Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, surveyed his territory. Though it was no Wayne Tower, the roof of The Park Row Theater was high enough that he could see the entirety of Crime Alley from his perch. It was ugly, rundown, and smoky, but Jason grinned at the sight.

After two long years of death and training, Jason was home. Now it was time for revenge.

One of the first things Talia told him once Jason had gained consciousness after recovering from his dip in a Lazarus Pit was that Batman had not avenged him. The Joker is alive and still killing, she said. Bruce never loved you, she didn’t say, but they both know it was what she meant.

That fact alone had driven him into a rage. When he next came to, the room he was in was destroyed and ninjas lay unconscious around him. It was far from his last blackout rage episode, but it was by far his worst.

For weeks, he had gotten no new information. No matter how much he yelled and interrogated and needled, no one would tell him more about Gotham until he had his anger under control. So Jason dedicated himself to calming himself, to getting a handle on the green that felt like it infected every cell of his body. He learned to hold it, to shape it, and, most importantly, to direct it.

Jason had been trained by Batman. Anger management was hardly new to him, so it was only the scale that he had trouble grasping. In fact, even that only took him a week to handle. However, as Jason learned how to cope with his new emotional issues, he remembered his other lessons from Batman as well.

Look for the truth beyond the facts, Bruce had said constantly. Everyone has a goal. Listen to what they say, but never take it at face value, even if it’s factually accurate. People rarely have such straightforward goals.

So, Jason pretended to struggle longer. It wasn’t hard to pretend; the Lazarus Pit was a beast of its own, apparently. But in those weeks, he observed his watchers, watched his trainers, and looked for why he was here. Why resurrect a street rat? Why immediately tell him that Bruce didn’t care?

The answer was obvious: to make him a weapon against Batman.

But Jason knew there was more here. He just needed to find out what.

When he outwardly showed enough control to satisfy his teachers, Talia returned. She waxed poetic about how tragic Jason’s death was, about how she found him roaming Gotham, alone and almost unresponsive but alive, about how she had to resurrect her beloved’s dear child, even if he didn’t care himself.

Three weeks ago, somehow alive but insane, Jason would have eaten it right up. Even now, he was almost inclined to accept it, to just take the love offered here, even if it was fake, but he had spent the last few weeks searching for traps. And this was one that would kill him, if he let it.

“Why not send me home now, then?” Jason asked, wondering what her excuse would be. “I’m stable enough, and I’d hardly be a danger to Batman.”

Talia hesitated, though whether it was genuine or for effect was difficult to gauge.

“My beloved would not take kindly to such a thing,” she said vaguely. Jason was half tempted to roll his eyes at the non-reason, but she continued, “He has already replaced you, after all.”

It took every inch of self control that Jason had clawed back over the last few weeks to not relapse at that. Green rage screamed in him, thirsting for blood, and answers, and pain.

“How?” The words escaped through his gritted teeth. “There’s a new Robin?”

Even saying that name was painful, but he had to know. He didn’t know what he would do if the answer was yes.

Talia hesitated again, but this time he could tell it was real. There was a spark of annoyance in her eye, like she had expected him to be unable to ask more. That redirected the rage slightly towards her, but did nothing to soothe it.

“Not exactly,” she said, quelling some of the fury. “There is another vigilante child who follows my beloved around. It is only a matter of time before he steals your colors.”

More rage flared, but Jason had an opening now. There was something here they didn’t want him to know, which meant that he desperately needed to know it.

“Oh?” he snarked around his anger. If he played it right, he could make it seem like he was mad at Bruce, not at the League for whatever bullshit they were playing at. “What’s this kid’s tragic backstory then? Dead parents are a given, but what drew Batman to him? Did he steal the man’s shutters instead of his tires?”

Talia seemed irritated that Jason was questioning this much. It only fueled his desire to do so.

“It’s unclear,” she admitted, almost shocking Jason out of his rage. “The boy is elusive. Even we have had trouble pinning him or his origin down.”

The League of Assassins doesn’t know who the kid is? Jason thought, stunned. The League knows Bruce’s identity. If they don’t know who the kid is, then the kid doesn’t live with Bruce. He really isn’t a replacement at all. Then why does the League want me to know about him? Why make me angry at a kid?

The answer, of course, was to make him mad at Batman. To aim him as one aims a bullet. He put on a sharp smile, but vowed to himself that whatever happened, he wouldn’t become their weapon.

Now, home in Gotham, not becoming their weapon was harder. Though the bullshit about the kid replacing him was obviously a load of crap, the stuff about Bruce not avenging him hit home. The Joker was still alive, after all. It only made it harder not to go to Bruce and demand to know why he hadn’t done it (why Bruce didn’t love him enough).

With the influence of the Lazarus Pit, it was difficult to keep those emotions from turning into anger and madness. So, for the safety of everyone, it was best to keep away from Batman.

Of course, it helped that Jason was now a murdering crime lord, which Bruce would try to put a stop to if he knew. Hell, Bruce was trying to put a stop to it, but it was easier to deal with a disapproving Batman than a worried and disappointed Bruce. Jason was proud of the work he was doing, but Bruce wouldn’t be.

(And quietly, to himself, Jason could admit that he was scared of disappointing his dad. That he’d look at Jason and regret taking him in all those years ago, if this was what he turned out to be. He decided it was better not to know.)

Some days, when the rage still burned inside him as hot as ever, he considered enacting his original plan, the one he’d pitched to the League so they’d let him leave: he’d drop hints of his identity, target the new kid, and antagonize Black Mask so he’d break Joker out of prison to deal with him, only for Jason to capture Joker himself and force Batman to kill him. It was convoluted and complex, but he knew it would work. Or — it would have, except…

“Joker? He’s out of the game,” one of his new henchmen said when Jason mentioned the man.

“Out of the game?” Jason repeated incredulously. “That maniac would never walk away. I’m not even sure death could stop him, some days.”

“That’s what we thought too,” the guy shrugged, “but then Crow got to him. The bastard's blind and paralyzed now. I thought everyone knew.”

“I’ve been out of Gotham for the last few years, missed a lot of current events,” Jason defended, mind reeling. That definitely hadn’t been part of the League’s dossiers, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have known. Speaking of things the League may or may not know, “And Crow did it? Isn’t that the little kid who follows Batman around?”

“Ha!” the henchman laughed, then winced as he realized he just laughed at his crime lord boss. Luckily for him, Jason didn’t care about disrespect. “Sorry boss, but saying that is like saying Harley Quinn is just Joker’s ex-girlfriend. The kid’s a force of nature in his own right, not to mention creepy as hell. Little fucker just appears out of nowhere and disappears just as fast. I don’t know much though. I think Anderson used to know more about the kid though.”

“Crow? Yeah I know some shit,” Anderson nodded when Jason asked him. “Well, as much as anyone knows. There were a few weeks where I tried to get some info on him for the Maronis. Not that it did them much good, Crow wrecked their whole operation.”

“By himself?” Jason asked skeptically. “How’d he pull that off?”

“Not by himself, no,” Anderson laughed, though he didn’t sound amused. “The kid’s an informant, first and foremost. From what we’ve gathered from watching the Bat, Crow is his eyes on the ground while Oracle is his eyes in the sky. Or behind the screen, if we wanna be realistic.” Oracle, Jason already knew, was Babs’ new alias. “Crow’s effective cus he’s untraceable and unpredictable. You know how Bat guides work?”

“Yes,” Jason answered, gritting his teeth at the thought of them. Bat guides were the underworld’s name for teams that specialized in misdirecting Batman and Robin. They’d sell their services to gangs who wanted the Bats’ attention elsewhere for the night. They varied in effectiveness, but he remembered hating them as Robin; from the other side, it was nearly impossible to tell what was real or fake.

“Well, they don’t work on Crow,” Anderson said. “He could literally be anywhere at any time. Try to hold a meeting somewhere remote? Crow knows it. Send a squad to distract the Bat? Crow’s where he needs to be anyway. Make a trade during the day? Crow was there and listening to every word. Worst part is, unlike the Bat, he doesn’t act on everything. He might watch a drug trade silently, only to follow everyone back to their hiding places. Operations will be convinced they’re secure for months only to find out GCPD has been given photographic evidence of the whole ordeal.”

Jason whistled, impressed. Bruce had always been too absorbed in his mission to bother with that kind of patience, and Jason had shared a similar disposition. He’d never been able to see injustice and look away. He’d never even considered that it might be a strategic flaw until now.

“And the Joker?” Jason asked.

“Technically, no one knows it was Crow,” Anderson shrugged, but was clearly thrilled to rant about the vigilante. “Word on the street is that Arkham was out for ten seconds. Then, when the lights are back on, everyone’s on high alert, but nothing seems to have happened. The guards do their little rounds, everything’s fine. Except, an hour later, Joker is missing both eyes and is paralyzed from the waist down. No one heard a thing, but Joker was raving about birds the whole time after, so probably Crow.”

“So he’s good in a fight then?” Jason prodded.

“He doesn’t fight,” the man corrected, to Jason’s surprise. “He only intervenes when he’s stalking Batman around and the man needs help, or if he sees a rapist trying something. That’s another reason people think he did the Joker: he likes to maim the ones he does take down. Some nerve damage here, an eye there, that kind of thing. And of course, no one knows who he is. I mean, no one knows who any of the Bats are, but people think that even Batman doesn’t know. There’s some theories that he’s a meta, but a lot of people think he’s the ghost of the second Robin.”

“The second Robin?” Jason repeated, his blood running cold.

“Yeah, you know,” Anderson said, hesitant as he picked up on the Red Hood’s apprehension. “The first Robin became Nightwing, everyone knows that. And the second Robin just disappeared one day. There were rumors, of course, but then Joker broke out of Arkham bragging about how he killed Robin. Two weeks after he’s back in, he loses his eyes and legs. Crow started showing up around that time, so…”

It was, for Gotham standards, a sound theory. Ghosts weren’t common, but they were hardly unheard of. Hell, Jason might have bought it if he didn’t have insider knowledge of the situation.

“Anyway, boss, if you want my advice to the Maronis on Crow?” Anderson continued nervously. Jason nodded at him. “Assume Crow knows everything. He doesn’t, obviously, enough information slips through the cracks that we know he doesn’t. But he could be anywhere, so you gotta assume he’s everywhere to cover all your bases. Any secret said out loud isn’t a secret, y’know?”

“I take it the Maronis didn’t like that?” Jason grinned, remembering how the crime family operated in his Robin days.

“Nope, didn’t even pay me,” Anderson said, but there was a smirk on his face. “‘Course, they went under a month later. Karma’s a bitch, and all that.”

Naturally, Jason paid him a little extra for his time.

The next logical step was to see Crow in person. It was a difficult step, since the boy was known for being unnoticeable, but it was an important one. Luckily, Jason knew one place Crow frequented often: Batman’s side.

So, as painful as it would be, Jason would have to watch Batman from a distance and see if Crow appeared.

He couldn’t do it as the Red Hood, obviously, but a civilian disguise wasn’t hard to set up. Moreover, Jason knew how to play situations to have multiple advantages. Soon enough, he’d set some of Black Mask’s goons to fail during one of their trade-offs by tipping off some friends of “Matches Malone.” Now all Jason had to do was bug the spot in advance and watch from a distance.

Sure enough, Batman arrived right on time to beat the False Facers into the ground. As always, the Bat was a sight to behold, whirling and punching and kicking with unearthly grace and power. After training with the League, Jason was only more in awe of it; that kind of fighting was almost impossible. He would know, since that was how Jason learned to fight too.

(He stamped down any other feelings he had about seeing Batman again.)

Soon enough, the False Facers were tied up, unconscious, or both. Batman prepared to leave, but paused. Jason froze, terrified he’d been made even at a distance, but Batman didn’t turn towards him.

“Crow,” the man called out, only slightly louder than normal speaking volume. Jason only heard it thanks to his bugs.

“Sir,” a young voice came from the shadows and Crow emerged.

Jason’s first impression was that the kid was young, maybe 11 or 12 at the oldest. His eyes were covered with a large domino, one that looked distinct from Robin’s due to its larger size and the extrusion around the nose, giving the impression of a beak while hiding more of his face shape. His hair was black, but with an unnatural sheen that implied it might have died from a different shade.

The rest of his outfit was painfully ordinary. Jason’s trained eyes could spot the armored sections of his clothes, but to an average or even lesser trained person it would simply look like black jeans and a black hoodie, no different from what any civilian would wear. Between that and his 5’ even height, Jason instantly understood how he could disappear silently, even in crowded areas.

“What relevant information do you have on the False Facers?” Batman asked, his voice relatively gentle.

As a former Robin, Jason could hear a whole treasure trove of information in that single question. Most stunning was the word “relevant”: Jason could count all of the people who Batman trusted to sort information by “relevance” on one hand, because those people were Jim and Barbara Gordon. Though it looked like Crow made that list too, now.

“Black Mask has been having issues with the Red Hood,” Crow reported. His voice was eerily calm, like nothing could phase him. It sounded unnatural in a voice so young. “I believe the Red Hood may have set up the False Facers to be here, at this time. Probably so we could do his dirty work, but there may be another motivation at play.”

Batman grunted in acknowledgement. “Keep an eye on the Red Hood.”

“Sir,” Crow agreed with a nod, then stepped back into the shadows and disappeared. Jason blinked at the space he had been, almost uncomprehending.

Jason knew how to disappear; he’d been taught by both Batman and the League of Assassins, but that level of sudden nonexistence was nearly unheard of. It was possible Crow was a meta, but some intuition told Jason that wasn’t the case. This was a talent of skill and practice.

In the back of Jason’s mind, he remembered that there was someone with the League who was said to be able to do that. “The One Who is All,” they called her, but little was known about her except her deadliness. Unsurprisingly, she disappeared one day on a mission, never to be seen in the League again. Jason supposed that was what happened when your operatives were too skilled: if they wanted to leave, they just did.

Jason quickly learned that Anderson had been right: Crow was definitely the most dangerous threat to his operation. Not his drug and crime operation — that was still Black Mask — but it immediately became clear that anything said aloud was fair game to the tiny shadow Batman seemed to know more and more about them every day. Any hints Jason wanted to leave secret about his identity had to be carefully hidden, never spoken. Maintaining a secret identity was even more difficult, since Jason could never be sure when he was being followed.

Nevertheless, his operation slowly grew, until he finally had control of every gang, dealer, and pimp in Crime Alley. Batman tried several times to foil him, even succeeding on a few occasions, but Jason avoided personal confrontation. Bruce was a master at gleaning too much from too little, and Jason didn’t want him to figure anything out.

In order to avoid the Bat, Jason sometimes went solo to run his own errands or take out the competition. It was during one of these times that shit really hit the fan.

Jason had been taking care of a small crew of human traffickers in his own, personal way. The victims had already been freed, but Jason had gone back to take care of the remaining trash. Normally, he settled for a bullet to the head for these types of scum, but today he was feeling angry, so barefisted it was.

He felt the Lazarus Rage surge in him as he beat those fuckers in the head. They were small timers in a fight, worth nothing, but it was almost fun to pull his fanciest tricks on them and watch as they cowered and tried to flee. Not that he let them.

Eventually, though, it was over, and Jason felt his rage and their bodies cool. Absentmindedly, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and tossed the lighter in the air, catching it and lighting it in the same movement as he’d done a hundred times before.

“Robin?”

The small, astounded gasp came from the shadows, and Jason recognized it immediately from a few weeks prior: Crow. Jason immediately lunged towards the voice, quickly spotting the tiny vigilante now that he knew where to look. Crow was quick to recover, though, and darted away just in time, slipping under his arm and past him.

Jason cursed, knowing that the bird would run straight to Batman. He gave chase out of the warehouse, but slowed as he exited. Crow, and any trace of him, was long gone.

Jason cursed himself for showing off. How Crow had instantly known Robin’s fighting style was unclear, but it was possible he’d either seen Jason fight frequently when he held the position, or else Bruce had shown him videos of Jason. That notion hurt too much to contemplate, so he shoved it aside.

Speaking of things too painful to contemplate, there was no way Crow wouldn’t report this information back to Batman. It was a miracle Batman wasn’t coming to confront him already for his crimes, now that he knew it was Jason.

Jason sighed as he entered his favorite safehouse, exhausted from the long patrol. He flicked on the lights and immediately aimed his gun forward on instinct.

Crow sat in the middle of his shabby living room, clothed in his uniforms sans the mask. His eyes were an unnatural shade of yellow and his hair was now tinted blue. Contact lenses and dye, undoubtedly, and Jason was willing to bet he was wearing contouring makeup. None of that changed the fact that he knew Jason’s safehouses as well as his identity as Robin.

“I just want to talk,” the boy said calmly, holding his hands up placatingly. “I haven’t told Batman what I know, I promise.”

Jason lowered his gun slowly, unwilling to shoot a kid. He doubted the kid hadn’t told Batman, but he wasn’t going to begrudge the twerp his job. Lying about it was a little rude, but Jason would’ve done the same thing at that age.

“How’d you find me here?” Jason asked. The kid dealt in information, but this place was top secret.

“I’ve been following you for nearly a week,” Crow admitted casually. “I was never able to see inside, but I knew which building. After that, it was simply a matter of checking the records and seeing which apartment lined up.”

A week, the kid said, like it wasn’t insane that Jason hadn’t noticed him that entire time until today. He wasn’t as paranoid as Bruce, but Jason knew he wasn’t the most reasonable of people when it came to security either. The thought that Crow could follow him home was unsettling.

“It is you, isn’t it?” Crow asked, and for the first time Jason heard traces of emotion in his voice. “Robin?”

“Robin died in a warehouse, kid,” Jason sighed, but he sheathed his gun fully.

“It is you,” the kid practically whispered, reverence and grief tinting his voice. “I thought it was when— but you died. We were so sure of it.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jason said harshly. The kid flinched, so he softened his voice. “I got better. Or worse, depending on your viewpoint.”

“It’s better,” Crow said, his voice full of unshakeable confidence. “We’d take you alive over anything. Whatever the price, everyone would pay it happily. If you came home—”

“I don’t have a home to go back to,” Jason interrupted, barely keeping his rage in check. Crow’s face smoothed over immediately, his hopeful expression returning to one of eerie calm. “Look kid, some things are better left in that past.”

“You aren’t,” he retorted, only a fraction of that previous emotion lingering. “They would accept you home in a heartbeat. The only reason Bruce isn’t here now is that I haven’t told him yet.”

Jason sighed, but the use of Bruce’s real name at least indicated that he didn’t have to keep his helmet on, so he removed it to look the kid in the eyes.

“Bruce has a habit of raising the dead on a pedestal,” Jason said wearily. “He did it with his parents, he did it every time he thought a teammate on the Justice League died, and he’s doing it with me. If I go back, he’ll remember that we didn’t have a good relationship in the end. I’m not his perfect little soldier anymore.”

“No, you aren’t,” Crow agreed calmly, tilting his head. “But I think you underestimate Bruce’s grief. Losing a child changed him. Losing you changed him. For better or for worse, I’m not sure, but he’d burn the world to get you back.”

“Would he kill the Joker?” Jason challenged, his rage flaring up. It dropped slightly when the kid concealed a flinch.

“Is that what you’re mad about?” Crow asked, back to a full monotone. “He tried, once, before we met. Superman stopped him. And now, there’s no point, is there?”

“There’s always a point,” Jason retorted, though he was surprised by that information. Yet another thing the League kept from me. “Joker is a threat even blind and paralyzed. Death is the only thing he deserves.”

“That’s probably true,” Crow nodded, his calm facade holding. “Regardless, Bruce might have killed Joker to bring you back, if he thought it would’ve, but obviously that’s not how death works. Though, I think it would have killed him. Given how suicidal he was after your death, that easily would have pushed him over the edge. He’s sensitive like that.”

Jason froze. That hadn’t occurred to him, that Bruce killing someone might lead to him killing himself, but it made a painful amount of sense. The man’s greatest enemy had always been himself, and if he thought he was going even a little off the deep end? Bruce was far too self-sacrificing in the first place.

He pushed that thought away, along with the tangled mess of emotions it had brought.

“Maybe,” he said instead. “But what about you? Where the hell did you come from?”

“The shadows, of course,” the kid said smoothly. If it were anyone else, Jason would have laughed, but the unsettling calm made him wary. Something wasn’t right here. “I figured out Dick’s identity when he was Robin, then surmised the rest from there. After you died, Batman needed someone to watch him, and I knew where to look. Simple as that.”

“Please, like anything is ever simple in this family,” Jason huffed. “You got a name other than Crow, kid?”

“Just Crow,” he said, making Jason frown. “And I’m not really part of the family.”

“So it’s true,” Jason confirmed in awe. “You really have hid your identity from the big bad Bat. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“It’s been difficult,” the boy admitted in his same monotone. “The only reason I’ve avoided it is I got Oracle to promise not to help him look. The rest is simply not giving him enough information to work with.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Jason laughed. He had been trying to avoid being identified by Bruce for months now, and he was sure the only way he’d been succeeding was by avoiding the man outright.

“It isn’t,” Crow said simply. “I’m good at hiding, though.”

And, for some reason, something clicked in Jason. A child, good at hiding and better at disappearing. One who showed little to no emotion at such a young age, who was paranoid enough to hide his features from allies as well as foes. Who flinched at the smallest displays of anger, then masked his fear just as quickly.

This kid had been abused. Badly.

“I bet you're hungry,” Jason said, drawing out a suspicious look from Crow. “You look like you could use another meal or five. Let’s go out and get some street food. I promise I won’t try to figure out your identity or drug you or anything like that. Just some good, old-fashioned junk food from a mildly sketchy street vendor at 11pm. Classic Gotham stuff. I’ll even pay.”

Crow looked at him consideringly, head tilted but face blank. Jason could see why so many of Gotham’s underbelly found him unnerving, but all Jason saw was a kid who’d been hurt too many times. It was painfully obvious now that he knew what to look for.

“Fine,” Crow agreed after a minute of silence. “You pick the vendor, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Nuh uh kid,” Jason laughed, as he waved towards the door. “We’re walking together. I wanna hear more about you, or whatever you’re willing to share. No identity stuff, but maybe how you figured out Dickiebird’s identity, or some stories about your early days.”

“Fine,” Crow sighed, a hint of annoyance peppering his tone. Jason smirked; he would elicit any emotion he could from the kid, and annoyance was a great place to start. It was basically part of the healing process, in Jason’s opinion.

“Good little bird,” Jason said, opening the door. “Come on. I feel like some chili dogs, and I know just the place.”

Over the next seven weeks, Batman became less aggressive towards Red Hood and his operations in Crime Alley, choosing to focus on Black Mask instead. In any other circumstance, Jason would have been frothing at the mouth, furious at the lack of attention and questioning Batman’s motives, but Crow’s continued appearances told him all he had to know: Bruce knew.

Whether or not he’d told Batman before their first talk, Crow had definitely spilled the beans on Jason’s identity at some point, given how Batman was now avoiding him as much as he was Batman. It was an uncomfortable situation, far from how Jason envisioned his reveal, but there was significantly less violence involved, for better or for worse.

Despite his dramatic plans falling in the gutter, Jason couldn’t complain. Batman leaving him alone also meant leaving most of his operation alone, giving them — and therefore Crime Alley — room to grow and thrive. His newfound interest in Black Mask’s syndicate also helped matters, cutting down his competition dramatically.

Hell, Jason couldn’t even summon anger at Crow for narcing on him. The kid kept visiting him, showing up out of thin air when Red Hood was alone on slow nights. Jason was careful not to get too angry around the kid; he was all too aware of how Crow tensed at the slightest hint of frustration. As such, he wasn’t going to flip out on the kid for telling a huge secret to the man who was probably the closest thing he had to a positive parental figure.

His lack of anger paid off. Within a few weeks, the kid was already opening up, showing hints of annoyance at Jason’s more obnoxious jokes and even throwing around tiny, rare smiles in lighter moments. He found out that Crow had a wicked sense of humor, finding amusement in the way criminals tried and failed to evade his gaze like squirrels hiding from a hawk.

Which led Jason to an unexpected benefit of befriending the corvid: his intel. Almost immediately after their first outing together, Crow was happy to drop any details about any number of crime families and villains in Gotham. The information helped smoothed out his hold on Crime Alley, letting him connect with the people and shut out any traitors quickly.

Unfortunately, Crow seemed a little too eager to give out information to Jason.

“You know I’m not being nice to you just for intel, right?” Jason asked one night as they sat on a rooftop with an ice cream cone each. “Like, you could never tell me anything ever again and we’d still be friends.”

“You say that, but I find that that’s rarely the case,” Crow disagreed mildly. “Everyone wants something. Giving it to you is the easiest way to keep an eye on you.”

That was another reason Jason couldn’t stay mad at Crow for snitching: he was so upfront about it. He’d literally told Jason to his face that he was spying on him, uncaring that Jason was a deadly crime lord.

“Maybe what I want is for you to be happy and to have a reliable support network, how about that?” Jason countered. “You deserve to have people looking out for you.”

Crow rolled his eyes at Jason; a relatively new reaction from him, but an increasingly frequent one.

“You want to run a successful criminal empire and make Bruce uncomfortable,” Crow corrected. “I have the information and connections to make both of those goals possible. You can’t deny that the information is valuable. I’ve seen you implement it effectively.”

“That’s true,” Jason conceded, “but I’d still hang out with you even without all that. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Crow seemed startled at that.

“I… guess?” he said, confused. “I’m not really sure what makes someone a friend.”

And didn’t that break Jason’s heart?

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to be your first friend,” Jason said confidently. “Don’t worry, baby bird, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

“You’re not, you know,” a mechanical voice chimed in Jason’s ear that night on patrol, making him freeze in place. His helmet had a rudimentary comm that he mainly used to communicate with his lieutenants, but he hadn’t expected anyone to care enough to break into it.

“I’m not what?” he asked, knowing his own voice would stay mechanized over the channel.

“Crow’s first friend,” the voice clarified, and it clicked for him. This was Oracle. Barbara Gordon. Barbie. And she’d been listening to his conversations with Crow, or at least his most recent one. “We were here first. You’re just the most recent addition.”

“I’m sure that’s going so well for you,” Jason snarked, a flash of anger running through him. “What’s his name again? Oh right, he still doesn’t trust you enough to tell you.”

“You can hardly claim to know as much yourself,” she countered calmly. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort you’re putting in, of course. Crow could use more people in his corner.”

“That, I agree with,” Jason conceded, calming himself with a deep breath. The first step of controlling Lazarus Madness was identifying irrational anger, and he had no reason to be mad at Barbie. Yet. “So the invasion of his privacy counts as being his friend?”

“Please, the only person’s privacy I invaded was yours,” Oracle laughed, the distortion making it sound unsettling, probably on purpose. “Crow planted those bugs in your apartment himself. He’s been arguing for months that you’re not a danger to the city, so I figure he planted them there so I could make that judgment for myself.”

“I could damn well be a danger to Batman,” Jason grumbled, but didn’t argue. Again, it only helped his plans if the Bats didn’t bother him. Then, the rest of the implications hit him. “He’s been arguing for me?”

“Of course,” she said. “Not that he’s had to argue very hard, recently. Not everyone agrees with your methods, but your results have been speaking for themselves. I, for one, am eager to see how your strategy in Crime Alley plays out.”

“You don’t disagree with my ‘methods?’” Jason asked, one part mocking and two parts shocked.

“It’s not my personal MO, but I work with a variety of vigilantes outside of the Bats. Ones with looser moral codes. However, I’d recommend against your severed heads plan. It may scare the drug lords, but nothing will get you on the shitlist of every vigilante and hero in the country faster. It’s overkill.”

“How do you know about that?” Jason demanded. He’d only mentioned it in private to his second in command, in a secure location, when he had known for a fact Crow had been away.

“Did you think Crow is alone in our little network?” Oracle asked. She used the same tone she had used when he did something particularly stupid on his math homework, back when she was his tutor. “He’s quite good, but there aren’t enough hours in the day for him to know everything. And as much as he likes you, he’s still watching you. We all are. It’s nothing personal.”

“I’m sure,” Jason deadpanned, but found himself believing that. Information gathering was most effective if you kept your friends as close as your enemies, after all. Speaking of which, Jason had his own information gathering to accomplish. “And Bats is watching him, isn’t he? Waiting to uncover his secret identity whether the kid wants it or not.”

“Batman has his reasons for searching the way he does,” Oracle said vaguely, annoying Jason. “I promised not to get involved either way.”

“So Crow said,” Jason hummed. Sensing he wouldn’t get anywhere on that front, he pivoted, “And the Joker? Batman has his reasons for keeping him alive, then? And I suppose you go along with that too.”

Silence fell over his comm.

“If you were anyone else, I’d cut you off forever for a comment like that,” she said quietly, her voice modulator turned off. Jason felt caught off guard at how much older she sounded. “As it is, you’re probably the only person alive who could demand more from me. So, with that in mind, let me frame it this way:

“Joker mocked Batman for losing his vision of the world, and he lost his eyes. He took my legs from me, and lost his own. As far as I’m concerned, the clown can rot in miserable insignificance for the rest of his sorry, pathetic life. If you feel like you need to take what he took from you, I won’t stop you. And as long as you don’t advertise your intent to do so, no one else will either. If you want something done, stop being dramatic for once and do it yourself. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Oracle out.”

Jason’s comm cut out. He didn’t know what she meant by seeing him soon, but the rest of the message had been pretty clear. It was probably the closest to an endorsement he’d ever get from a Bat not named Crow.

That said, he didn’t want to think about it. To process what she said would be to acknowledge its truth, and he was in no hurry to do that. He swung away into the night, determined to find someone to beat up.

“Boss, you may want to see this.”

The words brought Jason out of his paperwork (of which there was way too much). Before he could berate the man for such vague language, he noticed the stony expression on his face. Or more accurately, the fear beneath it. He followed the henchman with a nod towards the communal TV at his current headquarters. Several people were already gathered around with grim expressions, but they parted when he approached.

The face on the screen was one that had haunted his nightmares for years: the Joker. The mad clown wore his signature face-paint and grin, but the surgical scars over where his eyes used to be made him all the creepier. The background was generic, but it was obviously not the clinical white walls of Arkham. This was Joker’s broadcast, and he had gotten out.

Jason took a deep breath to calm the anger and fear in his chest before tuning in to what the monster was actually saying.

“...without involving our good old boys in blue, yes?” the madman continued. “Just me and a corvid, I should think. We have unfinished business, the two of us, don’t you agree birdy? In fact, let’s arrange a meeting: any civilian, criminal, or hero who brings me the elusive Crow will never have to fear me ever again. I’ll personally ensure you have a vaccine against my patented Joker gas, no problemo!”

“A Joker gas vaccine?” one of Red Hood’s workers exclaimed, only to look sheepish as everyone turned towards her. “I mean, is that a thing?”

“No,” Jason said coldly before anyone else can speculate. “Joker changes his formula constantly to avoid antidotes and ‘vaccines’ of any sort. He’s said the only vaccine to Joker venom is death, which is the whole joke to him. He’ll kill anyone who tries to bring him Crow, successful or not.”

“That won’t stop people from trying,” one of his lieutenants chimed in. “People are desperate enough against Joker that some of them will try anyway.”

Jason hummed in agreement. The situation was bad, especially for Crow, but Jason could use it to his advantage. If the Joker had already broken himself out, that just meant there was one less layer of security for him to hide behind. Jason would have to be careful, but this was the perfect opportunity for revenge.

Jason was still planning three hours later when the window of his safehouse opened. His gun was out instantly, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him.

Batman stood in his window, drenched from the downpour of rain outside. The man pulled off his cowl to reveal a desperate expression, the likes of which Jason had never seen from the man.

“Jason,” he gasped, making Jason’s heart beat in fear.

“What?” Jason tried to ask coldly, but his voice cracked. He wasn’t ready for this.

“Please,” Bruce begged, shocking Jason further. He’d never heard Bruce beg. Never. “You have to help. He has Crow.”

“Who?” Jason asked, despite already guessing the answer. The dread in his gut was too intense now, and he begged he was wrong.

“Joker. The Joker has Crow.”

Chapter Text

Batman swung his fist down. Rage enveloped his entire body, so all-consuming that he felt like he could hardly see past it. The man beneath him was inconsequential, but that only served to stoke his anger further.

He aimed a kick at the man’s stomach. This man contributed nothing to society. This man, like so many others in this city, did nothing but take and take and take until there was nothing left. It disgusted him, how low humanity could reach.

Batman aimed another punch at the man’s jaw. It connected with a satisfying crunch.

A small gasp behind him alerted Batman to another person. He whirled around, ready for an ambush, but instead there was only a child. They were young, 10 at most, though most of their features were obscured in the dark of Gotham’s night.

Batman moved mostly on instinct, stepping over the man he had been beating to approach the child and pulling a lollipop out of his belt. Despite his imposing figure, they did not flinch. He regarded them inquisitively as he gave them the lollipop, which they gladly accepted, but did not open.

“Are you lost?” he asked in his gentlest voice, though he internally winced as it came out raw and throaty. He was out of practice. The child hesitated, then nodded. “Where do you live?”

“Will he be alright?” the child asked in a stilted monotone.

Bruce was confused for a moment, before realizing the child was referring to the thief he’d been apprehending. He looked back at him, quickly examining the man. He was still breathing, and though he had a broken jaw, everything else should be fine.

The man had tried to rob a woman in a back alley when Batman caught him. Batman had gone too far.

Bruce nodded.

“He’ll be alright,” he assured. Or at least, the man would live. “Where should I take you?”

The child hesitated, which Bruce found understandable. Eventually, the child seemed to determine something.

“1548 Sturman Street,” they said in the same monotone as before. Bruce hoped he hadn’t traumatized them with the beating.

Bruce extended a hand — the one not speckled with blood — towards the child, who slowly took it. He knew the address was only a couple blocks away, so it wouldn’t be too out of the way to lead the child home.

As they walked together into the light, Bruce looked down at the child and barely suppressed a flinch. The pitch black hair and dark blue eyes weren’t the same shade as Jason’s, but it barely mattered to Bruce’s desperate mind. He forced himself to look away, but the image still lingered in his mind.

It didn’t take long to reach the given address, though judging on the high quality of the child’s clothes, they likely didn’t actually live in the actual apartment. Still, Bruce was hardly going to punish a child for not telling a stranger their real address, even (or perhaps especially) if that stranger is Batman.

“I trust you can get home from here?” he asked the child as they reached the correct building. The child nodded. “Goodbye then.”

He swung away without another word, though he could feel their gaze on his back.

Later that night, when Bruce was back at the Cave, he froze as a flash drive fell out of his left glove as he took it off. Frowning, he inserted the flash drive into the port connected to the isolated system he used for potentially dangerous software. Instantly, several photo albums popped up. Since the tests thus far revealed no malware, he clicked into one of the albums, titled “Goodman.” Inside, there were 12 photos labeled by date of mobster Harrison Goodman testing samples of cocaine. They were remarkably clear, and remarkably in focus.

Bruce immediately thought back to the child. They were the only one who had had an opportunity to slip something in his glove last night, though the ability to do so implied they were a talented pickpocket. Likely some actor had paid the child to pass the evidence to him, though why, Bruce didn’t know.

Regardless of reason, Bruce would have to keep an eye out for the child.

Two weeks after his first encounter with the child, Bruce saw them again.

Batman had caught a drug runner for the Maronis and was attempting to extract information about the sellers. The runner was probably about 25, far older than the average drug runner in this area, but that only made Batman more suspicious.

“Tell me who you work for,” he growled, holding the man against the wall by the throat.

“Please, I don’t—” the man wheezed out. Batman threw him to the side as the man struggled against his hold. Three more punches had swollen the man’s left eye closed.

“Tell me!” Batman shouted.

“You’re being too harsh.”

Batman dropped the man and turned to glare at the child from two weeks ago. They were only a few steps behind him, somehow having snuck up on him despite his training.

“Who gave you that information last time?” Batman asked.

“I took those photos myself,” the child said. Looking at them closer now, Batman could see that their eyes were actually a dark green, not blue. “But you’re avoiding my point. You’re being too harsh on him. He’s just a drug runner.”

“How do you know that?” Batman questioned with a glare.

“I was there when you caught him,” they responded simply. And concerningly, because that meant that they had been tailing him without his knowledge or notice. “He’s small fry. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Batman felt his temper flare at the lecture.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “What are you doing here?”

The child’s expression flashed with fear, the first emotion he’d seen from them, and Batman’s anger cooled immediately. Before he could apologize, the drug runner coughed, drawing his attention for a second. By the time he looked back, the child was gone.

Bruce sighed, annoyed at himself for his temper. The child had no fault here, even if they had taken those photos themself. Looking down at the drug runner, he could even admit that they were right: Batman had been too brutal. Drug running was almost a minor offense in Gotham, a crime of desperation more than malice. If the child hadn’t stopped him, he wouldn’t have broken his one rule, not over something so minor, but Bruce could admit that he had gone too far.

More importantly, he’d raised his voice in anger at a child. A scared child, if his instincts were right. Between the emotionlessness, the ability to disappear quickly, and the fear in their eyes at his shouting, the child needed help. That wasn’t even mentioning the fact that they were roaming around Gotham at night following Batman.

Bruce knew he couldn’t do anything about the child right now; he knew nothing about them, not even really about their appearance, between the change in eye color and the dark setting. What he could do, however, was take their words to heart: Batman wouldn’t go that far again. Not on someone who didn’t deserve it.

For a month, Bruce kept his word to himself. Whenever he felt his temper rise in the face of crime, he calmed himself down. He called upon strategies from the League of Assassins that he hadn’t had to use in years, and even some he’d never had to use before. It unsettled him how out of control he felt at times, but he continued to work alone despite Barbara’s recent protests.

Tonight, however, was a different story.

The man in front of him was a rapist. He’d caught the man red-handed in an abandoned apartment, running down a woman who he had somehow cornered. Batman didn’t hesitate to intervene, allowing the woman to make her escape. Now, he was determined to make the man pay.

This man disgusts me, Batman thought as he kicked the man’s ribs, eliciting a shout of pain. How could I have judged Jason for wanting to do this to Garzonas? Maybe if I hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have died.

You’re going too far, a quieter part whispered. You’ll kill him if you keep this up.

He doesn’t deserve mercy, the rest of him shouted. The man’s breathing was slower now, and he was clearly unconscious. Batman could take him to the police, but they’d have no evidence of a crime, save Batman’s word. It really would be Garzonas again.

Before Batman could contemplate the conundrum more, however, he noticed a small, familiar presence enter through the window.

“He doesn’t deserve mercy,” Batman repeated aloud. “If you were watching, you saw what he was going to do to that woman.”

“I saw,” the child admitted, voice still calm. “I agree. Why should he live when Jason died, right?”

Bruce finally looked at the child, shocked at how they seemed to effortlessly echo his thoughts. They didn’t look at him, but instead walked over to the unconscious man on the floor. Before Batman could even react, there was a knife to the man’s throat. Batman froze, stunned.

“Batman can’t kill,” they stated calmly. Their hands didn’t shake. “If Batman kills, Batman dies. But if you think he should die, then I’m not Batman. I can do it for you, so you can keep your hands clean.”

Bruce felt like he’d been doused in ice water.

“No,” he said, unable to stop the quiver in his voice. “A child should not have to bloody their hands for any reason, but especially not mine.”

“It’s alright, I’m not worth much,” the child shrugged. Every word was a knife in Bruce’s heart. “I haven’t done this before, but I can, if you need it.”

“I don’t need it,” Bruce disagreed almost desperately. “You aren’t worth nothing. You matter to me.”

The child looked up at him for the first time, shock clear on their face. Their eyes were definitely green.

“Why? We’ve only met twice, and I made you angry,” they said, sounding their age for the first time. Before Bruce could possibly figure out how to respond to that, they shook their head. “Never mind. You’re Batman, of course you care.”

The only ones who had ever accused Bruce of caring too much were Alfred and Jason. The blind assumption that Batman cares, no matter what, was humbling. It stung in a way that didn’t make sense to Bruce.

“Don’t kill,” Bruce asked, only a hair away from begging. “Whatever you think of yourself, a child shouldn’t have to kill. Especially not for Batman.”

He spat the last word, unable to keep the hatred out of his voice. The child studied him, their face back to its careful blankness. They moved the knife away from the rapist’s throat, pocketing it easily in a subtle sheath on their hip.

“I won’t go this far again,” Bruce promised, both to the child and himself. “I promise.”

“Okay,” the child said, a hint of exhaustion in their voice. Something occurred to Bruce.

“How often do you follow me?” he asked, keeping his voice intentionally soft so as not to spook them.

