Jason had gotten lucky with the Batarang during the “Battle For The Cowl” was because Tim had spent the previous three days running himself ragged dealing with the peaking chaos in Gotham after Bruce’s disappearance and was beyond exhausted before the fight even started, although Jason stills wonders what having Tim as his Robin would be like.

So yeah, Tim holding himself back made a lot more sense when Jason heard it and stewed over it while, ironically, making he and Tim stew for lunch that day they talked in the Tower. But that is the past, a year and half ago past, and now Jason is interested in how the three Ass-Bats (he chuckles to himself, he should trademark that) will react to as to why Tim allowed his ass to be kicked again and again.

Stupid, self-sacrificing son-of-a-bitch, Jason has race across his brain. Paranoid Optimist.

Damian is taken aback at what Tim just sad, and Jason thinks he sees moisture in the Gremlin’s eyes why his face is frozen in shock…hurt?

“I shall take your silence as an affirmation. Plain and simple, I allowed myself to be the inferior Robin, as you have said Li-tt-le One, because I felt, and believed, that since Mr. Wayne never wanted me, and Richard hated me for instilling myself into Robin after Jason’s death, that if I were start off inferior and then build up from that, with new techniques, a incomparable work ethic, and blah blah blah, that at the very least you all would look and accept me as much as a beloved cousin or nephew. Seems I was sorely, fucking mistaken to expect such kindness and love from the two so-called Alphas of the Family,” Tim says, somehow even colder. "I admit I lost myself in the process, but not as bad as it was portrayed to those on the outside, even those I wanted to tell. Learning to hide one's self seems to be the jewel in the cowl crown of this family. Oh, and also there is the fact that everyone knows that if I applied myself for a month, I would have everything you own Mr. Wayne, including the Manor, Alfred, and your mantle. But I restate: never wanted to be Batman, never will be Batman."

Richard, you look like you are about to break down and cry. Are my words too hurtful? Like I am ripping your heart out of your chest?”

Dick just nodded, his eyes leaking tears as he has collapsed/sat on Tim’s bed.

“Now you know how I felt when you took Robin.”

Holy fucking shit, Tim isn’t pulling punches. Isn’t caring. He is almost…relishing this? Jason thinks.

Bruce’s mouth drops open, and he looks at Dick, who looks down, and then back at Tim.

Tim cocks his head and grins, so calm, so…terrifying.

Please, whatever gods there are, don’t let Tim go full evil. He would make Joker look like Bozo the Clown; Jason silently thinks/prays.

“Aw, Mr. Wayne, you don’t know the full story? Of course, you don’t. And even if you did, you probably would not care as it makes your dear son and the fucking Golden Child look like that of which they try so hard to not be: fallible human beings.”

Jason still has his hand over his mouth but this time it is because he is biting his thumb. Jason has been scared exactly twice in his life before now: Ethiopia and that night on top of Wayne Enterprises, when he saw Tim, sans cowl, domino mask, and grapple, and way too fucking close to the edge (getting lost in the process indeed). That was the catalyst for their changing of the guard in their relationship. And even though Tim has been doing better since then, Jason knows he has had more bad days than good, and has still allowed himself to be the Bats’ punching bag with little to no support and whether it is Tim being the sacrificial selfless son-of-a-bitch he is or he is playing his game, Jason still doesn't like it at all. And except when Jason and Cass are here at the Manor does Tim have any sort of support system (which is also good because if the Titans were here despite the bullshit "no meta" rule, Wayne Manor and 3/4 of Gotham would be destroyed, probably on Bart's anger alone (boy is fairly terrifying when someone he loves is hurt, almost to Tim's level), but Cass has her life in Hong Kong and scaring the shit out of the Rogues over there (while somehow getting her ass whipped by a 10-year-old murder machine named Cricket and not Damian), and Jason has not only Crime Alley, but The Narrows, The Bowery, and part of Gotham Proper plus helping Tim with cleaning them all up with Tim’s plans of schools, actual rehab centers, a water plant to start making Gotham’s sludge called tap water from Gotham Bay drinkable for once, so he isn’t always available to defend Tim, even though when he does hear of the abuse, he reads the riot act, although knowing it doesn’t do as much good as it should, and he also has noticed that more and more of the criticisms, harangues, and what not occur either when Jason is out of it due to injuries or not even in the Manor or Gotham. Fucking Ass-Bats.

But right now? Jason is terrified as hell, because Tim may have finally snapped…and that is not good, not good at all.

And to top it off…Tim seems like he just getting started.

“Full story?” Bruce timidly asks, or as timid as Bruce can be.

“Yes, the full story. Which is this: after you got lost to time, everyone, and I absolutely mean every single fucking one-except some Outlaws-"(Jason grins)"-as well as my two, at the time dead best friends-believed you dead. Wasn’t hard, with Superman holding a shriveled dead body in a Batman uniform. Hell I even believed it for a while. But on top of losing you, I had also lost my biological parents, my two best and dearest friends to death, my ex faked her death, came back and wasn’t all that regretful about it, which by the way, since you directly had a hand in that, a double ‘Fuck You’ to you, Mr. Wayne. Then, Richard here, after taking the cowl decisively, decided that it was a good fucking idea to essentially fire me from Robin, because I am his ‘equal’ apparently, and turn around and just handed the mantle, the light to Batman’s darkness, to the fucking Demon Spawn who in accepting said-I didn't even know it had happened until I literally turned the fuck around and saw the Brat standing there in what was my uniform-was so, so, gracious and humbled by such an act.” Tim says the last few words dripping with cold sarcasm.

“Then, when I realized you were not dead, just lost to the time stream, I went to Richard-who was supposed to be my big brother, my mentor, my partner, my equal…my personal Brutus," Tim coldly remarked, glaring at Dick with no emotion in those freezing ice blue eyes.

"E tu, Richard?"

Dick just slumped and more tears fell.

Tears rolled down Damian’s dark skin.

Bruce’s bottom lip was trembling.

They all looked like they were being verbally sliced and diced by Deathstroke's sword, with the assassin wielding the blade himself, and Jason shuddered at the thought, especially fighting away the notion of Tim snapping to the point of no return, to where it is Tim Fucking Drake, the ex-Robin (and Jason admits, the best so far), the ex-Red Robin, the kid who alone fought, sought, and brought Bruce back from being lost when no one supported him.

Lost a goddamn spleen and nearly was raped in the process as well.

Inferior my zombie ass, Jason thinks to himself.

“Tsk, tsk. You are going to stain my floor with your tears. Can’t tell if they are genuine, or just borrowed from Killer Croc himself. And I Don’t. Fucking. Care.”

Tim, all of Tim, was just cold, vicious, and vengeful.

Oh, not good. So not good. At all.

“Richard here not only refused to merely entertain the possibility but banished me from the Manor and the Bat Cave, convinced Oracle to kick me out of the computer and deny me access-don’t worry, I eventually found a backdoor-and then got the entire Hero, or rather, Caped Cocksucker Community, to unilaterally turn their backs on me and not give me the time of day or consider I might be right. Because they thought I was just traumatized, I was in mourning, I was…mentally unstable. By the way, I find a bunch of beings; human, meta, alien, whatever, that dress up in uniforms to fight crime as a coping mechanism for their own fucked up issues, passing judgment on my mental health the highest form of hypocrisy if I ever saw one. And the ultimate cherry on top of the ‘Fuck You Sundae With A Side Of Knife In The Back?’ My dearest big brother here was speaking to Alfred about sending me to…drum roll please…ARKHAM! Because I am so dangerous, I need to be put in a cell next to Riddler and Bane, as well as someone who shouldn’t be breathing but is, thanks to the highly moral and benevolent Batman.”

Bruce grabs Tim’s desk chair and all but falls into it, his face full of pain…hurt…realization of how much he and his two other sons have royally fucked up regarding the 18-year-old in front of them, who is exuding a cold danger that would make Mr. Freeze jealous. But Bruce is silent, or rather, finding the ability to speak completely non-existent.

He just looks over to his eldest, Dick, who is hugging himself and just quietly sobbing, his long black locks covering his face as he hangs his head.

Bruce looks to his youngest, Damian, who has always mastered the mask of stoicism and right now he looks like he is not even the 13-year-old he is, but rather the angry and scared 10-year-old pre-teen he was when he arrived three years ago.

Bruce looks at Jason, the only person Tim has apparently forgiven and forged a stronger bond with…and Jason is just staring into Bruce, his eyes their normal hazel in color, but their demeanor, their emotion is pure rage…and not one ounce of pity.

Bruce turns back to his other middle son, his sweetheart, his Baby Bird, his coffee addicted, power bar munching, insomniac third Robin…and Bruce realizes he doesn’t know Tim. At least not anymore…if he ever did. He knows he was a Class A, USDA approved asshole to Tim for Tim’s first few years as a trainee and as Robin…and was at minimum ten times better towards Tim than Jack and Janet Drake.

However, Bruce is realizing that he…was worse.

Oh.

Oh Dear Diana.

But Bruce thought he had made certain amends. Thought he praised Tim more, hugged him more, encouraged him more, made him feel like he is an essential part of the Wayne Family, not just the Bat Family as a partner in a job, but as a brother, a grandson, a son.

And Bruce is wrong. So, so, so wrong in thinking such a thing. He looks at Tim, who is standing at his fullest 5’7”, 115lbs of solid lean muscle, with black hair in a messy bun, slightly tanned porcelain white skin, his arms behind his back, and those eyes.

Those ice blue, storming eyes.

Looking right back at him…with nothing but emptiness.

Not even hate, or apathy, or anger.

Just emptiness. As cold, harsh, hurtful (and more than likely, honest) words come from his mouth.

Those stormy, water-as-it-freezes blue eyes are empty when looking at Dick.

At Damian.

At Bruce.