“Often,” was all they said in response.

“It’s dangerous to do so,” he said, though he already felt the argument was pointless. It was one he’d already had with three children in his life, after all. The look the child gave him only supported that hypothesis. “Is there something I should call you?”

The child hesitated, clearly not expecting the question. Bruce waited, having learned from experience that patience would be invaluable here.

“Crow,” the child replied after a minute of silence. “You can call me Crow. And I’m a boy. I can tell that you haven’t been sure.”

Bruce hid his surprise at the observation, but he supposed it made sense that Crow would figure it out; he was clearly smart.

“If you need me, please find me, Crow,” Bruce said softly. As much as he’d like to be more aggressive and find the child a safe home as fast as possible, there was no way the child wouldn’t escape as soon as his back was turned. No child who could disappear from Batman’s view would be held against their will by any other adult. “You seem skilled at finding me already. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Crow looked surprised again, but hid it faster, this time.

“Thank you,” they said with no emotion in their voice. “He’ll need a hospital.”

Bruce looked at the rapist. He was still unconscious, but his bruises were darkening. Crow was right; Bruce would have to admit him to a hospital.

Bruce looked up, unsurprised to see that Crow was already gone. He sighed and picked the man up.

It was only an hour later, when Bruce was replaying the interaction in his head, that he realized that Crow had said “Jason” instead of “Robin.”

The potential security risk of someone figuring out his identity accelerated Batman’s timeline for interaction with Crow. He normally would have waited a few weeks before trying to establish more contact, but after thinking it over he determined that he would have to try to find the boy within the next few days to ensure no information leakage.

Two days after his last encounter with Crow, Batman stood on a deserted rooftop in Tricorner. He could see no one else around, but if he focused hard enough, he could feel the slightest presence near him. Batman couldn’t help but feel impressed; few could evade his senses and intuition, and none were as young as Crow.

“Crow,” he called out, just below a shout. After a moment, the boy materialized from the shadows to his left. Bruce noted how he changed his breathing to gain a somewhat normal — if muted — presence, showing how he was consciously turning it on and off. For a moment, Bruce considered that Crow might have some sort of meta ability, but he dismissed it. Even if the boy was a meta, the situation was still the same.

“Yes, sir?” Crow asked softly. Bruce also noted the use of “sir”: it implied a deferential relationship to a man, which could be problematic given Crow’s other behaviors.

“You know my identity,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Crow confirmed simply. “I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t.”

“How did you figure it out?” he asked.

Crow hesitated.

“I don’t think it’s secure enough here,” he finally said. “I can meet you at your house tomorrow and we can talk in private.”

Your house. An unsettling thing to hear as Batman, but an obvious conclusion to make when Crow knew his identity. It wasn’t like the location of Wayne Manor was a secret by any stretch, after all.

“Very well,” Bruce agreed. “Stay safe.”

Crow nodded once, then stepped back into the shadows. Now that Bruce was looking, he could see that Crow’s technique for disappearing was imperfect and untrained, but still impressive in its execution. He tracked the boy for several seconds as he moved before he disappeared from view. Bruce would have to give him some pointers as to how to further evaporate his presence.

No, Bruce reprimanded himself. He promised himself that no more children would die for his cause. That meant that no child would enter his care either, since he seemed unable to keep them out of the mission once they were exposed to it. He would find Crow a home and fix his current problems, if possible, but Bruce knew he was far too corrosive to have another child. If he hadn’t been selfish and kept Jason to himself, his son would still be alive, even if he had never become his son.

Bruce was getting ahead of himself. First, a meeting in his home, in the daylight, with a small, vulnerable child. He would have to be careful not to spook Crow, not when he held so much obvious power as a rich man in his own home. It was unlikely that this first real meeting with Crow would lead the boy to be comfortable revealing his own identity, but Bruce could still look for clues, as well as hopefully build some trust between them so that Crow might eventually trust him with it soon.

The rest of patrol passed quickly, with Bruce going almost on auto-pilot as he ran through every past encounter with Crow and accounted for every possible situation tomorrow that he could think of. When he arrived back at the Cave, he informed Alfred that they would be expecting a visitor tomorrow. He forced himself to get a full night of rest. He knew that he could seem meaner when he was tired, so it was imperative to actually sleep for the importance of the mission.

By the next morning, Bruce was already crawling out of his skin with anxiety. Crow hadn’t given a time to expect him, so all they had to do was wait. Bruce tried to do some Wayne Enterprises work he’d been neglecting to occupy himself, but as always the paperwork was too dull to truly get his mind off the issue.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. The bell to the Manor rang at 11:58am. Alfred and Bruce exchanged a meaningful look, then Alfred walked to the door to answer while Bruce made his way to the drawing room. They’d agreed on it due to its size and atmosphere: it was large enough not to be claustrophobic and give Crow plenty of room, but not so large as to make the boy uncomfortable if he was unused to opulence.

“Please, Master Crow, I insist you call me Alfred,” the butler’s voice became clearer as he approached. Bruce couldn’t help but smile to himself; Alfred had always been better at endearing himself towards the boys. The door opened to reveal Alfred and Crow.

Crow looked only slightly larger in the daylight than in the shadows of Gotham. His dark hair was now a dark purple while his eyes were the same shade of green as a few nights ago. If Bruce looked closely enough, he could make out a little bit of well-applied makeup glinting on his skin, implying that he had probably applied some contour. All signs pointed towards extreme measures to keep his features hidden, though the choice to change constantly rather than create a consistent face was an interesting one to Bruce.

Another part of Bruce reflected on why a child, especially a young boy, might need to be so skilled at applying makeup. He had to push the thought away before the implications could make him angry. It wouldn’t help, not when he needed to be gentle now.

“Shall I get you some tea, Master Crow?” Alfred asked as he guided Crow to the seat opposite Bruce.

“I’m alright, thank you,” the boy said politely but still without emotion. Alfred nodded and exited.

“Did you have any trouble getting here?” Bruce asked when it became clear that Crow would not speak first.

“No sir,” Crow said mildly. “I assume you would like to know how I discovered your identity?”

Bruce suppressed a frown, but nodded. As much as he’d like to make Crow feel more comfortable, it was best to get that out of the way, especially if it was weighing on Crow.

“Dick Grayson is one of three people in the world able to perform a quadruple somersault,” Crow began. “He is the only one able to do so in the United States, with the other two living in Russia and China respectively. It was, in fact, one of the reasons the U.S. was so invested in recruiting him to the Olympics several years ago. There was an article about it in the Gotham Times. Three years ago, I was following you around on patrol when I saw Robin perform one.”

Crow stopped there, clearly thinking that to be enough explanation, which, for Bruce, it was. Bruce even remembered that night, as he’d lectured Dick afterwards on showing off. To his credit, Dick had toned down his acrobatics from then on as both Robin and Nightwing, but for Crow, it seemed the damage had already been done. Bruce knew that once you figured out one of their identities, the rest weren’t hard to piece together. Still, there was another concerning piece of information there.

“You were already following us three years ago?” Bruce asked, doing his best not to sound accusatory. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded, but Crow didn’t flinch.

“I’m older than I look,” Crow said in response. It was stated as a simple fact, rather than a child’s insecurity, so Bruce was inclined to believe him. However, given that he had stated his own worthlessness a few nights ago as a fact as well, Bruce would have to be wary about what Crow took as truth versus opinion.

“Thank you for telling me,” Bruce let the matter go. If Crow was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to eat while you’re here?”

It was risky, offering food first like that, given how many rich men used drugs as tools of assault, but after some deliberation, Bruce had determined that Crow’s faith in Batman would likely keep him from thinking the worst of Bruce’s intentions, the way that Jason had in the beginning.

“I’m not food insecure,” Crow answered simply, cutting directly to the heart of the matter. “You don’t need to worry about me. I have a family and I am well fed. My position in my family is secure. Please do not waste your charity on me.”

“It is not charity,” Bruce disagreed, unable to stop his frown. “And even if you are well fed, you are still a child. Are you well cared for in your home?”

Crow’s face remained emotionless, but he looked down slightly towards the table to avoid Bruce’s eye contact. It was a smooth motion, subtle and obviously well-practiced, which only gave Bruce more surety of the answer.

“I have everything I need to survive,” Crow said calmly. It was as direct of an answer as any: No.

“Alright,” Bruce conceded. Nothing good could come of pressing the issue, not when Crow clearly did not trust him. He had never been good at delicate conversations anyway. His instinct was to ask how often Crow went out at night, but he suppressed it. While it was information Bruce would like to know, it would only serve to make this seem like an interrogation. Instead, he tried, “Is there anything I could say or do to stop you from following me?”

Crow looked back up at him, his head tilted sideways questioningly, though his expression stayed blank.

“As I know you’ve seen, Gotham is dangerous at night,” Bruce elaborated. “You are skilled at stealth, but stealth will always fail eventually. If it fails at the wrong time, near the wrong person, it could kill you. I’d like to avoid that, if possible. So, is there anything I could say or do to convince you to stop?”

Crow stared at him, thinking. Then, simply:

“No.”

Bruce sighed, the tired, age old fear sinking into his bones. He’d been down this road too many times to think he could stop it, not when he didn’t even know the child’s name or where they lived, but he had hoped that this time might be different.

“I can help,” Crow continued. He likely didn’t know he was echoing the exact words of three children before him. “I hear things when I’m in the city. People don’t notice me, so I learn all sorts of secrets. I can tell them to you. I’ll be useful.”

The boy’s tone never wavered, but Bruce knew a plea when he heard one. The child clearly needed someone to care for him, to care about him, even if he didn’t realize it consciously. So here he was, asking Bruce to care, even though Bruce was the worst person to care about children.

Even so, he’d never been able to say no to a child asking for help before, and he wouldn’t say no now.

“You don’t need to be useful,” he said, in the off chance Crow might internalize it. “I can’t stop you from following me, but I can ensure that you’ll have some protections when — and it is a when — your stealth fails. I’d like to give you some armor and an SOS button, if you’ll allow it. Neither will have active trackers until you activate the SOS.”

It was a compromise Bruce had anticipated, knowing that no one so intent on keeping their identity secret would agree to being tracked back home. Thankfully it worked: after a long silence, Crow nodded.

“Ok,” he said, for the first time sounding a little unsure. “Thank you, sir.”

It was overly formal and barely a concession at all, but Bruce would take the sliver of trust.

Over the next three months, Bruce managed to convince Crow to come to the Manor (or at least the Cave) four times: three times after patrol and once before. He never ate or drank anything, never let anyone within five feet of him, and never stayed the night, no matter how tired he looked. He came only to debrief or share information and never stayed longer than he needed to.

He did, however, wear the gear that Batman provided. He had yet to use the SOS button, but he regularly wore the armored streetwear that was made for stealth missions. Admittedly, Bruce had hoped that he’d be able to have built up more trust at this point, but at least the situation hadn’t worsened.

Things took a turn when Dick visited for the first time since the aftermath of Jason’s funeral.

“So, I heard you’ve taken in a new kid,” Dick said as he stabbed a piece of steak on his plate. The last five minutes had been tense silence. Bruce wasn’t sure if he welcomed the breaking of it or not, if this is what Dick wanted to talk about.

“Not exactly,” Bruce pushed out. “Crow doesn’t trust me enough to be ‘taken in.’”

“Like that’s stopped you before,” Dick rebutted. Tines screeched across the plate as they stabbed through another piece of steak.

“I wouldn’t be able to keep Crow contained if I wanted to,” Bruce admitted. The frustration of the problem had been weighing on his mind, loosening his tongue. “The boy is far too skilled in stealth and escape. Besides, I know I’m not fit to take care of a child.”

Dick stopped and stared at Bruce, which Bruce politely ignored as he ate his own dinner. After another minute of silence, Dick spoke up again.

“You don’t think you’re fit to take care of a child,” he repeated. “You. Bruce Wayne. Don’t want another child.”

“I am capable of self-reflection,” Bruce grumbled. “You can make jokes about my adoption habits all you want, but I am not so selfish as to subject another child to my parenting.”

“B, you were never a bad parent,” Dick sighed.

“Really?” Bruce countered, his temper flaring before he calmed himself down. “Can you honestly say that I made you feel loved while you were under my care?”

“Not always,” Dick admitted freely, “but I was your first kid. You were bound to make mistakes and you learned from them. Eventually, anyway.”

“Clearly not,” Bruce disagreed. “If I hadn’t taken Jason in myself, he would still be alive.”

“You can’t know that,” Dick said, his eyes narrowing. “If you hadn’t taken him in, he’d probably still be living on the street, and who knows how long until something happened to him out there? Best case scenario, he ended up at Ma Gunn’s school without a way out. Even if someone had taken him in, he might still have sought out Sheila.”

“Regardless of what might have been, the truth is that my care did end in his death,” Bruce pushed on, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “I’m not well suited to being a parent.”

“Bruce,” Dick sighed.

“Don’t deny it Dick, we both know I’m right,” he interrupted.

Dick sighed again, but said nothing. Bruce ate another bite of steak. Tense silence filled the large, empty dining room.

“You were a good dad,” Dick finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We didn’t always get along, but you were good. And with Jason—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Jason loved you. A lot. And even if you fucked up sometimes, you cared about us, and you did your best. You helped us. And it sounds like there’s a kid out there who needs someone to care about him, and I could think of a lot of worse people to do so than you.”

Bruce struggled to process that. He knew he had been the reason that Jason left; he had made his son feel unloved enough that he needed to seek a woman on the other side of the planet for validation. The idea that Dick still thought he’d been a good parent was a baffling one, but Dick wasn’t known to soften his blows, especially not for Bruce’s sake. If he thought that Bruce wasn’t fit to be a parent, he would’ve just agreed.

“Even if you’re right, that doesn’t help the current situation,” Bruce sighed. “Crow still doesn’t trust me. Even if I wanted to take him in, he wouldn’t let me.”

“Now that we can work on,” Dick said, smiling for the first time since he arrived. “Let me work a little of my old-fashioned Dick Grayson charm and he’ll be living here in no time.”

Bruce had no idea what Dick did to foster trust in Crow, but whatever it was, it worked. A week after Dick’s visit, Crow accepted an invitation to sleep over in a guest room at the Manor after patrol. The boy insisted on a deadbolt lock on the door and windows and was gone the next morning, but the cameras by the front door showed that he had left at 5 a.m., so he’d stayed for a solid five hours. It was definitely a big step.

“I just offered to teach him a bit about gymnastics,” Dick explained when Bruce called to ask about his methods. “B, you don’t need to interrogate me. Just be honest about your feelings. The kid is smarter than we know. I think he sees that you’re trying to stop him from his vigilantism and is resisting, in his own way.”

Unfortunately, telling Bruce to be honest with his feelings was the advice he wanted to hear the least. He hoped that the first steps would be enough to foster trust with Crow, but that didn’t seem to be the case. While he did start staying at the Manor more frequently, even up to one night a week, he was still refusing any food or drink that wasn’t sealed and he refused to get within five feet of Bruce or Dick.

Thankfully, Crow was receptive to training in anything that wasn’t combat, giving Bruce more excuses to bond with him. Unsurprisingly, he took to stealth and escape training like a fish to water and seemed to soak up intel like a sponge. Within a few weeks of Bruce’s intense classes on the structure and workings of Gotham’s underworld, he could point out details and observations that Batman glossed over.

Yet, Crow still didn’t trust him, at least not with his identity. As long as Crow didn’t trust him, there would be no real improvement in the situation. Thus, emotions would be needed to tackle the issue.

So, on a Saturday morning after Crow had stayed over, Bruce went down to the Cave, where Alfred had informed him Crow was practicing his batarang skills. As Bruce descended, he could hear the faint sounds of batarangs hitting targets. Crow’s aim had improved dramatically over the last several weeks, but he lacked the natural skill of the previous Robins.

Bruce shook his head. Crow wasn’t, and will never be, Robin. There would never be another Robin again. Not after Jason died in the suit.

“You’re getting better at that,” Bruce commented as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Crow no longer jumped at the sound of his voice, which he considered to be a success.

“Not good enough yet,” Crow said factually, to which Bruce simply hummed in reply. Crow was hitting the center about half the time, which was nowhere near good enough for the field. At least Crow knew that; Dick had been a pain about how good his batarang skills needed to be before he was allowed to patrol. Not that Crow wasn’t patrolling already.

“You’ll get there,” Bruce promised. “For now, take a break. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Yes sir,” Crow nodded, relaxing out of his throwing stance. Bruce still didn’t love the address, but at this point it was just how Crow referred to him. It was, at least, better than “B,” which was good for consistency but potentially bad for secret identity purposes, due to the fact that Dick and Jason used it in both civilian and vigilante modes.

Had used. Jason had used it.

“I want to start by saying you aren’t in trouble,” Bruce began, trying to push away his thoughts, but he flinched when the slightest tension showed itself in Crow’s neck. “Right, I forgot, saying that apparently makes things worse, according to Dick. It’s true though, I promise. I just wanted to see how you were settling in.”

“I’m doing well,” Crow said. Their monotone wall held, but Bruce was starting to learn how to read the tiny signs that betrayed his emotions. Right now, he was cautious, not sure what Bruce wanted. “Is my performance satisfactory?”

“Very much so,” Bruce admitted. “In the field, your stealth skills have been improving, and in training I’m starting to see real results in your ranged combat and grappling skills. I’m proud of you.”

Bruce repressed a wince as the last statement made both of them visibly uncomfortable, but he had long ago learned that such sentiments were necessary in the long run. He cleared his throat, trying to think of how to approach the gentle topic of trust without spooking Crow. Eventually, he remembered a trick he had learned while parenting Jason: if you gave a small gift first, he’d be less defensive once emotions came into play.

“I would like to discuss a potential problem, though,” Bruce said, wincing as he realized how that sounded. Thankfully, Crow didn’t tense at all. “I’m worried about you becoming identifiable as you continue to follow me around. You do a good job with makeup and contacts, but it may be a good idea to add an extra layer of protection, for the safety of your face and your identity.”

“A mask, then,” Crow deduced. “A cowl would be too hard to remove quickly, which I need to blend into crowds. A simple domino could work, but the sealant would also take too long to remove.”

“Correct,” Bruce nodded, feeling a surge of pride towards the boy. “If you would like, we could design a new mask for you. Dominoes and cowls have been traditional around here mainly because I prefer a cowl, and Dick refuses to wear anything more than a domino. He says he likes the feel of the wind in his face too much. There’s nothing wrong with creating something more practical for you personally.”

Crow considered that for a moment, then nodded. Bruce waved him towards the workbench, where he pulled up a pencil and paper.

After an hour of brainstorming, they agreed on a design they both liked: on first glance, it didn’t look too different from a large domino, with the mask itself covering almost the entire upper part of his face. The nose, however, was slightly hooked and extended further down, transforming his nose into a beak. It wasn’t as long as a plague mask normally, but they designed a rebreather that would fit with the rest of the mask to give a plague-doctor aesthetic.

Overall, it was subtle but slightly unnerving, not to mention easy to remove. They also planned to allow night and infrared vision to be toggled in the lenses, as well as advanced microphones for better listening capabilities.

“Are you sure the rebreather portion is practical?” Crow asked, sounding almost self-conscious.

“Yes, it’ll work,” Bruce reassured. “Moreover, aesthetics are more important than you think. I wouldn’t be nearly as feared in the underworld if I just wore a ski mask, would I?”

“No, I suppose not,” Crow agreed. Bruce cleared his throat.

“Speaking of masks,” he began, trying to hide his nervousness. Crow’s eyes moved to him, and Bruce was aware he wasn’t succeeding. “I’ve been noticing you avoid being in close proximity to me and Dick, and you refuse any food or drink that isn’t sealed. I understand if you may have some past experiences of people… taking advantage of you, but—”

“It’s nothing like that,” Crow interrupted, his voice embarrassed. Bruce blinked, startled by the break in his usual calm facade. “I promise, it’s nothing as bad as that. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Bruce suppressed a concerned frown.

“Regardless,” he said slowly, “it’s clear you don’t feel fully comfortable around us. Which is alright!” he said quickly as Crow straightened up. “We haven’t earned your trust yet, and I don’t want you to give more than you’re comfortable with. However, I bring this up because I’m worried about what may happen if you need one of us to get close to you in an emergency.”

And also because a child your age and size should eat more, he added mentally, but knew enough about children to know that probably wouldn’t be wise to say.

“I trust you both,” Crow said, some of his calm back, but he still sounded more like a child than Bruce had ever heard him. “It’s just— It would be bad, if you found out who I am. I know, logically, that you won’t drug my food or grapple me down to see my real face, but…”

“But the fear is still there,” Bruce finished when he trailed off. “I understand. I hope, one day, that you will trust us with your identity, but I know what it means to be carrying that burden. I won’t push you about your identity, for now, and I promise that neither Dick nor I will ever drug or physically assault you without sufficient reason.”

“Sufficient reason?” Crow repeated, almost sounding amused.

“Yes,” Bruce confirmed. “If you are under mind control, or a mind-altering substance, either may become necessary. Furthermore, if you are injured and urgently need medical attention and are unconscious or otherwise unable to clearly consent to sedatives, I may take initiative to administer anesthesia, or more accurately consent on your behalf for another to administer it.”

“I suppose those are agreeable exceptions,” Crow nodded. His face was still in its neutral, stony expression, but Bruce couldn’t miss the undeniable note of amusement in his voice.

“Promising things without reasonable exceptions is the best way to ensure a broken promise,” Bruce continued, serious in his words, but Jason and Dick had mocked him enough for his contingencies that he could add a little humor to his own voice. “I wouldn’t want to be unable to act in an emergency.”

“You would have made an excellent lawyer, in another life,” Crow drawled. Bruce had to stop himself from laughing right there, because Crow had just made a joke. A real, genuine joke with a change in tone and everything.

“I have been told I’m the next Harvey Dent at parties,” Bruce smiled. Crow exhaled sharply through his nose, and it took all of Bruce’s willpower to stop himself from grinning like a madman.

“I promise, that wasn’t a compliment,” Crow said, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes. “That said, I understand that my aversion towards closeness may lead to issues in the future. I’ll work on it.”

“I didn’t mention it to guilt you,” Bruce reiterated. “I just wanted to see if there was anything we could do to help.”

“There isn’t, this is a personal problem,” Crow said, standing up.

“One last thing,” Bruce said before he could leave. Crow paused. “You know we won’t judge you for your identity. Whatever you’ve done in the past, or whoever you’re related to, or whatever you are, it wouldn’t change anything. You’re safe here. I promise. No exceptions.”

Crow was still as a statue, his back to Bruce.

“Thank you,” he said. His monotone was back. “I’ll see you tonight.”

And then he walked upstairs without a look back. Bruce sighed.

That conversation went about as well as it could have, he thought to himself. At least I have something to work on. He sat down at the workbench and began to work on a prototype mask for Crow.

Despite his icy exit at the end of their conversation, Crow did become more comfortable around Bruce and Dick. He still avoided hugs (from Dick) and any sort of close combat training, but he no longer kept a radius of distance around them. He even leaned into the shoulder touch that Bruce had given him on auto-pilot when he finally got the hang of his grapple.

This also meant that Crow started interacting with the larger vigilante community of Gotham. Barbara immediately took a liking to the boy, taking him under her wing as Oracle. Between his stealth skills and her technical prowess, they were quickly becoming a formidable duo. Within a few months, Batman had more knowledge about Gotham’s underworld than he’d had the rest of his career combined.

Moreover, according to Barbara, Crow was getting along swimmingly with the Birds of Prey and had even started accepting lessons with some of them, but from whom, she refused to specify.

“You wouldn’t approve of all of them, which means you get to hear about none of them,” she declared when Bruce asked. “I get that you’re overprotective, but I promise I’m taking good care of him. I’m not the type to work with people who mistreat children.”

Bruce did have to concede that, even if it took a few minutes for him to admit it.

“Jesus Christ, Bruce, he’s fine!” she eventually exclaimed. “The interrogation is a little much, even for you. He’s fine, I’ll keep an eye on him, nothing is going to go wrong. Stop being such a control freak.”

She hung up on him after that, but he had to admit to himself that she was taking good care of Crow. The boy needed more allies than just Bruce, after all, and she was an excellent ally to have.

Crow seemed to flourish under the extra attention. Eight months after Bruce first met him, he was already starting to show some emotion when alone with Dick and Bruce. Not much, admittedly, but he would side-eye Dick when he made a particularly stupid pun, and his eyes would light up a little when Bruce complimented his technique on a training maneuver.

Even so, not everything was perfect. Despite spending more time at the Manor, his room was still almost barren, barring the basics. Alfred had offered to help him decorate on several occasions, but each time he would politely decline and then spend several nights away from the Manor. Alfred had stopped after noticing the trend, but the fact that it elicited such a reaction was concerning, to say the least.

Bruce understood conceptually that progress was not linear, and certainly not on all fronts. He remembered having rough patches with both Dick and Jason, of course, and that wasn’t even mentioning his own childhood. Still, the taskmaster in him was disappointed in himself that he couldn’t help Crow faster, no matter how unrealistic that was.

And, of course, the ache of missing Jason never went away. Bruce’s temper still flared when the worst criminals showed their faces, even if the thought of Crow watching forced him to cool it. He still looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Robin following behind him, laughing or complaining or thinking about a book he read recently. He missed the chatter on the comms, even when he used to get annoyed by it, and he missed how Jason would rant about his classmates in English.

He missed his son. He wished that he could see Jason grow up. He wished, above all, that he could trade his own life to bring him back.

But Bruce couldn’t do that. (He had checked.) He had to keep moving forward, and if trying to help another child was the way he survived, there were worse ways to grieve. He would know; he’d tried most of them, at some point in his life.

Bruce tried his best to be good for Crow, the way he hadn’t been to his previous children. He never yelled or raised his voice, he didn’t ask for more than he could give, and he did his best not to let his own issues push the child away. How well that worked, Bruce wasn’t sure, but Dick at least seemed to be approving most of the time.

And Bruce did see Crow as one of his children. It was hard, because Crow did not seem to want a father, but Bruce couldn’t help it. Crow was his son as much as Dick and Jason, even if he often avoided the Manor and insisted on keeping his distance. Just like with his other sons, no amount of logic or reason could dissuade his heart from caring about the small, black-haired boy.

That just made it all the worse on the worst nights.

An automated reminder on his phone had told Bruce to start looking for collector’s editions of books for Jason’s birthday now, since the ones he liked tended to be difficult to find, and it took months to procure them before his birthday. It was a little message he had set up two years ago. A small, devastating thing he could’ve ignored on a good day.

It was not a good day after that.

An associate director at Wayne Enterprises had been caught stealing money from the Wayne Foundation and now Bruce needed to deal with it. Two-Face was stirring up trouble by the docks and no one could figure out why. And, most annoyingly, Black Mask was making a move into Crime Alley.

Batman had descended onto the False Facers with confidence and fury. He left Crime Alley with a bullet graze on his arm and a bruised rib. Minor injuries, but that almost made it all the more insulting. He didn’t even stop the drug production, just busted a small transport.

Worst of all, Crow had to step in to knock out a False Facer while his back was turned. It was a minor confrontation, not even a fight, with Crow disappearing immediately afterwards, but Bruce noticed it regardless. It felt like adding insult to injury, that Crow would have to put himself in danger to assist Batman in what should have been a routine fight.

By the time they’d gotten back to the Cave, Bruce was seething at himself and, if he were honest with himself, at Crow. The boy had followed him back, seemingly to make sure Bruce took care of his wounds.

“You put yourself in danger today,” Bruce lectured as the boy silently retrieved the bandages. “Coming out of hiding like that was an unnecessary risk.”

“It was necessary,” Crow disagreed mildly. “You would have sustained worse injuries had I not intervened. I wasn’t even seen.”

“This time, yes,” Bruce said, “but in the future? A move like that would put you in jeopardy.”

“Then I will avoid it when it isn’t necessary,” Crow said simply as he wrapped Bruce’s arm. “I did what I am here to do. You will not be able to guilt me for it.”

Bruce felt the anger drain out of his body until only a bone-deep melancholy lingered.

“Why do you do this?” he asked the boy, who looked confused by the question. “Why bother? I may not be at my best, but I haven’t gone close to crossing the line since that man. This isn’t your fight.”

“Waging war on Gotham crime wasn’t your fight either, until you made it yours,” Crow pointed out. “The only thing that determines what our fights are is which fights we choose. I chose this one.”

“But why?” Bruce almost pleaded. “You have to know what the cost is. I know you know what the cost is.”

Bruce couldn’t help looking towards the glass case behind Crow: Jason’s memorial. Crow followed his eyes and softened.

“Oh, that’s what this is,” Crow whispered, sounding sad. “Bruce, that’s why I do this.”

“I don’t follow,” Bruce admitted.

“Jason’s death ruined you,” he explained as he finished tying the bandage and stepped back. “If that were to happen to anyone else you cared about or to you, the results would be disastrous. Not just for Gotham, either, but for the Justice League and the world.”

“But why do you need to do it now?” Bruce asked. “Why don’t you hang up the responsibility now? You know I could find you a better home, even if it isn’t here. You don’t have to fight anymore. So why?”

“Because I won’t be another Jason,” Crow said simply. “If I die, no one else will suffer. Without anyone to care about me, I become valuable, useful. So I can do this without fear.”

Bruce’s stomach dropped. His head spun as he tried to grapple with that statement, said so casually and effortlessly.

“That’s not true,” he insisted, his breathing becoming labored. “Dick would care, and Barbara, and the Birds of Prey. I care about you.”

At that, Crow looked up at him and gave him a small, sad smile. It was the first smile he had ever seen on the boy’s face.

“Oh Bruce,” Crow shook his head, almost like Bruce was being ridiculous. “You would keep going just fine. You don’t even know who I am.”

Bruce was speechless as Crow walked away without another word, ascending into the Manor for the night. His thoughts were a buzz of static and fear as he forced himself to process the implications of what Crow had said.

Is that why he hides his identity? he asked himself. Does he think that if we don’t know his real name, that we can’t care about him? That he’s expendable?

Horrifyingly, it matched up with his previous actions: asserting his trust of Bruce and Dick, but avoiding them and refusing to eat; going out of his way to change his face and eyes constantly so they could never identify him; keeping his room in the Manor barren and devoid of life, and then leaving at the first opportunity; his coldness at Bruce’s assertion that they wouldn’t care about his past or his identity. Crow was determined not to show them his life, to avoid their help, because he believed it made him vulnerable.

No, worse than that. He believed it made all of them vulnerable, like loving a lonely child was a weakness he didn’t want to impose on them. He believed that by hiding himself, by making himself unavailable, he would become somehow more.

How Crow acquired such beliefs was both irrelevant and obvious: someone had taught them to him. Most likely a parental figure, likely abusive, definitely neglectful. Bruce had no idea whether the figure was still in Crow’s life, but if they were, that only made the situation all the more dire.

On one thing, Bruce was absolute: if Crow believed that knowing who he was was the only way Bruce could love him, then Bruce would have to show that he loved Crow. He wouldn’t break his promises to Crow, but Bruce would figure out who he was or die trying.

For a while, Bruce silently gathered data to determine Crow’s identity. He didn’t bother the boy himself about it, but he asked Dick and Barbara for assistance. Unfortunately, both refused to help.

“Sorry Bruce, but I don’t think we should betray his trust like that,” Dick frowned. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”

Of course, Bruce knew that it wasn’t that simple. Crow would never come to them willingly as long as he believed his anonymity made him more valuable, and Bruce didn’t know how to convince him his anonymity was harmful without his identity. Explaining that to Dick would be futile, so he tried Barbara next.

“I can’t help Bruce,” she had said, sighing. “The first thing he made me do when we met was promise not to look into his identity. I won’t stop you from looking, but I can’t break my promise.”

While it was inconvenient, Bruce understood. He had his own promises to keep to Crow after all. That’s why he was doing this.

Even without the others’ help, he managed to pinpoint a few key facts: first, Crow had black hair, as made obvious by how his roots would show after a few weeks, even if dyed them frequently enough to hide the exact shade. Second, he was from an upper class family, given the state of his clothes and his mild accent, though he hid the latter well enough to keep Bruce from determining where exactly in Gotham he originated. Third, he was neglected. This fact was apparent given his schedule and ability to stay at the Manor for several nights in a row, but likely wouldn’t help Bruce in determining his identity.

Beyond that, the boy was a mystery. Leslie had checked him over several times for wellness and general health, but she refused to tell Bruce anything about him due to doctor-patient confidentiality. He was also shockingly, concerningly good at avoiding slips about his identity in casual conversation, which was good for everyone’s identities as a whole, but frustrating in Bruce’s current endeavors.

Finally, Crow’s age was unknown. It was clear he wasn’t aging as fast as he should for a child of his apparent age, but whether that was due to medical intervention, a meta gene, or something else entirely, Bruce had no way of knowing. It was clear Crow was, as he had claimed, older than he looked due to his exceptional intelligence, but Bruce had no way of knowing who he was.

Despite these setbacks, Bruce did compile a list of possible children in Gotham using the few parameters he did have, after facial recognition failed. However, they did little to narrow it down; his only real parameters were “black haired” and “upper class family,” with age and even gender being indeterminate. The 1,839 profiles pulled in didn’t help. Adding “homeschooled” as an educated guess helped, narrowing it down to just 156 profiles, but due to the nature of homeschooling many of those child didn’t even have pictures associated, much less any other information, and Bruce didn’t have the time or resources to investigate each one on the off chance one of them ended up being Crow.

However, all of that got tabled when the worst possible scenario happened: the Joker broke out of Arkham.

It was practically an inevitability, unfortunately, but Batman was still unprepared emotionally all the same. He’d hoped to have brought Crow fully into the family, maybe even gotten him off the streets entirely, by the time Arkham’s security failed, but he’d barely made any more progress with the boy. When Bruce brought up the possibility of Crow staying away tonight, Crow just looked at him flatly.

“You’ll need me tonight,” he said, his monotone carrying more judgment than usual. “I don’t trust you to keep your cool. If anyone deserves death, it’s him, but we both know you can’t be the one to do it.”

Bruce grunted, annoyed. Crow was right, but he wasn’t factoring in his own safety.

“You aren’t my keeper,” he refuted. “Nightwing is coming with me. Stay here where it’s safe.”

“Nightwing isn’t any better at keeping his temper,” Crow pointed out. “Oracle will be watching, but I need to be there to intervene, if necessary. I’m coming.”

Bruce grunted again. He knew that tone well enough, and it always signaled that Crow was stating a fact, not making a case. It meant Crow was coming, whether or not Bruce wanted him to.

“Stay out of sight,” he advised instead and turned towards the Batmobile. Crow didn’t dignify that with a response as he followed into the passenger seat.

Batman cursed as he dodged another wave of bullets, this one closer than the last. Joker’s unhinged laughter echoed in the abandoned warehouse. The setting was not lost on Batman, and he was sure it wasn’t lost on Joker either.

“Oh do be careful, Batsy!” the madman heckled. “You barely ducked out of that round. What’s the matter? Too short staffed to pin me down? I do suppose that’s my fault. Whoops!”

Batman took a deep breath in as he filtered out the clown’s mocking laughter. He knew Joker would drive a knife through that wound, that he’d milk that “joke” for all its worth. That didn’t stop the hurt and rage coursing through him.

Another round of bullets began out of the blue as Batman’s hiding place was discovered. Luckily, he was prepared and grappled up into the rafters, leaving behind smoke bombs that burst after a few seconds.

“How rude of you!” Joker cried out, though he didn’t sound as upset as Bruce would’ve liked. “I can’t see anything in all this mess. Why, I’m as blind as a bat without a robin!”

Batman barely stopped his roar of anger as Joker laughed hysterically at his own joke. He aimed a few batarangs into the smoke where the laughter emanated from, but he scowled as he heard them clatter against the concrete floor.

“Oh you’ll have to do better than that,” Joker chided, his laughter having fizzled out. The acoustics of the warehouse gave nothing away. “Why don’t you come out of hiding and we have a proper chat, hm? Much better than us dodging around each other like Scooby-Doo characters.”

Across the room in the rafters, Crow appeared. He stayed silent in his shadows, pointing towards a spot below them. Batman nodded in understanding and jumped down to the floor.

“I’m right here, Joker,” he growled, drawing on his genuine anger.

“Perfect!” Joker laughed. “I’ll stay hidden, thanks. But you announcing yourself makes me want to throw a party! Here are the favors!”

He laughed maniacally as machine gun fire began again, but cried out as it stopped abruptly.

“You bastard!” Nightwing yelled as he followed his own batarang to the clown. “I’ll kill you for what you did to Robin!”

“What?” Joker cried out, angry. “Cheaters! This was supposed to be my alone time with Batsy! I’ll just have to kill both Robins to make up for it!”

Batman sprinted towards the noise as Joker screamed. The smoke began to dissipate as he arrived, revealing Nightwing kicking the grounded Joker repeatedly. The clown was pathetic, crying out as he barely took the abuse. Batman watched as the beating continued, cataloging each bone he heard snap.

“That’s enough,” Crow said quietly next to them after several minutes of this. Nightwing didn’t stop. “I said enough.”

There was enough force in the word to startle Nightwing out of his rage and both men looked at the boy. If Batman recalled correctly, Nightwing had never heard Crow’s more forceful side.

“Killing him isn’t worth it,” Crow continued, back to his monotone. “His blood would only cheapen your boots. Jason didn’t die for this.”

“Jason didn’t die for anything,” Nightwing growled, uncaring of the names being thrown around.

“No, he didn’t,” Crow agreed. “Don’t give Joker’s death any more meaning, then.”

Nightwing huffed, but stepped away. Crow watched Batman, like he was daring him to do something. He did nothing.

“GCPD will arrive in 3 minutes,” Oracle chimed in their ears, her electronic voice more distorted than usual.

“Copy,” Batman said. “He’s been apprehended. I’ll watch him until they arrive.”

It was barely necessary. Joker had at least 12 broken bones. However, he’d escaped with worse injuries before, so Batman wouldn’t risk it.

“Crow, Nightwing, return to the Cave.” The vigilantes didn’t react. “Now.” Slowly, they backed away, with Nightwing heading towards his bike while Crow simply melted into the shadows.

Batman exhaled and waited for the police, determined to feel nothing.

Joker Attacked in Arkham Asylum

The headline of the morning newspaper made Bruce stiffen in fear. It had been a month since the last escape from Arkham that ended in the brutal capture of the Joker, but despite the assurances of higher security, he was still waiting for another catastrophe.

That said, Batman patrolled last night, but there had been no indication of any sort of altercation or escape. The fact that he was seeing this for the first time in the newspaper the next morning was concerning, to say the least. He had systems in place to notify him of such things. He read the article.

At 1:52am on March 7th, the power of Arkham Asylum went out for exactly ten seconds. When the power came back on, all cells were checked, but since nothing was abnormal, the all-clear was sent out.

However, a routine guard inspection at 3am found the infamous Joker screaming in a pool of his own blood. Medical reports have been released attesting that at some point in the night, the Joker’s eyes were removed and his lumbar vertebrae fractured.

Despite the Joker’s action, the Mayor’s office released a statement…

Bruce stopped reading as he mentally cataloged the injuries. The removal of the eyeballs was straightforward, if difficult to do without killing the subject. A wound in the lumbar vertebrae would paralyze Joker from the waist down. Bruce would know; it was the exact injury Barbara suffered from.

“Blind as a Bat without a Robin,” Joker had said during his escape a month ago. Only four people were present then, including Joker, with a fifth one listening in.

Crow had slashed a rapist’s eye with a knife last week to stop the crime. Bruce had lectured him for only 15 minutes before giving up, knowing that Crow wouldn’t take advice on his brutality when he’d seen what Batman had done worse to others for less.

He’d also damaged an abusive father’s nerves in his hands. He’d been very precise about it.

Currently, he had a hunch, a solid one, on who would have the resources and motivation to cripple the Joker. So, he could either follow it, or not.

Logically, he should follow it. Joker was a horrible, despicable person, but he was still a person, and that meant Batman should enact justice.

On the other hand, this was justice. Objectively, there was nothing else this could be besides vigilante justice, not with Joker as the victim. No one had been killed. No one else had even been injured.

(It was his children.)

Bruce stared at the newspaper, reading the same words over and over again, torn. And then, as simple as anything, he turned the page.

And, for the first time in his life, Bruce Wayne minded his own damn business.

Two and a Half Years Later
Bruce and Batman were both worried. While both facets of Bruce were prone to worrying, it was surprisingly uncommon that they were worried at the same time. That said, the reasons for their worrying were (hopefully) unrelated.

Batman’s worry, at least, was relatively straight forward: the Red Hood. The new gang leader had appeared from seemingly nowhere, but with intimate knowledge of Gotham’s underground and criminal landscape. Furthermore, it seemed the Red Hood had been going out of his way to avoid Batman, which was surprisingly astute for a new Rogue. The little video footage that existed of Red Hood showed him to be uncomfortably skilled, with one video even showcasing a hold taught exclusively by the League of Assassins.

And that wasn’t even getting into the potential of his name. As a former alias of Joker, the Red Hood moniker was a dangerous one, both to its bearer and others. He was unlikely to be a follower of Joker, given his alleged propensity for saving children and killing rapists, but that only begged the question of why the gang leader was using it. According to Crow, the Red Hood was too knowledgeable about the city to not know what the name meant.

That brought him to Bruce’s concern: Crow. Bruce had barely made any progress on discovering Crow’s identity, much to his annoyance and fear. Though the boy had gotten more open emotionally over the years, he still dodged every attempt Bruce made to get to know him better. Moreover, Bruce had had to stop investigating every few months when Alfred started giving him knowing looks, which significantly slowed his progress.

Despite his lack of an answer, Bruce still had a few more clues about Crow: first and foremost, he hadn’t appeared to have aged at all since they first met three years ago, despite looking on the cusp of puberty. That implied either that Crow had access to hormone blockers or was a meta. Since the first option was more likely, that implied that Crow either had a disease or was transgender. It also narrowed the potential subjects significantly, since anyone who had visibly aged in the last three years was eliminated.

Unfortunately, these clues together added up to absolutely nothing. None of the candidates in any system with those credentials matched Crow’s face or other attributes. He’d personally looked through hundreds of profiles matching those parameters, but even when he widened his search he found nothing.

Since he’d had no luck in the identity aspect of knowing Crow, Bruce had redoubled his efforts to get to know the boy in other ways. After he discovered from a passing comment that Crow used to take photos of Batman and Robin at night, he studied up on photography and even convinced him to go to a photography exhibit with him. Since then, Crow had been more open with him about his interests in photography, even allowing Bruce to buy him a new camera and accompany him in public to do photoshoots of Gotham. He also knew Dick had done a similar thing with teaching the boy to skateboard.

So, in general, his relationship with Crow was… good. Mostly. Even if Bruce hoped he could fully support Crow, he still appreciated spending time with his elusive son.

Except, there was more to the current situation, hence Bruce’s concern: Crow had been avoiding him for a week and a half now. Not completely; he still checked in with Batman regularly, both over comms and in person, but he’d been avoiding the Manor entirely since he gave his first report on Red Hood several nights ago.

It wasn’t strictly unusual for Crow to avoid the Manor. After all, it was clear Crow had some second life he was hiding, even if it was also clear he was being severely neglected in that life. That said, Crow had stopped by the Manor at least every three days for the last two years, and usually lived there most of the time. A delay this long implied something wrong and maybe even something sinister in Crow’s life.

Thankfully, before Bruce was able to come up with the worst case scenarios, Alfred was able to shed some light on the situation.

“I’m afraid that might be my fault, Master Bruce,” the butler admitted when Bruce asked him about the situation. For the first time in Bruce’s life, Alfred looked embarrassed. “I had a conversation with young Master Crow that seems to have spooked him. He is, to my knowledge, quite alright, but I may have been too forward about a delicate subject matter.”

Alfred had already had Bruce’s complete attention, but every neuron in Bruce’s head snapped to attention at the implication of additional intel. “Alfred knows everything” was a common pseudo-joke among the children, one that was founded in a decent amount of truth, given that Batman himself had learned his information gathering skills at the knees of his butler. Bruce cursed himself for not considering the possibility sooner: Alfred knew who Crow was.

“Alfred,” Bruce began, thinking about how best to phrase the question, “if you know anything—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted tersely. “I hope that you will not ask me to betray Master Crow’s confidence. It is imperative that children have adults they can trust, after all, and if such an adult were to betray that confidence, it would be a grave sin. I have raised you better than to expect such information.”

“I agree,” Bruce conceded honestly, “except in cases where the information, or lack of it, could harm the child.”

“Then it is a good thing that Master Crow is safe,” Alfred countered before Bruce could finish the thought. “Or, at the very least, safe enough that any information that I may or may not have access to would not directly affect his safety. Trust is, after all, earned.”

Bruce grunted at that. While it was true that he wanted — no, needed — Crow to trust him with his identity, he feared that leaving his misconception of his place (or rather, lack of it) in the family was more dangerous than the breach in trust. Crow had already labored under the delusion that he was expendable for three years, which was three years too long.

Clearly, reading Bruce’s concern, Alfred softened.

“Truthfully, Master Bruce, I was not entrusted with this information directly,” Alfred admitted, his eyes holding the weight of his age. “I came across it by chance some time ago, and only informed Master Crow recently. To betray him now would be an even greater breach of trust, one that I believe could sever his connection to the Manor permanently.”

“I understand,” Bruce sighed, though the frustration lingered. Alfred was right; even if Bruce did discover Crow’s identity from Alfred, it would mean nothing if Crow took it poorly and disappeared entirely. He was certainly capable, given how his extraordinary stealth skills had only improved in the last two years.

“There’s a good lad,” Alfred said kindly. Bruce could admit, if only to himself, that his foster father’s gentle praise still invoked a pleasant flutter in his chest. “Master Crow will return to us, I’m sure. For now, all we can do is wait.”

And wait they did. For two more weeks, Crow continued to avoid the Manor as well as any civilian interactions. It was only his continued presence in the field, as well as the assurances from Dick and Barbara that he was still in regular contact with them, that kept Bruce from breaking down and going on a full Batman investigation on the matter.

Finally, though, their patience paid off. It was a Thursday afternoon when Crow appeared on the doorstep, looking like he had never left at all. Having discussed it beforehand with his butler, Bruce stayed back while Alfred spoke to Crow first, ensuring that the boy knew that the old man wouldn’t betray his secrets. As tempted as he was to listen in, Bruce knew that it would ruin the entire point, not to mention that both Crow and Alfred would likely catch him. Bruce wasn’t the only one Alfred had trained in gathering information, after all, and Crow had long since surpassed Batman in that field.

Eventually, though, Crow came to Bruce himself. The boy looked more serious than normal, but Bruce was pleased to note that he looked healthy: he looked just as well-fed as he usually was under Alfred’s eye, and there was more light behind his eyes than Bruce had ever seen. Whatever Crow had been doing these last few weeks, it had been good for him.

“I need to tell you something,” Crow began, bringing Bruce back from his observations with his hard tone. “Before I do, I need you to promise me that you’ll listen until the end, and that you’ll take it seriously.”

“Of course,” Bruce assured instantly, his heart racing despite himself. Is this it? he thought. Is he going to trust me with his name?

“I mean it Bruce,” Crow reiterated, surprising him. “You’re not going to want to believe me, but you have to. I’ve spent the last three weeks double, triple, and quadruple checking everything. I’m more sure of this than I’ve ever been sure of anything, so you have to promise me you’ll believe me, and that you’ll listen all the way through.”

“Crow, I trust you with my life,” Bruce reaffirmed honestly, though a sense of dread and anticipation began to grow in him. Information Crow had to confirm didn’t sound like his identity, but then what was it? “I promise that I’ll listen and do my best to believe you.”

“Ok,” Crow said, and took a deep breath in and out, as if to steady himself. Bruce could count the number of times he’d seen him do that on one hand.

“Jason Todd is alive, and he’s the Red Hood.”

Nothing could have prepared Bruce for that.

“No,” Bruce said, immediately, his brain not even functioning. The information simply did not compute. Distantly, he could feel his breathing speed up along with his pulse. “That’s not possible.”

“Bruce,” Crow said sternly, but not without sympathy. “You promised.”

That snapped him out of his panic attack, if only for a moment. It was true. He’d promised to listen. Believing was a task for after. He took a deep breath in, steadied himself, and nodded.

“Three weeks ago, I was following Red Hood as he took out a gang of traffickers single-handedly,” Crow reported, falling back on his more distant vigilante cadence. “He performed several maneuvers I’ve only seen you and your students perform. However, after the fight, he caught and lit a cigarette in a style I’ve only seen Jason Todd perform.”

“That isn’t concrete evidence,” Bruce interrupted. Crow broke his facade to glare at him. Bruce swallowed, recalling that Crow had said he’d verified the information. “Sorry, continue.”

“In my surprise, I broke my stealth,” Crow continued. Bruce felt a flash of worry for his youngest, but held himself back from commenting. “I fled, but that night I broke into the Red Hood’s apartment, where we spoke civilly. I confirmed that, at the very least, the Red Hood has Jason’s features, memories, and personality, though he is significantly angrier at the world than before. Over the past several weeks, I have continued to meet and talk with him, as well as reach out to my contacts in the League of Assassins. Between these facts, I believe I have put together a good picture of what happened.

“Jason did die at the hands of the Joker, and was buried in Gotham Cemetery. However, due to some unknown power not known to magic or science, he woke up in his grave approximately six months after his death. He succeeded in digging himself out, but the trauma of his death and escape from his burial rendered him catatonic. He wandered Gotham for a week before being struck by a car and registered as a John Doe at Wayne Memorial Hospital, before being released. He lived on the streets for a few weeks before being recognized and abducted by the League.

“Talia took interest in him and exposed him to a Lazarus Pit, which restored his mind but made him irrationally angry. However, Jason was able to use your training to stave off the worst of the effects and gather intel. Talia attempted to turn him against us, to a limited degree of success, and he returned to enact his own vigilante justice in Crime Alley and possibly get revenge on Batman for allegedly failing to avenge him.”

Crow paused, and it took all of Bruce’s willpower to stop himself from breaking down immediately.

“He woke up—?” Bruce stuttered, trying desperately to formulate some question, to make sense of the information. The horrible part of his analytical brain immediately cataloged it all, noting how the timeline fit with Talia disappearing from his radar, how perfectly the information fit with what he already knew of Red Hood and his morals. “He really thought I—?” He couldn’t finish.

“That’s the end of the facts,” Crow said, his voice surprisingly soft, “but I've made some observations of my own. Can I share them?” At Bruce’s frantic nod, he continued, “Jason is confused and a little scared. He knows Talia manipulated him, but he doesn’t seem to be able to shrug it off entirely. I don’t think he hates you, or even thinks that it was your fault he died. The Lazarus Rage needs an outlet, and his rage has manifested in blaming you for not murdering the Joker, and he’s convinced himself that it means you didn’t love him. Enough of his lines sound rehearsed enough that I suspect Talia hoped to use him to force you to start killing.”

“That can’t be,” Bruce said, then winced at the phrasing. “I believe you, but I can’t let him think that. He’s my son. I have to tell him. I need to go now—”

“No,” Crow ordered firmly, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce stopped, if only out of surprise. “Listen to me. Jason is angry and volatile, and you’re clearly one of his biggest triggers right now. If you confront him now, it’ll only end in violence or bloodshed. Even if he knows the League is using him, he still needs more work before he can have an actual conversation with you.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit back and do nothing?” Bruce asked desperately. It went against everything he knew.

“In this case, yes,” Crow confirmed with pity lingering in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean nothing will happen. Jason seems to like me, or at least pity me, which means I can talk to him. Over the last three weeks, I’ve already seen some progress in bringing you up. He doesn’t get as angry at it anymore, and I believe with more time he will be willing to speak to you and you can tell him how much he means to you. But if you go in now, it will only backfire.”

Bruce took a deep breath. He felt the tears in his eyes, but his brain was still analyzing, his emotions muted against the tidal wave of revelation. If Jason really was alive — it was almost too big, too miraculous to comprehend. Even if he hated Bruce, even if he killed people, the fact that Jason was alive and well was nothing short of a miracle. If all it took to get his second son back was to be patient, he could do that.

“Alright,” Bruce conceded, making Crow’s eyes widen in surprise. The boy had clearly not anticipated Bruce to give in so quickly. “I trust you.”

“Oh,” Crow said, suddenly unsure. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, his voice welling up with emotion. He opened his arms and Crow stared at him like he had no idea what was going on. After a moment, though, Crow stepped into his space and Bruce took that as permission to wrap him in a hug. The boy was stiff for a few seconds, but then relaxed into the hold. “Thank you.”

Crow said nothing, but he leaned into Bruce.

Over the next month, Bruce avoided the Red Hood and his operations. He told himself and his allies that it was to mitigate any future conflict with Jason, but the truth was that if he saw his son, he didn’t think he’d be able to hold back from hugging him. Crow continued to give him updates on Jason and his slow, steady progress.

He even knew that Oracle contacted Jason, and the man had allegedly not even lost his temper. The next step in the plan was to reintroduce Jason to Dick, who was a sore spot for the younger former Robin, but less of one than Batman. It was a good sign, an excellent sign even, but a large, irrational part of Bruce still wanted to storm in and tell his son he loved him.

Unfortunately, their reunion would not be one of joy.

“Batman,” Oracle’s voice chimed in his ear. “Crow’s distress signal has been activated.”

“What?” Batman asked immediately. “Where and when?”

“Fifteen seconds ago on the corner of Fifth and Dalton,” she responded quickly. “Given on Joker’s recent escape—”

She cut herself off, but the end was clear: Crow had crippled Joker, and now he wanted revenge. It was closest to a confession Bruce had heard from either of them.

“That address is in Crime Alley,” Batman noted. “We’ll need the support of the Red Hood to keep things clear. Can you contact him?”

Oracle was silent, but there was a soft electrical humming that indicated she was on the line. He began grappling towards the address posthaste.

“He isn’t responding to any messages, and his comms are marked as offline,” she said after another minute. “Nightwing is enroute but 30 minutes away.”

Despite his training, Batman almost dropped his grapple midair as the implication hit him full force: if they had any chance of saving Crow, he’d have to go to Red Hood in person. He’d have to see Jason.

For a moment, Batman landed on a nearby roof and hesitated. If he approached Jason wrong, or even if he did it right and Jason was still unstable, it could mean the difference between life and death for Crow. Bruce couldn’t even afford to think about the implications of reconciling with Jason. Right now, only Crow’s life mattered.

Time was a luxury he didn’t have. He grappled towards Jason’s apartment, having already memorized the exact address the moment Crow brought it up. Oracle said nothing, likely having seen his tracker move. No words were needed.

It only took seven minutes at his top speed to reach Jason’s apartment, even in the downpour. He allowed himself two seconds of hesitation before he flung himself through the window and ripped his cowl down.

“Jason,” Bruce gasped as he took in his son for the first time in over three years. His face had hardened, the last inches of baby fat on his cheeks having dissolved into hard lines. His hair was shorter than he’d kept it as Robin, but it had a new streak of white running through the forwardmost lock. He looked older than the 19 he was, but to Bruce, he still looked young. Bruce couldn’t help the surge of pure joy he felt sweep through him at the sight.

The gun Jason had pointed at him was inconsequential.

“What?” Jason asked, his voice cracking. The vulnerability in his voice almost set Bruce off, but there was something more important here.

“Please,” Bruce begged. “You have to help. He has Crow.”

“Who?” Jason asked, but Bruce could see the knowing fear already in his eyes.

“Joker,” Bruce said. “The Joker has Crow.”

For a moment, Bruce thought that Jason would shoot anyway. Then, after several tense seconds, his son lowered the gun.

“Crow’s distress signal was activated on Fifth and Dalton eight minutes ago,” Batman reported. He barely managed to keep his tone steady, relaying Oracle’s information. “His hidden trackers indicate he is still there and alive, but we know nothing else of the situation.”

Jason looked at him, staring with a purposefully blank expression. Bruce’s heart pounded in his chest.

“There’s a four-story abandoned complex there,” Jason said finally. “I can get us in with Joker none the wiser, assuming you haven’t gotten soft on me.”

The banter was thin enough that a sewing needle could rip it, but it was there. For the first time in a while, Bruce managed a tiny, nervous smile at the familiar words. It died quickly as he remembered Crow’s predicament.

“I haven’t,” he said softly instead.

“Good,” Jason croaked, then cleared his throat. From the table next to him, he picked up his bright red helmet. “Let’s go.”

They exchanged no words but those strictly necessary for the mission, but they fell into synch like they had been Batman-and-Robin only yesterday. They disabled the guards with ease and slipped in through a side door on the second floor, barely visible under the rust along the frame. Jason cursed as they entered, and Batman quickly figured out why: the voices of two unknown persons, likely civilians, rang through the air. Joker had clearly taken extra hostages as insurance.

“Nightwing is four minutes out,” Oracle chimed in Batman’s ear. Judging by how Red Hood nodded, he figured Oracle was patched into his helmet as well.

“We need to locate and distract Joker before he harms Crow or the hostages,” Batman assessed. Red Hood looked at him, his expression invisible behind his helmet, but after a moment he nodded. “Due to his new disability, I suspect he will be on one of the higher floors, but not the top one. He likes to think of himself as unpredictable.”

Red Hood made a noise that was probably a snort, before his voice modulator distorted it.

“I’ll take the lower two floors if you take the upper two,” Hood offered. “If you encounter the hostages, prioritize freeing them, then distracting Joker.”

“Agreed,” Batman said simply, and without another word they took off towards their respective targets. He quickly found his hunch was correct: Joker had taken over a large space on the second highest floor. Batman informed Oracle and quickly and silently knocked out the two guards positioned by the door. With the immediate threat of being discovered out of the way, he turned his attention towards the Joker.

The man sat in an ostentatious purple wheelchair with two machine guns above each wheel and a tank of what was undoubtedly Joker gas at his back. The scars where his eyes once were were clean and well treated, as expected of an Arkham patient, but the man had painted the area around them a disturbing red, giving the illusion of angry red scars. Objectively, Batman could acknowledge how the effect would be even more terrifying to the average person.

Across from the Joker sat Crow, chained effectively but simple to a bolted-down chair. The chains were extensive enough that Batman doubted even Crow would be able to slip out of them without assistance. Crow’s eyes darted to Batman, widening almost imperceptibly before smoothing out into its normal blankness. Not that it mattered, given their only audience was blind.

“Really though, it hardly matters,” Crow said, as if continuing a thought. “Did you really think you could keep me locked up?”

For the last question, Crow threw his voice to the other side of the room. Joker turned, suddenly furious and terrified.

“Where are you brat?” he shrieked, open firing on the spot where Crow threw his voice. Batman flinched, but Crow remained unphased.

“Is that all you have?” Crow asked, throwing his voice to the other side of the room. Joker spun around, and Batman realized what Crow was going for. Using Joker’s manic gunfire as cover, he darted towards the boy and immediately worked on getting his chains free.

“Louis! Carvel!” Joker shouted, turning towards where his minions had been guarding the door. “Get in here! What are you useless oafs doing out there?”

It only took three seconds for Joker to realize exactly what was happening, but it was just enough time for Batman to snap a weak link in the chain, forcing it to slide to the ground. Batman grabbed Crow by the collar and pulled him away just in time for the machine gun fire to pepper the chair with bullets.

Before Joker could do so much as scream in frustration, the lights went out with an electric whine.

“Batman, Nightwing has cut the power and Red Hood has blocked the stairs,” Oracle chimed. “The hostages are safe and reinforcements are cut off from your location. Red Hood is enroute.”

Batman didn’t bother to respond, instead throwing batarangs at the guns and wheels of Joker’s wheelchair.

“Is that you Batsy?” Joker cried out. “I wasn’t expecting you until later! Oh well, better give the punchline early!”

Joker laughed maniacally as he pressed a button and the tank of Joker gas hissed menacingly.. Before the gas released, however, a gunshot pierced the air, clipping the mechanism with pinpoint precision. Joker growled in annoyance.

“Sorry, clown, but I don’t have time for you today,” Red Hood’s modulated voice came from the now broken window in the corner as the man climbed into the room, gun pointed at Joker’s wheelchair. Another three shots took out the left side of the chair entirely, spilling Joker onto the floor.

“Ah, is that my little copycat?” Joker asked with hatred in his voice. “You were next on my hitlist, after that damned bird.”

“Funny, you were next on my list too,” Red Hood said, now close enough to lay the barrel against Joker’s head. Joker stiffened, surprised.

“Hood,” Batman warned, but that only caused his fingers to tighten around the gun.

“Shut up, old man,” Red Hood hissed. “I’m owed this. Hell, I’m not even forcing you to do it like I originally planned. This is already far too merciful.”

“Yes, it is,” Crow joins in, his voice utterly calm. “In fact, it would be disappointing for everything to go down the drain like this, don’t you think? Far better for Joker to rot in Arkham for a while, to stew upon his utter failure.”

The words alone hardly seemed enough to pull Hood — Jason — back from the edge, but Jason tensed at them, clearly hearing some deeper meaning in them. Slowly, he lowered the gun. Batman let out a relieved breath.

“You’re lucky we’ve got an audience, clown,” Jason snarled. “Pray we don’t meet next time you crawl out of that wretched excuse for a hospital. Just in case, here’s a souvenir.”

Batman flinched as Jason shot the madman in the upper arm, but said nothing. Jason turned to look at Batman, as if to challenge him to say something, but Batman remained silent, focusing mainly on Crow’s steady breathing under his arm.

“Nightwing has finished with the goons,” Oracle said through the comms. “Police will be there momentarily.”

“I’ll unblock the stairs then,” Jason said casually, still staring at Batman through his helmet.

Batman grunted in acknowledgement, then turned to Crow.

“Are you injured at all?” he triaged, ignoring the whimpers of pain coming from the floor.

“I have some minor bruises from the chains, but I’m otherwise unharmed,” Crow confirmed passively. “There was at least one casualty downstairs. He shot the person who caught me in the head.”

Batman nodded at that and led Crow slowly towards the stairs. Crow matched his pace, but stayed silent as they heard Jason removing whatever impromptu barricade he set up.

“All clear,” Jason said as they approached. “Let’s leave. I don’t know about you all, but I’d like to be far away when the cops show up, and I’ve got some questions for the baby bird here.”

Bruce’s heart lightened at the nickname, despite the hard tone of Red Hood’s voice, but he looked towards Crow before giving any response. Crow nodded slightly.

On the way out, Bruce nodded at Nightwing, who towered over the tied-up goons. Nightwing nodded back in understanding: he’d stay and deal with the police.

Two minutes later, the three of them stood on a roof a few blocks away from the building. Jason had removed his helmet, though his face was still hidden by a red domino mask.

“Jason,” Bruce began, the words he’d been practicing for weeks on the tip of his tongue. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I want to say—”

“Can it, old man,” Jason snapped, not even looking at Bruce. Instead, his gaze was fixed solely on Crow. “What the fuck was that, kid? You were barely a second away from being shot!”

“It was a calculated risk,” Crow said calmly, and Bruce tensed. He had known Crow long enough to recognize Crow wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation, which meant nothing good could come from one. “Joker is too proud to use any assistance to see, technical or personal. Thus, his lack of sight was an exploitable weakness.”

“Calculated risk my ass,” Jason hissed. “He was just as likely to spray the whole room with bullets than try to target your voice! How could you be so casual with your own life?”

“My life isn’t worth much,” Crow narrowed his eyes, and Bruce felt it like a blow.

“Crow—” Bruce choked out.

“Shut up!” Jason yelled at him, startling Bruce into silence. “This is all your fault anyway! New kid, same stupid self-worth issue you thrust on them.”

“That’s hardly accurate,” Crow frowned, his annoyance finally showing visibly. “The situation is more complex—”

“Don’t defend him!” Jason yelled, taking a step towards Crow. The boy tensed and Jason flinched back, immediately recognizing his mistake, but before he could so much as apologize, a shadow moved, lightning fast, between the two boys.

Red Hood was three feet back on the ground before Bruce could even blink. Batman dropped into a fighting stance, but the shadow made no further moves of aggression, instead just standing protectively in front of Crow. Looking closer at the figure, he could make out shoulder-length black hair and a vaguely feminine form. They were younger, probably in their late teens, and a passing light gave him enough of a view to determine them to be of Asian descent.

Batman’s eyes flashed to Crow, but he was shocked to find that Crow looked genuinely unfazed, if a little exasperated. Bruce shifted his threat assessment level slightly, though he stayed in his combat-ready position. Bruce knew that Crow had associates unknown to Batman, so it was plausible this was one such associate who saw Red Hood’s posture as a threat.

“Cassandra, stand down,” Oracle’s voice emanated from a tiny, previously unnoticed drone hovering to their left. “Red Hood is not an active threat.”

Bruce dropped out of his fighting stance as the figure — Cassandra — did the same. His hypothesis seemed correct as she turned towards Crow, who adopted a more open expression. She patted him on the head gently, but nothing could have prepared Bruce for her next words.

“Safe now, little brother.”

Little Brother?

As if hearing his thoughts, Oracle sighed into his ear piece.

“I knew this was going to come out at the worst possible time,” Barbara said, all distortion gone from her voice. “Bruce, meet Cassandra, the second Crow.”

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Barbara loved her commute home. Old Gotham wasn’t the safest part of the city, but it was far from the most dangerous part of Gotham either, and she was Batgirl anyway. So, without much worry for her safety, she could amble down the roads at her own pace, content to take in the 18th century architecture and cobbled roads that defined the neighborhood.

Now, she hated the commute. Cobblestones didn’t cooperate with wheelchairs.

Even as she carefully took the route back from the library to her new home in Gotham Clock Tower, the one with the most paved roads, she hated it. It was, unsurprisingly, one of the ugliest routes, and even then she could not avoid all the potholes and irksome cracks that found their way into every Gotham street and sidewalk.

Her furious nostalgia was on the forefront of her mind as she wheeled herself home, the presence of storm clouds overhead only making her more desperate to get inside before the rain began.

Unfortunately, a child stood in her path.

“Ms. Gordon,” the child greeted, stone-faced, as if this were a meeting and not an ambush. “I need to talk to you about Batman.”

Barbara’s eyes darted around, but the street was empty. There was a CCTV camera on the street corner that they were well in view of, but she knew it didn’t have audio capabilities. She was impressed with whoever sent this message; it was as private as you can get in a Gotham street, but there was insurance that there would be footage if she were attacked.

“And what would I know about Batman?” she asked blithely.

“You’re Batgirl,” the child answered passively.

She froze. Her identity was well-guarded, probably even more so than Batman’s. She had no familial tie to the Waynes for those who already knew, and there was no way to financially connect her to the Batman legacy either. For someone to know that, a child no less, they would have had to do a lot of stalking. Stalking Barbara should’ve known about.

However, the child’s word choice was interesting. “You’re Batgirl,” they’d said. Present tense.

“Sure kid,” she laughed instead, just in case it was a guess.

“Mr. Wayne is going to get himself killed,” the child said, brushing off her attempt at brushing them off and confirming they knew about Batman as well in one fell swoop. “I can’t get in contact with Mr. Grayson, so you’re the only one who might be able to stop him. He needs someone to ground him, or else he’ll fall off the deep end.”

Well, might as well get rid of the pretense, she thought to herself.

“Hate to break it to you kid, but I can’t exactly follow him around anymore,” she scoffed bitterly. “Not that I would anyway. I quit for a reason, you know, and that was before all this.”

“A voice in his ear is better than nothing,” they said monotonously. The amount of information they were casually sharing was alarming, to say the least. Barbara had only barely started being Oracle for a few heroes, and none of them were Bats. Alarming, but impressive.

Thunder grumbled overhead, and Barbara cursed.

“I need to get home before the rain starts,” she said. “Why don’t you come with me? We can discuss more under shelter.”

“No thank you,” they said. Their words were polite, but their tone remained cold. “I’ve said what I needed. You’ll either help, or you won’t.”

Barbara felt the first raindrops on her skin and couldn’t help tilting her head up to glare at the sky for a moment. When she looked back, not even a second later, the child was gone.

“Shit,” she said softly to the empty air. “I swear to God Bruce, you better not fuck this up.”

She wheeled herself home in the rain, ignoring the feeling of being watched the whole way back.

Crow looked better the second time they met, and Barbara was sure he could say the same for her. Sure, he still looked more like a ghost than an actual child, a fact only accentuated by his unnatural yellow color contacts and bleached hair, but if she looked closely she could see more fat on his cheeks and even a spark of emotion in his eyes.

“Good to see you again, Crow,” she greeted him with a smile. Bruce, ostensibly there to facilitate the meeting, but truly there to be an overprotective dad to his new chick, frowned in confusion.

“You as well, Ms. Gordon,” Crow said politely but blankly. Barbara would bet money that he had an upper class background from the manners alone, even without the accent. The word order and choice implied formal lessons, not the harmless-child act some street kids pulled. (Like Jason had tried the first time they met.)

“Please, just Barbara, or Babs if you really want to be informal,” she corrected with a laugh. “Or Oracle if we’re on comms, but not in person.”

“Barbara,” he nodded once, betraying nothing, but she didn’t take it personally. According to Dick, the kid hadn’t so much as smiled once since they met him.

“You two have met?” Bruce asked, voice in full detective mode. Barbara rolled her eyes at his hovering.

“I asked her to step in before I did so myself,” Crow informed him neutrally. “It was a short meeting.”

“I’ll say,” she huffed, amused. “You left quite the impression though. I’m sorry I didn’t end up being any help.”

Crow looked almost surprised at that, despite none of his features moving.

“It was no issue,” he said, but the words sounded foreign on his tongue, like he’d heard them spoken but never said them himself. “It worked out in the end.”

“That it did,” she agreed. “Thank you for bringing him, Bruce. I’ll bring him back in tip top shape, don’t worry.”

Bruce glared at the clear dismissal, clearly having hoped to hover over Crow more, but grunted in assent. It was obvious he couldn’t think of a logical excuse to stay that didn’t involve emotions and he’d never even consider using an emotional excuse. So, defeated, the Dark Knight stormed quietly out of the Clocktower.

“The best way to deal with Bruce is to present him with a perfectly logical dilemma that could easily be solved by any amount of emotional honesty,” Barbara advised Crow smugly, watching Bruce leave through the cameras. “He’ll gladly take the logical route every time without even thinking about another option.”

She looked at Crow to see his reaction, but couldn’t suppress the instinctual disappointment when she saw its inevitable blankness. She figured he wouldn’t react, given Dick’s reports, but she had hoped his emotionlessness had been to mirror Bruce. That would have been the happier explanation, to be sure.

Instead, Crow stared at her with an unnerving intensity for a child so small, even if Bruce had confided that he expected Crow was older than he looked. The gaze was piercing, but beyond that Barbara couldn’t read anything else from it. Was it meant to be intimidating? Fearful? Angry? She felt frustrated at her own inability to dissect it.

They remained in silence for a long, awkward minute before he spoke.

“If we’re going to work together, I need a promise from you,” he stated, making her raise her eyebrow in interest. “Promise me you won’t look into my identity. Not now, not ever.”

“That’s a significant promise,” she said, leaning back. “I can promise not to reveal your identity to others, but not to look? That’s not in my job description.”

“That’s not good enough,” he said, a sliver of ice in his voice. “You won’t look into it, and you won’t help anyone else look into it.”

“How do you know I don’t know it already?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he stated, calling her bluff instantly. “I understand that’s a steep price, but I can be useful enough to make up for it. I’ve been told my ability to blend in is good enough to fool Batman. I can gather information from places even cameras and bugs can’t reach and give it to you. All I ask is that you don’t look for my identity.”

That was a tempting offer for Barbara, to be sure. Privately, she could admit that she likely would’ve accepted not to look anyway, but she wanted to hear Crow’s reasoning. Instead, she got an offer. A transaction, rather than a request.

Any doubt she had that this child had been mistreated evaporated instantly. Unlike Dick and Bruce, though, she recognized this as the abuse from parents who didn’t see children as children at all. Every kindness had to be a deal, every little scrap of affection was a reward for good behavior rather than inherent in a relationship. It was a form of abuse popular in Gotham’s upper circles.

If Barbara wanted, she could probably find Crow’s identity in a few hours, with the information she had now. Crow would probably even work for her anyway, taking it in stride.

But he asked.

“Alright,” she agreed. “I promise not to look into your identity or intentionally give others resources to do the same. However, I won’t actively stop any of my allies from looking into you themselves, and if the answer is placed directly in front of me, I won’t avoid it. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” Crow agreed, settling down slightly. “That is perfectly acceptable.”

“Good,” she nodded. “In return, you can feed me information at your own discretion. If you decide never to give me a single scrap of intel, I still won’t break my promise. If you ever decide to quit, the same holds true.”

“Then why bother?” he asked, a glint of suspicion in his eye.

“Because you asked,” she answered truthfully. “Trust is a two way street, after all. How can I expect you to trust me if I don’t trust you? Besides, you came to me first when Bruce wasn’t doing well. That means something to me.”

Crow stared at her, eyes slightly narrowed. He was clearly trying to suss out a lie, but Barbara knew he wouldn’t find one. Admittedly, she did also feel compelled to keep the promise for another reason: it might help Crow trust her outside of a deal or transaction. That wasn’t exactly a motivation she could say out loud, however, so the other reasons would have to do.

“Alright,” Crow agreed, face unchanging. “I need to learn how to get past security systems.”

“Oh?” Barbara questioned, caught off guard by the abrupt change in topic.

“Batman says my stealth skills are acceptable, when it comes to people, but that I’m not good enough at dodging cameras and other electronic methods,” he clarified. “Given your tech expertise, it seemed logical to ask you for advice.”

“Not a bad idea,” Barbara praised, a plan already forming in her head. “Sadly, I can’t really teach you those skills.”

“I understand,” Crow nodded, his expression maintaining its facade.

“However,” she started before he could get too disappointed, “I happen to have contacts beyond Batman, including among those with looser moral codes. I can’t teach you, but how would you like to learn from the best of the best?”

“The best of the best?” Crow repeated. After a moment, revelation struck. “Catwoman? You could get me lessons with Catwoman?”

“That I can,” Barbara grinned. “She owes me a favor — more or less — and she likes showing off enough that she’d be happy to teach you. No cost to you either, before you go down that road. You having those skills would be just as beneficial to me as it would be to you, after all. So, what do you say?”

“Of course,” Crow agreed readily, the smallest glimmer of excitement flickering in his eyes.

Barbara nodded, pleased with herself. If she played her cards right, she could get a lot of the Birds of Prey to give the kid lessons. Not only would that improve his skills and thus his chances of survival, it might also give him a larger support network and keep him well socialized. Two birds with one stone.

And of course, if it made Crow excited enough to show even a sliver of emotion, well. That little spark in his eye felt like a victory to her.

“Again. Don’t forget to use your momentum.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Barbara observed as Crow ducked under Dinah’s fist as they ran the drill for the 26th time. They’d been training for three hours in total, and Barbara couldn’t help but marvel at the boy’s stamina. She’d certainly been worse at his age. (Probably. She still didn’t actually know how old he was.)

It had taken him a few months to warm up to the idea of close combat training, but he’d eventually caved at the opportunity to train under Black Canary herself. One might think that training from Batman would be exciting enough, but Barbara was starting to realize that Crow held more excitement for most other Justice Leaguers than for Batman. It only endeared her to the boy more.

Outside of Barbara’s inner musings, Crow finished the drill flawlessly, throwing Dinah onto her back, though she rolled back into a crouch easily.

“Good,” she said, breathing heavily. “You’ve made good progress today. We’ll stop here.”

Crow nodded, clearly relieved. In contrast to Dinah’s slight panting, he was sweating profusely and red all over. Barbara could tell it was only well-ingrained manners and respect for Dinah as a teacher that kept him from flopping over on his back and passing out right there. Not that Dinah would have minded. She’d taken a lot of students over the years, and most did not have nearly as much social grace as Crow. That said, he was far more expressive than normal while exhausted.

“How has your staff training been progressing?” Dinah asked.

“Well,” Crow huffed. “Huntress has been a good teacher.”

“She also says that Crow’s the best student she’s ever had,” Barbara added, making Crow go redder in embarrassment. “It seems you were right that the bo staff was a good fit for him.”

“I’m glad,” Dinah smiled kindly at the boy. “I understand you operate mainly with stealth, but it’s important to have proper combat skills to fall back on. It’ll make you more versatile in the field.”

“Agreed,” Barbara added. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a gift for you. Assuming you’re through with him, Canary?”

“He’s all yours,” Dinah laughed. “See you next week, kid.”

“Next week,” Crow repeated with a nod before following Barbara towards her set up. She could see him starting to pull his composure back together, though he was clearly having difficulty through his exhaustion. She was counting on that though: she needed to read his expressions properly now and Crow rarely exhausted himself enough to drop his guard involuntarily.

“Here,” she said after they arrived at her desk. She held out a pristine comm to him, though he didn’t take it. “I know you’ve been avoiding these, but it’ll make me feel better if you were able to call for backup if needed. I’ve made it custom so the location tracker is hard coded to stay off until you manually turn on your distress beacon, though you’ll be able to speak and hear as normal otherwise. You don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to, but it will make me feel better if you do.”

Crow stared at the tiny object in her palm, his lips pursed. He seemed conflicted, but beyond that he’d shut down his expressions enough for her to not be able to read him. After a full minute of silence, she thought he might need some extra reassurance.

“Would you like to see the schematic?” Barbara asked softly. He nodded, a look of shame flitting across his face for a single moment before disappearing. She quietly pulled up the schematic on the closest monitor and waited patiently as his eyes darted across the screen, reading every detail. His eyes flashed to the comm still in her hand, obviously checking to see if it matched visually.

“Ok,” Crow accepted quietly after several silent minutes. He gently plucked the comm from her outstretched hand and placed it in his ear. Barbara offered him a smile, which he returned shyly.

“Thanks, kid,” she said.

“Yeah,” was all he said back, but when she wrapped an arm around his tiny shoulders, he leaned in.

“We need to do something about him.”

Barbara didn’t startle at Crow’s voice behind her, but only because Bruce had messaged her twenty minutes ago telling her that Crow had left the Batcave after breakfast. The fact that Crow had gotten past her security system without detection was proof of his improvement over the last several months.

As for the words themselves, there was no one else he could be talking about: Joker. They had managed to capture him yesterday, but the encounter had shaken them all. Barbara herself had cried on her dad’s shoulder last night for an hour, and she had only heard the monster’s voice.

“Everyone says that,” Barbara sighed. “If there’s one thing every semi-sane person in Gotham can agree on, it’s that Joker needs to be dealt with. But here we are.”

“We have something that only a few people in Gotham have, though,” Crow said, his voice pure ice. “We have access to every camera and guard in Arkham Asylum.”

Barbara paused her absentminded typing. That wasn’t a “next time we’ll get him” or a “let’s improve security again” sentiment that she was used to hearing. That was a “let’s kill the bastard” sentiment. A classic Jason Todd tone of voice.

“What are you proposing?” she asked, swiveling around to face Crow. His eyes were as cold as his voice, but beyond that he wore an expression of complete indifference.

“Something permanent,” Crow answered. “We can’t kill him, not without Batman becoming invested, but we can do anything else without him caring.”

“Are you sure about that?” Barbara narrowed her eyes. “Bruce gets territorial about Joker.”

“No, Bruce gets scared about Joker,” Crow corrected. “Joker gets territorial about Batman, so Bruce tries to deal with it all himself so no one gets hurt. He doesn’t actually give a shit about Joker himself. I saw it last night: he hates the man as much as the rest of us. As long as he doesn’t know about it until after the fact and we don’t kill Joker, he won’t interfere.”

“Are you sure?” Barbara couldn’t help but ask. Crow nodded seriously, and she sighed. “I’ll take your word for it then. But that doesn’t change the fact that the Joker is a threat, even if you manage to get into his cell. What exactly do you plan to do to him?”

“Arkham has some of the most bribable staff in the country,” Crow reminded her. “Why don’t we use that in our favor for once? I’m sure the lunch staff would appreciate the extra cash.”

“So you want to drug him,” she summarized. “And then what?”

“I’m open to suggestions, but—” Crow hesitated. “He’d be dramatically limited if he wouldn’t be able to walk or see.”

It took a moment for the full implications of that statement to fully hit her, but when it did, it hit like Bane running at full speed.

“You want to give him the same injury he gave me,” she whispered. “And the other night — ‘blind as a bat without a Robin,’ he said. You want revenge.”

“The injuries are logical,” Crow explained mildly, but Barbara had known him long enough now that she could see the fire in his eyes. “They would debilitate him effectively without threatening his life, if inflicted carefully. His injury matching yours own would even make sense, given the implication that some Arkham guards have been under the Commissioner’s employ in the past. No one would question your involvement.”

“Except for Batman,” she retorted. He threw her a cutting glance in response.

“He would know anyway,” he stated. “As I said, as long as we don’t kill him and leave room for plausible deniability, Bruce won’t care.”