Tim Drake-the precocious, crazy as hell, no sense of self preservation, too damn smart for his own good 7 year-old who followed Batman and Robin, both Robins, around the nights of Gotham City, seeing and hearing things that even Bruce can't fully get over after almost 20 years of crimefighting, taking pictures. Who marched into Bruce's life, demanding he do better because Gotham needs Batman, and Batman needs Robin, so Tim put himself second to make it happen. THAT Tim is now looking at Batman, Nightwing, and Robin. Bruce, Dick, and Damian-with literally no emotion in his eyes.

Bruce wishes he knew where Zatanna was so she could cast some spell and at least make Tim have some sort of emotion in his eyes. Full blown hate would be preferable to nothingness.

“Before you try to say something, that is not where this story ends. I heard that conversation, and I took off. Europe and the Middle East. There, a voice in my ear spoke to me, and for the first time, I had someone who might not necessarily believe in me per say, but he believed in my mission, my conviction that I was right, and he was willing to extend all his resources to me, in exchange for me sharing whatever I find regarding finding you, Mr. Wayne.

That voice belonged to Ra’s Ah Ghul.”

A noise, hurt or scared, came from somewhere within Bruce.

Dick looked up from his sob fest to stare Tim.

Damian was leaning on Tim’s desk, shaking, as his small but strong hands gripped the edges of the desk like he was holding on for dear life…and maybe he was.

Figuratively speaking.

“There is no way Grandfather sought you out…” Damian angrily replies although it is also very quiet, almost so no one can hear it.

Almost.

“Li-tt-le Ah Ghul, you are so mistaken. Turns out that since I was 12 years-old, your grandfather, being the perverted, egomaniacal pedophile he is, has sought me out. At first to take my body so he could be reborn in it while being in a Lazarus Pit. Then there are the advances and presents prior, during, and even now, clearly indicating some sort of…agreement. An agreement in which he would take me as his Queen to rule the world together, and that would have resulted in you having to address me as 'Grandmother'. That would have been the...agreement.”

Tim could not, and would not, say relationship or anything remotely akin to it if Ra’s and he were in the same country postal code.

He refused.

Period.

Although, the look of horror, disgust, and shock on Damian's face when Tim revealed Ra's Ah Ghul's still present plan to wed Tim and therefore resulting in Damian having to call Tim "Grandmother" was TOTALLY worth it.

“And at that time, he was the only person who was alive who was willing to help me. In a way, I should be thanking him, since if he hadn’t sought to work with me, I wouldn’t have met Pru, Z, and Owens; you know, the three assassins who broke into the Bat Cave last week? Who became real, trusted, family for me. And I to them. Who also got past the great Batman's security. Who did throw me under the bus, but with love. But being benched since then has sucked more dick than a coked out twink at a PRIDE parade in San Francisco, all because the Great Bat can't handle confrontation from those whom he deems 'lower ranking' than him. And yes, that 'Fuck You' is also still applicable as well, Mr. Wayne. And that twink comment is just make you uncomfortable, given I am gay-not bi, thought I was with Ms. Brown but I was hiding more than anything-and I feel like saying fucked up shit right now, so deal with it.”

Jason saw how the word “family” and the way Tim used it really gut punched Dick and Bruce. Damian was still standing but leaning more forwards on the desk, as if to keep from collapsing.

Damn, where is one of the down comforters Alfred keeps around. Tim gets much more pissed off; they will have to burn the room down to unfreeze it.

Jason tried to shake the thought off as he continued, silently, to watch Tim take a verbal skinning knife and flay his (supposed) father and two (supposed)brothers. And that twink comment is going to eventually piss someone off even if it's tame compared to certain animals and shows from Tijuana.

All the while recalling a story that Jason and nearly everyone had been curious about, but never even thought about asking Tim about and what he endured, what he saw, what he felt. Sure, Jason eventually did during one of their marathon cookies, coffee/ tea, and chat sessions, but Jason was now pretty sure Bruce never inquired about what Tim had to do to get him back, Jason knows for damn sure that Dickwing and Demon Spawn never have, and probably none of them have even uttered a mere "Thank You" for returning Bruce, let alone an apology for how Tim was treated.

Jason would bet his second life that Oracle, Spoiler Brat, and the League haven’t offered apologies either.

“We found the cave portrait you left there. We also found trouble, as an assassin known as The Widower, and profoundly skilled, ambushed us with no noise and no warning. Pru lost her larynx and gravels her voice now, Z lost his liver, and Owens had his throat cut as well, but he lost the ability to speak at all.

Oh, and did I mention I Lost. My. Fucking. Spleen?”

Tim lets that set in for a good while, taking a seat on the bean bag chair, that’s almost too big for the room and sits in like he is sitting atop the Iron Throne, and he is King Joffrey-just cuter and somehow more, at least in the present moment, more cruel.

Jason knows now that the three Ass-Bats didn’t know about the spleen (full six-hour patrols in cold Gotham rain is ludicrous with healthy Bats and Birds. One missing the organ that fights off disease. Shouldn’t happen, not that they would care anyway).

Tim looks at Jason, who nods, taking a seat on the bed, near the headboard, but with plenty of space between him and Dick. Jason has never been an “cry on shoulder type of guy,” and this isn’t the place to start. Plus, Jason is rightfully, and downright violently, pissed at Dick, and the rest of them, for how they have treated Tim, no matter how much he allowed to happen to mislead them because it never should have happened at all.

Maybe some tricky shenanigans could get The Assassins, The Outlaws, and the remaining Core Four here and bring the popcorn. They would all love this, especially Pru, Jason thinks. Ah Pru, who threatened, no, promised to rip out his throat with her fucking teeth if he ever hurt Tim again. Jason REALLY likes Pru. But only as a comrade in arms, friend, and most importantly, a protector OF and believer IN Tim.

Jason dismisses the notion (mainly because he knows Tim is recording this somewhere, paranoid little Baby Bird, though Jason still watches the Joker into the Phantom Zone video twice a week, more when he is feeling sad, so recording everything has it's advantages) and sees the shock, the horror, the guilt on Bruce and Dick’s faces the most, but Damian is also sharing similar looks upon his own face, but there is also hurt. And sadness.

“No…spleen?” Dick stutters silently.

“Nope,” Tim responds, popping the “P” while somehow remaining cold, calm, and fucking scary. He has a grin/smirk on his face but it he isn’t exuding happiness, or even excitement of possibly not only laying it all on the table but also concluding this bullshit once and for all.

“Which you all would have known…that is, if any of you would have bothered to do the minute of health checkups after patrols, before patrols, the time I contracted fucking pneumonia when Li-tt-le Ah Ghul here left my window open, in the dead of winter but you never did. You all would come in, laughing at some inside joke, do each other’s stitches and med checks, and clear everyone, all the while just speaking flatly about ‘needing the report tomorrow morning’ but you never told me which report, or reports to be more exact, Mr. Wayne, and apparently it doesn’t matter, because the report was due over a month and a half ago, it never got turned in, and nothing has gone ‘bye-bye’ be it in terms of economics for Wayne Enterprises or information regarding a case. So a no harm, no foul, and for your part, no rat’s ass given, apparently.

But you know what isn't harmful? Fighting Ra’s Ah Ghul, by yourself, sword to sword, while having had your resurrected best friends, your remaining living best friend, several JLA members, Man-Bat, because he is a swell guy and deserves more than being an on-call sidekick, and then of course Batman and Robin. All of them are truly willing to work with yours truly to save people with little to no casualties because unlike you, Mr. Wayne, I am not afraid to call on help-be it human, alien, meta, goldfish, catfish, or a baboon.

Pissed off Ra’s right good…but he called me ‘Detective,’ which Mr. Wayne, is the first genuine comment of praise I have gotten since you got back. I think it is the first at all because genuine affections are not given to unwanted, abused, convenient, ‘equals’.

Then I got kicked out of the tallest window in the second largest skyscraper in Gotham…and I did not care. I did not reach for my grapple; I did not hit a rescue beacon. I was content that all the targeted victims were safe, that your legacy was safe, that Gotham and its citizens were safe, and if I was the only casualty, then so be it.”

Everyone’s eyes widened at that, even Jason’s. Tim had discussed a little bit about the fight with Ra’s and all that, but he basically said Ra’s tried one last trick and just in time, Dick-as Batman-arrived and caught him at the right time, even saying to Tim that he knew Dick would be there because “Dick was his brother, that he would always be there to catch Tim.”

The Robin Who Can Lie To Any Batman.

After an unknown amount of very, very tense silence, quiet sobbing, heavy breathing, and staring, Tim continued his monologue, seated upon his beanbag throne, still managing to look the aristocrat he was born into being.

“Afterwards, it was a short period of peace, getting the hang of being Red Robin, working with the Justice League-though they are much more...relaxed than the meetings I have attended with you-as well as Richard's Batman, to bring you back from the Time Stream, Mr. Wayne. Of course, that is when Jason returned from whatever adventurous chaos he had been raising with the Outlaws.”

Jason looked at Tim, who was looking at him, and they just grinned. The three other Bats DID NOT like that at all.

No.

No.

Nope.

“Heard from Bart he had a blast this last time around, and that you, Roy, and Kori gave him individual praise, Artemis was, well, Artemis, and Biz LOVES Bart, and Bart LOVES Biz, which shouldn't be a surprise,” Tim said to Jason, conversationally and a complete 180 from the cold, hatred-filled, snarling tone he had with the Bats.

“Yep, Small Speedster is a fucking hoot. Biz was crying for two days after he had to leave. Then Bart sent Biz his very own custom tablet that Biz can work with and they video chat all the fucking time. But makes Biz happy, and Biz has me wrapped around his finger, so its cool. Thinking of extending an official invite for the Small Speedster to join The Outlaws. Think the Titans or the Flashes would mind?” Jason replies/states.

“The Titans will be the Titans and the Core Four will never fail to support each other, as well as the others, but I am all for it, and I am sure the other two mother-hens known Cassie and Conner will be worried but give their blessings, as if it would stop Bart anyway,” Tim says, grinning.

“But as far as the Flashes, and to an extent, Hal and Olivier, fuck ‘em.”

Bruce, Dick, and Damian, if they could manage a cohesive thought, would have believed their jaws couldn’t figuratively hit the jaw any harder. They were wrong.