“You’re insane,” she breathed, but the idea had its hooks in her. The image of Joker helpless and suffering from injuries no medicine could fix was tantalizing. The plots ran like numbers through her head, already predicting viability and contingencies. Worst of all, she knew Crow could see it too.

Barbara took a breath and shook her head.

“Last night was intense,” she said, aware of Crow’s eyes boring into her. “We’re both still running off adrenaline. If next week this still seems like a good idea… we’ll talk then. But for now, we need to cool off.”

“I can agree to that,” Crow nodded. “Next week then.”

“Next week.”

It still seemed like a good idea the next week. As it did the week after that, and by the following week there was a plan and guards and a carefully written program to black out Arkham’s security for exactly 8.7 seconds. Crow had been studying anatomy extensively and even performed a trial of the “procedure” on a cadaver they had stolen from the Falcones’ shady doctor that they busted last week.

So, at 1:51am, Barbara listened as Crow crawled his way through the air ducts of Arkham Asylum towards the Joker. The lunch maid, a woman whose sister was still hospitalized for Joker gas, had confirmed that their poison had been administered only to the Joker and that he had ingested the entire meal. The guard on duty in Joker’s sector lost his mother to a bombing two years ago, and was clear to look the other way for the next three hours, provided Joker never left the cell.

“Oracle, I’m here,” Crow whispered through the comms.

“Good, power outage is imminent,” she confirmed. “You'll have three hours before the guard changes, but comm me if you run into problems.”

“Understood,” he confirmed stoically. “Going dark to avoid detection. I’ll comm you when I’m out of Arkham, as long as everything goes to plan.”

“Good luck,” she signed off, and hit the button to cut the power.

The next hour was one of excruciating silence. Technically, she was still running comms for Batman as he continued his usual patrol, but every minute felt like another pound of pressure on her shoulders as the night dragged on.

Finally, at 3:23am, Crow came back online.

“Mission success,” he reported, his voice shaking slightly. “Joker’s eyes and lumbar vertebrae have been damaged beyond repair. I have no injuries and was not spotted at all.”

“That sounds like a complete success,” Barbara responded cautiously, dread pooling in her gut. “How are you? Emotionally?”

“I’m alright,” Crow said, not quite sounding alright. “He was easy to block out, once things started going. I’m fine, I promise.”

“I shouldn’t have made you do this,” Barbara sighed, guilt overwhelming her. “This was fucked up. God I shouldn’t have let you do this.”

“It needed to be done,” Crow disagreed firmly, but Barbara was already spiraling. “I was the only one with the skills, motivation, and morals to pull it off.”

“Nightwing would have done it,” she shook her head, even if Crow couldn’t see. “I should’ve asked Dick instead of getting a literal child to mutilate the fucking Joker.”

“Nightwing would have lost his temper and killed the bastard, and then where would we be?” Crow asked, frustration cracking his stoic facade. “No, I needed to be the one to do it, and now I have. There’s nothing else to be done about it.”

“No, I guess there isn’t,” she sighed, all the fight draining from her body. “Christ, sorry, you don’t need to comfort me. Why don’t you come back to the Clocktower? I don’t think either of us should be alone tonight.”

Crow was quiet for a while, and for a minute Barbara wondered if she pushed too far. Eventually, however, he responded.

“I’m on my way.”

She sighed in relief. There was no way that Crow wasn’t at least shaken by performing surgery on the Joker, not to mention whatever the man actually said to the boy. They could both do with a little comfort tonight.

Barbara was monitoring comms one night when Crow’s non-emergency channel pinged. That in and of itself wasn’t special; as an informant first and foremost, Crow was constantly giving information updates on his channel. What was odd was that this was the personal pin, used when someone wanted to chat about something not directly related to the job. Nightwing was the most common user of that particular ping, and Barbara couldn’t even remember if Crow had ever used it.

She didn’t hesitate to pick up, muting all other lines and turning off recording on her line with Crow. If Crow wanted something to be personal, she sure as hell wasn’t leaving a record where Bruce might dig it up in his ever-continuing quest for Crow’s identity.

“Oracle speaking. What’s up Crow?”

“Hello Oracle,” Crow said, making Barbara’s eyebrows raise. He almost never engaged in pleasantries like greetings, not on comms. “I have a code 512-B here who I’d like you to meet. Would you be willing for me to bring them to the Clocktower?”

Damn, that was a loaded statement.

A code 512 was a new vigilante, and 512-B indicated a child vigilante. If Crow wanted to bring them to the Clocktower to meet her — in person, before introducing them to Batman — then that was a big deal. It implied a level of trust that Crow hadn’t displayed before, to any of them.

In the end, the decision was obvious.

“Of course,” she answered. “Bring them up tonight, if they’re willing. The Clocktower is empty besides me, so feel free to come up whenever.”

“Acknowledged,” Crow replied. “We should arrive in 24 minutes, barring complications.”

Barbara spent the next 24 minutes sanitizing the Clocktower of any identity evidence sans that of her own, though there wasn’t much to begin with. She marked herself as temporarily inactive on comms; she had a feeling she’d want to be free of distractions for this encounter.

Sure enough, 25 minutes and 26 seconds after Crow hung up, Barbara got an alert that his codes had been used to access the tower, plus one guest. She used the time in the elevator to study said guest: they looked definitively female, maybe 16 years old, with long blonde hair and white skin. Her costume was clearly homemade, given that Barbara could see the stitches from the elevator camera, but it was well made and extremely purple.

The elevator doors opened to reveal the duo in person, and Barbara was suddenly struck by Crow’s expression: he looked annoyed.

Barbara had seen Crow annoyed before. He got annoyed at Bruce’s worrying, at Dick’s corny jokes, and even at Barbara’s insistence at keeping comms on as often as possible. Crow’s normal annoyance was a subtle thing: a twitch of an eyebrow, a tightening of the mouth, maybe a mild eye roll if he was feeling particularly expressive. This, however, was another thing altogether. Crow looked like a petulant child, genuinely annoyed in a way readable to normal human beings.

Or, if Barbara wanted to be more accurate, he looked like an irritated teenager with a child’s face.

“Spoiler, meet Oracle,” Crow greeted, his voice dripping with irritation. “Oracle, this is Stephanie Brown. She’s been trying to stir up trouble for Cluemaster and his employers.”

“Hey!” Stephanie squawked, turning an offended gaze to Crow. “Don’t just spill my secret identity like that! It’s rude!”

“It’s efficient,” Crow snarked, fully rolling his eyes. It took all of Barbara’s years of training to not gape openly at the sight. “Oracle knows who everyone is anyway. I’m just saving her a few minutes of work.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Spoiler,” Barbara cut in before the situation could escalate. “My name’s Barbara. What brings you up here today?”

Crow looked surprised by the easy admission of her name, but quickly caught on that the question was more for him than for his guest.

“As I said, Spoiler has taken it upon herself to take up vigilante justice,” Crow answered, earning another glare from Stephanie. “She refuses to stop, so I figured she might listen to Batgirl instead.”

“Batgirl?” Stephanie repeated, perking up. She looked at Barbara again, her eyes darting to her hair, and her eyes widened in wonder. “You were Batgirl? That’s awesome! I mean, it’s nice to meet you too. I’m such a huge fan.”

“I was, and thank you,” Barbara smiled with only a small pang of painful nostalgia. “Stephanie Brown? I take it, given that you’ve been messing with Cluemaster, AKA Arthur Brown, that means that the man is your father?”

“That would be a little generous, but yeah, he’s my sperm donor,” Spoiler scowled. “Look, I get that heroism is dangerous and all that, but this is my responsibility. As long as that bastard is out of prison, my mom is in danger, and it’s my job to protect her. It’s not like he deserves any better anyway.”

“I’d argue that taking care of your mom shouldn’t be your responsibility,” Barbara disagreed, but then she sighed as she noted the fire in Stephanie’s eyes. She’d seen it too many times in the mirror to think she could convince the girl to stop. “But I can’t say I don’t understand. I initially became Batgirl to protect my dad, after all.”

“Really?” Stephanie asked, eyes wide. They both ignored Crow's glaring.

“Really. Though I admit that if I had to do it all over again, I’d do it differently. I’d have liked to have accepted help earlier, for instance.”

“I get it, you want to offer me help,” Stephanie rolled her eyes. “And what strings are attached to that deal? That I leave everything to you and you’ll figure it all out for me? No thanks.”

“Please, as if I’d offer something that you’d so obviously reject,” Barbara said. “How about this: Crow and I will help you take down Cluemaster, now and if he ever escapes again. Against Cluemaster, you can be Spoiler, if you want. In return, you work under me for the rest of the time as an informant. You’ll have no active combat unless necessary, but your work would make a tangible difference in the lives of average citizens and taking down criminals. What do you think?”

“Why bother?” Stephanie asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You know my name and what I look like. It would be easier than anything to just call my mom so she can ground me forever, and that’s not even if you involve the police. So why help?”

“Because I remember what it was like, to feel like you,” Barbara explained. “I remember tasting the air and remembering, for the first time, ‘I can make a difference.’ And nothing could have dragged me away from that. I’m willing to bet that if I called your mom you’d be out again in weeks trying to help others. Am I wrong?”

Stephanie looked away, confirming her guess. Crow watched them with interest, his face openly curious. Barbara couldn’t help but wonder if Crow had a different experience with vigilantism, but she put that aside to focus on Stephanie.

“I can give you time to think about it,” Barbara continued. “We’ll help take down Cluemaster either way, and of course you could quit at any time. If you follow my lead, however, you’d have support and training to back you up.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Stephanie said, meeting her eyes with confidence and fire. “I’ll work with you. But Cluemaster is mine. I can learn to be stealthy and creepy and shit later, but he’s going down by my hand.”

Barbara exchanged a quick look with Crow, but saw no objection.

“Well then, Spoiler, welcome to the Birds of Prey.”

“Not that this isn’t cool and all, but like, why shouldn’t I meet Batman?” Stephanie asked as she did her cooldown stretches. Black Canary had just been called away to a Justice League emergency, cutting her session with the girl short, so now it was just Steph and Barbara in the Clocktower.

“Batman isn’t the most keen on child vigilantes these days,” Barbara explained. “After Robin died… Well, it was a hard time for all of us. Batman still has some hang ups about the whole thing.”

“What about Crow then?” Steph asked. “I mean, I know he’s basically my age, or whatever, but there’s no way that Batman knew that at first, and he joined over a year ago.”

“Well, for one, Batman can’t really stop Crow,” Barbara laughed, but mentally noted that Stephanie knew how old Crow was, at least roughly. “Apparently, he was following us for years before he showed his face, and none of us even knew until he wanted us to know. How do you stop a kid who you can’t even catch?”

“Doesn’t Crow pretty much live with Batman though?” she asked. At Barbara’s curious look, she clarified, “What? He’s secretive but he lets a lot slip, if you listen carefully enough.”

“I think that’s unique to you,” Barbara admitted slowly. “Trust me, we’ve all been listening very, very carefully, and Crow gives nothing away. Not that I’m surprised, honestly, he’s so expressive around you.”

“That’s what you consider expressive?” Steph scoffed. “God, he really does have a stick up his ass.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Barbara muttered, though she would’ve put it more as “horribly traumatized from some unknown abusive childhood.” Louder, she said, “Still, I can tell you really impressed him somehow. The fact that he trusted you enough to bring you here in person speaks volumes.”

“Well, I did hit him with a brick the first time we met,” she laughed. Barbara froze in surprise, making Steph look at her weirdly.

“You landed a hit on him?” Barbara clarified, amazed. “Like, in the field? Not while sparring?”

“Well, yeah, on a rooftop,” Stephanie said, a little more nervously. “In my defense, he was trying to take off my mask. Why? Is that important?”

“Do you know how many people have managed to land a hit on Crow in the field?” Barbara asked. Stephanie shook her head. “Zero. Crow’s taken down gang members and even Rogues without them even noticing he’s there until they’re out cold. Even when someone notices him getting close, no one — and I mean no one — has ever gotten a hit on him. He’s very good at dodging.”

“Until me,” Steph finished.

“Until you,” Barbara repeated.

“Damn, doesn’t that make a girl feel special,” she laughed, clearly a little off kilter. She shook her head. “But we’re getting off track. Batman clearly likes Crow just fine, so why am I not meeting him? Is it some boys-only club?”

“No, I would’ve killed him if that were the case,” Barbara snorted. “You wanna know the truth?” Stephanie nodded. “Batman has an adoption problem. He sees a kid, he tries to adopt them. He did it with Nightwing, he did it with Robin, and he’s doing it with Crow, not that the kid is letting him. The only reason I didn’t get adopted is because my dad is a close friend of Batman’s. As someone with a functional parent, you’re probably better off in the Birds of Prey.”

“Yeah I’m not super interested in being adopted right now,” Stephanie said, clearly trying and failing to process that information. “I’ve got one weird costumed parent too many as it is. Speaking of which, Cluemaster isn’t going to arrest himself. Let’s get working.”

By the time Cluemaster is in handcuffs, Barbara had to admit that Stephanie was shaping up to be pretty damn good at the vigilante thing. She took to hand-to-hand like a champ and apparently had a mean right hook, if both Dinah and Crow were to be believed.

While she wasn’t a natural at traditional stealth by any means, she had an impressive talent of socially blending into any group in an instant. Combine that with Crow’s penchant for disguises and contour and Spoiler became an invaluable source of undercover information. And that didn’t even account for her knowledge of lower Gotham.

“Oh, hear that emphasis when he says ‘cocaine’? That’s classic Bowery, between 22nd and 25th, if I’m right.”

Her ability to narrow Gotham accents down to specific blocks would be almost unnerving, if it weren’t so useful. She’d also eavesdropped enough on her dad when she was growing up that she knew a lot about Gotham’s gangs. It wasn’t anything that Barbara didn’t already know, but it meant she was a quick study when it came to learning the scene.

Within six months of meeting Barbara, Spoiler was a valuable, if subtle, member of the caped community in Gotham. Barbara wouldn’t have guessed it after first meeting the girl, but it turned out that she could keep a secret with the best of them, enough so that “Spoiler” wasn’t even a name known outside of the Birds of Prey themselves.

“You know, I thought at first that I’d resent the fact that no one knew my name,” the girl mused with Barbara and Crow one night after a mission, “but honestly it’s such a relief. Everyone’s so paranoid about a little boy in their rafters that they don’t even notice the blonde girl hanging out with their daughters. No offense, Crow.”

“None taken,” Crow said casually. He was currently lounging on the couch, stretched in a way that Barbara had only seen emulated by Selena’s cats. It didn’t look comfortable whatsoever, but Crow looked relaxed in the way he only was around Stephanie. Privately, Barbara was proud of him for having made a real friend and opening up.

“Honestly, it’s so satisfying to watch their faces when they realize that all their information is in the hands of Batman,” Steph continued with a content sigh. “I mean, they obviously don’t know it wasn’t Crow, but that’s half the fun anyway.”

“Speaking of fun,” Barbara interjected, “how was your first meeting with the new team?”

“It was decent,” she said, though Barbara could hear the excitement in her voice. “We’re calling ourselves ‘Young Justice,’ which is a pretty baller name, if I don’t say so myself. Though you know you could’ve come out and introduced yourself, Crow.”

“I was content with where I was,” Crow shrugged. “If they didn’t notice me, then they just need to work on their situational awareness.”

Stephanie and Barbara shared a look. Crow couldn’t always be detected by Batman, so a group of teenagers didn’t stand a chance.

“Yeah, whatever, I get it, you’re shy,” Steph rolled her eyes. Crow made an offended noise, one far less dignified than anything Barbara had heard from him before. The two continued to squabble, but Barbara tuned them out as she turned back to her computer.

As glad as she was that Crow had made a friend, teenagers really were annoying.

Crow was overdue for a check-in.

He’d promised to meet Barbara at a coffee shop in the Narrows at noon. Unlike most Gotham heroes, especially teenaged ones, Crow wasn’t beholden to the nightshift, as he was allegedly homeschooled. Barbara gave it 60-40 odds that he just didn’t do any schoolwork anyway, given how often he was out patrolling, but she wasn’t about to press him about it. As such, they often arranged daytime intel meetings to free up their nights.

It wasn’t too unusual for Crow to be a few minutes late to their meetings, but it was coming up on 1pm and he still hadn’t shown his face. Barbara didn’t want to start jumping to conclusions, but this level of tardiness wasn’t his style. She told herself that he probably just ran into something minor on his way, but the lack of a text message was concerning.

Thirty minutes later, she still had no word from Crow. She’d double checked their communications to make sure they hadn’t agreed to a different time and place, but no such luck. She was now in full-on worrying mode.

After a moment of deliberation, she sighed and fished her laptop out of her bag. While she generally didn’t like to use cameras to track Crow without his permission, it didn’t technically violate their agreement, so long as she didn’t try to figure out where he lived. Most of the time it wasn’t even an option, given how skilled he was at dodging cameras and changing his physical features.

Today, however, it didn’t take long. It was suspicious to dodge cameras too much in civilian mode, anyway, so between that and her searching within a mile radius of the cafe, she found him pretty quickly. Forty minutes ago, he’d been spotted a quarter mile away ducking into an alley. Based on his body language, he was likely following someone, but the camera couldn’t see who.

Within a minute, Barbara had paid for her food and was out of the coffee shop. Thankfully, the area was relatively wheelchair accessible, so it only took a few minutes for her to arrive at the alleyway where Crow had disappeared. Even more luckily, she immediately saw Crow’s figure still there, along with the figure of a girl who was about his age.

“I’m serious, Cass, he could help you,” Crow said in a low voice, but Barbara was a skilled eavesdropper and could hear him perfectly well.

“No, you not trust,” the girl — Cass, presumably — spoke in broken but Gotham-accented English. “You say trust, but — listening.”

Crow’s head shot up at that, his eyes darting around until they found Barbara. He relaxed, but Cass was watching them both carefully.

“Barbara, what are you—” his eyes widened in realization. “Oh shit, lunch. I completely forgot.”

“I figured that might be the case, but I thought I’d check the cameras around here just in case,” Barbara noted. “I don’t suppose you want to introduce me to your friend here?”

Crow tensed again, taking a small, subconscious step between the two women, despite his height not really covering either of them. Before he could say anything, however, the girl stepped forward.

“I am Cassandra,” she greeted, studying her. Barbara couldn’t help but feel like the girl was looking straight into her soul, though she couldn’t feel any psychic activity. “Crow trusts you.”

“That is certainly what I hope, yes,” Barbara smiled, but she noted how it was stated as a fact. “And how do you two know each other?”

“Crow is little brother.”

Out of all the things Barbara expected to hear, that was not one of them. She couldn’t help her eyes widening as they flicked to Crow, who was blushing rather furiously.

“Technically, we aren’t related,” Crow reassured her quickly, which seemed to amuse Cassandra. “We met about six months ago. She saw me while I was tailing the Maronis and followed me for a bit.”

Barbara’s eyes widened even further as she looked back at the girl. Now that she was looking, she could see the telltale posture and poise of an assassin, or at least someone trained as one. Even among assassins, though, seeing and tailing Crow was a feat in and of itself.

“You keep meeting the most extraordinary teenage girls, Crow,” Barbara noted. “It’s barely been a year since Stephanie hit you with a brick, and now this? Maybe you just have a weak spot.”

“It’s not like that!” Crow almost yelled, flustered, but she could see he was telling the truth. “Cass is…”

He trailed off, looking at Cass as if for approval. The two teenagers seemed to have a silent conversation, one complex enough that Barbara couldn’t even follow it, but after a few seconds Crow looked back at her, face determined.

“We should have this conversation somewhere more secure,” he said.

“Is the Clocktower an option?” Barbara asked. She knew Crow would hear the implicit question: Can she be trusted?

“Yes, if you’re willing,” he confirmed, and she nodded as well. Anyone who Crow trusted was trustworthy enough in her books.

It took them 13 minutes to reach the Clocktower, during which time Cass said nothing, but she watched Barbara’s every move with rapt attention. By the time Barbara was situated in her favorite chair across from the couch in the Clocktower, she was sure that Cass had somehow gleaned far too much about her from silence.

“Cass found me six months ago while she was running from her father,” Crow delved in without prompt. “Based on her descriptions and my research, I believe her father is David Cain. She said he raised her to be the perfect partner and killing machine, able to intrinsically understand body language, but she was able to escape last year. We became friends after she found me, but now she wants to start a new life. The only problem is she won’t let me take her to Bruce.”

The final sentence was accented with a glare in Cassandra’s direction, but the girl didn’t look guilty in the slightest.

“You not trust ‘Bruce,’” she said, echoing her words in the alley. “You say you trust Bruce, but you not trust him.”

“I trust him with this!” Crow defended. “I’m not keen on him finding out my identity, but he would definitely adopt you in a heartbeat.”

“You not trust him with self, I not trust him with me,” Cassandra said in defiance. Crow groaned in frustration, and Barbara could tell this was an old argument. So, before Crow could say anything else, she spoke up.

“While I agree that Bruce would probably take you in without question,” she began, drawing both of their attention, “he’s hardly the only course of action. How many identities have I made you in the past, Crow?”

“A lot,” he admitted. “Twenty two, to be exact. But this is different from forging some paperwork for her. She needs a home, people she can rely on. It won’t do anyone any good if she just gets thrown in the system.”

And that home couldn’t be Crow’s, was left unsaid. She still didn’t know what his home life looked like, but she knew that it was far from happy. They all wanted him to reach out for help himself, but as long as he was unwilling, the best they could do was offer him support in the meantime.

Which actually sparked an idea in her head.

“Bruce isn’t the only one with a home and a stable income, you know,” Barbara said slowly. “While he’s definitely the most qualified option in this case, forcing Cassandra to go somewhere she doesn’t want to isn’t any better. If she’s willing, I do have a spare bedroom.”

She turned to look at Cassandra for the last sentence, who was back to staring directly into her soul. The girl didn’t look apprehensive, though, just thoughtful.

“Wait, you would just do that?” Crow asked incredulously. “You met her half an hour ago, and now you’re willing to just take her into your home? I just told you she used to be an assassin, and you didn’t even have follow up questions!”

“Oh I definitely have follow up questions, but those can be answered later,” Barbara clarified. “As for letting her move in, she isn’t a complete stranger, is she? She’s your sister. Even if you don’t share a drop of blood, that means something. You trust her, don’t you?”

“Of course I trust her,” Crow nodded.

“Then I trust her too,” she said, smiling at Cass. “And, well, maybe Bruce is rubbing off on me after all these years.”

Crow laughed breathily at that, but looked at Cass, who still hadn’t said anything.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

Cassandra pursed her and continued to look thoughtfully at Barbara for a few moments before turning back to Crow.

“Genuine,” she said matter-of-factly. “Wants to help. You trust her?”

“With my life,” Crow promised, and Barbara could admit to herself that her heart soared at the admission.

“Then I will live with her,” Cass said simply, and both Crow and Barbara breathed out a sigh of relief. “If we not like other, I leave. But now, we try.”

“Thank you,” Barbara smiled genuinely. “I’ve never had someone living under my care, but I’ll do my best. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

“Good,” Cassandra nodded. She hesitated. “Now, I am hungry. You have food here?”

“Yeah, good point,” Barbara laughed. “We have a kitchen down the hall, help yourself to whatever.” She pointed and Cassandra nodded and walked away. Crow stayed behind, but the girl didn’t seem concerned.

“Thank you, for taking her in,” he said after his sister had left the room. “I know you didn’t have to do that.”

Barbara studied him closer. His head was hung and looking away slightly, and his voice was quieter than normal. She opened her mouth, thinking about how to phrase her next statement so as not to spook him.

“You know, you could tell me who you are,” she finally said quietly. Crow tensed, but didn’t move. “I wouldn’t tell Bruce, if him not knowing means that much to you. You could even live with me and Cass, if you wanted.”

You don’t have to be alone, she didn’t say, but she was sure he heard it. Because that’s what he was: alone. Even if he had some sort of parents, he was far too independent to have them be around emotionally.

Crow looked up at her, and for a second, she could see the hope in his eyes. For a second, she thought he would tell her.

Then the second was gone and he looked away.

“No, thank you,” he all but whispered. “That means a lot but. I just can’t.”

“Ok,” she said, forcing herself not to push. Not to beg. “The offer’s still open though. Always.”

“I know,” he said, and for the first time since she met him she thought she heard his voice well up with tears. “I know.”

For a moment they sat together, neither moving as Crow sniffled once, twice, then not again.

“I think I’m hungry too,” Crow finally said, breaking the silence.

“Well, we never did get lunch,” Barbara joked, eliciting a weak huff from Crow. “Let’s go see what Cassandra is cooking up, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Crow agreed, and helped her into her wheelchair. They went down the hallway together, side-by-side.

It was odd for Barbara, at first, to have another human being solely under her care. The pressure was almost overwhelming, at times, to have a child who relied on her for care and protection and guidance. Cassandra was incredibly smart and mature in many ways, but in others she hardly knew more than an elementary schooler, and her lack of knowledge only made the weight on Barbara’s shoulders heavier.

Still, as the months dragged on, Barbara couldn’t make herself regret her decision to take the girl in. Cassandra was optimistic and fun and among the most generous people she had ever met. She was excited to learn and grow, even taking to her new homeschooling coursework with gusto. Within three months of them living together, Barbara privately thought of Cass as a sister, and she knew Cass thought the same of her.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Cassandra had the same drive the rest of their family had.

“You know you don’t have to do this to be a part of the family,” Barbara tried to assure the girl for what had to be the hundredth time. “I know you’re more than capable, but no one will think less of you if you simply want to live your life without this.”

“I know,” Cass smiled patiently. “But I want to do this. I want to help.”

Barbara nodded, finally accepting the words, no matter her own worries. After all, she could hear the double meaning of the words: Cassandra wanted to help people, but she also wanted to help Crow.

Even after becoming acclimated to Barbara’s apartment, Cassandra still spent most of her days out with Crow. She would follow him on recon missions, watching his back while blending into the shadows just as well, if not better, than he did, but she would stay with him after them as well. Barbara was even sure that she knew where he lived, when he wasn’t at Wayne Manor, but of course she didn’t press. Cass would always come home eventually of course, especially when Crow was at the aforementioned Manor, but it was clear to both of them that her “little brother” was still her highest priority.

Not that Barbara minded, of course. Crow needed more people in his corner, and she was far too mature to get envious of Crow, especially when Cass had known him first.

Which led them to now.

“And you’re sure you want to operate as Crow as well?” Barbara asked. “You could always forge your own identity, even if you work together. Like Spoiler.”

Cassandra smiled at the codename of her friend, but nodded anyway. Truthfully, Barbara had hoped that the reference to Stephanie might make Cass reconsider being another Crow, given that the two of them got on like a house on fire. (They were a little terrifying together, if Barbara was being honest.)

“More Crow, more fear of Crow,” Cass explained, tying her hair up to mimic Crow’s shorter hair. With the mask on and the cover of night, they looked nearly identical to the untrained eye. “More fear of Crow, Crow safer. Besides, Crow likes spending more time with Batman.”

Barbara laughed at that, conceding the point. Crow never really did get over his stalking habits, and she knew that Crow privately loved the nights where he could just follow Batman around the most.

“Well, if you ever get tired of it…” Barbara trailed off, knowing that Cass knew what she was referring to. Batgirl. Barbara had quietly offered the title when Cass first started making noise about going out on her own, but the girl hadn’t accepted.

“I know,” Cass said, smiling at her. “One day, perhaps. Not today.”

Barbara nodded, accepting that. One day, Batgirl could fly again. Today, however, Crow needed them first.

“So, has Crow talked to you about Red Hood?” Barbara asked Dick as they waited for their food. It was a dangerous question to ask, especially in a public space, even with Oracle’s anti-surveillance measures, but it was pressing enough that it was necessary.

“Yeah,” Dick sighed, the single word bearing years of grief and torment. “Is it really him? I mean, I trust Crow, of course, but…”

“I know,” Barbara commiserated. “I was just as shocked as you, when he told me, but he’s right. I even contacted him a few nights ago via comms, and… It’s him. It’s Jason.”

“Fuck,” Dick breathed, covering his eyes. That was why Barbara chose to have this talk in public: in private, Dick wouldn’t be able to stop himself from crying, but in public he could contain himself. She knew Dick privately appreciated the gesture, even if he’d never say it. It wasn’t like Dick liked having constant breakdowns either.

“On the bright side, he seems a lot more sane than we originally thought,” she assured him. “I’m sure some of that has to do with Crow himself, but it’s promising. He always was a sucker for kids, and Crow hasn’t told him that he’s actually a teenager yet.”

Dick snorted at that, moving his hands to show a sad smile.

“God, was he ever,” Dick agreed. “Alfred and I used to take bets on whether it would be Jason or Bruce who dragged the next orphan home.” He sobered slightly, but his voice held steady as he spoke. “Even if he was fully insane, Jason being alive would still be a bright side. Even if he never wanted to see us again, the fact that he’s back would still outshine the fucking sun.”

“No arguments from me there,” Barbara agreed. “He’s definitely different. I mean, who wouldn’t be, after all that? But he’s still Jason. That I’m sure of.”

Dick smiled, and they sat in comfortable silence until their food came. Even now, years after they had broken up, it was nice to just bask in his presence without the need to make pointless small talk or force themselves to come up with something to say. The amiable quiet lasted until they had each taken a bite of their oversized, greasy burgers, when Dick finally broke it.

“So, how are things going with your little protégés?” he asked, a pointed note in his voice.

“Are you still mad that you had to learn about Stephanie from Garfield?” Barbara sighed. Dick took a pointed bite of his burger, which was as clear of a “yes” as she’d get from him. “Hey, at least I told you about Cass.”

“Yeah, after I found out about Steph,” he whined, but Barbara knew he was just being dramatic.

“Crybaby,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But to answer your question, they’re doing rather well. Steph is in San Francisco for the next few weeks with the Titans, but it seems like she’s having a blast. Cass is as terrifying as ever. She beat Dinah in a no-holds-barred spar last week.”

“Seriously?” Dick asked, impressed. “Damn, good for her. I’ve gotta spar with her some day.”

“You could always ask,” Barbara shrugged. “She likes you.”

“Yeah, but she’s still refusing to meet Bruce,” Dick sighed. “Not that I blame her, of course. I told him that trying to dig into Crow’s identity would backfire someday, even if this isn’t exactly the scenario either of us envisioned.”

“Yeah, well, you know Bruce,” Barbara scoffed. “He’s gotta know everything. Still, I’m glad he isn’t pushing on the whole Jason thing. He never would’ve done that a few years ago.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Dick agreed, a far off look in his eye. Before he could say anything else, however, Barbara’s phone pinged, making them both tense. They both knew that only high priority alerts got to her during their lunches. She scrambled for her phone in her bag as Dick preemptively took out his wallet and waved their waiter over to pay.

“Shit,” she said as she read the message, but the word couldn’t possibly encapsulate the way her stomach felt like it was suddenly filled with lead. Even the few bites of burger felt precarious as the situation caught up to her.

“What?” Dick asked, reading her fear. “What happened?”

“The Joker—” she choked out before clearing her throat. Panic would not get the best of her. “The Joker broke out of Arkham.”

Four hours later, Barbara was barely keeping her composure together as she directed Batman and Red Hood through the no-longer-abandoned building. Nightwing had gotten unlucky and ended up on the other side of the city when they had tracked Crow and the Joker down, though he was now only a minute away. Meanwhile, Cassandra was barely containing herself from rushing in on her own to save her little brother, stopped only by Oracle’s promises that they had the situation under control.

Despite her reassurances to Cass, Barbara was terrified. She’d never fully forgiven herself for enabling Crow to cripple the Joker himself, and now that guilt had transformed into a full-on breakdown waiting to happen as Crow reaped the consequences of their stupid, overconfident plan. It had worked at the time, but Barbara should have known better than to believe that the Joker would be permanently subdued by blindness and the loss of his legs. It was more than she’d endured, sure, but she had met enough disabled people in her life to know that others had come back from worse.

And now Crow was paying for her lack of judgment as he stalled. She could see him though Batman’s cowl feed now, chained to a chair but looking as calm as he always was on the job. More than that, she could see the Joker, wheelchair-bound but just as terrifying as ever. (The only thing that didn’t push her into a full-blown panic attack at the sight was the safety of a screen between her and the madman.)

“Oracle, I’ve just arrived,” Nightwing informed her through his comm. She took a deep breath and looked away from Batman’s footage, forcing herself to compartmentalize.

“Acknowledged,” she said, eyes darting across her display to determine where to send him. “There’s a power generator in the basement. If you take it out, the goons won’t know what hit them.”

“Copy that,” Nightwing confirmed, his tracker darting off to do just that.

“Oracle, the hostages are freed, but I’m too outnumbered to do much about the rest of the goons,” Red Hood bit out, sounding like the admission pained him. She didn’t have any visuals from him, but she trusted Jason enough to know his summary was accurate.

“Good job, Hood,” she said, remembering that Jason always liked simple but truthful praise. “Blockade the stairs and go assist Batman and Crow on the third floor. Nightwing is cutting the power and can deal with the remaining goons after.”

“My pleasure,” Jason said, and she could hear his sadistic grin, even if she couldn’t see it. Still, she put it aside as her sensors picked up the shutdown of electricity as Nightwing shut off the generator.

“Batman, Nightwing has cut the power and Red Hood has blocked the stairs,” she informed Bruce. “The hostages are safe and reinforcements are cut off from your location. Red Hood is enroute.”

Bruce said nothing, but a quick peek at his cowl indicated he had heard her and was engaging the Joker.

“Nightwing, there are still several goons in the building,” she told Dick as she flicked between displays. “Switch to night vision and disable them, if you can, but they outnumbered Red Hood enough to drive him away, so be careful.”

“Roger that, Oracle,” he confirmed, though his voice lacked its usual lightheartedness. “Any update on Crow?”

She looked at the footage again and sighed in relief as she took in the scene.

“Joker is down and Crow is safe,” she told him, her own heart finally slowing down from its frantic thumping. She diverted Officer Montoya’s police radar towards the scene with a quick ping to her comm. “Police are enroute now. Be careful with the goons, but there’s no rush.”

“Thanks, I’ll get them good,” Nightwing said, some of his joviality back. She already heard some grunts of pain coming from the goons through his comms as he talked, so he clearly had the situation well in hand.

Barbara looked back at Batman’s cowl footage to see Red Hood with a gun to Joker’s head. She considered, for a moment, intervening herself, but Crow looked calm, so she figured it didn’t matter. If Red Hood killed the Joker, she wouldn’t be losing any sleep anyway.

So, she took the extra second to check in on Cass.

“Crow Two, Crow One has been recovered,” she said, sticking to the old-fashioned style of communication that she knew Cass found fun over the comms, in most circumstances. She doubted the girl would enjoy it right now, but every little piece of levity was sorely needed. “Scene is being cleared now. Thank you.”

Cass simply hummed in acknowledgement. They both knew Barbara was thanking her for not running into danger herself, and Cass had no words for her, not that Barbara needed them.

“Goons are down,” Nightwing chimed in, his breathing barely labored.

“Good work,” she said, and quickly informed Batman and Red Hood of the situation, since Crow had deescalated their argument somehow. She’d have to check the footage later to see what he said.

As they were wrapping up, Barbara allowed herself a few minutes to calm herself down. She wasn’t anywhere near the state of panic she’d been in just a few minutes prior, but that only meant the adrenaline high was starting to wear off and she was starting to crash. She wouldn’t be able to fully relax until the Joker was safely back in Arkham (or dead), but it was nice to take a moment to herself to just breathe while the others dealt with the logistics.

Almost absentmindedly, she sent an audio/video drone after Bruce and Crow as they went to a nearby rooftop to rendezvous with Red Hood for whatever overly dramatic chat he wanted to have. She noted Cass’ tracker moving to the same location and sighed, praying this didn’t turn ugly. She spent what little other attention she had making sure the police she’d sent were doing their jobs correctly, which they seemed to be doing for once.

Only a minute later, Jason started shouting, much to Barbara’s unsurprised annoyance, forcing her to look back at the feed. Thankfully, the shouting was directed at Bruce (surprise, surprise), so she didn’t feel the need to intervene. However, that changed a moment later.

“Don’t defend him!” Jason shouted, stepping towards Crow. Barbara gasped, knowing exactly what would happen in that moment. Sure enough, Cassandra was there in an instant, throwing Red Hood back with the grace of a deadly assassin.

“Cassandra, stand down,” Barbara immediately yelled through the drone. “Red Hood is not an active threat.”

Cassandra thankfully agreed as she stepped back into a relaxed position and patted Crow on the head.

“Safe now, little brother,” she said, undoubtedly just to cause Bruce the most emotional damage possible. It undoubtedly worked as every biofeedback monitor in the Batsuit spiked.

“I knew this was going to come out at the worst possible time,” Barbara said, turning off her distortion filter. She knew this would be a conversation that would need as few barriers as possible, and she now found herself wishing she didn’t have the abstraction of a computer screen between her and the others. “Bruce, meet Cassandra, the second Crow.”

“The second Crow?” Jason repeated, pushing himself up from the ground. “There’s more than one?”

“Of course,” Crow confirmed with an eye roll, clearly more comfortable now that his sister was there. “What, did you think I was actually in multiple places at once? I’m not actually a meta or a ghost, you know.”

“I know that,” Jason snapped, but with just enough embarrassment in his voice to confirm that he didn’t actually fully know that.

“You have a sister?” Bruce finally recovered, his eyes darting between the two of them from behind the cowl. “Oracle, you knew?”

Barbara, despite herself, couldn’t help but wince at the genuine hurt in Bruce’s voice.

“She’s been living with me for the past year or so,” she told him awkwardly. “I wanted to introduce her, but she’s been cautious with how invested you’ve been in Crow’s identity.”

“That’s why?” Bruce asked, all traces of Batman gone as surprise colored his voice. “But I only ever looked into his identity to protect him.”

“Yeah, we know how successful you are at ‘protecting’ your kids,” Jason muttered bitterly, but Barbara ignored him as something in Bruce’s word choice registered as off to her. She barely noticed as Nightwing’s tracker joined them on the roof, out of sight from her drone.

“What do you mean ‘protect him’?” she asked Bruce.

“He needs to know that he’s valued,” Bruce replied, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“Batman’s a control freak, who cares?” Jason scoffed. “Let’s go back to an earlier statement, before we got sidetracked. What the hell do you think you mean when you say your life is worth less than ours?”

“Exactly that,” Crow frowned, and dread started pooling in her gut as her brain started making connections between Bruce’s point and Jason’s. “My life doesn’t matter. As long as none of you know who I am, you can’t get close to me and you won’t be compromised by my death.”

On camera, everyone froze in shock as Crow's words hit like a ton of bricks. Barbara could barely breathe as past conversations with Crow flashed before her eyes at lightning speed. Suddenly, his refusal to confide in her made sense, even years after she’d proven that he trusted her.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t need to know your name to care about you, Crow,” Bruce said desperately, clearly the only one not surprised by the admission. “You’re still my son, even if I can’t do anything about it legally.”

“That’s why you’ve been so adamant about finding it out for years?” Nightwing asked Bruce, stepping out of the shadows and echoing Barbara’s exact thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“That logic’s bullshit,” Barbara jumped in, her words barely being filtered through her overworked brain. “Crow, you made me promise years ago that I wouldn’t look into you. You can’t fault us for not knowing who you are if you prohibit us from learning. That’s circular logic.”

“I’m not faulting you for it,” Crow frowned, clearly surprised by the negative reactions. “It’s just true. As long as I’m unknown to you, my death would matter less.”

“Barbie’s right, that’s bullshit,” Jason growled, but Dick cut him off before he could say anything else.

“More than that, it’s moot anyway,” Dick said almost calmly. “If I’d known that’s how you felt I would’ve said something years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Crow asked, but there was a tremor in his voice and his eyes were that of a cornered animal.

“I know exactly who you are,” Dick continued, making Barbara freeze for the second time in two minutes. “You’re Timothy Drake.”

Chapter Text

Dick was stressed about the man outside the tent.

Dad had told him not to worry, that Hailey was taking care of it, but the anxiety gnawed on him anyway. Even if they were safe, the man seemed so… smug. Like he knew something they didn’t know.

“Look, little Robin, we have a guest,” his mom whispered in his ear in English, pulling him out of his thoughts. It took him a second to process the phrase, despite his parents having taught him English, but once he did, he looked around excitedly. Sure enough, there was a little girl standing a few feet away, watching him shyly with big eyes.

“Hello!” Dick greeted, and the kid’s eyes got even wider. She looked around, confused, before looking back at him and pointing to herself. “Yes, you! Why don’t you come over?”