“Dare I inquire as to your hostility to those mentioned?” Jason cautiously snarks to Tim, mischief gleaming in Jason's hazel brown eyes and a shit-eating grin slowly making its appearance on his face.

“Well, Wally is cool- “Tim starts, which briefly makes Dick slightly light up, as well sit up a bit straighter, “-but Barry and Iris and Oliver and Hal all were some of the steadfast deniers of when I was trying to find, you know,” Tim dismissively waves his hand at Bruce, who looks even more hurt, “second only to Diana, Super douche-excuse me, Superman-and…him.”

The coldness returns to Tim’s voice and aura when he addresses Dick as “him,” killing any of the brief happiness Dick had when Tim was mentioning Dick’s best friend Wally West (also part of the Back-From-The-Dead-Friend/Sidekick/Parent Club. Dues are on the tenth of every month. Group meets at Bat-A-Burger in Gotham because of a literal game of "Paper, Rock, Scissors").

“Gotcha,” Jason replies and then just turns to the three Bats and resumes his very complacent spot of just listening and watching while not trying to freeze from Tim’s aura and keeping his snarks and grins to himself.

Tim turns to face Bruce, Damian, and Dick once more (with all three now noticing how the beanbag chair may have always been in that position so Tim could sit and talk to people situated as they were now) and the coldness returned, and any hint of emotion in Tim's freezing ice blue eyes one again non-existent.

But before Tim could continue his story, which unbeknownst to anyone else, he was close to completing it since it was more recent and the occupants of the room knew most, if not all-on top of the fact Tim has been waiting forever it seems to do this and will get it all of his chest, out of his soul, and clear his mind to bring some semblance of peace to himself-since they were there, Damian speaks.

Aw, shhhiiiitt, thought Jason.

“Drake, you are acting foolish. Childish. I will be the first to admit that your inferiority to Todd, Brown, myself, and particularly Richard is still well above the efforts of any other proteges of other heroes, most certainly your teammates in the Titans…”

Someone put fucking duct tape over the Demon’s mouth and chain his hands behind his back, Jason said to himself while also doing an actual facepalm.

He glanced at Bruce and Dick, who apparently were thinking the same thing as both had looks of utter "What the Fuck, Damian?" upon their faces. But both also seemed too taken aback to do anything. And Jason, a born chaos gremlin himself, was still content to let Tim have lick his chops and have his meal that he truly deserved, because this was over the moment Dickwing opened his fucking mouth with that stupid fucking question earlier after he and Bruce had entered Tim's bedroom.

“…but everything you have recounted thus far has already been rectified. You were proven right about Father. You set Grandfather back in his plans, surviving a sword fight with him, which puts you in the company of only one other on the planet to have done so, and that person is sitting in your desk chair. But you must move on and accept responsibility for when you do make mistakes, no matter how often they maybe or when you cause unnecessary messes and backlogs in data entering of reports, such as today.

If you speak no further, then I will not hold any the animosity previously felt or currently felt against you and you and I can go on as associates with nary a conflict between us," Damian concluded. As if he had just settled a peace treaty among all of Gotham's Rogues.

Bruce just swallowed.

Dick looked like he had just seen his parents fall to their deaths all over again, his olive skin actually appearing lose its ability to produce melanin.

Jason literally did ANOTHER, and HARSHER, facepalm, the sound of his hand hitting his forehead sounded louder than normal in the quiet bedroom, not believing what the Demon Spawn Gremlin just had the biggest balls (Jason will give him points on having said balls, but still) to say what he just said, along with the way he said it, as if NOTHING Tim had gone over previously even made a dent into his skull.

“Da-mi-an.”

Jason really didn’t want to look up, to see the source of that voice, that sounded so cold, so emotionless, so…inhuman and predatory. Because Jason knew if he looked up, and saw the source of the voice, Jason would be burying the body of a 13-year-old vigilante somewhere on the property of Wayne Manor. And that would be the second Robin death (Brown doesn’t count because she faked it and is being unapologetic and bitchy about it as it is, so, in a figurative sense, fuck her) and Jason swore there had to be, and would be, no more dead Robins.

But…Jason looked up.

And Dear Rao, he wish didn’t, but was also glad he did, in a perverse way.

Because Tim was seated like a Dollar Tree King Joffrey (not that Jason would say that aloud, because he likes breathing, especially this second time around, and...looking back, he has no room to talk given how he pieced his Robin uniform together when he went to attack Tim at Titan Tower those years ago), stiff and proper on his beanbag “Iron Throne,” back straight, arms resting on either side of him, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes that freezing blue, but this time, along with his entire face, full of pure, unadulterated rage.

Thank gods that Tim had no Kryptonian powers, because Damian would not even be ash right now.

“Da-mi-an,” Tim repeated in a voice and tone that sounded more akin to Darkseid than human, “do everyone, including your narcissistic sense of self importance a very big favor: Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Tim just bores a hole into Damian’s direction, and for all like 15 seconds, the Blood Son of Batman manages to hold his composure before he falters all the way to the ground, sitting crisscross, face and posture full of defeat, eyes watery, small pout upon his thin lips, Adam's Apple bobbing very hard once, twice, thrice before Damian took a breath.

Tim blinks, and the cold aura remains, but the emotionless look returns to both his eyes and face, as does the coldness in his voice.

“Now, as I was saying before I was…distracted,” Tim says side eyeing Damian, who ducks his head. “After the return of Mr. Wayne from the Time Stream, there was a short period of relative…good feeling. Bart returned. Kon returned. Richard and Li-tt-le One handled duties in Gotham as Mr. Wayne embarked on his worldwide 'Batman Inc.' initiative. Then, Captain Boomerang.”

Tim’s emotionless eyes settle upon Bruce, who tries to look just as stern and unapologetic as he can, but falters as well. Any remote foundation of strength has already been severely weakened; the mighty redwood can’t stand much longer.

“Despite everything set in motion that would have not made me a killer in anyway, even though I fucking saved that piece of shit’s life from falling off the side of a building, which Jason will agree is somewhat ironic given what he later happened upon several months afterwards, Mr. Wayne couldn’t get off his moral jackass code and see the forest if not for the trees. If he had died it wouldn’t have been me killing him, yet the Omnipotent Batman of Gotham City decrees that any life can’t be taken, that everyone deserves the second, the third, the fortieth, the hundredth chance at turning around.

Which to his credit, he did set the example when I was barely a year into being Robin, when he resuscitated the fucking Joker after Richard beat him until the evil fuck’s heart stopped beating.”

Jason saw green. Everything was green. Not only had he been misled to believe a bunch of bullshit about Tim, and did things to Tim that were beyond horrible and treated Tim worse after that to where it led to a too fucking long time of dissension when they could have been forging a bond in battle and brotherhood that came way too late. And not only was there more Robins in fucking general, not only had his goddamn murderer been allowed to not face the consequences of his actions but fucking live after Jason died, but the sick psycho clown had actually been killed, Jason's death avenged by the hands of Nightwing…and fucking BATMAN brought the JOKER BACK TO LIFE.

Then Jason heard it, a cold, yet oddly supportive voice cutting through the Green of the Lazarus Pit...and Jason couldn’t believe what he heard.

“Mr. Wayne, I will not attempt to stop him.”

Well, fucking fuckington fuck fuck, Jason thought. Here he was, ready to end Batman and there is Tim-Red Hood’s first real, and most tragic, victim, openly stating that if Jason goes after Batman/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake will not stand in the way, Jason went over in his mind as the green receded from view. Keep note that all paperwork done by Tim Drake must always have a clear radius of 3 feet, if this is how pissed off, he gets and exacts his revenge, despite if he needs a clearing of the air over issues or not. It is just not worth it in general angering Tim, especially over paperwork. Ask Garth, Conner, and Bart. They still haven't found all the traps Tim set when he was a victim of the Three Titan Stooges' prank war, and from what Bart said, Kon still breaks down in tears at the slightest hint of anything that resembles Kryptonite green.

“T-t-tim,” Bruce mumbled and stuttered.

“I have no time, nor the patience, for weak pleas. I would like to finish this narrative so I can move on to more important things, such as organizing my sock drawer.”

Jason hid a snort in his hand like a cough, the green finally disappearing. Luckily, Tim was too focused and the other three were in La-La Land or some place to notice the outburst.

“After Boomerang, that is when it seemed to just become like shit: it slid all downhill. Nothing was good enough, nothing was finished fast enough, no fucking invites to Thanksgiving or Christmas…”

“Tiny Tot,” Dick began, and Jason flinched at what Tim would do at the nickname. “Everyone just shows up for those. No invites needed. You should know- “

“I should know what, Richard?” Tim coldly sneered. “That even though formal invites aren’t sent out, I send out a text inquiring about eating time and never got an answer. Or asking via email, Messenger, text, voicemail, hell even sent goddamn telegram, all inquiring about Christmas, if people staying in their old bedrooms, family breakfast, opening presents, all that bullshit? Again not a fucking answer. Jason is only absolved from this because he got the invite texts and knowing I wasn’t responded to-or invited, sent a “Fuck Off and a Happy New Year” text to you, Richard, and then we, along with Kori, Biz, Roy, Artemis, and Wally West-the best friend whom you have not spoken to in a fucking year either-got too much Chinese, let 'A Christmas Story' play on repeat in the background, and drank liquored eggnog and did cheesy games like charades, Go Fish, and Pictionary and had a fucking great time. So don’t sit there and act like it’s a big fucking Walton Family Christmas where everyone is invited because everyone is living in a family television special because it is fucking is not. And the fact that Wally was with us because you went incommunicado speaks volumes about your attitude, morals, and priorities…”

“Now just a goddamn minute,” Dick tensed up, unhugging himself and balling his fists up, but not standing up from the bed. “I still had a lot on my plate: from Bludhaven burning to the ground to becoming Batman to having to raise Damian as a brother and train him as a partner to everything with Bruce, so I am sorry that I wasn’t Mr. Social. Maybe if you had acted like a fucking adult, you would have been kept in the mix, instead of wallowing in your self-pity and over-exaggerated sense of victimhood. Jesus Age Christ on a Cracker, no wonder your parents left for months on end, if this is how immature- “

Dick stopped himself, snapping his defined, angular jaw shut, clicking his teeth, his sky blue eyes wide with fear and panic and shame. Damian’s forest green eyes somehow had their own pupils blown even wider with awe and fear than before, Bruce was a statue, his navy-blue eyes darting between Dick and Tim. Jason was on the bed, jaw clenched, eyes green, chest breathing heavy, ready to rip Dick’s head off and drink blood from his skull. Probably either the Joker's or Bruce's. He would ask Two-Face to flip his coin to make the final decision.