She blushed but ran over, and Dick barely stopped himself from cooing at how adorable she was. She was wearing a frilly yellow dress and black buckled shoes, her black hair worn in pigtails.

“Um, hi,” she said once she came over, clearly nervous.

“I’m Dick Grayson, the youngest of the Flying Graysons,” he introduced proudly. “What’s your name?”

“Um, I’m Tim,” the girl answered shyly. “Uh, Timea Drake. But I like being called Tim.”

“Well, aren’t you a well-spoken little lady,” Dick’s mom laughed, making the girl blush. “How would you like a picture, dear?”

Tim nodded frantically, so Mom waved Dad over with a smile. Dick couldn’t help but giggle at how cute the girl’s excitement was.

“You’re too cute, I could just snatch you up,” Dick teased the girl and hugged her, who giggled as well. “I’ve always wanted a little…” he paused as he tried to remember the word. “Brother!” he exclaimed, remembering. “I’ve always wanted a little brother. Can we keep her, Mom?”

“‘Sister,’ Dick,” she corrected, shaking her head in exasperation. “Brother’ is for boys, and ‘sister’ is for girls.”

“Um, I think I’d rather be a brother than a sister,” Tim said, almost too quietly for Dick to hear.

“Is that so?” Dick asked. “Well then, you’ll just have to be my little brother anyway!”

Tim grinned, her expression outshining the sun. Before either of them could say anything else, though, Dick’s dad returned and started posing them for a picture. A minute and a flash later, Dick watched as Tim clutched the photo to her chest like it was something precious. He smiled at her and she grinned back.

“The show’s starting soon, kiddo,” Dad told Tim. “Why don’t we go find your parents so you can watch?”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Tim nodded, but she seemed disappointed. Dick could relate — he felt a little disappointed too.

“Don’t be too sad,” Dick reassured her with a grin. “You’ll get to see us fly! I’ll even do the Flying Grayson signature quadruple somersault, just for you. I promise you’ll love it, little brother.”

He winked at her and her smile returned, though it was smaller now. As Dad led her off to find her parents, Dick couldn’t help but put the mental image of her smile in a safe corner of his brain. Even if he never saw her again, she was a cute kid. He didn’t want to forget her.

Unfortunately, meeting Tim Drake wasn’t the most important thing to happen to Dick that night, not by a longshot. By the time his parents’ bodies hit the floor, she was barely a footnote in his mind.

Despite having lived in America for five years and having been Robin for three of those years, Dick still struggled sometimes with some of the terminology in his Robin cases. His spoken English was now good enough to pass as native, but he was still annoyed with himself for being unable to figure out new words using context like most native speakers could.

This casefile in particular was causing him an undue amount of trouble. The basics were simple: a teenager seemed to have committed suicide, but Batman suspected that it may have been a murder that got covered up. He wanted Robin to take over the case to improve his detective skills, but the nuances were starting to get annoying.

The teenager, Zed Armitage, was “transgender.” Bruce had spent an hour explaining the term and its related concepts to Dick, but he still felt like he was missing something important about the concept. That on its own wouldn’t be enough to frustrate Dick, given that he was used to learning new concepts, but the issue is that he couldn’t pinpoint where the feeling of frustration was coming from. He understood why Zed might be the victim on a hate crime, and why the potential murderer may have used suicide as a cover, but there was something else bothering him.

Dick groaned as his alarm went off: it was time for patrol. He closed the file, resigned at his own failure to make any progress on the case. Still, he pulled himself together as he pulled his Robin costume out of the closet. His parent’s colors greeted him—

His parents. That was it! There was a kid with him on their last night together. He’d thought she was a little girl, but she’d been so happy when he’d called her — him? — ‘little brother’ instead of ‘little sister.’

Tim Drake, Dick remembered, the face coming to mind. Was the kid actually trans? It was impossible to tell, given Dick couldn’t exactly ask and she — he — they had been a little kid at the time, but children did often know more about themselves than adults gave them credit for.

The memory invoked a pang of longing like he hadn’t felt in a long time, at least not since he started as Robin. Before he could get lost in the sensation and the memories, however, Dick heard Bruce calling him down for patrol. He shook his head and finished getting dressed, leaving his room and the memory behind.

So this is Bruce’s new kid, was Dick’s first thought as he took in Crow, before he forced himself out of that unfair line of thinking. Even if Bruce was clearly invested in the kid, he was right that they’d get nowhere until Crow trusted them.

Still, Dick couldn’t help but skim over Crow’s black hair and sunken, tired eyes. They weren’t blue right now, but apparently the kid changed his hair, eyes, and face constantly. The latter was particularly impressive; even Dick’s trained eye could barely see the contour.

“Hey, I’m Dick, or Nightwing if we’re on the night job,” Dick introduced himself with a wink. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed as the kid barely even blinked, his expression unchanging.

“I know,” Crow said simply. “You were how I figured out your identities. You have a distinctive quadruple somersault.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dick laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “B mentioned that. I mean, he didn’t chew me out again because it was forever ago, but the lecture was implied.”

“It’s not your fault,” Crow reassured, though his voice didn’t change cadence at all. “The vast majority of people don’t even know what a quadruple somersault is, much less what it looks like.”

“That’s true,” Dick nodded. Then why do you know that?

The thought wasn’t one Dick wanted to voice, not when it would doubtlessly only make Crow defensive, so he stored the information in the back of his mind for later.

“Anyway,” Dick continued, “I hear you need some lessons on mobility! I’m sure you’re already more skilled than the average person, but, as you know, I happen to be an expert at aerial maneuvering. We’ll have you soaring through Gotham’s skies in no time!”

For the first time since Dick met Crow, he saw an actual emotion flicker across Crow’s face: excitement. It was gone almost before Dick could even register it, but it had definitely been there all the same. Another person may have felt a sense of victory at exciting someone with such an even composure, but all Dick felt was a pang of melancholy that a child as young as Crow would ever be forced to hide their emotions like that.

(It reminded him eerily of Deathstroke’s expectations. “Emotions will only slow you down,” was practically the mercenary’s favorite phrase. Seeing Crow so stone-faced was like looking in a mirror of Dick’s past. He didn’t like it.)

“I’m willing to learn,” Crow said simply, walking towards the large gymnastics area on the other side of the Batcave. Despite Crow’s momentary excitement, Dick was surprised. According to Bruce, the kid hadn’t wanted to get within several feet of any man, particularly not for any sort of combat training. Dick wondered if Crow agreed to the contact-intensive acrobatics training because he wasn’t scared of Dick or because he didn’t realize how contact-intensive gymnastics really was.

The reason seemed to be the former as they began training. Crow easily accepted Dick’s guidance as they began, even leaning into the more prolonged touches. Dick felt another pang of sadness as he considered how touch-starved Crow had to be to lean into contact with a stranger.

That changed when Crow took an unfortunate tumble and landed hard on his back. Dick winced, but the mat should have stopped any serious injury coming from a fall from that height. Still, he ran over to Crow to lend him a hand up.

As soon as Dick stood over him, however, Crow rolled away into a crouch, his eyes flashing with alertness. Dick stopped suddenly, surprised, and after a few seconds of intense eye contact, Crow relaxed marginally.

“I underrotated,” Crow observed, ignoring that little interaction, but his eyes were still fixed on Dick like prey observing a predator. If Crow wanted to ignore that, then Dick was willing to let it go.

“I agree, but you did better that time,” Dick said, putting on his most reassuring smile. “Do you want to try again?”

Crow stared blankly at him for a few seconds before nodding slowly. Dick kept up his smile as Crow reapproached the equipment and tried the flip again. It was perfect this time.

“Good job,” Dick complimented as Crow continued to stare dead-eyed at him. If Dick were being honest, he’d admit that it reminded him eerily of Bruce when he didn’t know how to communicate his feelings. “Do you wanna keep going?”

Crow nodded, and they moved on to the next move.

As Dick expected, Crow was naturally talented at gymnastics, and even seemed to have most of the basics down. Dick suspected he may have had lessons when he was younger, but he wasn’t skilled enough to have progressed particularly far. Once again, Dick filed the information away for later.

Now that Dick knew what to look for, however, he noticed that it wasn’t touch or even proximity that Crow was scared of, but physical vulnerability. Any time Crow fell on his back or had to be held firmly by Dick, he tensed up and tried to get away as quickly as possible. The circumstances pointed not towards a fear of men in general, but towards distrust of Dick and Bruce specifically.

If he had to guess, Dick would say that it had something to do with Crow’s identity, but he couldn’t be sure, and it definitely wasn’t worth investigating on a first meeting; Crow was jumpy enough as it was.

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” Dick declared after two hours. Sweat was dripping down the kid’s forehead, but he still held tightly that infuriatingly blank expression. Dick had hoped that a little exhaustion would wear down the boy, but it looked like he wasn’t that lucky.

“Yes sir,” Crow said, making Dick flinch. Thankfully the boy didn’t seem to notice, since his back was turned. Dick didn’t particularly like being called “sir,” but he had heard it was how Crow preferred to address Batman, so it made sense that Crow would fall back on it.

“That was a good session kid,” Dick reassured Crow. “You should be proud. Not many people can keep up with my training in the beginning. How about we go out to get some ice cream to celebrate?”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Crow replied instantly.

“Why not?” Dick asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to clarify further.

“I’m not Jason,” Crow said simply. Dick flinched; the casual tone of Crow’s voice only made the name hit harder. “You don’t have to pretend to be a big brother to me just because you lost your chance with him.”

Ouch, Dick thought as he winced again. It seemed that Crow really knew where to strike to make Dick uncomfortable. Unfortunately for Crow, Dick knew exactly what Crow’s game was: push people away before they push you away. It was a classic tactic, especially among abused children (which Crow most certainly was), and one that Dick wouldn’t fall for.

“I don’t expect you to be Jason,” Dick said honestly, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. “I want to get to know you anyway.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Crow said, once again aiming for the heart.

Only, Dick was quite sure that wasn’t true; no one knew about the quadruple somersault except the biggest fans of the Flying Graysons, since the U.S. Olympics Committee wanted to keep it hushed up after he refused to show it off in their little competition. For Crow to know it and not be a gymnast himself, he would have had to be a fan. And that wasn’t even counting the look of excitement in his eyes, however brief, that rose when Dick offered to train him.

“I’m going to call your bluff there, little guy,” Dick smirked. When the smallest flash of irritation crossed Crow’s eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a little victorious. “Regardless, I’m not like B. I like actually getting to know my teammates rather than just ditching whenever social time comes around. We’ll work better together if we get to know each other.”

The best part about that argument was that it was completely true. Dick liked being friends with people, especially those he worked alongside.

“Fine,” Crow said, his voice just barely monotone enough to not be a groan. Dick’s smirk widened as he realized he could probably annoy Crow into showing some emotion. He had been told he was rather good at being annoying. “Where are we going?”

“Nina’s,” Dick said instantly, knowing that letting Crow choose would probably result in some form of retribution from the boy. “The diner on 16th. You know it?”

“Of course,” Crow said simply. “I need to shower first though.”

“That’s fine,” Dick shrugged, figuring he could use one too. “Don’t worry baby bird, I’ll drive.”

An hour later, they were sitting at a corner booth in a grimy downtown diner. Dick had been talking far more than Crow since they started driving, but he didn’t mind. Crow would open up in time, probably, and even if he didn’t, Dick liked talking.

“You should stay at the manor more often,” Dick said nonchalantly as they sipped on their milkshakes.

“And why is that?” Crow asked, clearly seeing the comment as the trap it was.

“Alfred gets lonely, I think,” Dick told him. “I mean, Bruce does too, but Alfred has gotten pretty used to taking care of children. First B, then me, then… Well, B had to get his adoption habit somewhere, you know.”

“I don’t need or want to be adopted,” Crow stated, but his eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “I have parents and a home to go back to.”

“Hey, if life has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t have too many people in your corner, or too many homes to fall back on,” Dick countered waving his straw at Crow. “Hell, Alfred won’t even intrude on your privacy. He’s real good about that. I mean, he didn’t even rat me out to B the first time I went out at night, if you know what I mean. And he definitely knew.”

“That seems irresponsible,” Crow said, likely just to be difficult.

“Yes, well, he did eventually snitch after the first time,” Dick admitted, “but the point is that if you ask him not to intrude, he won’t. Hell, he’s even kept secrets from B for me before. I’m sure he’d do the same for you.”

“Maybe,” Crow said, but Dick could almost hear the contemplation in his voice. Almost.

“Well, just think about it,” Dick shrugged, knowing that pushing too hard would get the opposite results of what he wanted. “Now, I have an important question for you: fries or hashbrowns?”

Crow did start staying at the Manor more regularly, from what Alfred told Dick. The old butler had spoken with a soft, thankful tone, and Dick hadn’t been able to help the flush of pride that welled in his chest. Dick also made an effort to visit more often, now that Bruce wasn’t intentionally starting arguments at every turn. They still got into a few spats here and there, but they now shared the silent, common goal of making Crow feel welcome.

Which brought Dick to Bruce’s secondary office on a Friday night. Crow was with Barbara for the weekend, training with the Birds of Prey, which left Dick and Bruce alone to strategize.

“Discovering Crow’s identity has become a top priority,” Bruce began as soon as Dick walked into the room. Dick’s first instinct was to bristle at the authoritative words, but something in Bruce’s posture stopped him.

To any normal human (and even most aliens), Bruce would look perfectly composed at his desk. His posture was straight, his hands were calmly settled on the table, and his face was businesslike and professional. Dick, however, was no normal human being, so he could see clearly what others could not.

Bruce was freaking out.

“And why is that?” Dick asked cautiously. “I thought we were trying to give him space to come to us?”

“I’ve learned that that scenario is highly unlikely,” Bruce said, his left pointer finger now tapping the desk softly. He stilled it as soon as he realized Dick noticed, but Dick had already registered the tell. “Furthermore, I believe that Crow will not allow himself to be folded into the family until his identity is discovered.”

“...are you sure?” Dick inquired, skeptical. “I mean, he seems to be staying at the Manor more and more, and he’s even stopped avoiding us after you promised not to look into his identity again. Wait… did you break your promise? Bruce!”

“I didn’t break my promise, and I don’t intend to,” Bruce frowned, annoyed. “However, I only promised not to use underhanded or violent methods. I intend to take a detective’s approach, and I would like your assistance with that.”

“I don’t want to break Crow’s trust,” Dick countered, feeling his temper rising. He took a deep breath to steady himself and released it. Unfortunately, Bruce didn’t back down from things like this, and Dick could only do so much to try and stop him, so working with him would be easier. “Alright, fine, but for now I’m only willing to talk things over. No external investigation yet.”

“Very well,” Bruce nodded. Dick couldn’t help his surprise; Bruce never gave in without more negotiation. He must've been really desperate. “Let’s review the facts then: Crow undoubtedly has black hair, though he dyes it often, and an undetermined eye color, though I suspect they might be blue. He is approximately 5 feet tall, give or take an inch.”

“He has a light upper class Gotham accent, but I can’t pick up where,” Dick said. “I’m pretty sure he isn’t doing it just to copy us, but it’s clear he spends enough time in other parts of Gotham that it’s all blended together. So no luck on that front. He looks to be about 10, but that’s subjective.”

“Indeed, not to mention he once said he’s older than he looks,” Bruce nodded. “From the way he acts, I’m inclined to believe him.”

“Beyond that, there’s almost nothing concrete,” Dick said after a minute of quiet thinking. “We could speculate all we want about how he learned stealth or what his home life is like, but none of that will help us track him down.”

“There is one other thing,” Bruce said, rubbing his chin. “I think he probably is homeschooled, if he isn’t a dropout. He’s collected information during prime school hours, and none of the dates match any holidays or school outings. To have that kind of flexibility, he’d have to either be homeschooled or have an impressive disciplinary record, the latter of which would make him easier to find. Since he’s determined not to be found…”

“Then probably homeschool,” Dick finished with a sigh. Then, his brain caught up with the words. “What do you mean he’s determined not to be found?”

“He doesn’t want me knowing his identity,” Bruce said casually, still clearly lost in thought.

Dick’s blood boiled.

“Then why the hell are you looking into it more?” Dick yelled. Bruce had the audacity to look surprised. “Is this just a control thing for you? You aren't allowed to know, so you have to know?”

“No, of course not,” Bruce said hurriedly. “I’m worried about Crow. If he continues to return to his current ‘home’ and fails to get the proper support, I’m afraid he won’t be safe. He said some very concerning things the other night.”

The last sentence was mumbled, so Dick elected to ignore it. He didn’t want to hear about Crow’s private conversations with Bruce anyway. Still, Dick had heard enough: even if Bruce’s intentions were good, he couldn’t betray Crow like that, not if the boy didn’t want Bruce to know who he was.

“Sorry Bruce, but I don’t think we should betray his trust like that,” Dick said, frowning. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready. Let’s just take it slow.”

Bruce looked mournfully at Dick, and for a moment Dick felt his resolve weaken. Before he could give in, however, Bruce looked away.

“I understand,” Bruce said. “I won’t force you to help me.”

“Thank you,” Dick said, knowing that was the best he’d get. “Come on then. Let’s go over Crow’s training schedule.”

Tim Drake was in the paper.

While Dick didn’t read Gotham’s papers nearly as frequently as Bruce did, he liked to keep himself appraised of the news. It had proven to be useful rather frequently in his line of work, and he was in Gotham enough for it to be worth skimming the headlines every few days.

Today, however, Tim Drake was in the paper. Or, to be more accurate, Timea Drake, heiress to Drake Industries and childhood cancer survivor, was on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.

Drake Industries Founders Jack and Janet Drake Captured by Terrorist the headline read. Dick immediately looked down to read the first paragraph, his heart pounding despite himself.

Jack and Janet Drake were captured, poisoned, and killed Tuesday, Dec. 20 by the terrorist known as the Obeah Man. Janet Drake subsequently died of her injuries, while Jack Drake spent three days in the hospital before succumbing to the poison. They leave behind their daughter, 13-year-old Timea Drake.

The article continued, but Dick put it aside for later as he processed his turbulence of emotions. Logically, the news should mean nothing more than a distant tragedy, one all too common for Gotham. After all, he met Tim once, almost a decade ago, and only for a few minutes. It was sad, to be sure, but Dick shouldn’t be so distraught by the news.

On the other hand, Tim had been a part of one of his last memories with his parents, and probably his last good memory with them altogether. Seeing Tim now, orphaned just like him, hit a little too close to home. It felt like something innocent and precious in Dick had died too.

Dick shook his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. He was becoming too emotional and inserting himself where he didn’t belong.

Still, Dick thought as he skimmed the article again, taking in the bleak photo of Timea Drake, a little check in couldn’t hurt. Just a peek as Nightwing to make sure there was nothing suspicious.

And if that gave Dick some piece of mind, well, no one else needed to know.

By all accounts, Timea “Mia” Drake looked like a normal, rich teenage girl. She was short, probably around 5’2, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and slightly tanned skin. Some quick networking had informed Dick that she was generally bubbly and excitable, but now she looked morose for fairly obvious reasons.

It didn’t quite match the black haired “Tim” Drake that Dick met so many years ago, but he knew they were the same person.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to tail the kid for long after the funeral. They arrived back at their (suspiciously empty) home, and whatever tension they had in their body dissipated, leaving a tired kid behind. Dick sighed in relief, glad at least that the kid looked relatively healthy and safe. He’d have to check in on the paperwork side to make sure no one was taking advantage of the rich orphan, but everything should—

Dick’s brain froze as Tim took off their wig and cap. He had known it was a wig, of course: the Tim he’d met years ago had had black hair, and Tim was known to be a child cancer survivor. Some of Dick’s connections had even said that she always wore a blonde wig to emulate her mother, consistently enough that most people forgot it was a wig in the first place.

No, Dick froze because Tim had short, black hair with a middle part. It was, in fact, the exact same hair that Dick had helped cut last week. Crow’s hair.

Suddenly, pieces started falling into place: Crow had recognized the quad somersault because he’d been there the last time the Flying Graysons had performed it. He was tiny and malnourished because he was trans and clearly had homophobic parents who forced him in the closet. Was he on puberty blockers? That could explain why he looked so young.

And of course Bruce’s search hadn’t yielded anything. “Mia” Drake ticked none of the same boxes as Crow: two inches taller from platformed shoes, different skin tones and facial features from makeup, even completely different hair from the wig. The only things that matched on paper were the homeschooling and the upper class background, both of which were minor enough that “she” got filtered out anyway.

It was, Dick reflected, a perfect disguise. It was “Brucie” taken to its logical conclusion: the vigilante was the real person, and the civilian was merely a cover.

It was that thought that broke Dick a little. Crow — Tim — didn’t have a real life outside of them. His civilian life was nothing but a hollow facade, and now not even one with parents, no matter how horrible they undoubtedly were.

Now Tim Drake wasn’t just a person from the past that Dick saw himself in. Tim Drake was Crow, Dick’s little brother, and he had just lost both his parents in one fell swoop.

Right now, Tim didn’t need Nightwing to swoop him and save the day. He needed Dick to be there for him, even if he wouldn’t technically tell Dick what was going on in the first place. So, if Dick wanted to help his brother, he’d have to do it quietly, from the shadows. Rather like Crow himself, actually.

And that meant Dick couldn’t tell anyone what he found. Not Alfred, not Barbara, and certainly not Bruce. Not if they ever wanted Tim to trust them ever again.

Still, stalking a 13-year-old still made Dick feel creepy, even if that 13-year-old was his brother. Dick hopped down from his vantage point and went off to dig up some more information on Tim Drake.

A week after Dick’s revelation about Tim, he felt confident in his information on the boy. The file was physical only, of course, and in code, but it contained copies of all of Tim’s available records and documents, not that there were many.

Tim had been taken out of school five years ago due to his “cancer,” but of course there were no medical records anywhere indicating any sort of cancer whatsoever. Thus, Dick concluded that Tim had been pulled due to being trans and refusing to pass as a girl, or something along those lines. He’d been homeschooled ever since, emerging only to show up at galas and to take yearly standardized tests in person, where he passed with flying colors.

Beyond that and the standard birth certificate, Social Security card, and so on, Tim had little to no documents. No medical records, no disciplinary records, nothing. It was frankly concerning; legally, Tim hadn’t been to the doctor in years. The only thing that tempered Dick’s anger was that Leslie gave Crow a confidential check up just a few weeks ago.

Tim’s parents, on the other hand, were another story. Articles about their discoveries, plane tickets, generous donations to sketchy charities, the Drakes had it all. If Dick had done his math right, they’d only spent about five weeks a year in total in Gotham. The only reason they were still even legal New Jersey residents was that they paid off a corrupt tax collector to report that they were there more often. It was far from the worst thing the Gotham rich had ever done, but the Drakes were undoubtedly bluebloods through and through.

Together, the documents painted a story of a lonely boy stuck at home while his parents did their best to ignore him. It was no wonder that Tim had become Crow just to get out of the house, honestly.

The only bright side to all of it was that Tim’s new guardian, Eddie Drake, seemed much more legitimate. The man was young, barely older than Dick himself, but correspondence between Tim and Eddie implied that they were fairly close, and Eddie hadn’t approved of Tim’s parent’s hands off approach anyway. He still misgendered Tim, but Dick read that more as Tim simply not being out to him.

If Dick had found out about Tim before Tim’s parent’s deaths, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Bruce and bring Tim into the family, trust be damned. Now, however, when things seemed to be looking up for Tim, it seemed unfair to take that away.

(A non-trivial part of Dick wanted to do it anyway. He wanted to tell Tim that his gender identity didn’t matter to them, that he was already the little brother Dick had promised he’d be on that night at the circus. He wanted to decorate Tim’s drab room in the Manor and tell his friends about his cool little brother who was smart enough to hide from Batman. He wanted Tim to be family.

Ultimately, though, it wasn’t about what Dick wanted.)

So, as much as Dick wanted to tell Tim what he knew, he wouldn’t. They had time now, now that Tim’s parents weren’t a danger to him. Time that Dick would use to gain Tim’s trust, to teach him exactly how good of a big brother Dick could be.

Dick had failed once at being a brother, but he wouldn’t fail again.

Two Years Later
Every time Dick hung out with Garfield, he told himself he needed to hang out with him more. The little green shapeshifter only became more fun as the years passed, especially as his humor matured to incorporate things other than food jokes and pulling Raven’s metaphorical pigtails to get her attention. Mostly, anyway.

Sometimes, though, hanging out with Gar reminded Dick why he stopped being an active part of the Titans in the first place: teenage drama.

“So naturally, Superboy gets all mad that Aqualad is hitting on his girlfriend,” Garfield recounted as he made a sandwich, “which makes Wonder Girl mad because she doesn’t like it when Superboy gets jealous. Aqualad is, of course, not actually hitting on Wonder Girl, since I’m pretty sure he swims the other way, if you know what I mean, but he has no idea what’s going on or why Superboy is mad at him. Honestly, I was worried it was gonna end in blows before Spoiler does this beautiful takedown on Superboy, Bat-style, which—”

“Bat-style?” Dick interrupted, suddenly interested. “Why would Spoiler know Bat-style takedowns?”

“Well, technically I don’t know that it’s Bat-style,” Garfield admitted. “But it looked like it! And, you know, Gotham, non-meta vigilante? I just kinda assumed you had taught her?”

“I’d never even heard of her before this conversation,” Dick said, getting suspicious. “Who is she again?”

“She just joined the Titans from Young Justice with Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Impulse,” Garfield explained. “I think she’s technically mentored by the Birds of Prey or something. I just know she’s from Gotham because of the accent, you know? She got a really thick one, like the last Robin had.”

“Oh,” Dick said, his mind racing. Technically, a lot of the Birds of Prey operated in Gotham, but only one person had the means to hide a child vigilante in the city from Nightwing and (presumably) Batman. Why Barbara would do that, though, Dick couldn’t figure out.

“Oh, I mean, I didn’t mean to mention Robin,” Garfield winced, unaware of Dick’s reason for silence. “I just meant — I don’t meet a lot of Gotham people, and you don’t have a strong accent, so—”

“It’s fine, Gar,” Dick reassured him, putting on a comforting smile. “I was just surprised, since I hadn’t heard of another kid from Gotham in the business. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so,” Garfield said, unconvinced. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat, a clear sign that he’d move past it, for Dick’s sake. Dick appreciated it. “Anyway, so Spoiler takes down Superboy, but Aqualad doesn’t know why…”

“So, Babs, it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said as he made himself comfortable on the Clocktower sofa. “Anything new going on? Say, new proteges, for instance?”

Barbara didn’t react much, not physically, but her finger twitched just enough to miss a keystroke, forcing her to delete it and go back. The whole thing was rather smooth, but Dick knew she didn’t mistype. A second later, she sighed, clearly knowing that Dick would have noticed, and spun around in her chair to face him.

“I take it you learned about Spoiler from the Titans?” She asked, not sounding particularly repentant.

“So she is one of yours,” Dick clarified accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I get that B wouldn’t have reacted well, but you know I can keep a secret.”

“Do I know that?” Barbara asked cuttingly. “You’re good about keeping secrets in general, but you’re too obvious to keep them from Bruce.”

I don’t know, I’ve kept Crow’s identity a secret for two years, from both Batman and you, Dick thought. He swallowed the thought down.

“Why the secrecy then?” he asked instead.

“Honestly?” Barbara said, leaning back. “I was mainly just keeping her away from Bruce. Keeping from you was just a side effect, and one that wasn’t worth the effort of correcting. I do trust you, Dick.”

That warmed his heart a little, but it didn’t stop the apprehension from the rest of the situation.

“Why all the fuss to keep her from B then?” Dick asked. “For that matter, how did you even find her?”

“To answer your first question, it’s mainly that they’d hate each other,” Barbara snorted. “Bruce would get over his whole child vigilantes thing eventually, assuming he hasn’t already because of Crow, but Stephanie hates being bossed around, especially by old white men. I thought it best to just keep them separate. As for the second question, Crow brought her to me after he found her trying to stop her dad — Cluemaster — after he broke out of prison.”

“Crow, huh?” Dick asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah, they’re pretty close, from what I can tell,” she nodded. “He emotes more around her than anyone else, even when he brought her in a few years ago.”

“Huh,” Dick said, contemplating. He was glad Tim had found a friend, even if that friend was rather secret. It made sense, though. Tim liked to keep things close to his chest, especially if he was comfortable enough around Spoiler to give away details about his identity. “Well, still, I don’t appreciate the secrecy, for the record.”

“Noted,” Barbara said dryly. After a moment’s hesitation, she sighed. “Alright, in that vein, I have someone else to tell you about.”

“Seriously?” Dick scoffed, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you have two secret vigilante children under your wing.” Barbara said nothing. “Really?”

“To be fair, Cassandra is a special case,” Barbara sighed, sounding far older than she was. “I stumbled across her talking to Crow about nine months ago, and, to make a long story short, she’s been living with me ever since. She’s a teenager, but she’s had a… complicated childhood, to say the least. I can’t tell you everything without asking her for permission first, but the short of it is she’s close with Crow and knows he doesn’t trust Bruce with his identity, so she refuses to even meet him.”

“And she’s been living with you?” Dick asked. “That’s a big deal. Especially because it doesn’t sound like she has any parents or other caretakers to rely on.”

“She doesn’t,” she sighed, and Dick could hear the exhaustion in her voice. “To be honest, it’s been a lot. I mean, the Birds of Prey are fantastic, and they’ve been a huge help, but…”

“I get it,” Dick said, because he remembered looking after the Titans when he was just a teenager himself. “I’d love to meet her, if she’s willing. And even if she isn’t, you know I’m here for you. Say the word and I’ll help.”

“I know,” Barbara said, smiling wetly at him. “Thank you Dick. I’ll talk to her.”

“Of course,” Dick nodded. “I look forward to it.”

Dick’s palms were sweaty as he knocked on Barbara’s apartment door. He was three minutes early, which was unusual for him, but he knew that Barbara liked people to be on time. He’d brought some flowers and dessert for the kids, but he couldn’t help but be nervous about meeting Cassandra.

Barbara had told him about the girl’s history last week with her permission, and Dick couldn’t help but admire the girl, even before meeting her. To have lived through such terrible things, only to come out stronger… He was excited to meet her.

However, tonight would mean more than just meeting Cassandra: it would mean getting judged by her. According to both Barbara and Tim, she was a master at reading body language and intent, to the point where it was actually her first language. Whatever it was she read from Dick tonight, it could mean the difference between having his family be complete and having them push him away. If she judged him as harshly as she seemed to judge B…

Logically, there was no reason Dick should feel worried. He had only good intentions towards everyone here tonight, after all, especially Tim, who Cassandra apparently saw as a little brother. However, Dick knew that Bruce also only had good intentions and loved Tim, so if she declared him unfit as a parent, why would he be any better as a brother?

Still, he kept his composure as the door opened to reveal Tim, dressed in a large sweater and jeans. Dick was a little surprised to see him dressed like an actual teenager, given how often the boy seemed to only wear his Crow uniform, even off duty, but he was glad; it was nice to see Tim act his age for a change.

Tim let him in silently, even as Dick greeted him excitedly, but Dick didn’t let it get him down. Even when he was being more expressive, Tim was the quiet type.

“You must be Cassandra,” Dick said as they entered the kitchen, seeing the girl for the first time. She didn’t look much like Tim at all, but Dick would bet it didn’t matter when they were both in the Crow gear and wearing masks under the cover of night. For now, though, her classy yellow dress contrasted with Tim’s comfy-looking sweater. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

“Cass,” the girl corrected, though not unkindly. “Nice to meet you too. I hear much about you.”

“Same to you,” Dick said, opening his arms for a hug, though he wasn’t sure he’d get one. He wouldn’t take it personally if she didn’t want one.

However, she only hesitated for a second before coming in close, wrapping her arms around him and she melted into the embrace. She didn’t quite lean in as much as Tim, but it was a near thing. After several seconds, however, she pulled away, and Dick let her.

“You give good hugs,” she stated matter-of-factly, making Tim huff indignantly.

“Thank you, as do you,” Dick smiled. He winked at Tim, who seemed mildly disgusted at such open communication. “Enough pleasantries though. Let’s go help Barbara set up, shall we?”

The good news was that Cass ended up approving of Dick, much to his relief. She didn’t say so explicitly, but when Barbara had asked if they wanted to do dinner again sometime, the girl had nodded enthusiastically. Though it was never really in question, Dick liked Cass too; she was smart and kind and incredibly funny, if you knew where to look for her humor. If Barbara weren’t so territorial, he’d offer to take her under his wing.

The bad news was that Cass had no intention of meeting Bruce. After carefully questioning at the next dinner, Dick had learned that the girl didn’t actually judge Bruce based on his own intentions and body language, but rather at Tim’s stress every time the man looked into his identity. For Dick, who knew that Bruce was just doing his best to care in the most misguided way possible, it was frustrating. If Cass just observed Bruce for a bit, Dick had no doubt that she would agree to meet the man, if only to tell him not to be such an idiot about Tim.

Regardless, Dick was happy to be in on the secrets, especially now that both Cass and Stephanie (who he had met at their second dinner) liked him. There was also the beneficial side effect of Tim trusting Dick more, though not enough for him to tell Dick about his identity. For now, though, Dick wasn’t worried: Tim would come to him when he was ready, and Dick could keep an eye out for any civilian threats on the down low anyway.

Still, no matter how content Dick was with his new little family, nothing could prepare him for the Red Hood.

At first, the Red Hood was a concerning crime lord with an even more concerning name, but ultimately Dick wasn’t too invested. While he still helped out in Gotham, Dick tried to keep most of his hometown exploits to immediate threats like the Rogues rather than organized crime, since that was Crow and Oracle’s wheelhouse. And, no matter how threatening the Red Hood was, he was still an organized crime lord rather than a Rogue, which didn’t make him one of Dick’s problems.

That changed when Dick got a phone call from Alfred one warm Thursday night.

“Master Dick?” Alfred greeted when Dick picked up the phone. Dick immediately knew something was wrong: Alfred was crying. The last time Dick heard Alfred cry had been when Jason died, and never once before that.

“Alfred?” Dick asked, worried. “What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

“No, my dear boy,” the butler said, but the sniffle at the end did nothing to soothe Dick’s fears. “Master Crow has brought home some rather… difficult news. Good news, if he is correct, but…”

Dick had never heard Alfred so discomposed. The man had always been a stickler for proper grammar and finishing one’s sentences, so to hear him unable to do so was disconcerting, to say the least.

“What did Crow say?” Dick asked, feeling more frantic. “Is everything alright?”

“Master Crow believes that Master Jason is alive,” Alfred practically whispered, like he couldn’t even believe it himself. Dick was sure he’d heard wrong.

“He thinks what?” Dick repeated incredulously. “Is Crow okay? Did something happen? Why would he even suggest that?”

“Apparently, Master Crow has spent the last several weeks verifying this information, and even Master Bruce believes him,” the butler said, almost speaking to himself. “Honestly, looking at it from a logical standpoint, I could see how it could be possible, with a few leaps, albeit rather large ones. Though, as a man who has loved and lost…”

“Alfred, why does Crow think Jason is alive?” Dick asked again, more firmly this time.

“Right,” Alfred said, clearing his throat slightly. “Master Crow has discovered that the Red Hood definitively believes himself to be Master Jason, and appears to have his memories and appearance. You would have to get the full explanation from Master Crow or Master Bruce, of course, but I believe the League of Assassins and that horrid al Ghul woman was involved. Master Jason — if it is him — now harbors under the delusion that Master Bruce did not love him, since he did not kill the Joker in revenge. Beyond that, I admit that I do not believe I followed much.”

“Holy shit,” Dick breathed, and it was a testament to how unmoored Alfred was that the butler did not correct him. “And Crow truly believes this?”

“More than he’s been sure of anything else, or so he says,” Alfred said dutifully.

“Holy shit,” Dick repeated. “Jason’s alive?” Suddenly, it became more than Dick could handle. “I’m driving down to Gotham tonight. I need to be there.”

“Understood, Master Dick,” Alfred said, his voice gaining some composure. For once, he didn’t try to tell Dick to go in the morning, when he’d have more sleep. “I will prepare your room for you.”

Privately, Dick knew that Alfred didn’t really need to prepare his room; the butler kept it maintained at all times in case Dick showed up, as he sometimes did on a whim. Still, Dick figured his grandfather needed the routine more than anything right now.

“Thanks, Alfie,” Dick said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Safe travels, Master Dick.”

The call disconnected with a beep, leaving Dick staring blankly at his phone.

Jason? Alive?

Dick shook his head. If he tried to grasp it now, he’d just sit here for days. He needed to pack his essentials and go. The drive would help him make sense of this mess.

And maybe, just maybe, there really was a miracle.

Technically, what Dick was doing was not part of the approved plan. And, in the vast majority of cases, Dick would not even care about breaking Batman’s ‘approved plans,’ but this time was different. After all, this wasn’t Batman’s plan, it was Crow’s. And Nightwing really should not have been breaking away from it.

However, here he was, sitting on a rooftop in Crime Alley with binoculars, spying on his little brothers. Both of them. Because that was Jason Todd-Wayne, alive and well and older than the last time Dick had seen him.

Dick was very, very close to breaking down on the rooftop with no regard for who might spot him or come by. It wasn’t just stupid, it was dangerous; criminals knew where to look for Bats, after all, and any thug in Crime Alley spotting Nightwing crying on a roof wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. And that wasn’t even accounting for if Jason spotted him and threw their whole plan in the garbage.

So, logically, Dick shouldn’t cry here. He should go back to the Manor and cry in his room like he always did. Logically, he shouldn’t even be sure that that was Jason. Even if Crow and Batman were confident that it was, someone had to be the skeptic, and there were plenty of other explanations.

But that was his Little Wing, and logic was no longer in the building.

“Not here.”

Dick whirled around at Cass’ soft words. She was dressed in her Crow outfit, the one that made her almost identical to Tim in the shadows, but she’d taken off the mask for now. Her gaze was sympathetic.

“Go home,” she continued. “Not here.”

Dick couldn’t help the shiver at being read so easily. Anyone skilled enough would’ve been able to tell that he was going to cry, but only Cass would’ve read the exact predicament of ‘where’ in his body language. It was a little unsettling.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he whispered. “Thanks.”

“I watch,” she said reassuringly, pointing to Tim and Jason through the far-off window. “They are safe. Need acceptance.”

It took a moment for Dick to understand what she meant by the last sentence, but when he did, he nodded tiredly.

“I’ll talk to Barbara soon,” he assured her. “She always puts my doubts to bed.”

“Good,” Cass nodded. “Go home.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Dick said, pushing himself towards the edge of the roof in the direction of his bike below. “Thanks again. Really.”

“I know,” she smiled, then turned back to the window.

As Dick climbed down the fire escape to his bike, he couldn’t help but feel like everything was going right, for once. If Jason really was alive, then Dick had his whole family there for the first time. All of them: Bruce, Jason, Tim, Barbara, Cass, and even Stephanie.

(Not quite his whole family, though. There were two acrobats missing, still, but Dick had learned not to expect the impossible, even if the impossible already happened once.)

Maybe, for the first time in his life, things weren’t doomed to end in tragedy.

Nightwing hated himself for being so optimistic. The Joker was safely in custody and no one in his family had died or even been severely injured, but Dick couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get bad fast for the second time that night. While Dick was dealing with cleaning up for the cops, something important was happening on a nearby rooftop. Whether it was a loving reunion or a shootout remained to be seen.

Eventually, though, Dick was relieved of his post as Detective Montoya — one of the three actually competent and trustworthy cops in Gotham — showed up. She gave him a nod in acknowledgement and he left without hesitation.

By the time he got to the rooftop, things were already tense: Cass was standing protectively in front of Tim while every line in Jason’s body screamed aggression towards Bruce, who for his part just looked confused and tired. However, it was what Tim said next that fucked everything up.

“Exactly that,” Tim said. “My life doesn’t matter. As long as none of you know who I am, you can’t get close to me and you won’t be compromised by my death.”

Everyone visibly froze. Dick was a vigilante. He was used to dealing with hard information instantly, to processing it without regard for his emotions. But that? That wasn’t making sense.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t need to know your name to care about you, Crow,” Bruce begged. Dick noticed that he didn’t sound surprised. “You’re still my son, even if I can’t do anything about it legally.”

“That’s why you’ve been so adamant about finding it out for years?” Dick finally said, his brain just barely catching up. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“That logic’s bullshit,” Barbara’s unfiltered voice spoke through a nearby drone. “Crow, you made me promise years ago that I wouldn’t look into you. You can’t fault us for not knowing who you are if you prohibit us from learning. That’s circular logic.”