And Tim? Tim just sat on his beanbag throne, not moving, face stoic, eyes cruelly cold and fatally freezing in their rage, not a finger moving. Jason, sitting the closest to Tim, could barely tell if Tim was even breathing. Instead of King Joffrey, Jason was getting very serious Night King vibes off Tim now...and that was...dystopian in the possible results that could be rendered.

“Richard,” Tim says slowly, coldly, dangerously, and deadly calm in delivery. “What did you get Wally for his birthday that was three months ago?”

Dick looked like he had witnessed Jason’s beating at the hands of Joker firsthand. Dick just looks at Tim, who looks at Dick, who is now opening and closing his mouth, apparently aping a goldfish, with no words coming out.

“Wally West-who for all intent and purposes is your life long best friend, teammate, co-founding member of the Teen Titans, your ride or die so to speak and as alluded to earlier, perhaps something more, spent his 29th birthday, three months ago, with Jason and I, doing all the things that you and him usually do on his birthday, and in turn, on yours.”

Dick was beyond shocked. He had forgotten his best friend’s birthday. He had never forgotten Wally’s birthday. Even if they couldn’t spend it together because of work, Dick would send balloons or silly messages and as soon as they could, make it up doing what they always do: a movie marathon, pizza smorgasbord, and then a pint of ice cream followed by an night of running roof tops before visiting the local gym for a pool swim and finally a “boys day” of spa treatment: facial, pedicure and manicure (cause even guys need pampering and it feels good after constantly bleeding, bruising, and brawling), hair cut/trims with the best shampoo and conditioner, an old fashioned straight razor shave, and then a sauna/steam room visit before heading home and collapsing while eating too much sushi and dumplings while watching old, unedited "Looney Tunes" episodes.

They had done it every year since the first year of Teen Titans. Once for Dick’s birthday and once for Wally’s birthday. But Dick didn’t even remember Wally’s birthday this year? No, no, that was not right, because Dick would rather become a Fury for Darkseid than ever do something so shitty to someone he loves so much (whether it's platonic or not is no one's business but his and Wally's, fuck you very much).

“And before you go all ‘Betrayal’ at Jason and I for being there with Wally for his birthday,” Tim coldly states, “let me ask this, Richard. Do remember when you, Li-tt-le One, Mr. Wayne, Ms. Brown, and unfortunately, Cass, all went to the new zoo exhibit opening a few months ago?”

Dick nodded, as did Bruce and Damian, even though the question wasn’t directed at them...entirely. Yet.

“Excellent,” Tim slightly smirks, cold fury across his lips. “Because that day, if you remember the date, July 19th, has significance to it. Or at least, it does for certain people in this room. Care to take a gander as to why?”

Tim steepled his fingers as he waited for an answer, eyes an emotionless blizzard of ice blue, cold rage radiating off his person, and complete and utter aura of “I Don’t Have Any Fucks To Give, Therefore This Is Happening, Love It Or Hate It.” Jason just waited, knowing not to say a damn word, as well as enjoying all this, though in all honesty he is slightly uncomfortable at the tension that was so incredibly thick he doubted of the Super douche could cut it with his fancy schmancy laser vision.

Jason also knew that if in the next five damn seconds Bruce, Dick, and/or Damian didn't come up with what should be an easy ass answer, they will have officially lost whatever little hope of mending fences with Timmers there was.

5…4…3…2…1.

“No,” Dick quietly said, his expression exhibiting his knowledge that he has royally and utterly fucked up whatever this question was supposed to be.

“It’s the date on which I turn a year older, every year.”

Damian’s face was wet with tears. His mouth slightly agape, breathing heavy but barely audible sobs, his throat appearing to have trouble swallowing. He was aware that it wasn't not bothering to form a brotherhood, a friendship, a damn civil working relationship with Dra-Timothy that was the unforgivable sin (unforgivable for Timothy and even more so for Damian). It was not even to attempt to treat Timothy as a decent human being. With everything else, this was the cherry on top of Damian's vegan sundae, or at least, one of several.

Bruce was leaning forward in the desk chair, head in hands, sobbing just loud enough to be heard. He was a failure. Period. Bad enough the press was praising Red Hood more than Batman now because Red Hood stayed behind with victims, calmed them down, followed up on their status every so often, all actions Bruce never even considered in his mission, believing with an inordinate amount of hubris his Wayne Foundation work took care of stuff like. But stuff things are 24/7, 365. Not the 8am-6pm, Monday through Friday working hours Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne Foundation put in. But now, he was realizing, rather harshly, and deservedly so, how much pain, how hurt he has inflicted on his Baby Bird, whether or not Tim was allowing it because it obviously got to him a few times where it was worrying in its seriousness...and only one person in this bedroom was there for Tim. The person who once tried to kill Tim. Twice. And HE was the shoulder to cry on, the support system, the family Tim deserved.

Dick fell from the bed to the floor. A sobbing, black-haired, Romani mess in sweats and a crop top and bare feet, olive face wet from tears and snot running from angular nose, down into his full lips, looking at his younger brother, who he once, and still does (regularly? allowed to? he hopes?), call his “Tiny Tot,” “Precious Pie,” and “Baby Bird.” His younger brother who wanted to be heard, just be heard about the possibility of Batman being alive. Whose birthday was utterly forgotten by everyone in the family, except Jason. Even Alfred-beautiful, saintly, kindly Alfred, seemingly forgot, because that is definitely the impression Tim is at least indicating. In fact, at the moment, as much as his scrambled brains could muster, Dick was trying to remember when Tim’s birthday was celebrated like everyone else’s…good gods above, Dick couldn’t remember.

If all this was Tim’s long-awaited revenge to completely humiliate, embarrass, set straight, and humble Bruce, Damian, and Dick, Tim was getting his and more. Rightfully so and beyond.

Dick looked at Jason, and Jason knew what Dick was asking without verbalizing it.

“Dickwing, I was baking a fucking Black Forest Cake when you dropped by my apartment to invite me to that stupid ass zoo thing, and it said on the damn cake, which you looked at, ‘Happy Birthday, Timbird.’ I even said I have a more pressing matter involving Baby Bird. I said those words, and you just hummed while looking at your stupid ass phone, texting Babs. And you never wondered why for a fucking month afterwards I didn’t speak to you, at all, even on the coms? Kon, Cassie, Bart, Kori, Roy, Artemis, Biz, Wally, and all three of the Foxes at WE-Lucius, Tam, and Tiffany-got Timbo here cards and presents. We had a swell day, and lucky it was a weekend and a weekend Tim had already made plans to leave for San Francisco to see the Titans because with the exception of Wally, who said being in the tower was too much given recent events,” Jason shoots Dick a look, making sure he knows Jason is referencing Dick’s fuck up in forgetting Wally’s birthday and not speaking to Wally for over a year, "everyone I just mentioned met at the Tower, we had Italian, specifically Chicken Parmesan, and then did a Mario Kart tourney. First fucking time in I don’t know how fucking long I saw Tim genuinely laugh and look like he was having fun. So yeah, I knew. The Outlaws and Titans knew. The Foxes knew. Wally knew. Why in the bluest of blue hells didn’t Tim’s so-called ‘family’ even acknowledge it, including Alfred, who unfortunately, and I cannot believe I am saying this, is far from innocent in this whole clusterfuck, who is in fact one of the worst perpetrators because he is silent, and silent is just as good as picking a side, and that side was not celebrating Tim’s birthday. And from what I understand, hasn’t for three years.”

Dick looks at Jason then Tim, who is now glaring ice daggers at Bruce, who must have felt them because he looks up, eyes red and puffy, face wet, to investigate his second youngest’s eyes. His shoulders slump. His face crumbles.

Because Bruce knows what is being referenced. Knows the horrible thing he, Alfred, and Stephanie did to Tim on his 15th birthday, a mere two days before Damian arrived. Tim was still exhausted and strung out from that…mistake, and Bruce now wonders if Damian seeing Tim in such a state added to Damian’s already sensitive nature about proving he belongs and must eliminate competition that stands in the way of his goal.

“My 15th birthday, which happened to be two measly days before Li-tt-le One arrived from the 13th Level of Hades,” Tim says, still cold, if not now some hurt slipping through his tone. His freezing blue eyes are still emotionless. “Mr. Wayne, Ms. Brown, and Mr. Pennyworth decided and collaborated that an intense, real-life simulation that would train me to be paranoid and not trust anyone with the goal of finding a missing family member would be the best way to celebrate my 15th birthday. Nearly drove me to a manic state of mind, I was beyond physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted…and Mr. Wayne still decided that instead of resting, a small pie, maybe just a fucking cup of hot chocolate, it was important to not acknowledge my birthday and go for a full 10-hour patrol in one of the worst summer storms in Gotham’s history. No one was moving. Every single Rogue had battened down the hatches. Turns out even Killer Croc found the flooding and level of water overbearing and was holed with Solomon Grundy in an old place in the sewers where it would take a tsunami to flood it completely. But Batman and Robin? No, the patrols must be done, we must be like the Post Office and not let rain, sleet, ice, or snow stand in our way. I caught the flu and was downing Dayquil and Nyquil because I had learned from an earlier training session that 'Batman is not my dad and does not deal with me when I am sick', so I couldn’t be sick. Which is why, Li-tt-le One, when you arrived, I looked like and felt like and moved like Death herself.

That was, until this past year, the last time anything was done on my birthday for any reason unless it was the twice-a-month Arkham breakout or Darkseid trying to take over the Earth. If it wasn’t business, then I got nothing on my birthday…but was expected to be there for Richard’s. Ms. Brown’s. Li-tt-le One’s. Mr. Wayne’s. Selina’s. Ms. Cain’s. Mr. Pennyworth’s. Only Jason, from the beginning, when we hated each other, didn’t give two shits and a mutated Gotham City sewer rat’s ass about birthdays, so I didn’t have to worry about that. And he was the first, and only, ‘Bat-fam member’ to acknowledge my birthdays since, in addition to previously mentioned parties.”

Tim sighed, and still did not move his gaze from Bruce.

“So, I am going to finish this with a short and sweet-hopefully-summary of what has transpired since Boomerang: you, Mr. Wayne, have treated me like a tool. Only acknowledged when needed to be used, and then put away, out of sight, out of mind. You have refused to come back to WE and assume the responsibilities of CEO while criticizing me for little things and appearing at meetings that you must know are important to certain agendas I have been trying to implement, which only makes me look weaker and more a nepotism baby than I am. Half the board hates me because not only of my age, but also my social and political stances and my opening up of my sexuality, and to remind you, Mr. Wayne, it is gay and demisexual, put that in your oh-so-up-to-date files, since you still haven’t updated the files from when Bane broke my arm, still having it down as a ‘heavy sprain that I am being over-dramatic about in terms of pain.’"

Dick and Damian look at Bruce with shock and disappointment, for excruciating detail and up-to-date files had been drilled into each Robin, Batgirl, Batwoman, Batwing, etc. Not to mention leaving out personal or condescending remarks, and to have the knowledge that Batman was being (more than usual) hypocritical, particularly towards Tim, who everyone, and that includes Damian, agrees out does Bruce in data entry, reports, etc. legitimately makes Dick, Damian, and Jason very pissed off. Because Dick never does that, even though he adds whimsical remarks, he is always objective. Damian and Jason, even when they hated Tim at the apex of their tensions, never demeaned Tim or anyone else in the “Family.”

Through some weird mental telepathy or whatever, it seemed Dick, Damian and Jason knew that all three of them were thinking the same thing with a single glance to each other and then focused their glares on to Bruce.

Bruce, for his part, was looking chastised as well as defensive…and as a result, made a very poor call in judgment.

“Tim, those types of comments, in the reports, were when I was drinking. After Jason’s death. You of all people know how hard Jason’s death hit me and my very inappropriate ways of coping that followed…”

“It happened last year, a week before my birthday, since the only time before that when I faced Bane was when he had broken your back, and I hardly engaged him since Azrael was filling in as Batman, which he spectacularly failed at…”

Bruce’s mouth was agape, realizing that his piss poor excuse, and shitty memory, or lack of caring, to get him out of a mess of his own creating crashed and burned. He closes his mouth and just leans back in the desk chair.

Tim continued, “In addition to the duties of WE, including but not limited to those fucking galas-which should be vetted like Cass's hair was when she first appeared with all that lice, because I have grown very sick, very tired, and very pissed off that just because the size of someone's bank account 'anoints' them as 'elite,' it means they can bring their pedophile predatory desires to an event where it is hard enough to keep the adults from sneaking off and fucking in a backroom, but due to several incidents that were made aware at a later date and hit way too fucking close to home, those pieces of human shit can-and have-taken children to those same backrooms, and the parents or adopted parents or adopted brothers allow an 11-year-old kid to experience a fucked up beyond fucked up situation, and those assholes, along with their enablers, shouldn't be at a gala where there is press, and if it were to hit the press, say like Vicky Vale, that suspected, or worse, known pedophiles were still allowed at charity galas for CHILDREN'S HOSPITALS, year after year, multiple times a year, the fallout would be...not good." Tim pauses, for both Jason's sake and the implication to be made clear to Bruce, who just gulps. "There have been four this year alone, four of which everyone in the 'zoo' picture had promised to attend and show support for...And Not. One. Damn. Soul. ever showed up. So there is the embarrassment of that as well. But there slight reprieve is that all four were boring as hell, so no one was gossiped about sneaking off, and luckily, no one under 18 attended them, so the apparently the pedophiles have preference for what galas have certain hosts, Mr. Wayne."

Tim pauses again, taking a breath. He looks at Jason, to make sure his older brother is ok and not flashbacking due to Tim referencing...situations that better off buried under eight feet of cement with some sort Norse god's hammer on top of it.

Bruce is ashen. Damian is froze. Dick is also not moving, but starting to possibly reach dehydration as he continues to cry and snot all over himself.

"I am also trying to integrate Drake Industries into WE, but after realizing some logistical difficulties, I have already begun to reverse that process. WE and DI will work in conjunction with each other, but WE doesn’t own DI, at all. Nor does WE have ownership of any patents, trademarks, and/or copyrights, including any and everything related to Bat-A-Burger and its merchandise, food and non-food related alike," Tim coldly stated.

Now Bruce got angry. He had been trying to acquire the sole ownership of the trademarks and copyrights of the Bat-A-Burger franchise and licensing and whatnot, partly because it was and is HIS nightly excursions and activities and alternate identity, along with the other "Bat-Fam" Members that spawned the whole damn thing, but also he is a businessman, and those licensing deals and meals make a lot of money, and the owners of the entire enterprise, which has ten restaurants across Gotham, Metropolis, New Jersey, and New York-with plans for more locations starting with Central, Coast, and Star Cities-could make more of a profit if they would pay just minimum wage and several dollars above it, as well as not be as insistent on quality over quantity, since they price things just high enough to where if they spend a dollar on the making of a burger, they will make a fifty cents profit. Not to mention they close on way too many holidays and stay closed for the last two of December and give their employees paid time off for that time as well. It had been that way when it was just two people making Bat-Burgers in a small 10 seat building, and has continued since, and was the deal breaker for several buyout attempts from other companies, including LexCorp and a few of Ra's Ah Ghul's shell companies. The owners will not budge on certain items; actually any items, and Bruce was going to restructure the whole thing once he bought it lock, stock, and barrel, even if it meant some empty promises. His employees at WE Corporate and its subsidiaries get very generous benefits and time off, but this was a Mom-and-Pop hole in the wall business that needed to understand that even though Bruce was for green energy, making the planet better, treating workers fairly, that is a big omelet, and some eggs need to be broken to make that omelet.

Now, Tim was taking that all away, and Bruce knew that even his high-priced lawyers couldn’t get the deal done because of how Jack Drake had integrated Bat-A-Burger into Drake Industries framework, basically giving in to all the owners' demands, essentially providing benefits and pay and holidays that are enjoyed by Drake Industries employees, but every single employee of ANY current and future Bat-A-Burger was NOT an employee of Drake Industries. It was like having a Starbucks in a Barnes and Noble, but the people who work the Starbucks side of things are technically Barnes and Noble employees. It was very clear Jack Drake did all this with the not so transparent intention of making sure Bruce Wayne and WE didn’t lay a finger on it, and Jack didn’t even know Bruce was Batman. Jack knew what Brucie Wayne and Lucius Fox did on the corporate battlefield, but Jack was quicker on the uptake with Bat-A-Burger.

“Now wait a damn minute,” Bruce began to growl.

“Hush,” Tim snapped, coldly, deadly, with finality.

Bruce glared but hurt and realization of failure still shown upon his slightly naturally tanned face.

“Drake Industries and everything it has acquired and not completely sold off already is going to be or already under the process of, being pulled back into the fold for a company wide restructuring, which be including every employee starting at $75K a year, company provided full health, vision, and dental insurance, contraception access, a well-funded and managed retirement fund that will provide for any and every DI employee for up to their death, abet they work for the company for a minimum amount of years of course, and the higher tier executives, including myself, are having their salaries cut and their bonuses be moved to the bottom of the priority list in terms of payouts. Same with stock payouts. Some board members have already up and quit or working their two weeks notice. Which is their prerogative; however, they should have studied the contracts Jack Drake made them sign, because it clearly states that they cannot pursue any line work, at the level they are leaving, for five years at any other company, or forfeit all stock options, retirement money, and the year of full benefits following their departure-which is going to be the norm for all DI employees. But I am already in the process of replacing the departing board members with people who are actually more capable than their predecessors, whether or not they have an overpriced piece of sheepskin in a frame from a stuffy university, but also understand what is happening, what my goals are for the company, as well as beyond, and have made it clear they have no qualms or problems. DI stocks have already risen 8% in last 8 days alone. I am also starting the Drake Foundation which will pay for abortions for anyone who needs one as well as providing centers that will be well funded, well-staffed, well-educated and have no judgment so people can make fully informed decisions, from contraception to rehabs to clean needle drop offs, and whatever else is, and has been, required in Gotham and across the country for a long time, things that Wayne Enterprises could have been funding and investing in for around...20 years or so?"-Tim pauses again, levelling a glare at Bruce, who is between rage and humility-"and as you know, LexCorp was acquired by DI and Lex Luthor is at best a middle management supervisor, which he surprisingly is very good at and seems to be quite content with, has been quietly selling his properties or even actually donating them for some of the issues I previously mentioned. But I will keep an eye on him all the same, and he seemingly knows this. Actually looking forward our monthly chess match next week as well. Anyway, as the acting CEO of WE, and due to an ironclad clause, that you, Mr. Wayne, yourself secured in the company’s bylaws during a bi-yearly revising and have yet to change, if the current CEO plans to retire, step-down, and/or step-away from active duties, he/she/them can, without interference, name their successor, who will have the title and job for a full 365 days from the date the assuming of title and duties is taken.”

Bruce’s eyes go wide, as does Damian’s and Dick’s. Jason just has his calloused hand covering his mouth, hiding his smirk and incoming laugh, because Tim told him this plan a week or so ago and Jason almost called Constantine to see if Tim was possessed or mind-controlled. But despite his many talents, that guy is an British asshole, and Jason can't stand his cigarette smoking since Jason had quit ALL smoking a year or so ago, even if it was herbal cigarettes. So Jason just nodded and went back to making the Mongolian Beef and Broccoli they were having for game night.