“I’m not faulting you for it,” Tim said, but something about his expression was off. “It’s just true. As long as I’m unknown to you, my death would matter less.”

“Barbie’s right, that’s bullshit,” Jason growled aggressively.

And suddenly, Dick knew exactly what to say. If the problem was that Tim didn’t think anyone knew who he was, well, he was wrong.

“More than that, it’s moot anyway,” Dick interjected, a perfect calm overtaking him. “If I’d known that’s how you felt I would’ve said something years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Tim asked, but Dick barely heard him.

“I know exactly who you are,” Dick continued. “You’re Timothy Drake.”

Tim froze, his expression terrified like Dick had never seen. Admittedly, Dick had taken a guess on “Timothy,” since he’d only ever known Tim as “Tim,” but it was a relatively safe bet, and Dick wasn’t about to out the kid as trans in front of their family.

“How the fuck do you know that?” Tim asked, clearly trying to make his voice icey, but instead only managed fearful.

“We met at my last night at the circus, do you remember?” Dick prompted. “I said I wanted you to be my little brother. Admittedly, I didn’t make the connection for a while, but I figured it out eventually.”

“How long have you known?” The question was from Bruce this time, with Tim being too deep in his existential crisis to ask himself.

“About two and a half years, give or take,” Dick answered, his eyes not leaving Tim. “Though if I’d known that Tim was being passively suicidal about it, I would’ve told you sooner.”

“How dare you?” Tim hissed, cutting off whatever response Bruce may have had. “How dare you give up my identity?”

“I didn’t want to,” Dick argued, letting his voice harden in anger. “I was content to let you come to us on your own terms, to let you trust us. But that? Saying that no one would care if you died because you actively hid from us? I can’t let that stand. You’re my little brother, and I don’t give a fuck who you are or how useful you are to the mission. You’re my family.”

For the first time since Dick stepped on the rooftop, he let himself meet Jason’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Both of you are.”

“Don’t project your feelings about Jason onto me,” Tim growled, pulling Dick’s attention back to him.

“I’m not,” Dick promised. “You’re my brother all on your own, Timmy. No projection needed.”

“I agree,” Jason chimed in, his voice suspiciously coarse. He cleared his throat. “You’re one of us, little bird. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“No,” Tim said, looking up at them. Dick’s heart dropped as he met Tim’s cold, ruthless eyes. “If you’re going to be obtuse about this, I’ll remove myself from the situation.”

“Wait—” Dick pleaded, his eyes widening as he realized what Tim meant.

Thankfully, Bruce and Jason also realized at the same time. From their closer positions, they dived at Tim, reaching out to stop him. For a moment, Dick was worried that Cass would intervene, but she just sidestepped instead, melting back into the shadows. Before Dick could think about that, however, Tim flicked his wrist.

From Tim’s palm a retractable bo staff extended to its full length, catching both Bruce and Jason off guard. Dick ran to intercept, but he already knew he’d be too late.

For three seconds, Tim fended off two of the greatest fighters in the world with his staff, effortlessly driving one electrified end into Jason’s stomach and hitting Bruce over the head with the other a second later. Then, without hesitation, Tim dropped a smoke bomb and stepped away, disappearing into the night.

“What the fuck,” Jason gasped, clutching his stomach. “Since when can baby bird fight? I thought he wasn’t combat approved.”

“He’s been training with Black Canary and Huntress for years,” Barbara’s voice came through their comms. When Dick looked over, he saw her drone had gotten hit with a batarang, though Dick couldn’t think of when that would have happened. “Regardless, he’s gotten away. He’s already disposed of his trackers, and Cass has too. Personally, I’m flying blind.”

“We’ll find them,” Dick promised, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“No, we won’t,” Bruce disagreed, surprising everyone. He looked weary, exhausted in a way Dick hadn’t seen him since Tim joined their lives. “Crow — both of them, presumably — is a master of stealth, far beyond that of anyone else in the world. If he wants to disappear, we can’t find him.”

“Bruce is right,” Barbara agreed. “The only one who can find Crow — Tim — is Cass. If she decides to leave with him, we’ll never see them again unless they want us to.”

“So it’s up to Cass, then,” Dick sighed. He sat on the edge of the roof and stared up at the smoggy Gotham sky. The horrible dread and fear in his chest collapsed into quiet, terrified resignation. There was nothing he could do but wait. “Come on, Tim. Come home to us.”

Chapter Text

“Children should be seen and not heard.”

The phrase was practically the Drake family mantra, given how often Tim heard it growing up. In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was the motto for all of Gotham’s upper class (except Bruce Wayne), with how frequently it was used at galas. That said, no one took it as seriously as Jack and Janet Drake.

“Don’t act like a child,” Janet would hiss when Tim would ask her to take him home five hours into a party. “I was never this annoying when I was your age.”

“Listen to your mother, princess,” Jack would wave away when Tim asked him instead. Then, to his friend, “Honestly, some days I’m not even sure why I wanted kids.”

“I know the feeling,” the other man would laugh, Tim’s existence already forgotten.

Tim would fade away as the other men laughed, sipping their champagne.

Being at home wasn’t much better.

“Honestly, Timea, can’t you entertain yourself for one night?” Janet would snap, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need to do these reports before our flight tomorrow and your babbling is making it hard to think. I don’t care what you do, just go away.”

“Why don’t you go play with your toys?” Jack would suggest absentmindedly. Tim would point out that he didn’t have any toys he liked. “Oh, sorry we don’t cater to your every whim! I didn’t realize her highness doesn’t appreciate what she has! When I was your age, we played outside by ourselves and we liked it, none of this ‘gentle parenting’ bullshit. No, of course you can’t go out, you’ll ruin your clothes. Honestly, the nerve.”

So Tim would fade away at home as well. He learned to slip into the background at a moment’s notice, never making so much as a peep even in the silent Drake Manor. He learned to smile politely and not say a word, even if he was tired and angry and wanted to go home. He learned to be a pleasant accessory for Jack and Janet to show off when they were home and to be put away after he’d played his role. He learned to be seen and not heard.

Things got worse after the circus.

The nightmares were awful, and Tim would wake up screaming with the image of a couple falling to their deaths burned into his eyelids. This did nothing to endear him to his parents, who weren’t shy about expressing their opinion that he was a “little too old for these outbursts,” never mind the fact that he was only four.

Somehow, that wasn’t even the worst effect of that night. No, the worst consequence of that night was tied directly to his favorite part: realizing he was a boy. Dick Grayson had opened a can of worms when he’d called Tim his little brother (and God, wasn’t that a fantasy all on its own), one that the Drakes would spend the next ten years trying desperately to close. No matter their feelings on it though, Tim left the circus that night with the ironclad resolution that he was a boy, not a girl.

Neither Jack nor Janet took the news well.

“I suppose that calling you ‘Tim’ was far too confusing for a child like you,” Janet said, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “This is what I get for trying to give you a masculine nickname. It would’ve helped you in business, but this isn’t worth the hassle. Why don’t we start calling you Mia instead? That’s a much more ladylike name.”

“But I like being Tim,” Tim protested. “And I'm a boy! I’m not just confused over a name.”

“You’re a child, Timea, you don’t know what you like,” Janet snapped. “I won’t tolerate you being one of those people. It’s best to nip this in the bud, before you get influenced further. We’ll have to investigate your teachers too. Ugh, this is such a pain. Go to your room, you’ve done enough tonight.”

“This again, Mia?” Jack sighed. “Yes, your mother told me about your little delusions. I’ll tell you young lady, we aren’t listening to any of your tr— Don’t interrupt me! Jesus Christ Mia, you are far more trouble than you’re worth. ‘Have a kid with me,’ your mother said, but look where that got us! I never even wanted all this drama in the first place.”

The final straw was when Tim was seven and took a pair of pristine kitchen scissors and cut his hair, leaving it short and uneven. It felt like a weight off his head, both literally and figuratively. His parents, however, did not feel the same.

“This is quite enough, Mia,” his mother scolded, her expression thunderous. “I understand you want attention, but you are far too old for theatrics. A real son would never be this dramatic. If you embarrass us one more time in public, well, Joker is always looking for new hostages, isn’t he? I bet our stock will even go up.”

That threat kept quiet, for a while, until he calculated exactly how much stock price would drop based on similar tragedies from other upper class Gotham families. Sure, stock prices would rise for about a week, but they tanked after that. Once a Joker victim, always a Joker victim. Once again, Janet was not impressed with his findings.

“What exactly do you want, Mia?” the woman asked after his presentation. “You can’t possibly expect us to go out and say you’re a boy now. It will be far too controversial and we can’t afford that kind of scandal. Do you want to end up homeless?”

“I want to be a boy at home,” Tim offered, having prepared for this exact question. “I can pretend to be ‘Mia’ at parties, but I want to be homeschooled and live at home as Tim. Everyone will still think you have a daughter, but I get to be a boy. Everyone wins. I’ll even wear a blond wig.”

“What, and everyone will just believe you’re blonde suddenly?” Janet scoffed, but Tim could see her interest had been piqued. He had to stop himself from bouncing excitedly; if he got Janet on board, Jack wouldn’t care either way.

“Everyone will know it’s a wig, obviously, but we can just say I’m wearing it to emulate you,” Tim countered, knowing Janet liked having her ego stroked as much as Jack.

“I do like that idea,” she hummed. “Perhaps we can even imply that you have some sort of illness, garner sympathy there. That would be a good excuse to pull you out of school, if you insist on doing that, though of course you’ll have to be in charge of your own schooling. Anything less than perfect on any standardized tests or at galas and the deal is off.”

“Of course,” Tim agreed, feeling a burst of excitement despite the conditions. “I promise, it’ll work out well for all of us.” At least, it would work out until he was 18 or emancipated, and then he could live how he wanted all the time, but one step at a time.

“Very well, Mia, we have a deal,” Janet smirked, shaking his hand. Tim repressed a wince at the name, but accepted the handshake nonetheless. It was a step forward, and who knew? Maybe they’d discover they liked having a son more anyway. Jack did always complain about having a daughter.

The Drakes did not like having a son. Or, at least, they didn’t like having Tim as a son.

They kept their end of the bargain at least, pulling Tim out of school and allowing him to keep his short hair and wear what he wanted at home. They didn’t really call him Tim anymore, but that was mostly because they simply didn’t address him at all in private, even when he tried to talk to them. Still, that was technically within the scope of their agreement, so Tim didn’t press.

In return, Tim acted as the perfect daughter as “Mia Drake,” who quickly became beloved in the richer Gotham circles as a ray of sunshine and positivity despite her long (and private) battle with cancer. He smiled and giggled and gave worshiping looks to people who talked about how much money they gave to cancer research.

He hated every minute of it. Acting like a girl was bad enough, but faking cancer so his parents would look good? Smiling and laughing like these people wouldn’t turn on him in an instant if they knew he was a boy? Every moment chipped at his soul.

As the years passed and the only times he ever talked to people was as “Mia,” he began to feel increasingly… hollow. Like if every interaction and expression he made was fake, so too were the emotions behind them. The disgust chilled into cold annoyance, while any joy or sorrow or anger just faded all together. He didn’t feel much of anything at all.

His parents came to the worst possible conclusion.

“Why can’t you just be normal?” Janet scowled one night at dinner. It was their first time home in seven months. “You act so polite at parties, why can’t you just do that when we’re at home? Honestly, Mia, this whole ‘boy’ thing is clearly making you miserable.”

“My name isn’t Mia,” Tim said neutrally. He didn’t expect the slap that came after, but he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised at it either.

“Don’t speak back to me,” Janet snarled. “In fact, I’m sick of this whole routine. I don’t want to see any more of this ‘boy’ nonsense. If you have nothing good to show us, don’t bother us at all.”

From then on, the Drakes kept their word: every time Tim so much as showed his face when they were home, he’d get hit — at best — but if he wasn’t ready for a party in a nice dress and a smile, he’d get even worse. Essentially, Tim had to know exactly when and where everything was, but he had to do it without being seen. He was sure Janet had meant for it to break his spirit so that he’d ‘go back to being a girl,’ but this little bit of himself was all he had left.

Instead, Tim got very good at sneaking around a silent house. He learned to be unheard and unseen. The consequences of being anything else were painful, and thus excellent motivation to learn quickly.

Unfortunately, having literally no real human contact did nothing to help the ever-growing void tearing through him. After six months of this stealth at age eight, he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all.

Until, one day, he decided to sneak out.

It had been a whim, a flash of a thought that would help with the eternal boredom. At nine years old, he’d already completed the homeschool curriculum through the seventh grade, and to be honest nothing else could hold his attention. After watching the news one night, he’d seen the grainy picture they used when talking about Batman, and simply thought, “I can do better than that.”

So, with a camera in hand and his darkest clothes on, Tim walked into the city. Compared to the pristine white walls of his house, the grimy shadows of Gotham were easy to fade into. It was different, of course, as the danger presented of being caught here was even greater than that at home, but Tim had always been a fast learner, and not a single person took note of the tiny child weaving his way towards Crime Alley.

Tim didn’t see Batman or Robin that night, but it hardly even mattered. It was something to do.

In fact, it took Tim three weeks to get his first glimpse of the dynamic duo, and then another two to even get his first photograph. He was disappointed that it was exactly as blurry and low quality as those used on the news, but Tim would rather chase after disappointment than sit in a cold, barren house. At least disappointment was an emotion.

As the months passed, however, Tim got better at the photos. Before he knew it, he was capturing genuinely clear shots of Robin, even if his photos of Batman were still works in progress. He started to intuit their patrol routes as he followed them, getting a clear sense of what areas they avoided and which they stuck to religiously, as well as everything in between.

Then, one day, Tim watched as Robin did an aerial somersault. One flip. Two. Three. And four. A quadruple somersault.

Big brother, some childish, idiotic part of Tim’s brain immediately responded. Tim quashed that, annoyed at the naivete of his own mind, but the thought wasn’t wrong: Dick Grayson, the boy who had unknowingly taught Tim how to be a boy, was the only person in America who could perform such a trick. And Robin had just done it. So Dick Grayson was Robin.

So, if Dick Grayson was Robin, Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Needless to say, Tim was even more adamant about taking photos now. A new passion rose in him, the first he’d felt in years: Batman and Robin. He watched them ardently at home during the day, then followed them out at night to help their cases. He took pictures of them, beautiful, marvelous pictures that could put a professional to shame, and then he took pictures of the crimes they found to send to the GCPD while he was at it.

(He learned never to trust cops, even the supposedly ‘good’ ones. If it didn’t reach Commissioner Gordon’s desk, there was only a 23% chance anything would be done. If it reached Gordon, that skyrocketed to 76%, but even he got tied down in politics and innocent people would still get hurt.)

(If it reached Barbara Gordon, through her father or otherwise, there was a 100% chance something would be done, even if that something was Batgirl kicking a man in the face. Another puzzle piece fell into place.)

Two months after Tim’s little realization, his parents returned home for a gala at Wayne Manor. For the first time in his life, Tim was actively looking forward to it; even if he couldn’t exactly talk about vigilantism with the Waynes, he could see them and maybe even interact with them. Maybe, if he was really lucky, he could even hug Dick again.

(Maybe, if he cracked his perfect façade even a little bit, the World’s Greatest Detective would see and investigate. Maybe he could leave his cold, empty house and live with the Waynes and become a crime fighter like them to prove he was useful and they would keep him. Maybe he could have a family and be a boy and never have to hide in the shadows of his own home.)

Tim excitedly went to his room to change. His parents had left out a dress for him, which wasn’t unusual, as they always dictated what he wore at these stupid parties, and he quickly shrugged it on. He applied his makeup as usual, carving his face into one of soft cheeks and feminine features. This was all standard, but Tim had a moment of weakness and did what he always tried to avoid.

He looked in the mirror.

The little girl standing in front of him was not Tim. She was delicate and obedient and sickly but eternally optimistic and she was not Tim. She was everything Tim hated about his life, everything he hated about Gotham’s stupid elites and their craving for pity and its monetary value, all wrapped up in a dress that looked like it belonged on a doll.

Because the girl in front of Tim was exactly that: a doll. Something to be dressed up and played with in the company of friends before being tossed aside for however many months it was before the next little playdate. It was not something with feelings or dreams or a will of its own, but instead an empty shell used only for entertainment.

And, for the first time in his life, Tim felt true hate. At himself for becoming this, for his parents for creating it, but mostly at the girl in the mirror for being it. It disgusted him, what this girl would and wouldn’t do for scraps of affection from people who would never give it.

The Waynes can never meet her, Tim decided right then. This girl is toxic and disgusting and vile, and if Batman and Robin ever lay eyes on her I will never forgive myself. Even if that means I can never meet any of them, that I can never escape this hell, I will not let Mia Drake ruin them.

Tim didn’t approach the Waynes at that party, or the one after that, or the one after that. Instead he watched from afar at night, whether it be in the sparkling lights of a ballroom or the lens of a camera on darkened rooftops. He watched as Dick renounced Batman and Robin and fled to Bludhaven. He watched as a new Robin, Jason Todd, became Batman’s son. He watched as Robin showed compassion to the unlucky and the downtrodden, as he reigned fury from above on abusers, as he fought for a better world.

If Tim were being honest with himself, he could admit that Jason inspired him more than Dick. Dick was the pinnacle, the perfect boy who Tim aspired to be, but Jason was everything Tim wanted. Jason had been in an even worse position than him, but through the kindness of a stranger had risen above his troubles and made the change he wanted to see in the world. Jason was Robin, and Robin was magic.

Unfortunately, time kept ticking as Tim watched the Bats from afar, and before Tim knew it he had turned eleven. This on its own was not particularly remarkable; no one celebrated the occasion, not even Tim, and his parents didn’t even bother to call, not that they ever did. There was no magical destiny calling to him, no latent powers awakened. Instead, the only thing eleven represented was the possibility of puberty.

Tim did not want to go through puberty. If Mia Drake disgusted him now, it would be nothing compared to facing her every day, which would be the inevitable result of Tim’s biological development. Just the thought of growing into a ‘strong young woman’ was enough to make Tim nauseous. So, naturally, Tim decided he wouldn’t go through it at all.

Puberty blockers had been around for decades and were harmless. They weren’t recommended until after puberty had started, but given that Tim figured he was close enough to that age that it didn’t matter. Of course, there was no way his parents would approve, especially not for him to get puberty blockers from a licensed doctor. Thus, he would have to procure them from more illegal sources.

Luckily, Tim had basically been tapped into the drug scene in Gotham for two years now. Following Batman and Robin silently meant he heard a lot from both their targets and others on the streets, to the point where he might actually know more than the vigilantes themselves. Thus, he could make an informed choice about which dealers to go to. In the end, he decided on a reputable, if somewhat sketchy, man by the title of “Exiter,” though his real name was Oliver Renard. He had earned the title by always “exiting” situations before he got caught, which was exactly what Tim needed.

“You want… hormone blockers?” the man asked when Tim approached him. “I mean, I might be able to get them. Can’t you like, go to the doctor for those?”

“If you don’t ask questions, I’ll pay you an extra $500 for the first time,” Tim said in response.

The man didn’t ask any questions.

So time continued to pass, but Tim stayed the same height and his baby fat never quite melted off. Still, it was better than fat growing on his chest or menstruation. Jason continued to grow and thrive as Robin, even as Tim felt himself grow more adrift, tethered to nothing but his parasocial relationship with the Waynes.

And then Robin died.

Tim watched the news break that Jason Todd had been killed by terrorists in Ethiopia. He watched the funeral, held quickly, before Dick could even return to Gotham. He watched as the nights turned darker and Gotham’s hope dim as Robin stayed away, with no one knowing that the boy was dead yet. He watched as Bruce fell apart.

He watched as Batman grew violent.

Tim expected to watch Dick to jump in, but he watched as his motorcycle drove past Drake Manor, the driver visibly angry. He expected to watch Barbara Gordon to calm the man down, but she was grieving her own life as well as Jason’s. He expected to watch Alfred take his son under his arm and end the violence peacefully, but nothing happened.

(And Tim couldn’t watch himself, he couldn’t bear the sight, but he felt whatever feelings he had clung to over the years drift away too. He felt himself become the empty shell his parents had always known him to be.)

So, for the first time in his life, Tim moved to action. Barbara Gordon was kind and approachable, but her efforts failed. Dick and Alfred were out of reach for different reasons, but both were inaccessible to him. If Dick recognized him as Mia, Tim wouldn’t be able to live with himself, and Tim simply had no way to contact Alfred without knocking on their front door, which was inconceivable.

In the end, Tim had to rely on the only person he could: himself. There was no one else around as Batman beat a lone thief into unconsciousness, too absorbed in his own grief to even care. So Tim stepped forward, adopted the expression of a lonely child, and gasped.

Bruce was not quite what Tim expected as a mentor. In some ways, his behavior was predictable: he was exacting, precise, and demanded excellence in every facet of training. It wasn’t too unlike his parents, in their own unintentional training, though as expected the consequences for Tim’s failures were far less violent now.

What Tim hadn’t expected was the gentleness. Even in his wildest dreams, he’d never anticipated that Bruce would show such open affection, especially not after how often Tim overheard both Dick and Jason complain about how bad Bruce was at it during their tenures as Robin. And yet, somehow, Tim had never felt more cared for in his life. Bruce was attentive and considerate, pushing against but never ignoring Tim’s boundaries, no matter how inconvenient or unreasonable they were. He remembered Tim’s favorite (packaged) foods and his favorite place to sit in the Manor, even though they weren’t useful to the mission.

On one hand, it was thrilling. It was even better than what he’d imagined as a child, with Bruce and Dick and even Alfred showering him with smiles and kind words, even when Tim messed up. It made Tim want to give in to Bruce’s attempts to rehome him, if only for the slight possibility that his new home ended up being Wayne Manor. Those affections were almost worth the risk, even if he knew it was a pipe dream.

On the other hand, Tim knew it wasn’t real. The Waynes had just lost their own child, Jason, and now they needed an outlet for those emotions. Just as Batman had channeled his rage and anger at petty criminals, Bruce was now channeling his love for Jason towards Tim. It could have been any child who they focused on, but it was Tim’s own greedy desire to push into their lives that led them to direct their attention to him. Other children undoubtedly deserved the shelter and care of the Waynes more, but Tim was, in the end, selfish.

Still, it was hard to remember it was fake, when Dick squeezed his shoulder, or when Alfred offered him a knowing smile when Bruce did something ridiculous, or when Bruce ruffled his hair tiredly after patrol. Tim desperately wanted to get closer to them, physically and otherwise, but it was too dangerous for everyone involved.

It was through distance, after all, that Tim — that Crow — stayed useful. As long as none of the other vigilantes cared for him, his death would not debilitate them. His death wouldn’t affect anyone: his parents would either mark it as an unfortunate accident or, if they were clever, say that he had succumbed to cancer, and the world would keep on turning for everyone involved.

That was even why Tim had chosen the name “Crow.” He had come up with it quickly, when Batman asked for something to call him, but it fit his role well: shadowed, intelligent, and a scavenger. What else but a crow would prey on the leftover scraps of affection from a grieving family?

That’s why things got complicated after Bruce started searching for his identity intensely.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night again, Crow?” Bruce asked, his blue eyes boring into Tim’s soul. It was a relatively common question for Bruce, now that Tim had started staying at the Manor occasionally, but the intensity was new. Tim had a bad feeling that it had to do with Bruce’s new obsession with his identity, which had come from seemingly nowhere.

Suddenly, Tim realized one way Bruce might be looking for his identity: matching the days where Tim was in Wayne Manor to days where other children were away from their homes to narrow down or confirm a suspect pool. It seemed like an impossible task for anyone else, but this was Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective. Tim couldn’t rule anything out. That meant, as much as he liked staying at Wayne Manor, he would have to be at Drake Manor more often than just when his parents were home.

“No thank you, sir,” Tim told him, shrugging off his gaze. “I’ll be heading out after dinner.”

Bruce frowned, but as always, let him go. Tim wondered what it would be like for the man to insist he stayed, for Bruce to really want him to stay. Tim pushed it away before those thoughts inspired him to do something stupid, like tell Bruce his name and ask to stay forever.

Despite living next door, it took Tim an hour to get home, as he had to trek through the Narrows to throw Bruce off his scent before doubling back. By the time he opened the back door to Drake Manor, he was mentally and physically exhausted. The journey seemed longer every night he spent at the Wayne’s, especially as Alfred and Bruce started going out of their way to make him feel more welcome. He could pretend that the gestures did nothing for him, but he was lying to himself and the others that it didn’t warm his dead heart.

Tim collapsed into his twin-sized bed, uncaring of how badly he needed a shower or how messy the house still was. Anything else could wait until after he slept. He peeled himself out of his Crow uniform before pulling the sheet over himself, but he couldn’t make himself fall asleep. The deep loneliness in his chest wouldn’t let him rest.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He hated crying, but ever since Bruce had promised not to take advantage of his proximity, spending the night at Drake Manor had become more and more unbearable. Tim couldn’t help the tiny sobs that wracked his body, though he tried desperately to muffle them so that they wouldn’t echo through the cold, pitiless house.

It didn’t matter anyway. No one was around to hear him.

Bruce’s hand shook as he carefully looked Tim over for injuries. It was subtle; one didn’t become Batman without learning to hide their emotions, but Tim still felt the tremor anyway. Not that Tim was judging. His whole body was still shaking from his first real encounter with the Joker.

When Tim had stalked the Bats in the past, he had never been especially cautious, but he’d always taken care to keep his distance when the Joker was involved. The madman was prone to spraying bullets randomly, and Tim had no interest in being murdered by the Joker, at least not for anything so meaningless.

Tonight, though, he had been up close and personal with him for the first time, even if Joker hadn’t been aware of him at all. The man’s bleached skin and deranged eyes were even more unsettling in person than they were at a distance. And that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that this was the first time Joker had been out of Arkham since he’d killed Jason.

And God, had the clown been sure to remind them of it. The “jokes” were insufferable, and each one felt like a physical blow to Tim’s chest. He couldn’t even imagine how Bruce was feeling.

Speaking of Bruce, the man nodded, silently declaring Tim as free of any injuries. Tim already knew that, of course, but tonight he was willing to indulge his mentor’s paranoia, given how poorly the night had gone. Hell, Dick was possibly even more shaken, having gone upstairs as soon as Bruce had allowed, never saying a word.

“You should rest,” Bruce told him, his voice exhausted. “Everything will feel better in the morning.”

It sounded like a reassurance to himself as much as it was for Tim. It would have been unsettling to see for Tim, if he hadn’t seen Bruce like this every night after Jason died. At least now he was putting his anger aside instead of taking it out on others. He supposed that anger was only the second stage of grief, while depression was the fourth.

“You should rest too,” Tim said in return. “Joker’s locked up. There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

Bruce looked at him with something akin to pity, though for once Tim didn’t bristle. He had a feeling this form of pity was much, much worse than the normal variety.

“Joker never stays locked up for long,” Bruce said, resigned. “There’s always more work to be done. Go to sleep, Crow. Please.”

Tim went upstairs.

As he was brushing his teeth, however, he considered those statements. Joker never stays locked up for long. It was practically a truth of Gotham in its own right, with every citizen staying stocked up on the latest Joker Venom antidote (for whatever good it would do them) and on the lookout for purple and green. Wayne Insurance even provided Joker Attack Care in their most affordable packages, with it being the bare minimum needed in any part of the city.

Only, Tim wasn’t a normal citizen even more. He was Crow, a bird that was starting to be feared in every corner of the underworld, his name whispered by thugs and mob bosses alike. He had skills and resources beyond those of any other person in Gotham besides Batman himself. Even locked up in Arkham Asylum, the Joker wasn’t out of his reach.

The thought came to him unbidden: If Tim could debilitate a rapist or an abuser with a scalpel, why couldn’t he do the same for the Joker? After all, he had seen the man just earlier tonight, and what he had seen was deranged and evil, but he was still human. He was still mortal, and that made him susceptible.

There’s always more work to be done. Those had been Bruce’s other words, and Tim couldn’t help but relate to them.

Batman would never be onboard with debilitating Joker in his cell, no matter how tempting it would be for the man. For all his talk of only having “One Rule,” Bruce had a strong moral code, one that was usually admirable and kind. Here, however, it would do them no good.

Nightwing was out of the picture for the opposite reason. He definitely had the skills to infiltrate Arkham, but Tim didn’t trust him not to get too emotional and kill the man, which would put them all on Batman’s shitlist. Or, more likely, he would actually listen to the Joker and have a breakdown of some kind. Involving Dick would simply be too dangerous.

That left Tim’s last and best option by far: Barbara. Oracle was, generally speaking, rather neutral on morality. Her stances on killing and other morally dubious activities were based mostly on practicality, and specifically how rehabilitation and non-lethal measures were almost always better for everyone in the long run. She accepted and even assisted the Birds of Prey with more violent endeavors on occasion.

Even more than that, Barbara hated the Joker more than anything. The man had taken her legs from her for no better reason than to terrorize her father (not that there was any good reason for shooting someone in the spine). More than that, he had taunted her about it, humiliated her in a way that Tim knew still got to Barbara on some level. There was no way she would have any sort of moral objection to crippling the Joker, so Tim could trust her not to give him up for it.

That line of thought actually gave Tim an idea: crippling the Joker. If he could make him unable to walk, the man would have a greater difficulty escaping, since he was always kept on an upper floor for security reasons. That alone wouldn’t be enough to stop him though; the Joker was, if nothing else, tenacious. No, Joker would need his mind to be compromised as well.

As much as Tim would love to lobotomize the man, that felt like something Batman wouldn’t approve of. Sure, technically Bruce wouldn’t approve of any of this, but…

Whatever you think of yourself, a child shouldn’t have to kill. Especially not for Batman.

That was what Bruce had said to him, after Tim had offered to kill that rapist for him. Tim would have done it too. He hadn’t felt anything then, as he certainly had no hopes for his own soul, not after everything he’d done as Mia. But Bruce had cared. It mattered to Bruce that Tim didn’t kill.

So Tim wouldn’t go too far. The Joker would get to keep his life and his mind, but that didn’t mean Tim couldn’t make it much more difficult for him. In fact, something the Joker had said as a taunt would work nicely, especially if they were going for karmic irony.

Now all Tim had to do was get Barbara on board, and the real work could begin.

“Good luck,” Oracle whispered in his ear, and then the power went out in Arkham Asylum.

Tim dropped down from the air vent and immediately melted into the shadows. The vent’s size was too small to be considered a security risk, so no one would check it in the confusion of the power outage. The guard ran by, glared at Joker, then ran on quickly. Tim had no idea if he had seen him, but either way, the man ignored him. He was in on the plan, after all.

Tim was casual as he opened the door to Joker’s cell from the outside. It was kept on its own circuit, but Tim had acquired a code from Oracle that would not only open the door for him, but also remove any trace that the door had been opened at all. Joker watched with amused interest as Tim walked in and closed the door behind him.

“What’s this?” the Joker asked, an eyebrow raised, but he didn’t stand up from where he sat on his bed. “A child? You know, I heard there was a new little bird on the streets, one who could sneak anywhere. Crow, was it? I’m excited to make you caw.”

Tim ignored him and he laid out his tools on the floor, carefully unwrapping a clean scalpel.

“Not a talker then?” Joker sighed, annoyed. “Why, you seem even less fun than Batman. Honestly, I’m tempted to just shout for the guard and be done with it.”

“The guard is otherwise occupied,” Tim said, keeping his voice neutral. His mask had a voice filter, and he was currently wearing the gas mask extension, so there was no chance it sounded normal anyway. “It is just you and me tonight, and there’s a lot we need to get through. Please be patient.”

“Oh, maybe you will be fun, birdie,” Joker cackled. “Paying off a guard? That’s certainly not in Batsy’s playbook.”

“No money was exchanged,” Tim informed him, just to keep him focused off the fact that he couldn’t move. “You have many enemies. I plan to fracture your lumbar vertebrae and remove your eyes.”

“Ah, breaking my spine,” Joker mused, unintimidated. “Just like I did to that bitch. Gordon’s girl? Oh, that would explain the guard, very clever. And the eyes, that must be about what I said to Batsy the other day! My my, you are a sneaky little birdy, to be eavesdropping like that. I wonder, what does Batman think of your little plan?”

Tim didn’t respond, obviously, and started putting on his surgical gloves. Joker waited, clearly hoping for some sort of response, but Tim wasn’t interested in providing anything for the Joker.

“I see, of course,” Joker said, clearly disappointed that Tim didn’t rise to the bait. “The Batman would never stoop to such an egregious blunder. Though, it seems you did forget one itsy, bitsy, tiny, whiny detail: you’ll have to get through me first!”

Joker cackled, the reverberations bouncing off the sterile walls to make it seem all the more threatening. Still, Tim did not show emotion as he watched the man’s laughter die down. Once it did, he answered.

“Of course I considered that,” Tim replied simply. “You’re still sitting, aren’t you?”

“I don’t get up for any old riff-raff, you know,” the Joker growled, but Tim could see understanding dawn in his eyes.

“Your victims include those across Gotham City,” Tim reminded him. “How many people do you think have loved ones who were hurt in your attacks? How many more have lost friends, or simply do not want to lose people to a monster who destroys everything? As I said, you have many enemies. Some just happen to work in the lunchroom.”

“So you poisoned my food,” the Joker scowled, angry now. “You should know I am rather toxin resistant, thanks to my lovely dip at good ol’ Ace Chemicals. You look like you would enjoy a bath too, come to think of it.”

“That’s why I had your food laced with enough neurotoxin to kill an elephant,” Tim told him, ignoring the taunt. “It should be enough to paralyze you for the next several hours, I think. If it ends up being too much and kills you, well, I won’t lose any sleep.”

“Batman won’t stand for this!” he yelled, clearly panicking now. “He wouldn’t let me die!”

“Not everything is about Batman,” Tim said, not able to resist showing Joker his smallest, meanest smile before reigning himself in. “The truth is, we are all quite bored of you. I take no pleasure in this, but it is necessary. Now, please shut up while I operate on you. I’ve never done this on a live human before, so it would be in your best interest to stay still.”

Joker’s eyes were wide and terrified, but the rest of the neurotoxin had caught up to his system, right on time, paralyzing him. Right on cue, the lights came back on. That meant Tim had plenty of light to see, and the guard wouldn’t be back for another three hours, as promised.

Tim took a deep breath and raised the scalpel over the Joker’s eye.

And his work began.

Tim fiddled with his skirt as the caterers rushed by. The dress his parents had chosen for Mia was thankfully more understated than their usual tastes; it was a deep purple satin chiffon, the type of dress that Janet would wear. Perhaps his mother had meant it as a compliment, an indication that she thought he was maturing well. It didn’t feel like a compliment at all.

Despite the dress resembling something an actual human might wear, Tim was more nervous than usual: this was the first party he’d been to at Wayne Manor since becoming Crow. He’d gotten unlucky in that regard, since the Wayne Foundation Gala was earlier than usual this year, but in the end it worked out in his favor. Jack and Janet had just returned from a successful dig in Peru, meaning they were in better spirits than normal.

Tonight, though, Tim didn’t even care about staying on his parents’ good side. Tonight was about not being discovered by any of the Waynes.

For that, at least, Tim had a plan: he’d been steadily making Mia more mature with makeup and padded bras, thus ensuring that while Tim still looked like a ten-year-old, Mia looked even older than she actually was. Between this, his blonde wig, and his complete avoidance of all members of the Wayne family, the chances that he’d be discovered were incredibly low.

Or at least, that’s what Tim had anticipated, before his parents actually showed up for the party. Their good mood was not enough to stop them from criticizing Mia’s appearance in the most inconvenient way possible.

“You’re looking far too chubby for that dress, dear,” Janet had scowled when she saw Tim descend from the stairs in the dress. “You ought to go a little lighter on the snacks.”

Tim cursed internally, but nodded demurely. It wasn’t worth fighting her over it, but Tim was glad this wasn’t his real body, or else the comment would have stung.

Unfortunately, within ten minutes of arriving it was clear that Janet had meant more than just “lighter on the snacks.” Every time Tim went to take a bit of food, no matter what it was, Janet would gracefully but pointedly take it away. After the first few times, Tim got the point: no eating tonight. Since he also hadn’t eaten since before patrol the night before, that meant he was going to go hungry. Normally, he just would’ve held out so he wouldn’t upset his mother, but he had a feeling all of the food in Drake Manor would disappear tomorrow, and he couldn’t afford to be hungry for that long, not when he needed to patrol.

Which led him to this moment in the kitchen, dodging the caterers as he looked for something to swipe. He ducked around the staff with a smile, dutifully ignoring their glares and rolling eyes. As he turned his head, though, he realized he was about to crash into someone and stopped abruptly, just in time to avoid barrelling into them. Still, he lost his balance and tripped, but caught himself before he fully fell.

“Oh my, so sorry young miss,” the man apologized, making Tim freeze. Alfred Pennyworth looked down on him with a gracious smile. “I really do need to learn to watch where I’m going during these things.”

“It’s alright,” Tim said shakily, barely able to keep his voice high and light due to the sudden stress. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you, sir.”

“Oh think nothing of it,” Alfred excused effortlessly. “Though, I might ask what you might be doing around these parts, Miss…?”

“Drake,” Tim said, knowing that Alfred probably already knew who “she” was. “Mia Drake. I was just looking for something to eat, but I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Ah, no need, Miss Drake,” he said kindly, unaware of how the address clawed at Tim’s stomach. “If the food upstairs is not to your liking, I would be happy to fix something for you in the south kitchen.”

That was the family kitchen. For a moment, Tim worried that Alfred had clocked him as Crow, but he figured that it wasn’t likely he would make the connection after such a small amount of time. Regardless, it would be better not to take any chances with the shrewd butler. Tim knew he should leave now and return to his parents’ sides before Alfred got wise.

Except… Alfred was treating him like a person. And while Mia wasn’t a person, not really, Tim hadn’t been treated like a real person in several days. Just the thought of having an actual conversation with someone who might care about what he said was intoxicating. And, well, he really was hungry.

Tim nodded and followed Alfred as the man led them to the south kitchen in peaceful quiet, with only the busy ambling of the caterers filling the silence. When they arrived, Tim made a point to look around the kitchen as if he was unfamiliar with it, knowing that these were the kinds of little details that Alfred would pick up on.

The quiet continued as Alfred efficiently brought out the ingredients for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was a classic for all children, and something that Mia should seem too old for, but here Alfred was, making it anyway. It was also Tim’s favorite.

“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Tim lied. It was likely a useless one if Alfred really thought he was Crow, but it would be just another little thing that separated the two otherwise.

“Ah, my apologies, Miss Drake,” Alfred said, putting away the peanut butter and jelly. “Would a ham and cheese be agreeable?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tim said.

It didn’t take long for Alfred to finish the sandwich and cut it gently in half, before presenting it to Tim alongside an apple. Tim barely contained his hunger enough to eat the food politely and properly, but some of his voracious appetite must have shown, since Alfred immediately provided more food.

Despite the impropriety, Tim couldn’t help but scarf it all down, his hunger showing itself now that he’d actually had something to eat. Nonetheless, Alfred was unfailingly polite and respectful as he continued to make more food. Eventually, though, Tim had eaten his fill, and he quickly felt shame run through him.

“Ah, sorry, you probably have better things to do than just make food for me,” Tim apologized. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“Not at all, Miss Drake,” Alfred smiled. “I am happy to provide. Would you like more?”

“No thank you,” Tim said. He hesitated, but he knew that he had to face his parents eventually. They wouldn’t be happy about his disappearance, but the longer he waited, the worse the punishment would be. “I should go back to the party. My parents will be worried.”

“Very well, I shall escort you back,” Alfred nodded professionally.

They walked back in equal silence, though the caterers had long since left. The party would be winding down. Before they reached the main wing where the Gala was being held, however, Alfred paused.

“If I may be bold, Miss Drake,” he said, sounding cautious. “You are welcome here anytime. I am almost always in the Manor, and a friend of mine is welcome to drop in at any time.”

“Thank you,” Tim said thickly. He couldn’t imagine why Alfred might invite him over, not after they barely exchanged twenty words together, but he wouldn’t question it. The small kindness was too much for him tonight. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He entered the ballroom and made his way back to his parents without another word.

Tim darted across the rooftop as he tailed the hired thugs, unseen and unheard. Cluemaster was never truly a threat, acting more as a knockoff Riddler than anything else, but his newest probation from Blackgate had resulted in a new player on the board who was constantly foiling him. Or Spoiling, as they would undoubtedly put it.