“I am tired of running your company, Mr. Wayne. I am tired of being a glorified secretary to enter the data from your cases, your files, and your deductions-which by the way, are inconclusive and piss poor about 75% of the time, mainly because you still think the world is like a domino: black and white. Sorry, Mr. Wayne, the reason you saw an 23% uptick in solved cold cases in the Bat-Computer; and Richard, you are never, ever allowed to name anything ever again, Bat-Mop is all I am saying, is because it was me who went back, overlooked the cases, found your mistakes, your subjectivity, your biases, your hypocrisy clouding your judgment, CORRECTED said mistakes and errors; therefore, resulting in people getting closure, but closure much, much later than they were entitled to.

So I am going to set forth in motion a six-month gradual retirement plan for myself from WE so I can focus on DI and the Drake Foundation. I already have my own technology, my own financing, my own base of operations, network of safehouses, I even have my own ‘Oracle,’ because with all do respect to Babs, who I still love as a sister, she sided with Richard without even giving me a chance to explain my theory on you being alive, a theory proven correct, so I rather work with those who have either never questioned me without cause, and/or those who have earned my respect and trust…such as Jason.”

Jason, the smart-ass he is, grins a shit-eating grin and gives a little wave, dramatically moving each of his fingers.

“And you three, along with Ms. Gordon, Mr. Pennyworth, Ms. Cain, Ms. Brown, Super Douche, most if not all the League, and all the Flashes-except of course Bart and Wally-do not make the cut.”

The three Bats do not bother showing their hurt, but are clear in their understanding as to why Tim has made this decision.

“During that six-month period, if you are cooperative, Mr. Wayne, I will gladly and without incident sign your company back over to you for you to be a CEO. You can even start training Li-tt-le One to take your place one day. However, if you as so much criticize how I sharpen a pencil or make any kind of under the table maneuvering, or try to sway the Wayne Enterprises Board behind my back in any way, as well attempt to poison my name or intentions with any known business partners, investors, etc. although I am already 80% through my list of permanent investors and business partners, all done above board, but also do not want to associate with WE for one reason or another, and several came to me directly, thus not committing any contract tampering laws or what have you and I simply listened to them...which seems to be the one glaring common denominator among my acquired investors: they feel slighted that for a majority of the time, you didn't listen to them or their complaints or ideas, that you just hummed, nodded, and did the whole 'Brucie' thing while Lucius made subtle threats, thus leaving them with no recourse to continue their partnership with you. So do not try any unsavory tactics or actions, for we all know I will find out if you do, and then you will leave me no choice but...to appoint one Alexander Luthor as the CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a minimum of one calendar year, also known as 365 days.”

Not only did the temperature of the room feel like the South Pole, but it also felt like a huge vacuum had come in and sucked every particle of oxygen out as well.

Jason was just…well, there may not be a word for how Jason felt. He was under the impression that Tim was going to appoint Conner so Tim to run WE via proxy through Conner. So either Tim was lying the other day when he explained his plan, or Jason severely misunderstood, because Jason still thought Tim was half-kidding and Jason was somewhat the whole Constantine thing. But Tim had said he is looking for someone who can be charming and dangerous. Conner can and has done that. He is Mentally, Physically, and Emotionally strong enough to handle boardroom bullshit. Conner had grown and matured since his days as a 1-year-old in a 16-year-old body. Someone who would irritate Bruce to the point of near mania (much like when Tim and Conner were dating). Well, that was a fucking long-ass list. Questionable battlefield uniform. Conner-aha, Jason realized.

Conner had gone from his frankly twink-like skin tight uniform, leather jacket, sunglasses and double belts to his tight black tee shirt, jeans, and black boots. But when Lex fought in the field, particularly against Super douche, he was in that ugly ass, dumb looking green and purple robotic suit that showed just his face on a screen. Now it makes sense…and boy, is Bruce fuming…Jason grinned to himself, loving every single millisecond of it.

“Over my dead fucking body,” Bruce growled. For Bruce to cuss in such a manner meant he was fuming beyond fuming, that he was in “Kill Joker” mode, even though he follows through, Jason grumbled in his head.

“Shall we take it to the Cave? Your choice of weapon, winner take all, including the Manor and everything in it, and under it, and all as well,” Tim coldly, and dangerously, responded in a fatally calm manner, and NOW Jason was officially fighting off shivers.

Damian’s eyes were still wide, but something else on his face was emerging. Several things. Acknowledgement and acceptance of his horrible treatment towards Tim and his ignorance of Tim’s pain, self inflicted or not. Shock and Awe at everything, so far, for everything Tim had revealed; be it past, present, or moving forward. But what was most telling, or at least as far as Jason could see, was an emerging respect for Tim, be it newly acquired or long hidden.

And when Tim issued his simple, yet chilling suggestion of going to the Cave, Jason noticed that, even though it was ever so subtle, Damian had resolved to make things right with Tim, and was in Tim’s corner now, even if Tim was slow to let him in. Jason knew Damian was converted and willing to put in the work. Especially in defending Tim in any number of ways, and Sweet Diana, help anyone who wants to tempt that fate.

Dick looked like a lost puppy. More than likely he would hightail it out of the Manor to disappear for several months before coming back and trying to fix everything because in Dick’s mind, and to be fair, Jason thought, it is what Dick grew up with for the first 7 years of his life, big happy family time will fix everything. He probably wouldn’t fight Tim and whatever Tim was going to do, but he was going to infinity and beyond in terms his level of annoying in trying to be compassionate-big-brother-trying-to-win-trust-and-love-from-little-brother.

Bruce was staring down Tim, who was staring down Bruce.

Bruce’s navy-blue eyes full of rage and insult and hurt and humiliation and fury.

Tim’s freezing ice-blue eyes still void of emotion, but his aura exuded a “No More Fucking Bullshit” confidence, knowing within himself, as well as Jason, Damian, Dick, and Bruce-as much as he was clearly fighting it-all knowing that Tim had won. Tim had won a long time ago.

He had been playing Kah-Toh while they had been playing Jenga.

Today was the match the lit the fuse attached to the dynamite that had been getting stronger and stronger with each incident of bullying, abuse, neglect, and ignorance by others, as well as Tim's patience and will power in essentially holding himself back mentally, emotionally, verbally, and physically. Which may have been the tougher challenge, Jason pondered to himself.

What if it had been a glass of milk that was knocked off the table? Oh the irony, Jason smirked into his hand.

“What about the Team? What about Red Robin? I can still bench you if you wear that uniform,” Bruce sternly growled, as if to be intimidating when he was just a six-week-old puppy just learning to open its eyes and trying bark but only cute “ah-whoos” emerge.

This time Damian facepalmed. Dick shook his head. Jason placed his head in one hand, his pointer, and middle fingers on his cheek with his ring and pinkie fingers in front of his lips, smirk plastered across his face.

“Mr. Wayne, I do believe you need to get your hearing, as well as your cognitive skills, checked up on, for you seem not only to be having difficulty listening to me, but also understanding clearly what I have been saying. So I will try again, in simpler terms.”

Tim leaned just forward enough to place his elbows on his knees, his glare never wavering or breaking contact with Bruce.

When he spoke again, it was cold as Death’s touch.

“Mr. Wayne, from the first day I set foot into this mansion to try to get you to realize you needed a Robin to counter the Batman’s darkness, you have always been at arm’s length. Be it slamming a door in my face when I was but a wee lad of 8-years-old, breaking my arm at age 9 in sparring because you lost control and I had to go to Drake Manor and reset it myself via YouTube instructional videos, to the global travels to learn and have my ass whipped by Henri Duccard and Lady Shiva, until I could whip ass on my own-not to mention I have made yearly pilgrimages back to both of them and a few others or they have come here to Gotham so skills and perhaps new techniques can be kept fresh and learned-to piling casework upon casework upon me, to CEO of WE, to allowing verbal, emotional, mental, and physical abuse to continue not only from you, but from Li-tt-le One, for a time Jason-who is forgiven-, Ms. Brown, and Richard, to the disgusting neglectful behavior to my mental and emotional state of mind, which has only gotten worse over the last 18 months, and you dare to sit in front of me and challenge me to not stand up for myself? You have fucked up, Bruce,” Tim hissed Bruce’s first name for the first time since this all started, and he sounded like the old villagers in the Bela Lugosi “Dracula” movie hissing the Count’s name and making the sound of the cross. “And I am tired of being your goddamn punching bag and verbal reciprocal for your anger and hate. As far as Red Robin, as I previously stated, I use NONE of the facilities or resources in the Bat Cave or that is available to the ‘Bat Fam’ except when someone notices I am actually patrolling and makes a disparaging remark about me needing to get back to the Cave so I can be glorified secretary for everyone because Lord and Heaven above movie night with the animated fucking “Lion King” being the choice for the umpteenth hundredth time be missed by anyone but me. Not to mention I ALLOWED a lot of this to happen, which was a miscalculation on my part given how far I was pushed and how close I was, but it never, NEVER, should have included the aforementioned broken arm, being impaled by a supposedly new little brother, OR being threatened with Arkham. But watching a fucking rat teach someone to cook by grabbing his hair like controls is much, much more important."

Tim shoots a glare at both Dick and Damian, the main perpetrators of the animal heavy movie choices on movie nights. Neither meet his glare…they have no legs to stand on to argue anything.

Neither does Bruce, but out of spite, stubbornness, and selfishness, he is trying.

Damn, I want some fucking popcorn for this shit, Jason thinks.

“I acquired Red Robin,” Tim continues, “because it had only been worn once, on one mission, to space, and it had drawn alien blood. I had not known it Jason’s until much later, otherwise I would have chosen a different mantle, especially since at that time we were not on the best of terms, even though he was no longer trying to kill me, wearing what was technically Jason’s second mantle did not…endear him to me despite my attempts to make amends at that time.”

Tim glances at Jason, who just shrugs. That’s one thing Jason knows if he had a chance to do over again, he would change: getting his panties in a twist about a fucking uniform. Fuck, he is wearing his interpretation of Joker’s old mantle, for Christ’s sake. Hypocritical of him to bust balls of someone else wearing a uniform he only wore once, and frankly, was ugly as sin.

Not “Discowling” ugly, but still ugly.

“Red Robin is mine. And for 18 months, since Boomerang, I have financed myself, my tech, my base, my equipment, everything is mine. I have not one single piece of equipment or medical supplies from the Cave in my possession. I have returned all of it, or if it couldn’t be returned, I destroyed it to beyond recognition and repair.

You. Cannot. Bench. Me.

You do not have the authority to do so, and you do not have my respect for me to honor such a command.”

This was what crushed Bruce as the final one-two punch for the Knockout. He could handle his children not liking him, not wanting to be with him, not wanting to follow orders, wanting their own independent paths. He could handle all that. And he never worried about the whole saying of “I Love You,” because he barely said it even though he tried to show it and express it (even though he was very much aware of his emotional constipation.)

But to lose the respect of one, a few, or all his children, was something he could not handle. For respect, be it a boss, a leader, or a parent, is something that is earned. No one should expect to be fully respected, without question, just because they are the “Boss,” or they are the “Parent.” There is a certain amount of instilled respect that comes with such titles and tiers, of course, but if one does nothing to elevate the respect others have beyond “I am Parent” or “I am Boss,” then they are undeserving of such earned respect.

And earned respect is earned, and probably the toughest thing Bruce has ever, and continues to do, in respect to his children. Even when Dick and himself were at their most heated and strained points, respect was still abundant on both sides. Bruce respected Jason’s attitude, sass, and big heart for those less fortunate, particularly in Crime Alley (where victims were ignored far too much by Batman and his Team. Something Bruce is regretful of today and is trying to rectify but with Red Hood, Crime Alley is “No Bats Land.”) And Jason seemed to respect Bruce’s authority, once Bruce worked to gain Jason’s trust. Damian came in with ideas of grandeur but a trained (read: brutally beaten into) sense of respect for elders and parents, and Cass respected Bruce after just a few months of being taken in and showed what Bruce hoped was, parental love and care.

But here, Tim was the wild card of his children. The only one, Bruce will admit, that he didn’t choose. Tim chose this. Tim was 6-7 years old, running the rooftops, alleyways, and fire escapes of Gotham and Crime Alley, snapping pictures of Batman and Robin and Nightwing. Tim forced his way into Bruce’s and Dick’s lives to bring them light in the darkness that was after Jason’s death. A malnourished, smaller than normal, bright, ice blue eyed, midnight black haired, genius level intellect kid who knew what Robin stood for, and why Batman needed a Robin before it was too late. Tim came in with a lot of respect for Batman and Nightwing, and the respect and admiration for “his Robin, the Robin that was magic, Jason” was evident.

However, Bruce lost that respect somewhere. Probably if he had several pots of coffee and the entire database of Cave and patrol footage in the Bat-Computer and a good, uninterrupted weekend, he could find nearly iota of every instance where he himself chipped away at the earned respect, without having met Timothy Jackson Drake if how Dick, Damian and Jason have reacted to certain aspects of this unplanned therapy session; Wayne-style, is any indicator, that led to this point in time.

And here he was, still being a stubborn, controlling, emotionally constipated asshole, fighting what he knows is a losing battle with someone who has earned the respect of Ra’s Ah Ghul, who calls Tim “Detective.” Bruce is starting to believe during all this that Tim is the only Wayne who deserves such a title, cause how could the "World's Best Detective" miss EVERYTHING that was staring him in the face?

And Tim is right: there is nothing financially, personally, or professionally holding Tim here. He is all set up to be independent and apparently has for quite a while. And yet, he still came to the Manor, stayed the last three days to work on a report that Bruce knows he won’t read in depth. He will skim the broad summaries at each section (he came up with that practice for a reason but told his proteges that its only be to be used when there is a legitimate time crunch…like Bruce’s favorite show coming on in two minutes and Alfred has the hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies waiting. You know, important stuff. Hypocritical stuff). And that report was no doubt organized and numbered and color-coded and Damian obviously caused the mess.

But both Bruce and Dick have their reasons for giving so much lee-way to Damian and it has, if, and he should be, Bruce was honest, led to Damian’s behavior becoming more entitled and spoiled and dangerous. And Bruce doesn’t know why or how, at least consciously, Tim (and his whole letting certain amount of it occur is bullshit, because as has been stated through this entire...thing, it NEVER should have gotten as bad as it did to the point Tim was legitimately suffering from the abuse and neglect to the point of implied suicide attempts. And that would have killed Bruce, and Dick. And if the suicide didn't, Bruce knows Conner would and without hesitation) became the family punching bag and “black sheep,” when every Leaguer (especially after Tim proved them all wrong), most of the Rogues, Dick, Cass, Steph, Alfred, Jason, and even tonight Damian (in his back handed type of way) have openly admitted and praised Tim as not only the best detective in the Family, even over Bruce, but also the best strategist, tactician, finding the minute details to break a case, inventor, and Jason was the first to mutter it to Cass, but Bruce heard it, a much, much better and adept combatant than he is ever given credit for, especially if his newly acquired skills he has kept hidden have improved his skills.

All this passes through Bruce’s rapid thinking mind in mere seconds as he continues to look at Tim.

“Alright,” Bruce sighs. “What can be done to minimize the damage since there is no way to completely right every wrong, because that wouldn’t scratch the surface one single bit, and as much as it would seem like a good idea, there will be no time travel to restart at a certain point.”

If Tim is taken by surprise by what is essentially Bruce/Batman acquiescing defeat, he doesn’t show it. Eyes are still emotionless ice blue voids, and his entire face is stoic, with just the slightest pursing of his thin, and coffee chapped lips.

Damian, Jason, and Dick are almost literally knocked to the floor, if it was not for Damian already being on the floor, Jason leaning to far back on to the bed to fall, and Dick still clinging to the bed post at the foot of the bed post.

“I will meet with everyone, except Ms. Brown, separately and discuss the individual issues each person and I uniquely have. Alfred will be the first, for even though his silence spoke volumes as did his inactions, I am a horrible cook, and I do not think Jason want’s to be here full-time cooking meals for the Bats.”

“Goddam right,” Jason mutters under his breath just loud enough to be heard within the room.

“I can cook,” Dick offers up sheepishly.

Tim, Damian, and Jason look at him.

“Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs mixed into a bowl with chocolate milk does not a breakfast make, Richard,” Tim says, still somewhat coldly but not as frigid. A slight warmth glimmer in the ice blue eyes. Dick's sky blue eyes recognize the glimmer, his full lips still damp from snot and tears barely twitch into a smile. Not much, but Dick will take whatever he can, however long it takes, to have his Tiny Tot to at least not hate him. That is all Dick really wants...and to figure how in the living fuck is he going to make amends with Wally. Ssshhhiittt.

This causes Damian to let loose a small snort, Jason grins, and Bruce is starting to wonder what the hell is happening as his sons' already switched gears to, slowly, act like sons and brothers when just sixty seconds ago the tension was thicker the gas smell after everyone has eaten Green Arrow’s chili.

That reminds me, Bruce thinks, it is getting close to that time of year again. I should…well I be damned. I can focus and prepare for Green Arrow’s ass destroying chili, but I couldn’t remember my son’s birthday. Son-of-a-bitch…

“For now, these papers do need to be picked up. They are for a report after all,” Tim cuts through Bruce’s thoughts. Tim's voice, eyes, whole demeanor is no longer "Night King," but it is still a long way from the wide-eyed kid who while still living with his parent at age 7 declared he was a dragon and was going to hoard the entire family. Bruce knew he should have adopted Tim them, writing The Drakes a nice, very hefty check. Particularly after he heard how Tim took some hairspray and a lighter to that miserable wench Mirage for snarking at Jason that Dick was the better Robin and Jason could never live up to Dick's legacy. Good thing Tim doesn't know about the other thing Mirage did. Bruce doesn't like burying bodies.

Well, there is one body Bruce desperately wants to bury...maybe "amending" the code should be considered.

“I will do it!” Dick nearly screams almost falling off the bed.

“Richard, you will tear the pages with such clumsy motions. I will gather the papers and organize them to Timothy’s preferences and nothing less,” Damian exclaims with pride…and a sneer. He's back.

“How about both of you do it? Together? To help your brother?” Bruce chips in, trying to make things less tense bit by bit.

“Tim? Is that okay?” Dick asks timidly.

Tim is still sitting, still and focused, on his beanbag chair as he looks at his three brothers and Bruce.

He had made the decision some time ago that he would quietly reverse the adoption and just be Timothy Jackson Drake. Therefore, Mr. Wayne is Bruce, not his adopted dad.

“Sounds good to me. Jason, want to join me for a walk in the garden?”

“Sounds nice to me, Baby Bird.”

Tim and Jason exit the bedroom, the tension seemingly gone, everyone feeling…better after the whole ordeal-despite none of them realizing several hours had passed, but this seemed to do Tim a world of good-although Damian, Dick, and Bruce know their work is still cut out for them.

Just as Tim and Jason open the bedroom door and cross the threshold into the hall-where they notice that Alfred and Ms. Brown have spent an inordinate amount of time dusting, particularly around Tim’s door, but are now moving to Dick’s door down the hall-Damian calls after them.

“Timothy, these pages are numbered into the hundreds, but they are just all summaries, like we do for the sections of reports. Where are the actual reports?”

Tim turns and faces them, grinning a grin that is refreshing because it’s a happy, shit-eating grin, and scary because it is the grin of an evil genius whose plan has come to fruition.

“Oh, I have known that Mr. Wayne only reads the summaries of the reports for a while, if he even does that, so I have only been doing summaries for some time so at least the gist of everything is still recorded. But it was shitty to knock off several hours of work onto the floor that Mr. Wayne had been riding my ass for around two weeks with the two big international WE conferences I had to prepare for as well, not to mention DI annual investor’s meeting next week. Plus homework and the updates on the Batcomputer and such, I was spread thin. Luckily only doing summaries has saved a lot of time,” Tim says with a shrug.