This new actor — Spoiler, as they designated themselves in their clues — was far more important than Cluemaster himself, in Tim’s professional opinion. The villain would be locked up soon regardless, but a new vigilante could either be a great boon or a potential disaster waiting to happen. So here he was, following some low level thugs in case Spoiler came around to spoil Cluemaster’s plans.

Thankfully, Tim didn’t have to wait long. Within an hour, a figure in a dark purple cape and hood swept onto the roof. Long blonde hair snuck out the side of the hood, and the black outfit underneath implied a female figure. Strongly implied, given how tight it was.

Tim didn’t interfere as Spoiler did her thing, sneaking around the thugs easily as she switched containers and generally disorganized the entire place. He was grudgingly impressed; mild disorganization was a surprisingly effective method of ruining someone’s day, if not their plans. If the grudge against Cluemaster was personal, as he suspected it was, this was a great way to make him angry and slow him down so Batman or the police could catch him faster.

After several minutes of this chaos, Spoiler snuck out otherwise undetected. When she started sprinting across rooftops to get away, Tim followed. It didn’t take long to catch up to her and soon he was practically on top of her. He had to give her credit: for all that her uniform seemed overly purple in the light, it did wonders to hide her in Gotham’s gloomy shadows.

Unfortunately, she was clearly new to this game, and she tripped over a heater on one of the darker rooftops. Tim paused, conflicted, as she continued to lay there. On one hand, he should help her. On the other hand, this was a good opportunity to unmask her, and if she got more skilled, she could be an issue. Either way, he would have to approach.

Silently, he glided low across the rooftop, watching carefully as she groaned. She hadn’t hit her head, it seemed, but she probably had the wind knocked out of her. That at least ruled out having to help her, but it left him the option of unmasking her. After another moment’s hesitation, he went for it. He reached for her mask, about to pull it down—

Bam!

Tim stumbled back, his cheek screaming in pain as he put up his guard. In front of him, Spoiler rolled back into a crouch, the brick she had just hit him with still in her hand.

“What the fuck?” she asked. Her voice was young, indicating she was a teenager around Tim’s age. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Nice hit,” he said stonily, touching his jaw. He was probably lucky the hit hadn’t dislocated it or knocked out any of his teeth, but it would bruise badly. He didn’t feel lucky.

“Shit, are you a kid?” she asked, bewildered. “Wait, you’re Crow, aren’t you? I thought you were a ghost or something.”

“Clearly, I’m not,” Tim snarked, unable to pull off his usual nonchalance in the face of… well, a brick to his face. Still, his mind was racing. Teenager, blonde, “spoiling” Cluemaster’s games. With the new information, he didn’t even need her face, not after his investigation of Cluemaster himself. “You’re Stephanie Brown, Cluemaster’s daughter.”

“You’re kind of a jerk, for a kid,” she noted unkindly. “What are you, eight?”

“I’m only a year younger than you,” Tim shot back, his temper flaring.

“Shit, really?” she asked. “Also, it’s creepy that you know how old I am off the top of my head. Oh shit, you’re a girl, aren’t you? That’s why you’re so small. You’re just using stereotypes against those assholes.”

“I’m not a girl!” Tim shouted, a shot of adrenaline hitting his system. Crow had always been a boy and that wasn’t changing now. “Don’t call me a girl.”

“That was an extreme reaction,” Stephanie said with narrowed eyes under her hood. “What’s wrong with being a girl?”

“Nothing, but I’m not one,” he growled. Her eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh shit, you’re trans!” she proclaimed, making Crow freeze. “Is that why you look like a kid? Are you just on puberty blockers or something?”

Tim darted forward, knocking the brick out of her hand and pinning her before she could respond. She looked up, scared, but he didn’t give her room to breathe.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he threatened. “No one, understand? You tell anyone, and they won’t find your body. That, I promise.”

“Yeah yeah alright!” she said, her accent getting stronger in her desperation. He stood up and backed away, letting her pull herself up. “Jesus. I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway. I’m not an asshole.”

“If you’re not an asshole, then why are you out here?” Tim asked, trying to slow his frantic heart down to a normal pace.

“I’m spoiling things for my dad,” she said, growing serious. “He’s an asshole, and my mom won’t be safe until he’s locked up. So here I am, speeding along the process.”

“You should stop,” Tim said bluntly. “Batman doesn’t like child vigilantes, and it won’t be long until he hears about you. It would be best if you ended things before then.”

Best for Bruce, really. He didn’t need the reminder of another down-on-their-luck kid with a smart mouth and a criminal father. Not now, after he’d finally started healing.

“I’m not stopping until my dad’s in jail,” Stephanie said. Tim could hear the conviction in her voice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. He weighed his options quickly, but the look in Stephanie’s eyes convinced him that he wouldn’t win this argument. “Fine, I’ll help you take down Cluemaster. After that, though, you stop.”

“We’ll see,” she said, looking pleased.

“Whatever, it’s not my problem,” Tim sighed. “I’ll contact you when I find something.”

“Hey—” she began, but he’d already disappeared into the night. If she ended up being really stubborn, he’d just contact Barbara. She’d put the girl straight on what it meant to be a teenaged vigilante.

“Timea Drake?” the caller asked when Tim picked up. He had them in his phone contacts as Phil Marin, one of the Trustees on Drake Industries Board of Directors. He was a sleazy man, one who Tim had never liked, but his voice was uncharacteristically grim. Thankfully, Tim was resting at home today after bruising his ankle last night, so he was free to talk.

“Yes?” he asked, lifting his pitch.

“This is rather difficult news to break, but I thought you should hear it from a friendly voice before it got out to the public,” Marin dithered, and Tim’s blood went cold. “Twelve hours ago, Drake Industries received a ransom notice from ‘the Obeah Man,’ who claimed to have your parents held hostage. As per your father’s policy, we did not agree to pay. Fifteen minutes ago, we learned that he was not bluffing. I’m very sorry, but your parents are no longer with us.”

“Excuse me?” Tim asked, unable to truly process that. “What do you mean? They’re dead?”

“I understand this is difficult news, and—”

“Difficult news?” Tim repeated, furious as he scrambled for his computer. “How did this happen? Was law enforcement not involved? Why wasn’t I informed of the ransom notice?”

“We alerted GCPD as soon as we got the call,” Marin said, having the audacity to sound annoyed. “Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done—”

“Nothing to be done?” Tim interrupted again, not bothering to change his voice. “Of course there were things to be done! Are you an idiot? Again, why wasn’t I contacted?”

“Ah, well, it’s part of policy,” Marin explained lamely, clearly not having expected any pushback.

“Policy,” Tim repeated. “How, exactly, was not informing me of a threat to my parents’ lives not to policy?”

“Along with Jack’s note about dismissing any ransom notes, your parents also specified that you were not to be contacted if such demands were made,” Marin said meekly. “They felt the stress might worsen your condition.”

His condition. The one they had faked for social clout, only to be used to infantilize him further. Ironic then, that Tim might have been able to save them had he known the situation. There was no telling now if he could’ve, at least with so little other information, but part of him almost wanted to laugh at the irony.

Fuck, they’re dead, he suddenly realized. I’m never going to see them again.

That was a thought that engendered emotions too complex for Tim to immediately recognize, though he wondered if the obvious relief in there made him a bad person. Probably.

I’m an orphan, was his next revelation, followed by, I’m an orphan with no backup plan in Gotham City. CPS will take me within the hour.

Tim suddenly had a lot of work to do.

“I see,” he said evenly, pushing aside all of his unwanted emotions. It was a skill he had unintentionally perfected over the years, but he was glad to have it now. “If there’s nothing else, then I’ll have to take care of the funerary procedures. Please let me know when their bodies arrive in Gotham.”

“Miss Drake—”

Tim hung up on the man without another word. Truthfully, Tim would probably have to half ass the funeral, given how much else he needed to accomplish. Specifically, he needed to create a convincing enough fake relative that CPS would be willing to look the other way without any incident. All attention here would be bad attention.

Luckily, Tim had thought of this possibility before. It was a random contingent, one he hadn’t even laid down the groundwork for, but the idea was there regardless. Tim just needed a fake uncle, an apartment in the city proper, and to bribe a few rich socialites into attesting that Tim was a delightful little girl and they definitely went to school with his completely-real uncle.

First step: find a good actor. Thankfully, Tim already knew just the man. He cracked his knuckles and opened his laptop. Time to create his own freedom.

The plan to essentially emancipate himself went smoother than expected. Richard Beren was a former actor desperate for money, enough so that he looked the other way at a trans kid avoiding the system. Barbara hadn’t even blinked at creating a fake identity as a favor to “an informant,” and thankfully didn’t put Mia Drake on her personal watchlist as a result. CPS barely looked at the perfectly forged paperwork before letting Tim fuck off.

The last point warranted an investigation for Crow-related reasons, but that was neither here nor there.

Now, with a proper apartment in Chinatown at the center of Gotham, Tim was free to patrol whenever and wherever he wanted without regard for his parents or his schoolwork. After wiggling his way through a few legal loopholes, he even had access to the meager trust fund that his parents’ set up for him for appearances sake, which was more than enough for basic amenities and rent. He’d have to make an appearance at the standardized testing center closest to his house once a semester to ensure that he got his education for appearances, but beyond that he was free of any civilian responsibility.

And within that lay the greatest benefit of all: the end of Mia Drake. Sure, he would have to dress up as her for the aforementioned testing, but beyond that he never needed to attend another gala or socialite event ever again. He was, for the first time, free of her.

(Truthfully, Tim wasn’t sure if he’d ever really be rid of Mia’s stench. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and still saw traces of her, from the definition of his cheekbones to his eyes to the way he lied to everyone all of the time. She lay nested inside him, like a viper ready to strike. He was still too dangerous to get close to.)

With his new free time expanding exponentially, Tim was finally able to go out during the day on a regular basis, leaving his nights far more open. So, while Batman didn’t strictly need to be watched anymore on his patrols, Tim suddenly had the time to look after the man again. And though Tim wasn’t technically needed in that department anymore…

Spending time with Bruce was nice. Despite the man’s continued, near obsessive search for his identity, Tim still felt his kindness every time they spoke. It helped that Bruce was starting to take interest in him as a person, asking about his hobbies and his likes and dislikes. Most of it was probably just to learn his identity, but it felt good anyway to have that much positive attention.

In fact, if Tim were being completely truthful, he saw Bruce as something of a father figure these days. It felt manipulative to feel that way, since Bruce already had two sons and didn’t want or need another one, but he couldn’t help but feel that way all the same.

So maybe Tim spent a little more time following Bruce than was strictly necessary, but as long as all of the work was getting done, it was fine, right? Tim could afford to be just a little bit selfish in this.

Tonight, Tim was trailing Batman at a distance. He usually liked to be closer to the man in case he needed help, but for now he was content with watching from afar. It reminded him of his old days chasing Batman and Robin in the streets with a camera and lofty dreams.

He was interrupted from his musings by a chirp on his communicator. Opening it, he saw a message from Stephanie asking to call if he was free. That was unusual for the girl, given she was more predisposed to texting most of the time. Without hesitation, he called her directly. She picked up on the first ring.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, foregoing any pleasantries.

“Can’t I just call because I miss my friend?” she asked, completely full of shit. He chose not to respond to that. (He was happy to be called a friend though.) “Alright, fine, I need a place to crash tonight and I don’t want to involve Babs. You got a place I can use? I should be good by tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he said immediately, but couldn’t help his frown as he redirected his course away from Batman. “Meet me at the corner of 12th and 21st when you can. Are you in trouble? Did you get compromised? I thought your mom was generally relaxed.”

“No it’s all fine, nothing is wrong with my mom,” Steph sighed, and Tim heard the exhaustion in her voice. “Just— after Dad got thrown in jail again last month, his name was in the papers, you know? And our idiot landlord figured out that mom’s shitty ex-husband is the same Arthur Brown as Cluemaster Arthur Brown and now he’s been trying to kick us out. He can’t do shit about it until our lease is up in February, not without getting sued to hell and back, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. Today he demanded I vacate the apartment, but Mom’s at work and I can’t do shit if he calls the cops. I called her and she said she could sort it out after her shift, but if she leaves work early she’ll get fired.”

“Let me guess, she has a 12-hour overnight shift tonight?” Tim finished.

“Got it in one,” she groaned. “I told her I’d crash with a friend, which I guess is what I’m technically doing. I’m here, by the way, next to the corner store.”

“I see you,” Tim said as he swooped down. He hung up the phone as she turned to greet him. To be honest, he was a little freaked out at how good she was at sensing his presence, given no one else in the city seemed to be able to. Directly to her, he continued, “And why didn’t you go to Barbara?”

“She’d make it a big thing,” Steph said, stepping in line with him as he led her down the street towards his apartment. “She means well, of course, but she’s the commissioner’s daughter, you know? She’s not a richie-rich like you, but she doesn’t always get that these kinds of problems are a part of life, rather than a failing of parenting.”

“How do you know I’m a rich kid?” Tim frowned.

“Please, the way you speak is pure Bristol,” Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Just be glad there isn’t any sense to your accent beyond that. Not that I would’ve narced on you.”

“Thanks,” Tim said quietly. It only reaffirmed his decision to take her where he was leading her.

Soon enough, they arrived at the apartment complex and Tim let her up to the top floor easily. Normally, Steph would’ve chatted the entire time, if only to get on Tim’s nerves, but tonight she was strangely quiet. He figured that the whole housing situation was affecting her more than she was letting on.

“We’re here,” Tim said as he let her into the moderately sized apartment. The place was sparsely decorated, with only a modest couch, a TV, and a cheap rug in the main room. The kitchen was practically barren, and the two unseen bedrooms only had simple sheets and nothing else beyond a bed and a nightstand each.

“Is this a new safehouse?” Steph asked as he inspected the place. “It seems pretty bare-bones.”

“It’s not a safehouse,” Tim corrected quietly. “I live here.”

Steph froze at that, visibly shocked. After several seconds, she relaxed, but Tim could see a new melancholy in her posture.

“You really trust me this much?” she asked, though her voice almost sounded mournful. “I mean, this is basically all I need to get your identity. Even Babs doesn’t have that.”

“Don’t look for it,” Tim immediately said. “Please. My ‘identity’ is the worst person on the planet. You don’t need to know her.”

“No, I don’t,” Steph agreed softly. “I promise I won’t look.”

“Thank you,” Tim whispered. Suddenly, he felt just as tired as Stephanie looked.

“If you’re trusting me with this, can I ask—” Steph hesitated, looking conflicted. After a moment, she took a deep breath and seemed to gather her courage. “Have you ever been called your real name before? I mean, if your civilian ID isn’t out, and no one else knows…”

“I have,” Tim admitted when she trailed off. “It was a childhood nickname. My mom wanted something masculine to trick people into thinking I was a boy, but she backpedaled when I liked that too much. I haven’t heard it in years.”

“Can I…?” Stephanie asked, more unsure than Tim had ever seen her. If he were honest, it was a little startling, to see her this nervous. He’d never known her to be shy.

“Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Tim. My name is Tim.”

“Tim,” Steph repeated. Suddenly, Tim’s throat felt heavy, like he had swallowed something thick and couldn’t get it out. She looked back up at him with a small smile. “I know I haven’t said it before, but... I trust you too, Tim.”

A sob burst out of Tim’s throat before he could help it. He covered his mouth, mortified by the tear rolling down his cheek, but she just pulled him in for a hug.

“Sorry,” he apologized, trying to wipe the sudden tears away. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I shouldn’t— I mean—”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “You haven’t been called your real name in years, right? I imagine it’s a startling experience.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” he mumbled, relaxing into her hold. It felt right. Safe, even.

“You can cry, you know,” she said softly. “I cry all the time. Like, if I go a month without crying, I have to watch a sad movie to get all my crying out. Otherwise I just feel all pent up.”

Tim laughed wetly.

“I’m serious!” she insisted with her own laugh, but she didn’t pull away. “Two months ago I watched Old Yeller just to get it all out.”

“You did not,” he said, his voice still thick.

“I did,” she reaffirmed. “It was awful. It was wayyyy too much, and I will not be doing it again. Like, I wanted to cry a bit, not spend my entire weekend angsting over the meaning of family and love.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Tim admitted.

“Good, keep it that way,” Steph said. “Trust me. Like, it was a good movie, but not worth the emotional damage.”

“I do,” Tim said, sobering. “Trust you, I mean. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I trust you.”

“I know,” she said, her own voice becoming more somber. “I won’t betray you. Promise. I’d rather die.”

“Don’t,” Tim almost begged. He pulled back a little, shocked by his own insistence, but Steph just looked at him calmly. “Don’t die. Please. Even if it means betraying me.”

“I’m not planning on dying any time soon,” she promised.

“I mean it,” he doubled down. “That’s a real possibility in our line of work. If it comes down to it, save yourself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. Tim opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head. “No, I’m not budging on that. I don’t want to die, but if I got you killed I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“That’s not right,” Tim protested. He hated how it sounded like a whine in his pre-adolescent voice. “You have a mom and friends who would miss you. I don’t, outside of you.”

“And Batman and Oracle and Nightwing don’t count?” Steph argued, sounding angry. “They care, and so would I. Don’t ask that of me.”

“Fine,” Tim conceded, but internally he still didn’t agree. He could admit that it was a cruel thing to ask of someone, even if he didn’t agree with the logic. He sighed, the fight draining from his body. “Sorry for making the whole night about me.”

“Are you kidding?” Steph scoffed, also relaxing. “I hate talking about my own problems. I’d rather dissect someone else’s problems than mine any night. Though that’s probably true of all of us, or else we wouldn’t be running around in capes.”

“I’ve never worn a cape in my life,” Tim smirked, turning his nose up at her in an intentionally snobbish manner. “Some of us are more refined.”

“Shut up, rich boy,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “You know damn well you want a cape. You’re practically green with envy every time I dramatically flare mine to make a point.”

“You are very good at that,” Tim admitted, “but not as good as Batman.”

“You’re shitting me,” Steph grinned.

“I’m not,” Tim snickered. “I swear, I read his expressions more in his cape than I do in his face, even when he isn’t wearing the cowl. I watched footage of him storming out of a Justice League meeting once and I dream of emulating that level of silent pettiness.”

“If, theoretically, I could see that footage, then… Well, I do have my cape with me.”

“I have it saved on my laptop. I’ll pull it up.”

Despite both of them being exhausted, they stayed up the rest of the night talking. Tim couldn’t speak for Stephanie, but he didn’t feel like sleeping, not after the adrenaline rush of telling her his name. She kept using it too, almost pointedly, throughout the night. Thankfully, he didn’t break down like he did the first time, but he felt like his heart swelled every time.

…Oh no, he thought the next morning as he watched her leave with a wave and a promise to stay safe. I have a crush on Spoiler.

Tim dealt with his newfound crush as he did most unpleasant truths: by completely ignoring it. Sure, he still hung out with Steph on a regular basis, but whenever those feelings came up, he simply shoved them in a box and vowed never to open it. This style of emotional management, which he deemed the “Batman-style,” was effective and highly productive. It also encouraged frequent work and patrolling, which Tim was happy to do.

After another nine months of his new, intense patrolling schedule, though, Tim started to feel… off. Not internally — though he started to question his sanity after a while — but he felt like there was someone watching him. Not always, but on patrol he would feel eyes on him. He quickly learned why the criminals of Gotham city feared him, if this is what they felt all the time.

Despite this, the presence didn’t feel malicious at all. Once he bothered categorizing it, it felt more curious than anything else. So, against his better judgment, he didn’t tell Bruce or even Barbara about it, though he kept his emergency beacon on him at all times, just to be safe.

After a month of this presence, his patience paid off. He was eavesdropping on one of Falcone’s drug shipments when he heard a rustle from behind him. Right behind him, to be exact.

Tim spun, expecting danger, only to be met with the figure of a girl not much older than him. She was small, only a little bigger than him, but Tim could read dangerous skill in every line of her body. He had watched footage of assassins on the Batcomputer, and that was how they moved.

Still, this was a kid not much older than him. Even if she could kill him, she hadn’t yet, so what did she want?

“Can I help you?” he asked gently, but with a hint of warning in his voice. She cocked her head to the side, unbothered by his question. He repeated the question in Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, Cantonese, Hindi, and — after a second to remember it — the League of Assassins’ dialect, but still no recognition lit up in her eyes. He tried again in American Sign Language just in case, but nothing there either.

“You can’t talk, can you?” he asked rhetorically, though she reacted nonetheless. She stepped forward a little, and her expression looked… pleading? He wasn’t sure what for, but that did give him an idea. “You can hear me, and my tone, but you don’t understand my words.”

She fixed her gaze on his body before looking back up on his eyes. It was a sharp gaze, unquestionably intelligent, but if she couldn’t speak or understand sign language, then Tim had no idea how to even begin to communicate with her. Yet, for some reason, she had approached him when he’d been relaxed on stakeout, rather than in the field. For her to have noticed that, she had to have lived with enough people before to recognize body language.

It was a longshot, but Tim had to try something. He opened his arms invitingly, trying to project safety and comfort—

She darted off, disappearing into the shadows immediately. Tim cursed as he lost sight of her, annoyed at his own lack of social skills. Despite the failure, he was sure that this wouldn’t be the last time he saw the girl. That meant he should practice reading and projecting emotions, if only to communicate with her in some small way.

For now, there was nothing to be done. He turned back to Falcone’s men below, all of them oblivious to the interaction that just happened. Now, though, he watched their facial expressions instead of just listening to their words. He watched as their bodies tensed and reacted to each other.

Huh, he thought as he took everything in. Even now, just barely conscious of everything going on, he could see how someone might be able to read body language. Maybe this will be useful after all.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own?” the woman frowned at Tim.

“Oh yes, I’m just fine,” Tim replied in a high-pitched Bristol accent. It sounded remarkably like Mia’s voice, except in all the ways that it felt nothing like Mia’s voice. “I know which bus to take. Thank you for the help.”

“Alright,” the woman pursed her lips. “Get home safe.”

Tim departed with a smile and a wave, both of which vanished instantly after he turned the corner. The woman he had just run into “accidentally” was an enforcer for the False Facers, and one of the most notorious ones at that. Thankfully, she had a (probably not creepy) softness for young girls, which made Caroline Hill the ideal candidate to place a tracker on her.

Being Caroline Hill was a weird experience for Tim. On one hand, dysphoria still hit him like a truck. Wearing a dress and a long, dark wig made him want to curl into a ball and never come out. On the other hand, it held none of the same scum that came with being Mia, nor did it leave him hating himself long after he changed out of costume. In the end, Caroline was just another mask of many to put on when the job required it.

A shadow flickered in the corner of Tim’s eye. He slid back so his back was against the dirty alley wall, instantly alert. His instincts proved correct as the silent girl from several weeks melted out of the shadows, perfectly at ease. He relaxed slightly, though his heart still pounded a little; no one even knew he was out right now, so if the girl did want to fight, he wouldn’t have any backup.

No fight, she signed in choppy, improper ASL. Tim was startled; she clearly hadn’t known the language when he saw her three weeks ago. How had she picked it up? Even more bizarre was her grammar, as she didn’t give any indication of subject or further intent.

You don’t want to fight me? Tim responded in the same language. She nodded slowly, as if unsure. He signed slower, exaggerating his movements and facial expressions I don’t want to fight you either.

Understand, she nodded, looking happier. I help.

You want to help me? Tim asked again, even more confused. Or do you need help?

I help you. You help me, she responded quickly. Tim nodded. In the back of his mind, he noted how her facial expressions were correct, which was the most common error for new learners of ASL. However, her movements were odd, like she had only learned from a distance. Maybe she had.

How can I help? Tim signed.

She pointed to her throat. He was confused, but before he could voice or sign his confusion, she began to speak.

“Hi,” she said, the sound awkward and raspy. She cleared her throat. “Want learn.”

“You want to learn English?” Tim asked. She nodded hesitantly, so Tim repeated the question in ASL. She nodded with more confidence, so Tim decided to stick to signing. What will you teach me?

She stepped into the shadows disappearing entirely. Tim blinked, startled that such a simple question would make her run, but he was proven wrong when she emerged just as seamlessly a moment later, looking proud. It took a moment, but Tim understood: she would teach him how to disappear instantly. Admittedly, Tim already knew how to disappear into the shadows, but the girl was better at it than anyone he had seen before, and Tim had trained with the best of the best.

Besides, even if Tim wouldn’t get much out of the arrangement, the girl needed help, and for some reason she had decided Tim could be the one to help her. It was his duty as a hero to help.

I agree, Tim signed, nodded for extra emphasis. She smiled at him softly, and he immediately knew: this girl was going to change his life. All Tim could hope for was that it would be a good change.

“Leandra?”

“No.”

“Cynthia?”

“No.”

“Caroline?”

The girl hesitated, thinking it over as she mouthed the name, then shook her head again.

“No. I like ‘K’,” she announced, making a hard K sound. Tim sighed. They’d been at it for hours, as he’d read through list after list of names for her approval. On the bright side, she seemed to love the ability to say “no”.

“Okay, K sounds,” he breathed deeply. “Kaitlyn? Catherine? Cassandra?”

“That,” she said, sitting up.

“Cassandra?” Tim asked, perking up as well.

“Cassandra,” she repeated with some difficulty. “Cass-an-dra. I like.”

“That’s great!” he said, excited. “You could use ‘Cass’ as a nickname, if you want.”

“Cass,” she repeated again, then nodded. “Cass. Cassandra. That me.”

“That is you,” Tim corrected gently. “Or ‘that’s,’ if you shorten it. Remember?”

“That’s me,” she — Cassandra — corrected. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Tim said genuinely. In truth, Tim had been incredibly impressed by how quickly Cass had picked up language, given how she could barely say more than a few words a month ago. She still had trouble recreating words, especially anything more than simple, common ones, but her understanding had improved by leaps and bounds, and she could communicate more extensively in sign language.

So far, Tim had learned only a little about her: she was raised by her father, who had been some sort of assassin and raised her to be the same. She escaped a few years ago and had been on the run ever since, until she decided to trust Tim. Technically, that was all Tim knew for sure. That said, Tim was trained in observation, and he had a few other guesses as to her situation.

First and foremost, his initial guess had been shockingly accurate: Cassandra had become fluent in body language as her first language. Somehow, she could read intent and emotion in the smallest physical clues, to the extent where she could anticipate what Tim was about to do before he was even conscious of it himself.

Second, her father had been horribly abusive, as if refusing to teach her language wasn’t enough. As soon as Tim had recognized a League of Assassins move from her during their new combat training, he had started looking into her potential heritage. He hadn’t learned anything definitive yet, but what he had already gathered about how the League operated made him glad that she had gotten away.

Finally, Cass hadn’t said why she had come to him, but he had a hunch: she was lonely. After years spent on her own, she clearly craved attention and affection, both of which Tim was trying to supply her, though he couldn’t be sure how effective he was on his own.

(He also figured that she’d reached out to him because she saw that he was lonely too.)

However, Tim couldn’t trust himself to be the only one in her life. What if he died? What if the Bats discovered who he was and he had to flee at a moment's notice? Cass would be left on her own, just like she had been before. That’s why he’d been gathering the courage over the last few weeks to bring up a new topic: trusting someone else.

“You know,” he started, instantly drawing her attention, “I’ve been thinking. How about I introduce you to Bruce?”

He’d mentioned Bruce several times before to prepare for this exact conversation. She knew that he trusted him and that he was practically Tim’s father, though he hadn’t mentioned that he was Batman. He hoped that was enough to get her to meet him.

Unfortunately, Cass frowned, looking indignant.

You don’t trust Bruce, she signed. You’re scared.

“No I’m not,” Tim retorted verbally. “I trust him.”

It sounded like a lie. Which it wasn’t — Tim did trust Bruce, just not with his civilian identity. Even thinking about Bruce knowing Mia sent a shiver down Tim’s spine.

“There,” Cass pointed, almost angry. “No trust.”

“That doesn’t count,” Tim disagreed. “That’s my problem. You’d have nothing to fear from Bruce.”

I’m not scared, Cass went back to signing. Scared for you. If you don’t like him, I don’t meet him.

“That’s not—” Tim groaned, but cut himself off. It wasn’t worth arguing right now. He’d introduced the idea, and that was the biggest part. “Alright, fine. Nothing for now.”

She hummed, indicating she’d heard, but said nothing. He figured a topic change was needed.

“So,” he grinned, pulling up his earlier joy, “Cassandra?”

She beamed, and Tim couldn’t regret a thing.

“You know, you didn’t have to hide in the shadows all day,” Stephanie said to the seemingly empty room. “You could have come out and introduced yourself. The rest of Young Justice wouldn’t judge.”

“How did you know I was here?” Tim sighed as he swung out of the vents. She raised a silent eyebrow at him. “Whatever. I didn’t see the point in coming out. I was just making sure they were nice to you.”

“From anyone else I’d be insulted, but from you that’s pretty sweet,” Steph laughed, making Tim’s heart flutter. “But my question still stands. You could’ve looked out for me and been making friends yourself too. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“It’s fine,” Tim said, his happiness dying immediately. “They wouldn’t have liked me anyway. I’d just be a kid to them.”

“You aren’t just a kid,” Steph frowned. “You’re one of the most mature teenagers I know. Besides, all of us are kids.”

“Yeah, but I’m… you know.”

“Tiny?” Steph finished. “Creepy? Stalkerish? Emotionally stunted? I know all those things about you, and I still care about you. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re cool and older than some of them.”

“You think I’m cool?” Tim asked, a little amazed. His heart pounded in his chest as he leaned closer to her.

“Of course that’s what you latched on to,” Steph rolled her eyes affectionately as she ruffled his hair. “Yes, fine, I think you’re cool. Not just because you’re the terror of Gotham’s underbelly, but because you’re Tim. You should make more friends.”

Tim didn’t know how to process that, so he decided to rely on his instincts. Unfortunately, his instincts were rather broken from having no friends or peers growing up, so he did what most kids do when they have a stupid crush on their friend.

He leaned up and kissed her.

“What the—?” she started as pushed him back — gently, for what little that was worth — and stared at him with wide eyes. “I mean, what? I’m sorry I just—”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Tim flinched, blushing with humiliation. “I should’ve asked, that wasn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Steph assured, starting to regain her composure. “Or, well, it wasn’t, but I know you, uh, didn’t mean it in a creepy way. Just the normal way. You moved away when I told you to. Just don’t kiss people without their consent in the future.”

“I won’t, sorry,” Tim winced. “I know better, Nightwing gave me the whole speech. I just got a little carried away.”

They stood in awkward silence for a minute, neither of them really knowing what to do or say.

“Uh,” Tim started eventually before clearing his throat awkwardly. “I know that wasn’t a good first impression, but— Can I…?”

It took several seconds for Stephanie to parse what he was saying, but he saw realization light up in her eyes, which was immediately replaced with pity. His stomach dropped.

“Sorry, but no,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t see you like that. You’re not really my type.”

“Oh?” Tim challenged, his embarrassment morphing into defensiveness. “Is it my size or me being trans that you don’t like?”

“Excuse you?” Stephanie challenged back. “I’m not going to turn someone down just because they’re trans!”

“So it is my size,” Tim extrapolated, which her wince only confirmed.

“Yes, fine, it’s because you look like a kid,” she admitted. “I mean, I get that you’re only a year younger than me, but you look ten!”

“That’s not the point,” Tim hissed.

“That's exactly the point,” Steph disagreed. “You’re mature and you’re my friend, but you know it’s true.”

“God, this is why I fucking hate looking like this!” he yelled, all the fight draining from his body as he collapsed into Steph’s desk chair. She hesitated, startled at his sudden change of tone, but he didn’t say anything else. He was just tired.

“You don’t want to look like a kid?” she asked slowly, confused.

“Of course not,” he huffed. “Who the hell wants to look ten when they’re fifteen?”

“Yeah, I just thought…” she trailed off. “Well, you get your hormone blockers from drug dealers, right? Why wouldn’t you just get testosterone from them too? It’s not like it’s that hard to come by.”

“My perpetual age is part of Crow’s mystique,” Tim reminded her, though his words sounded flat to his own ears. “If I grew up, that would lessen my impact.”

“Bullshit,” Steph called him out, though her tone was level. “Batman lost his ‘mystique’ when Robin came on the scene years ago, but that doesn’t stop him from scaring the shit out of everyone. Your work and intel are what make you effective, not your appearance. What’s the real problem?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tim lied.

“Yes, you do,” she pushed. “It’s got to be something important if it’s keeping you from going on T. Is it puberty? ‘Cus it sucks, but it’s hardly the worst thing that can happen, and it’ll be done pretty fast.”

“No, I just—” Tim stopped, realizing that he had fallen for her trap. When he looked at her though, all he saw was sympathy. “I just don’t want things to change.”

“Oh Tim,” she sighed sadly and his chest felt heavy. “We both know things are going to change no matter what.”

“Yeah, but what if they don’t like me anymore?” he asked, a little panicked. He didn’t need to specify who “they” were. “I mean, as a kid I look cute, so what if that’s all that’s keeping them with me? I’m annoying and needy and mean and what if that’s what makes them tolerate me? Teenagers aren’t exactly endearing.”

“Because they love you.”

Steph’s simple and confident words made him freeze. He didn’t want to understand them. It would mean the end of his whole point as Crow.

“I mean, I’ve never met them, but it’s clear they care about you,” Steph continued, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’ve watched you interact with Batman on camera, and even then it’s obvious how much he cares. I’ve heard it straight from Barbara’s mouth that she loves you, and that isn’t even touching on Nightwing. That isn’t going to change just because you start smelling worse.”

“Hey,” he pushed back, but he didn’t have the energy to fake offense.

“Hey, it happens to all of us!” Steph laughed. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. I’d give you my copy of The Body Book for Girls, but…”

“Please don’t,” he snorted. He didn’t mention that his mom had pointedly gotten him a copy of it when he was seven. He sobered a little at the thought, and the one after. “You make it really hard to not have a crush on you, when you’re this nice.”

The arm around Tim’s shoulder’s tensed, but she relaxed quickly. Tim didn’t dare look at her face.

“You’re the only one who calls me ‘nice’,” she said, a little too soft to be joking. Louder, she continued, “I’m sorry I can’t reciprocate. You’re my best friend, and I love you, but I honestly just never thought of you that way. I don’t want this to ruin our friendship though.”

“It won’t,” Tim promised, both to her and himself. He looked back up at her. “I’m sorry I was defensive earlier. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“It isn’t fair to you, either,” she pointed out. He hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing. She smiled a little. “Look at us, talking about our feelings. What would Batman think?”

“He’d be horrified, I’m sure,” Tim laughed, accepting the olive branch.

“You know, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit there was another reason I didn’t think of you as a romantic prospect,” she admitted. Tim narrowed his eyes at her as he saw her hiding a smile, but didn’t interrupt. “I always thought you were… you know…”

Tim gasped in offense as she flopped her wrist down.

“Stephanie!” he yelled as she burst out laughing. “You can’t say that! That’s horrible!”

“Oh is it?” she focused back in, still grinning. “What’s so wrong with being a little fruity?”

“Nothing!” Tim shouted, his cheeks on fire. “I’ll have you know that I’m bi! But you can’t do that!”

“Sure I can, I’m bi too,” Steph laughed, but she calmed down. Her smile was a little more genuine. “Or at least I think I am.”

“Really?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Well, bi-curious,” she admitted. “I mean, in theory. I’ve never really had a crush on a girl, but…”

“I get that,” Tim admitted. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Right back at you, kid,” she smiled, then winced a little. “Ah, I guess I should stop calling you that.”

“Yeah,” Tim said a little lamely. Truthfully, it would be nice not to get called that, at least not by her. “We’re still friends, right?”

“Of course we are,” she said, hitting him upside the head. “Weren’t you the one who just promised that?”

“I know, I know,” he whined, rubbing his head. She was strong. “It’s just nice to hear.”

She smiled at him again.

“Yeah. I get that.”

Tim gasped as his shoulder twisted unnaturally against the force of Cassandra’s fist. His knees buckled under the pain as Cass leaped back, her eyes wide with fear and guilt as she took in his pain as if she felt it herself.

“Wait,” Tim choked out, seeing her intent to leave in her body language. She paused, and he didn’t hesitate to continue. “I need your help to reset my shoulder.”

She pursed her lips, but nodded. Tim could still see her desire to flee in every tensed muscle of her body. This was far from the first time Cass had hurt Tim by accident during their combat training, but this was the first time he had seen her look so panicked. He couldn’t figure out why this, of all things, was making her react so adversely. His mind raced with possibilities as he sat down and braced himself for the pain of resetting his shoulder.

Thankfully, Cass didn’t hesitate to push his shoulder back into place. His teeth clenched in agony as it slid back into place, but it felt better than the unnatural angle it had been at a few seconds before. With the task completed, he could feel her intent to leave, but he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She could’ve broken the hold easily, of course, but he knew she wouldn’t after hitting him so hard.

“I should l-leave,” she stammered out, visibly discomposed.

“Don’t go,” Tim pleaded, unable to hide the desperation in his voice. “Please.”

“I’m dangerous,” Cass argued, panic still alight in her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I did,” she hissed, pulling her arm away, but she didn’t leave. “I don’t know how to — not hurt.”

“You don’t hurt me,” Tim said. She looked at him, incredulous, but he knew that the words would ring true to her. Cass may have hurt him physically, but she’d never hurt him in any way that mattered. He knew that, and he also knew it was written all over his body; she could understand that better than anything he’d say aloud.

Sure enough, confusion and hope flashed through her face and posture, clear enough that Tim was able to read it effortlessly, even with his barely developed body reading skills.

“You aren’t a weapon,” Tim told her, knowing exactly where she was coming from. “You are not what he made you. You deserve to be loved.”

Cass sniffed, visibly caught off guard. Tim knew she couldn’t remember words when she got overwhelmed, so he slowly, carefully moved towards her. When she didn’t show any sign of running, he pulled her into a gentle hug. She stiffened beneath him as he wrapped her arms around her, but within a few seconds she relaxed and wrapped her own arms over his shoulders. They stood there for minutes, unmoving, until Tim felt the last of the tension leave her body.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered. It came out like a well-practiced confession, thought out and reasoned but never voiced.

“You won’t,” Tim promised. “If he comes for you, we’ll take him on together. If he so much as lays a finger on you, I’ll get Batman to beat him up.”

“Can’t,” she shook her head.

“Yes,” Tim disagreed gently. “I’d tell him who I am, if I have to. You’re worth it.”

She looked at him, stunned once again. After a moment, her face softened.

“Little brother,” she said, petting his hair. Now it was Tim’s turn to look up at her with confusion and hope. He’d been called “little brother” once before, years ago, before he’d ever thought of being a brother, but the result of that was dangerous: Dick Grayson might have thought of Crow as a brother, but he didn’t know all of the horrible things Tim had done.

“Why sad?” Cass asked with a frown. Tim swallowed, not sure how to explain the situation.

“I don’t think I’d make a very good brother,” he choked out. “I’m bad at it.” I’m bad.

“No,” Cass declared. “Good brother. And I am good sister. We protect us.”

“We protect each other,” Tim said as both a correction and an affirmation. “Yeah, we do.”

“So brother,” she concluded.

“Well, I guess I can’t argue with that,” Tim smiled. “You’re a good big sister.”

Cass beamed.

“You’re a good little brother too.”

Word on the street was that a new Rogue was moving into Crime Alley. The “Red Hood,” as he loudly proclaimed himself, seemed very interested in Black Mask’s operations as well as the Bats. Whether that was because he wanted to compete with Black Mask or join him, Tim didn’t know yet, but either way it spelled trouble for Gotham’s poorest neighborhood. His name being a former Joker alias didn’t help assuage his fears.

After setting Batman up to take down his competition, the Red Hood could no longer be considered a “potential” threat. Naturally, Tim planned to begin investigating the Rogue himself.

“I’ve tracked down his place of residence and determined his patrol routes for the foreseeable future,” Tim reported to Batman two nights after their run-in with the False Facers. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll begin tailing him more regularly, now that I know his blind spots. With luck, I should have a full report by the end of the week.”

“Hn,” Batman — though, with his cowl down in the Cave, Tim guessed he was Bruce — grunted. “What are your initial impressions?”

Tim suppressed a smile at the question. Bruce had already read over his impressions in the document Tim handed him last night at least twice, but Tim knew that asking was the older man’s way of expressing his appreciation of Tim’s opinion. It was a trick Bruce had picked up from Oracle last year after a bad night with Nightwing.

“The Red Hood behaves oddly for a Rogue or a crime lord,” Tim reported, his urge to smile fading. “He’s dedicated to eliminating child drug use in the Alley, as well as cracking down on the most abusive pimps while letting any sex workers stay independent. Even stranger, he seems to actually be funneling a lot of the profits he makes back into the community. As a result, his popularity in Crime Alley is practically unprecedented.”