Damian looks like he just realized Tim is a genius among geniuses, mainly because Damian struggles with reports and has always been the one thing he never snarked to Tim about, even when first arriving at the Manor.

Jason is just shaking his head and laughing, his expression is that of, “This crazy fucking kid.”

Dick looks murderous.

“Yes, Richard?” Tim asks.

“You. Knew. He. Wasn’t. Reading. Full. Reports. Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Us?”

Tim’s face goes serious, he crosses his arms across his chest, and gives Dick a look, raising one eyebrow in such a fashion that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson would be envious, leaning casually against the door frame.

Dick’s anger deflates and he sighs heavily, carding his fingers through his shoulder length raven black hair.

“Fair enough.” Dick then redirects his anger, turning to face Bruce. “You’ve been on my ass-not a fucking word, Jason-since Day One about reports and data entry and correct procedure and said summaries were for extreme time crunches only. Tim says you have been doing it for a while. How long is a while?”

Dick places his fists on his hips, shaking his hair out of his eyes, being the drama queen he is known to be.

Damian comes up to stand beside Dick, arms crossed against his chest, his dark green eyes affixed on his father, silently asking the same question, just with more intensity radiating off his 5’5” body.

Bruce looks at his eldest and youngest, and just sighs in defeat.

“Jason’s second year as Robin.”

“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!” the First, Second, and Fourth Robin all exclaim in anger and awe and shock.

Tim is just smiling and slightly laughing, still leaning against the doorframe, arms still crossed over his shirt, obviously borrowed from Jason as it says "Books, Bitches" that almost looks like a skirt on Tim, coming mid thigh on Tim's "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" sweat pants, that he wearing with bare feet, and painted toe nails in rotating colors of red, black, and yellow.

“Old Man, that is just fucked up.”

“Language, Master Jason.”

“Take my wallet, Alfie, because I believe I am not done yet.”

“I shall take a lump sum and leave your wallet on the kitchen table, Master Jason.”

“Thanks, Alfie. Bruce, you hypocritical son-of-a-…”

“Father, how could you do such a thing for so long?” asks Damian, interrupting Jason’s name calling, although he can still be heard muttering expletives in the doorway, next to Tim who is trying to hide his giggles as the 6'0', 225lb zombie Crime Lord spews expletive filled phrases towards Bruce.

Some are very…creative.

“Such actions are hypocritical and distrustful and dishonest, especially when everyone in this room has been thoroughly chastised by you when such in-depth reports haven’t supposedly been done,” says Damian as he continues his harangue.

“Bruce, do you know how much time I could have spent perfecting "Super Mario Bro./Duck Hunt" had I known you weren’t reading full reports when I was first Robin?” Dick exclaims in exasperation.

Bruce, Damian, Tim, and Jason all look at Dick as if he has shed his crop top and sweats for a new Discowling suit right then and there.

“Really, Grayson? "Super Mario Bros./Duck Hunt" is what you are upset about?” chastises Damian.

“It was an awesome game,” Dick mumbles innocently, exposing his inner child that is always just below the surface.

Tim just shakes his head and looks at Jason, who returns the look and nods. Tim uncrosses his arms, lowers his left arm with his right arm still across his chest, his right hand gripping his upper bicep.

“Welp, we going to go take that walk. Have fun organizing the papers because they do need that at least. Just leave them on the desk and I will show Mr. Wayne where I file them since I know he hasn’t gotten any files himself in well over four years, he just has one of us do it, or leaves it on the desk for us to file,” Tim smiles as he throws Bruce under the bus more.

Bruce glares but also knows he is caught so the menace is lacking in the glare, because if this is going to be the extreme of punishment from Tim (Bruce hopes. He doubts it, but he can hope), then it isn't so bad.

Dick and Damian once again turn and start in on Bruce, who just sticks his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, and head down, knowing he can’t do anything else but accept the tongue lashing being given out by his eldest and youngest sons.

He glances up and his expression changes to something that makes Dick and Damian stop their haranguing. They both turn around…

And see Tim holding Jason’s hand, and Jason, with his other hand, cupping Tim’s cheek and they are lightly kissing on the lips.

Damian drops his jaw and the papers.

Ms. Brown must still be somewhere in the hallway cause glass is heard shattering, followed by a shrieking, “WHAT?!”

Bruce just collapses back into the desk chair.

Dick starts to point and stutter, mutter, mumble, and trip over his words.

“Wh-wh-at. Wh-w-w-when. Why-Why-Why-Why. H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-ow. Br-br-br-other?”

Tim and Jason grin as they look at the shocked Bats inside Tim’s bedroom.

“It’s called we are dating.”

“For a year, Dickwing.”

“Because I’ve had a crush on Jason/Robin since I was first following Batman and Robin through the streets of Gotham. He’s only two years older, and one night, Robin saved me from unsavory characters, brought me back to Drake Manor, and when I asked for a photo, he obliged, then asked if we could take another, a selfie, and he kissed my cheek. I still have that photo. I gave Jason a copy about a year ago for his birthday, when after many months of pining, and it being obvious to everyone around us, or almost everyone,” Tim raises an eyebrow at Bruce, Dick, and Damian, who all duck their heads or blush in shame. “We talked…and stuff.” Dick gags, which Tim ignores. “And for a year we been going strong. Would have thought it was obvious when after we would patrol together, that is when the most hickeys would appear,” Tim concludes with a shoulder shrug.

“But you technically are brothers, not blood, but adopted. And have been growing as people in such an understanding, minus the whole beginning part,” Dick says, trying to not piss Jason off by mentioning the Tower incident.

“Um yeah. Bruce?” Tim asks, this time there is no venom or cold in his voice when he says Bruce’s name, not even saying Mr. Wayne.

“Yeah, Tim?” Bruce responds, trying to keep his cool for rubbing his temples to ward off the incoming migraine and the quadruple flip his heart did when Tim said "Bruce" like he used to. He may just drink this weekend away. Patrol can wait…maybe.

“One of the things our individual session was going to cover was this,” Tim holds up his hand that is clasped in Jason’s, which almost engulfs Tim’s. “And I was also going to inform you that about a week after I turned 18 a few months ago…I reversed the adoption. Not only because of everything earlier…but because, well, yeah,” Tim says, dopey grin on his face, which now a nice Vermillion, his head leaning against Jason’s broad shoulder, Jason’s smiling face kissing Tim’s hair.

Bruce, knowing it will hurt when he can process it, realizes something is more important. He sees two people-his sons, adoption papers be damned-that are obviously very much happy, in love is apparent, and they are two people who without a doubt deserve such love and happiness more than any of his other children, save Cass.

Bruce doesn’t care about the hurt anymore. He wants to, needs to, care about the happiness. Especially the happiness of his children, officially adopted, biological, or by default. He needs to check in on Helena and Harper, he thinks to himself.

“My blessings. Get out here.”

Tim and Jason are briefly taken aback, standing still before Bruce nods and gives a genuine, non-Batman grin, his navy-blue eyes alight with happiness.

Tim and Jason smile back, nod, and turn to leave, still holding hands as they make their way to the gardens.

Dick looks at Bruce, lifting his arms as if to say, Really?

Bruce straightens his posture in the desk chair, adjusts his turtleneck in the manner of a Captain Jean-Luc Picard pull, and crosses his black dress slack legs. He then looks up at his eldest, his first Robin, and simply, clearly, and without inflection, says:

“Slade.”

Dick bites his lower lip, trying to pout, or grin-with Dick, one can never tell-grunts and returns to picking up the papers, maybe with a little more angst than is required, while Damian is standing still, looking off in to space, in his own little world.

Bruce, noticing this, furrows his brow.

“Son? Are you okay?”

“Yes, Father. I was just wondering something is all.”

“Is it something I can help you with?”

“Well, Timothy and Todd said they have been dating a year?”

“Does one count month to month starting with the actual month in which a couple starts dating or does it go forward? Like if Timothy and Todd started dating in August, would their first month be August, or would it be September?”

Bruce smiles, as he leans forward to brush Damian’s hair with his hands, as he as gotten older Damian’s hair seems to have taken on a mind of its own, much like Damian himself. At least he doesn't try to cut hands off with his katana when someone ruffles or straightens his hair anymore. Or at least not that Bruce knows of, and Bruce feels it is better he doesn't know.

“General rule of thumb, Damian, is that they said they started dating a year ago, on Jason’s birthday…”

Oh, shit…

“No worries, Master Bruce, I have the cake and ingredients for fajitas already prepared and waiting. Supper for Master Jason’s birthday will be on the 16th, the master’s actual date of birth, the day after tomorrow, at 5pm sharp. I expect a full turn out, no exceptions. Inform EVERYONE in the group chat, Titans included. I have taken the liberty of already informing Ms. Koriand'r, Ms. Artemis, Master Roy, Master Bizarro, and Masters Bart and West.”

“Yes, Alfred,” the three Bats in Tim Drake’s bedroom replied…after their hearts stopped beating 100mph from being startled by the elderly yet spry butler who can still seemingly appear and disappear, like a ghost, at will. Damn MI6 training mixed with acting skills. Damn and damn.

Bruce turns to Damian and takes a breath before continuing to their conversation.

“Why do you ask, Son?”

Damian places the papers he was organizing on top of Tim’s desk and straightens his dark green three-button polo short-sleeve shirt and brushes his hand over his dark brown khakis pants. Ever present knife on his imitation leather belt.

“Oh, I was trying to figure out if its been 8 or 9 months since Jon and I officially started to date. Thank you for your help, Father,” Damian replies before turning on his heel and walking out of Tim’s bedroom, leaving Bruce and Dick in his wake.

Bruce looks at Dick.

Dick looks at Bruce.

Bruce rubs both hands up and down his face before muttering:

“What is with this family and those damn Kent boys?”

Dick’s belly laugh carried all the way down the hallway.

There was no patrol that weekend.

The End