“But?” Bruce further prompted. Tim suppressed an eye roll; he’d think the man would be more patient, given he’d already read the report.

“The entire situation is unstable,” Tim continued. “He’s killing people faster than he’s replacing the infrastructure. Right now, he’s holding it together through sheer charisma, but who knows how long that will last, especially now that he’s picking fights with Black Mask, who’s reportedly very annoyed about the whole thing. Moreover, my source inside his team says that while they all like him just fine, he’s definitely got some unchecked anger issues. He’s prone to outbursts and, unfortunately for us, harbors a particularly bad grudge against Batman. Even if he’d benefit from working with us in the future, he’s unlikely to even consider it. The only saving grace is that his name is allegedly a slight against the Joker, since he has a bigger grudge towards him than us.”

“We should expect the situation to degrade,” Bruce added once it was clear Tim was done. “We can’t trust someone who kills with enthusiasm, especially not someone who peddles drugs and weapons. Our mission is to stop crime, not control it.”

Tim pursed his lips, but nodded. He didn’t actually agree with Bruce though: stopping crime was all well and good in theory, but half of Crime Alley’s adult population was immersed in illegal activities in some way — literally over half, Tim had done the math — so it was basically a part of the economy. While Tim himself wasn’t exactly looking to pick up murder as a tool, he wasn’t opposed to treating the Red Hood as an experiment of sorts to see if the Alley ended up doing better under his rule.

Still, there was no arguing with Bruce when it came to murderers, and Tim wasn’t in the habit of picking impossible fights. He’d make his own judgments when he shadowed the crime lord.

“Are you staying the night?” Bruce asked, his voice softer. Tim nodded. “Good. Alfred made dessert.”

Tim nodded again and headed to his corner of the Cave to change into pajamas. Truthfully, changing down here still made him anxious at times, but Bruce had picked up on his apprehension a while ago and added a private area just for Tim. While that hadn’t fully alleviated his stress, it had shown that Bruce noticed and cared, which was more important than anything else.

Now in civilian clothes, Tim headed upstairs, waving goodnight to Bruce as the man typed away at the Batcomputer. The quiet halls and studies of the East Wing greeted him with familiar warmth as he made his way towards the kitchen. As expected, the smell of warm bread wafted through the Manor as he approached the East kitchen, making Tim’s stomach growl in anticipation.

“Ah, Master Crow,” Alfred greeted as Tim shuffled into the kitchen and sat down on one of the stools along the kitchen island. “The brownies will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Tim assured the butler. He didn’t feel much like chatting, but evidently Alfred didn’t either, as they spent most of the next few minutes in companionable silence, which was only broken by the dinging of the timer. Tim stood up and cleared the cooling area as Alfred pulled the brownies from the oven. Within a few minutes, Tim was happily eating a warm square of the dessert.

“Forgive me for saying so, Master Crow, but I’ve noticed you've been taking time away from the Manor in the last few weeks,” Alfred began gently as Tim chewed. “Not that I have any complaints at all, but I was simply wondering if there was anything you felt was missing from our services that I might correct.”

Tim swallowed his food, his throat suddenly dry. He had been away more recently, but not because he was avoiding the Manor, but rather because he’d been busy with other things. Specifically, Cass had started taking over his responsibilities in “supervising” some of the more harmless Rogues, which meant he had been spending more time with her than usual to teach her all their blind spots. She could have figured them out on their own, of course, but Tim worried for his sister.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tim replied aloud. “I’ve been busy with some extra Crow responsibilities. I promise I’m not avoiding the Manor or anything.”

“If you say so, sir,” Alfred hummed, sounding unconvinced. Tim, however, wasn’t lying, so that wasn’t his problem. Still, it seemed like Alfred had more to say on the matter. “I understand that Master Bruce has a rather… intense about the matter of your identity, but I promise I shall not assist him in his foolish endeavors. Your secrets are safe with me, Mistress Timea.”

Tim froze, his whole body going into instant shock over the simple address.

“What?” he choked out, terrified.

“I am afraid that I recognized you at that gala, many years ago,” Alfred explained politely, clearly wary of Tim’s sudden fear. “As I said, I am not in the business of revealing secrets, especially those of the children under my care. I apologize for bringing the matter up, but I only tell you now to assure you that Master Bruce’s crusade will not change my good opinion of you. You are welcome here any time, young Mistress.”

Young Mistress. This was Tim’s worst nightmare. He needed to get out of there immediately.

“I should get going,” Tim said gracelessly, not even bothering to seem unconcerned as he got out of his seat and headed for the door. “Thank you for the dessert.”

“Mistress—”

“Don’t,” Tim interrupted, unable to hear that wretched title again from Alfred’s lips. Alfred looked shocked at the outburst. “Please don’t call me that. I have to leave.”

“Please don’t, Master Crow,” Alfred begged, surprising Tim enough to make him pause. “I’m sorry for overstepping. As I said, I won’t breathe a word of it again. Just — don’t run away, please.”

Tim stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to make sense of things. Mainly, every nerve in his body was screaming for him to get out of there, to put space between him and the danger in front of him. Eventually, though, he had to give the butler something.

“I’m not leaving forever,” Tim promised. “I just need some space. Thank you again for dessert.”

Alfred didn’t try to stop him again as Tim left hurriedly. Thankfully, he didn’t run into Bruce as he left, as the man was probably still in the Batcave. Time seemed inconsequential as he pushed himself out the front door and into Gotham. Before he knew it, he was surrounded by the grimy skyscrapers of Downtown Gotham. For the first time in what felt like a minute or hours, he could breathe normally again as he slipped into the shadows.

With the problem farther away, Tim could admit that while the situation wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t the worst case scenario either. Sure, Alfred knew about Mia, but the butler was rather good at keeping secrets, so Tim wasn’t worried about him telling Bruce. Alfred was also good about withholding verbal judgment, so he was unlikely to shun Tim directly for his lies as Mia. Tim would probably have to explain his gender to the older man, but Tim knew Alfred well enough that it was unlikely the man’s opinion of him would change much.

As for being a nameless entity for the Gotham vigilantes… Well, Alfred wasn’t a vigilante. If Tim got himself killed, the man would’ve mourned him anyway, and Alfred’s mourning didn’t put others at risk like Batman’s or Nightwing’s would. It would be fine.

It had to be fine.

Tim forced himself to take a deep breath. His hands were still shaking, and it was only now that he was calming down that Tim realized he might have been having a panic attack. He huffed out a laugh at his own idiocy for not realizing it, but he had never claimed to be the most in touch with his emotions.

Regardless, he knew he wasn’t ready to explain things to Alfred. He knew he’d have to eventually, but the task seemed too daunting to even consider right now. Thankfully, Tim already had his marching orders for the near future, which meant he could avoid Wayne Manor to his heart’s content. Alfred was already used to his charges throwing themselves into their work to avoid their emotions, so what was one more person on that pile?

With his distraction mentally set up, it was time for Tim to get back to his apartment and get some sleep. In the morning, though, it would be time for Crow to get to work.

Tim was about to learn everything about the Red Hood.

The Red Hood is Jason Todd. Jason Todd is alive, and he’s the Red Hood.

The thought echoed in Tim’s brain over and over, rattling around as he desperately tried to make sense of it. It both made too much sense and too little. Too much in that it explained his motives as well as his hatred of Batman and the Joker, but too little in that Jason Todd had been dead. Fully, completely dead and buried in a way that even standard magic couldn’t restore.

And yet Jason Todd was alive. Of that, Tim was sure.

He’d been tailing the Red Hood for six days now, getting to know his habits and his safehouses and his organization. The man was surprisingly considerate of both his employees and those he saved, though that only made his bloodthirstiness against others seem more disconcerting in contrast. His bouts of rage were exactly as unpredictable as his source had told him, but beyond that his mannerisms had seemed… familiar.

That familiarity had grown into something uncanny when Tim had seen the man fight just a few hours ago. His style was aggressive and fast, an unsettling mix of League of Assassins and Batman that made Tim uncomfortable, but it was that moment after that sealed the deal for Tim.

The Red Hood, having felled his opponents, took out a cigarette and flipped it in an unnecessarily showy way.

Five years ago, Tim had watched as a young Jason Todd stood on a rooftop and practiced that move for hours. Literally. Hours. Even at eleven, starved of any human interaction, Tim had been bored to death. The trick was showy and stupid and completely useless, especially because nobody would ever see him do it. The only one who might was Batman, who hated Robin smoking with a passion.

And here, in front of him, the Red Hood had executed the exact same, stupid little trick. Tim had been so shocked that he’d given himself away for the first time in three years.

This was Jason Todd. A clone could be programmed with the boy’s memories and taught to fight, but that stupid little trick wouldn’t be carried over. No one else would ever know how to do that while also showing proficiency in fighting like Batman and the League.

The League of Assassins. That was the key to all of this. The rage, the resurrection, all of it pointed to a Lazarus Pit. Though, from what they knew, that wouldn’t have been able to restore Jason so long after his death.

There were still questions, a lot of them, but Tim had a place to start. He still had contacts in the League from when he tracked down Cassandra’s origins, perhaps they knew something. With enough sleuthing, he could probably figure out how Jason came back to life. He’d need all the evidence he could get if he wanted to convince Bruce that his son was alive.

Beyond that, Tim had another option as well: talk to Jason directly. It was a risky move, one that could potentially send Jason running, but he’d already given up his hand when he’d given away his position. If Tim wanted to have any shot of Jason trusting him, he’d have to talk to him, and soon.

With that in mind, Tim began moving across the buildings towards the apartment Jason had been living in. As he flitted through the shadows, Tim considered his approach; he couldn’t lie or be actively deceitful, not without potentially breaking Jason’s trust, but Tim knew how to play up certain aspects of himself to get the best results from people. Hell, he’d been playing up his emotionlessness for years as Crow.

In fact, the Crow façade would actually be useful here, as long as he hinted at a few cracks in it. Nothing too dramatic or even dishonest, of course, but Jason had a soft spot for hurt kids, and Tim was self-aware enough now to know that he was a pretty fucked up kid. Jason was smart enough to recognize an abused child bullshitting his way through the world when he saw it. Hell, his youthful appearance might actually help him for once.

With that in mind, Tim slid through the window of the apartment. Finding it empty, he sat himself on the couch and waited.

“So, what was it like to cripple the Joker?” Jason asked with a sadistic grin. His eyes were glowing an acidic green today. Tim pushed back a sigh as he met Jason’s watchful gaze with an unimpressed look.

“Gross,” Tim admitted honestly. “Long. Tiring. Mildly traumatic.”

“Tiring, really?” Jason scoffed. “You brought the most hated man in Gotham to his knees and you describe it as gross and tiring?”

“It wasn’t exactly a dignified ordeal,” Tim said. “He was poisoned and paralyzed and I had never done anything that extensive on a live person before. There was a lot of blood, but in the end it was necessary. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Jason repeated incredulously.

“That’s all,” Tim confirmed. He sighed. “Look, I’m not like you. I don’t revel in the act. The Joker’s just another person brought to justice. My role was just a little more hands-on than normal.”

“Just another person?” Jason hissed, his eyes glowing. “He’s a monster! He killed me! He’s more important than just some criminal.”

“Yes, he’s a monster,” Tim agreed easily, “but he’s not important. He can’t be important. As long as he matters more than the other deranged murderers in this city, he’s above them. As long as the Joker matters, he lives. So he doesn’t matter. I don’t let him.”

“I don’t see how you can say that, after everything he’s done,” Jason huffed, but his eyes had returned to something closer to his normal shade of green.

“You don’t have to agree,” Tim shrugged. “That’s just my philosophy. But it does beg the question: what is more important than the Joker? Will you sacrifice others? Innocents? Your family?”

“I don’t have a family,” Jason protested, but the words sounded weaker than when he said them a few weeks ago.

“Of course you do,” Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Just because you’re mad at them doesn’t mean they aren’t your family. That’s not the kind of thing you can go back on, not when they chose you and you chose them.”

“And if I choose you as family?” Jason challenged, the argument familiar. “Will you admit that you’re a part of the family too?”

Tim pursed his lips, not sure how to answer. On one hand, he didn’t want to lie, but on the other hand, if he told Jason he wasn’t family, it would only drive the man away more. Thankfully, Jason didn’t bother pushing for an answer as he shook his head.

“Whatever,” Jason said. “Just know that your words apply to you too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim drawled. “Anyway, I’m leaving now. Bye.”

“Bye,” Jason laughed, now accustomed to Tim’s sudden exits. Tim slipped out the window without another word and headed towards Bristol. He’d been putting off talking to Bruce and Alfred for too long now, and he had enough evidence to present his case to Bruce, no matter how much he dreaded it.

As he crossed the rooftops, he felt a familiar presence fall in line with him. He smiled.

“Hi Cass,” he greeted, slowing down enough to allow her to sign at him without issue.

“Hi,” his sister echoed. In sign, she continued, You’re nervous.

“I’m telling Bruce about Jason tonight,” he explained. She hummed in acknowledgement, knowing how much that meant to Tim after weeks of stressing. He knew she could tell there was more he wasn’t telling her, but he didn’t want to talk about the situation with Alfred. Thankfully, she understood that too.

“I’ll cover,” she said aloud. “No worry. Spend the night.”

“Thanks,” Tim said, smiling fondly at her. “I appreciate it. Don’t work too hard.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, not even stumbling over the words this time. She beamed at him and patted his head before disappearing into the shadows again. Tim didn’t waste time running the rest of the way to Wayne Manor. It wasn’t long before he arrived, having barely broken a sweat. He knocked on the door and only had to wait a minute before Alfred answered.

“Master Crow,” Alfred greeted, visibly surprised. “Please, come in. Master Bruce is downstairs if you need to speak with him.”

Trust Alfred to immediately intuit what Tim had come here for. However, Tim had been putting off this conversation for longer, and it was one he needed to get over with.

“Thank you, but I think we need to talk first,” Tim said politely. Alfred nodded and led him to the secondary sitting room, which they both knew was the hardest to eavesdrop on and Alfred checked regularly for bugs, just to ensure privacy. “First off, I apologize for running off the other day.”

“Nonsense, Master Crow,” Alfred waved away kindly. “You were well within your right to retreat when you did, after I ambushed you with such a sensitive topic. I apologize for doing so in such a confrontational manner.”

“No, there was no good way to bring it up,” Tim sighed. At Alfred’s inquisitive eyebrow, Tim elaborated, “My identity’s always been a sensitive subject. Mia Drake isn’t exactly someone I’m proud of.”

“My dear child, no matter what you have done to survive, I promise you have plenty of reason to be proud of yourself.”

“Ah, but Mia Drake isn’t me,” Tim corrected nervously. Alfred looked even more confused at that, so Tim sighed and bit the bullet. “My name’s Tim. I’m a boy. ‘Mia’ is the nickname my mother gave me after I told her that, and she insisted I continue to present as a girl in public. She made up that I had cancer to justify pulling me out of school. I don’t like Mia.”

“I see,” Alfred smiled kindly. “I’m so sorry my boy. I never would have called you that had I known. I hope you know that there is nothing you can say that would change my good opinion of you, Master Tim.”

Hearing Alfred call Tim by his name ended up being more emotional than he anticipated. Tim sniffed as he felt the tears form in his eyes.

“Fuck, I have to stop crying every time someone calls me by my name,” Tim laughed wetly, wiping as his eyes.

“Language, Master Tim,” Alfred chided, but he was laughing too. “Though I take it you’d still like to be Master Crow around the others?”

“Yes please,” Tim nodded softly. “I’m not ready for anyone else to know.”

“Very well, Master Crow,” Alfred agreed, sounding perfectly composed. “Take all the time you need. No one shall get a word out of me.”

“Thank you,” Tim smiled, though his appreciation was tempered by the fact that he had no intention of sharing his identity with anyone else. At least, not any of the Bats.

“You always have a place here,” Alfred continued, unaware of Tim’s thoughts. “Please, just promise me you will do your best to come home again, and I will be more than content.”

Tim’s breath caught. Once again, Alfred cut to the heart of the matter. Tim knew he couldn’t truly promise that, not when he’d have to flee if the others found out about Mia, but—

“I promise.”

The words slipped off his tongue, soft and scared and far too vulnerable, but he didn’t take them back. Tim breathed out. He couldn’t dwell on them now. He had other work to do. Speaking of which.

“Alfred,” Tim started again, meeting the butler’s eyes. “I need to talk to Bruce, and I’d like for you to listen in. What I’m going to say is going to sound impossible, but please just listen. I can answer whatever questions you have after, but it’ll be hard enough to explain to Bruce, and I don’t want to have to say everything twice. But, no matter what you hear, please keep an open mind.”

“Of course, my boy,” Alfred promised, looking intrigued but reassuring. “I shall believe you, no matter what.”

“That, I’m not sure you can promise,” Tim muttered. He steeled himself. “Alright, I’m going now. I’ll see you soon.”

“That you shall, Master Tim.”

Tim allowed himself one more surge of gratefulness before he left to descend into the depths of the Manor.

Time to tell a man about his son being alive.

Bruce took the news well, all things considered. Tim had half expected the man to charge into the situation headfirst, completely ignoring his advice — planned for it, in fact — but Bruce had been surprisingly level headed about the whole thing. Well, level headed for Bruce, which was still somewhat dramatic compared to the average person. It was nice though, to see how much the man had changed over the past three years — the Batman Tim had met that night in an alleyway would never have listened to anyone, much less Tim, had he known Jason was alive.

Alfred was, surprisingly, far more disbelieving than Bruce, and Dick quickly matched his skepticism, not that Tim begrudged either of them for it. Barbara, for her part, believed him immediately, though she also insisted on spying on Jason to make sure it really was him. Tim helped, as he always did, but neither Cass nor Stephanie cared much about the situation, as they hadn’t known Jason at all.

Within a few months, however, even the most skeptical of the family had come around to the idea that the Red Hood was genuinely Jason. Even more promising, Jason had been opening up more to the idea that no one would hate him for becoming a crime lord. Tim even suspected he’d be able to reintroduce him to Dick again, since he reacted relatively well to Barbara, or at least Oracle.

Unfortunately, nothing could go that smoothly.

Jason had, one long and boring night on patrol, told Tim about his original plan to get Bruce to kill the Joker. The entire thing was somewhat ridiculous, but Tim had to admire parts of it, and he could honestly say that Jason might have been able to pull most of it off, even if he never could have gotten Bruce to kill Joker. The part that impressed and exasperated Tim most was Jason’s plan to get Black Mask to break the Joker out of jail, before Jason learned that Joker wasn’t capable of much these days.

That plan was starting to look a lot more insane now that it seemed to have happened for real. Tim had heard whispers of Black Mask getting desperate, caught between Batman and the Red Hood, but no one had thought he’d be crazy enough to actually break the Joker out. It turned out they were all wrong about that.

Ultimately, Tim had only heard about Joker’s little “reward” after he’d already been captured; he’d been offline during the announcement, and thus didn’t hear about the broadcast until after he’d already been captured by a particularly ballsy (and naive) civilian. The man had somehow noticed Tim in his black uniform on his fire escape and snuck up on him without triggering Tim’s sense of danger.

Batman had always warned him that stealth would fail someday. Tim had assumed that that had referred to when Steph hit him with a brick, or when Jason heard him call out for Robin, but it seemed he was wrong yet again. He didn’t even realize he’d been discovered until the bat hit his head.

By the time Tim woke up, he was already tied up and surrounded by Joker goons. He subtly pressed the distress button hidden under his wrist, which thankfully hadn’t been removed with his armor.

“...a cure for Joker venom,” Tim heard an unfamiliar voice plead desperately.

“Of course, my man!” Tim froze at the unmistakable laugh of the Joker. Bound in steel cables and playing unconscious, Tim couldn’t help but feel like he’d made some major mistake along the way. “Here’s your vaccine, right here!”

There was a bang, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. Joker laughed again.

“Oh, that one kills every time!” Joker cackled. “Idiots, all of them. As if my lovely gifts could ever be stopped. Why, what fun are they if they aren’t for everyone? Speaking of idiots though… I know you’re awake, little bird. I can hear your breathing.”

Tim couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath, but opened his eyes and looked up at the Joker. The man was far more disgusting than he’d ever been, with his modified gun-wheelchair and his eyes painted to give the illusion of angry scars.

“Boys, prepare for company,” Joker ordered his men with a sneer. “And get that pathetic man out of my way.”

The goons shuffled out, clearly used to taking orders without question. Tim recognized most of them as part of Joker’s old crew, but he hadn’t kept up with who was who after he’d presumably dealt with the Joker. For now though, he couldn’t worry about that; he’d need every ounce of brain power he had to stall long enough for Batman to arrive. The key would be to keep Joker talking without getting him angry enough to just shoot him. Tim decided he’d let the Joker get the first word.

“You know, good old Roman busted me out to deal with the little copycat,” Joker began, sounding as disgustingly amused as he always did. “The fool thought he could use me as a pawn, but I’m afraid chess isn’t really my game. No, I’ll deal with the Red Hood eventually, but you and I are due for a little chat, don’t you think?”

Tim remained silent, pulling on his emotionless Crow persona, if only to hide his fear. Joker might not be able to see if, but he wouldn’t put it past the madman to be able to read his emotions through his other senses, given his apparent ability to hear Tim’s subtle breathing changes from across the room. The persona helped, like a cool blanket over Tim’s emotions, but his heart still pounded in his chest.

“It’s not much of a chat if you don’t respond, birdie,” Joker growled, but then he shrugged, pulling on his characteristic insane smile. “Oh well, more time for me to talk. You know, in some ways I have to thank you: I’d gotten so used to my usual song and dance, I hadn’t changed things up in a while, you know? These new… limitations are irritating, but they did force me to get a little more creative. Gotham will soon learn that keeping the Joker down takes more than a little impromptu surgery!”

Tim remained quiet as Joker laughed at his own threat until he laughed himself out, looking annoyed at Tim’s continued lack of response. For better or for worse, there was only one thing Tim could say to that.

“I should have cut your tongue out along with your eyes,” Tim said calmly, like he was stating a simple fact. Joker’s mouth twitched in barely-suppressed fury. “Ultimately, though, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll just spout the same boring, useless shit you’ve always said, no matter the fact that everyone in Gotham can probably recite it in their sleep.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, little crow,” Joker seethed. “I am the most unpredictable force in Gotham. The world, even! No one can anticipate me.”

“Once upon a time, maybe,” Tim mocked, careful not to let his tone leave the comfortable apathy of Crow’s voice. “Now? You’re predictable. Do you really think Black Mask wanted you to go after Red Hood? I’ve been supplying Batman with his information. That’s a far more annoying prospect than some small time crime lord with a grudge. He expected you to go after me, and look at that. You’re such a good attack dog for him.”

“I am no one’s attack dog!” Joker shouted, incensed. “I run this city! No one else orders me around.”

“Orders? No. Manipulates? Clearly.”

“You little brat, I’ll—”

“Ultimately, you’re just a sad, pathetic man, no different from anyone else,” Tim interrupted. “This city is sick of you. Batman is tired of you. It might be true that you can overcome your new disabilities, but you’ll never overcome your own lack of creativity. Your bit is overrated.”

Joker growled, hissing something that Tim didn’t catch, but Tim was distracted by Batman slipping in through the door soundlessly. Thankfully, Joker didn’t seem to hear him, and Tim’s could have sighed in relief at Bruce’s timely entrance. Now Tim only had to stall for a few more seconds, and he knew exactly how to do so.

“Really though, it hardly matters,” Tim continued. He took a deep breath, then, using what he learned from Black Canary, he threw his voice across the room: “Did you really think you could keep me locked up?”

Gunshots rang out, but Tim smirked as they were lobbied at the opposite side of the room. Everything was over for the Joker.

A tense rescue, some cleanup, and a pointless confrontation later, Tim was annoyed at his family’s drama. Jason was the instigator, obviously, but Cass had certainly added fuel to the flames with her little stunt and calling him “brother.” As appreciative as he normally was for her support, the last thing that conversation had needed was a dramatic entrance.

Still, despite everyone yelling at him for telling them the truth, Tim had control of the situation. He could already see the resolution in his mind’s eye: he would talk them down, then pull Bruce and Jason together to reconcile, before affirming that Dick had misunderstood and that Tim was perfectly fine. Barbara would be furious, but Tim was close enough to her that he’d get to her to keep to their agreement anyway.

Or so he thought.

It only took three words to undo everything Tim had built. They were said casually but incredulously, like Dick — no, Nightwing — couldn’t even believe what was going on, but they still shook Tim to his core, numbing every bone in his body.

“You’re Timothy Drake.”

And Tim fell apart.

The worst part was, Timothy Drake didn’t exist. Dick had been introduced years ago to Tim Drake, but even if he remembered that encounter as he claimed he did, he shouldn’t know “Timothy.” No one but Stephanie and Alfred knew he was trans, and they would both rather die than betray that secret, even to Dick. Even if Dick had somehow worked his gender out anyway, Tim had never uttered the name “Timothy” outside of his own head. Was it cruel intuition or eerie knowledge that had led Dick to say that name?

Either way, it meant the same thing: Tim had to leave. This had always been the plan, he reminded himself as he darted towards his most secure safe house. He was always going to disappear if the Bats found out. He promised himself they would never be tainted by association to Mia or anything else in Tim’s life. That didn’t change just because Tim didn't want to leave. Hell, he had never wanted to leave; it just hurt more now that the inevitability had finally come around.

Tim couldn’t risk going to his actual apartment, not after Dick revealed that he knew his real name, but Tim was nothing if not prepared. He had numerous off-the-books safehouses, but the most secure one by far was one even Cass or Stephanie didn’t know about. In fact, the only time he’d ever visited it was to prepare it for this exact possibility, after which he’d never gone again so that it was never found. Luckily, it was in the Narrows, not too far from where the argument broke out in Crime Alley. Assuming nothing slowed him down, it would only take a few minutes to get to.

A shadow moved into his path, the darkness swallowing the shape, but Tim knew exactly who it was. Of course he was never that lucky.

Cassandra melted out of the shadows silently. She didn’t bother with a greeting or a word to stop him in his tracks; her face and body conveyed her confusion and disappointment effectively enough. He could tell she was and at him for running away, but she didn’t understand why his name would cause such panic in him.

“I have to leave,” he tried to explain with his voice and body. “The person I was before — they can’t meet her. It’s better if they stay unattached, or else I’m just a liability.”

“Excuses,” Cass called out, making him wince before he hardened his resolve and his face.

“It doesn’t matter,” he shook his head. “I’m not here to argue with you about this. I promised myself I would leave if they found out who I am, so now I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

They both knew that wasn’t strictly true: Cassandra could easily incapacitate him if she wanted, even after over a year of training together. That said, they also both knew that wasn’t really what Tim meant, and he could see the understanding dawn on her. He would escape eventually no matter what, and if she stopped him it would spit in the face of their bond.

“Okay,” she nodded, resigned. She straightened up. “I go with you.”

“No,” Tim protested strongly, unable to suppress the instinctive flare of panic that flashed through him at the thought. He cleared his throat and calmed himself. “No, you belong here. You have a future here. I thought things were going well with Barbara.”

“Yes,” Cass replied easily. “Things are good. Will be good too. For us both.”

“For you,” Tim argued, but he couldn’t win the argument like this. He changed tactics instead. “Look, if you leave, people will miss you. Barbara and Steph and Dick, all of them wouldn’t be the same without you. If I leave — when I leave — it won’t mean as much. They don’t know me, not really.”

“Because they don’t know Tim?” she guessed. Tim felt a rush of fear and excitement at hearing his adoptive sister use his real name, but he pushed it all aside and nodded. “Steph knows.”

“I’m not leaving Steph, and I’m not leaving you,” he said, only realizing that as he said it. Leaving either of them was unthinkable. “But the Bats? As long as I didn’t have a name, I could work with them without fear, but now that they know, it’s all moot. I have to leave.”

“You keep saying,” Cass almost shouted, her frustration bubbling to the surface. Tim blinked in surprise, but waited for her to explain. “You say that, but you do not feel it. Recite.”

“I’m not just reciting it, it’s true!” Tim protested, but the words sounded weak. “As long as I didn’t have a name, I was nothing. Now that they have it, I need to leave and find a new one.”

“Fine,” Cass huffed, though she still didn’t look convinced. “Then I go too. I will leave my name behind too and go with you.”

“What?” Tim asked, appalled. “You can’t just do that! You like Cassandra!”

“And you like Tim!” she shouted back before calming herself, her eyes mournful. “You are Tim. I see it. You can change your name, but you are still Tim. I can go with you, but I am still Cassandra. The family knows our names now, both of us, but we are still as we were. Understand?”

“That’s not true,” Tim protested, even though her words struck a chord in him. “My name — it wasn’t really mine. I had a different one. I was a different person, someone they shouldn’t know.”

“So was I,” Cass countered. “She had no name, but I was her. She did bad things. She killed. And I hate her. But you told me she didn’t matter, only Cassandra mattered. Now you? You are Tim, or Crow, or whoever. Not that other person. Not to me. Not to them.”

“It isn’t that simple,” he said, but the fight was leaving him.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But you want to stay.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, even though it wasn’t a question. “Of course I want to stay.”

“Then stay,” Cass smiled at him. “The rest will come.”

They stood in the quiet of the alleyway as the sounds of the city drifted in from the distance. Tim wasn’t sure if his thoughts were rushing all at once or barely moving at all, but he knew how he felt either way. It was the same way he’d felt since Dick had taught him flips, since Bruce had smiled at him and made him a mask, since Barbara had promised not to cross his boundaries, since Alfred had offered him a place to go home, since Steph had told him they’d always be friends, since Jason had started looking out for him.

Since Cassandra had called him “little brother” and meant it with every fiber of her being.

“Okay,” Tim relented. “I’ll stay. Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

The Joker died quietly on a Tuesday in November, only two weeks after his final escape. He had been shot — three times in the head, twice in the heart, and once in the stomach. The bullets at the scene indicated a standard issue police handgun, which corresponded to the knocked-out guard’s gun having been stolen. No one mourned, and a bare-minimum investigation found no further evidence. The suspect list was in the thousands, and therefore useless. Even Batman barely looked further than what the police had done before dropping the case in an obsolete folder on the Batcomputer and calling it a day.

Coincidentally, Jason was getting along much better with Bruce.

Life moved on.

“I’m still offended you didn’t call me,” Stephanie complained loudly as she braided Cassandra’s hair on the couch of the primary living room of Wayne Manor. Now that Stephanie had been introduced to Batman, she was constantly haunting the place. Not that Tim minded, of course.

“Oracle sent you a message as soon as everything was resolved,” Tim pointed out for the fifth time since she’d returned to Gotham.

“That isn’t the same as calling me!” she whined, though her smirk indicated that she knew exactly how annoying she sounded and was milking it for all it was worth. “I got the facts, but I didn’t get your feelings, Timothy. Those are way more important.”

“Thanks,” Tim remarked dryly. “You just wanted the drama.”

“That’s a very rude thing to say to your best friend,” Steph scowled playfully. “Completely true, of course, but rude.”

“I’m sure you’ll cope,” Tim rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of coping,” Steph said, her face becoming more serious, “how’s the adoption process going?”

“Fine,” Tim sighed. “You’d think there’s only so many visits social services can pull out of their ass given their lack of funding, but it turns out that number is a lot higher than we thought when there’s enough media coverage.”

“Not happy about embarrassment,” Cass chimed in.

To be fair, no one had anticipated that CPS would decide that two seemingly undocumented children adopted by a billionaire would be the line they stuck hard and fast at. For whatever reason, the head of Gotham CPS had become determined to find out where Tim and Cass had come from, allegeding that Bruce was picking up strays for unsavory reasons. He kept sending more inquiries and surprise visits to impede the adoption process, but obviously none of them gained any results, which only made him more angry and embarrassed.

Regardless, the adoption would go through, since the cover actually was mostly true: they were claiming that Tim and Cass were born to an abusive father and an absent mother, who neglected both of them in dramatically different ways and kept them separate, with Tim forced to hide and Cass not even taught language. A few years ago, they discovered each other and escaped. A few months ago, Bruce found them on the street and started caring for them, but they were only recently trusting enough to allow him to take them in permanently. It was basically Cassandra’s actual life, plus a few details to incorporate Tim.

“We’re still trying to figure out what to do about Mia, though,” Tim sighed. Instead of trying to incorporate Mia Drake into his background at all, they decided to forge Tim a new, separate identity altogether. It was great to be a legal boy without any transphobic eyes watching his every move, but that left the heiress as a loose thread. “I want to kill her off, but Barbara is hesitant to let her go.”

“Barbara is?” Stephanie asked, surprised. “That’s out of character. I’d think it was Bruce who’d want the backup plan.”

“No, Bruce has been surprisingly willing to let her go,” Tim mused. “Barbara thinks it’s dumb to let all that money go to waste, though, since there’s no legal or ethical way to make sure we get it if she dies. I’d normally agree, but it feels different, you know? I don’t want to be Mia again. Plus, Babs is still a little mad that I slipped my fake uncle right under her nose, so this might be payback.”

“Yeah, that was fucked up,” Steph hummed. Then, she grinned. “You know, who says you have to be Mia? I mean, it’s not like you’ll be the best candidate anyway, once your hormones start kicking in.”

“What are you getting at?” Tim asked skeptically.

“Well, Mia Drake is a rich, blonde bombshell, right?” Steph smirked. “Well, I ain’t rich, but I’m definitely blond and hot as fuck, so whose to say I can’t play her, when we need her? You’d have to teach me how to act, of course, but I’m a quick study.”

“That… could work,” Tim admitted, thinking it over. “I’d have to go over the details, but it’s not like anyone pays much attention to her. As long as I don’t have to be her anymore, I’m fine with it.”

“Sweet,” Steph said. “Though, in the interest of honesty, I’m gonna have to tell you that I’m definitely using that sweet, sweet inherited wealth to go on a shopping spree. Maybe two.”

“I literally couldn't care less,” Tim rolled his eyes. “Speaking of you stealing from rich people, how was your patrol with Bruce last night?”

Steph scowled, the tone shift abrupt and surprising.

“That man is a tyrant,” she growled. “Honestly, I’m happy to never patrol with him again.”

“Seriously?” Tim asked with a raised eyebrow. “I know Babs was worried, but you two seemed to get along fine last week. Didn’t you say you bonded?”

“Oh yeah, he’s fine as your dad,” she waved away. “We’re co-chairs of the ‘Tim Wayne Needs to Learn to Take Care of Himself’ Society. We made a banner and everything. But if that man thinks he can tell me what to do, he’s dead wrong.”

“I’m just going to ignore that middle part, for my own mental health,” Tim said.

“That’s for the best,” Cass advised knowingly.

“Agreed,” Stephanie seconded. “Anyway, Batman and Spoiler will be staying far apart. Don’t you worry though, because I’ve been set up as the protege for the next biggest vigilante in Gotham.”

“Oh god,” Tim gasped, horrified at where this was going. “Don’t tell me—”

“That’s right, me and the Red Hood are soon-to-be besties!” Steph cackled. “Babs got me his patrol routes, and Jason agreed.”

“Steph, I love you both, but he still kills people!” Tim argued. “He runs a goddamn criminal empire! That’s not exactly what you wanted to do.”

“What I want to do is beat up assholes who deserve it,” Steph pointed out, thankfully not sounding too defensive, “and god knows that’s what the Red Hood does in spades. But before you get all high and mighty — and trust me, I already heard it from Batman — my presence there is meant to be a deterrent too. Babs and I agree that Jason’s still a little trigger happy, so we’re hoping his methods become a little more debilitating and a little less off-the-rails. I promise I’m not hopping on the murder wagon.”

“Fine, it’s not like I could stop you,” Tim sighed, feeling a horrible sense of déjà vu.

“Correct,” Steph grinned. “Speaking of murder wagons, you won’t believe what happened at Titan’s Tower last week.”

Despite feeling perfectly safe at Wayne Manor, Tim never quite broke the habit of moving silently through the mansion and checking around every corner like Jack Drake might be lingering to give him a piece of his mind. Logically, he knew that Jack Drake had been dead for almost three years, but some instincts were harder to get rid of than others.

(Sometimes, in the warm glow of a fire and surrounded by people who loved him, Tim could acknowledge that his childhood was really fucked up. He could, on good days, even admit that he never deserved everything his parents put him through.)

Regardless of how logical his behavior was or wasn’t, Tim’s silence did mean that he heard more than he was frequently meant to. For the most part, he just apologized later, but sometimes the potential information he could overhear was too good to pass up. Other times, like the situation Tim currently found himself in, he just couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“...Robin like that,” he heard Jason say, causing Tim to freeze in place outside Dick’s door.

“I know you feel that way,” Dick responded, sounding pained. Tim didn’t dare move. “But I don’t want Robin to end here. There’s more that it can give to people, to Gotham. I understand your reservations — really, I do — but I think it deserves a second chance. Or a third, more accurately.”

“Sure, Gotham could use a Robin,” Jason agreed flippantly, “but what about Robin himself? This city takes and takes and no one deserves being on the other end of that. No more dead Robins. If that means no more Robins, I’ll accept that sacrifice.”

“This city is already taking things from him,” Dick argued. The use of “him” made Tim’s heart beat faster. Were they talking about Tim? “Crow’s already holding him back. I mean, his whole façade is just the way he acted when he was still in an abusive home. How is that healthy for him to keep reliving? I think Robin could be good for him, give him some new life and a place to explore.”

“I’m still not convinced that…” Jason continued, but Tim quietly dashed away, not willing to hear anymore.

The idea that he could be Robin was new and more than a little terrifying. He’d never even considered it, even before he made Crow an actual moniker, but he had always looked up to Robin, whether that was Dick or Jason. The fact that Dick seemed to want Tim to be Robin was incredible; it sounded like a dream come true.

Of course, a dream was all it could be. Jason justifiably opposed Tim as Robin. To be fair, it sounded like he opposed anyone being Robin, but Tim doubted Jason would want him as Robin even if that wasn’t the case. Hell, Jason had even said once that the only thing that stopped him from going into a rage when he was resurrected was the fact that Tim wasn’t Robin.

Even beyond Jason’s approval, the fact of the matter was that Tim was too old and jaded for Robin. Sure, both Dick and Jason had gone through some extremely traumatic experiences before assuming the role, but they’d both had an optimism and light that Tim didn’t have — that he had probably never had. No matter what happened with Crow, Robin just wasn’t an option for Tim.

“I have an announcement,” Cassandra declared at dinner one night. Tim looked up, surprised; it wasn’t like his sister to say something like that, since she preferred to just get to the point without extra words. The others looked surprised too (except Barbara, which Tim noted), but Bruce nodded for her to continue. “I’m Batgirl now.”

Everyone took a second to process the short statement, but once they did, the table became a flurry of excitement and congratulations. Steph, sitting next to Cass, had already wrapped her in a hug before Tim even finished processing.

“That’s amazing!” Dick declared, laughing. “Babs, I assume you signed off on this?”

“Of course,” Barbara proclaimed proudly. “Cass and I have been talking about it for a long time now, and she decided it was finally the right time for her to take up the mantle. I couldn’t be prouder to have her wear the cowl.”

Cass beamed at the words and the love in Barbara’s body language, but Tim couldn’t help but feel a small pang of guilt. He knew that Cass had taken on Crow to make sure he wasn’t overworking himself, but he hadn’t realized that she’d been holding herself back as Crow simply for his sake. He knew his sister: she was taking this because he was more stable now than he’d been in the whole time since they’d met.

Before Tim could so much as offer a congratulations, though, Cass shot a glare at him, immediately picking up on his self-recriminating thoughts. She only glared for a second before smiling again, but he understood her intent perfectly: You’re not allowed to be sad when I’m celebrating. It’s not your fault so stop being a downer.

How his sister managed to fit all of that in one glare, Tim had no idea, but he had to admit that at least some of it came from knowing her so well. Regardless, he sighed and pushed the thoughts away for the moment. As wonderful as it was to have such a talented sibling, he had to admit that it got pretty irritating sometimes when he couldn’t even keep his thoughts to himself.

After Tim forced himself not to dwell on any negative thoughts, the remainder of dinner was a joyous affair, with everyone excited for Cass and the reemergence of the Batgirl mantle. At Dick’s encouragement, Barbara even shared some of her favorite stories from her own days as Batgirl, something the woman rarely partook in.

By the time dinner wound down and everyone went their separate ways, however, Tim’s thoughts were turning down more anxious avenues. Mainly, he worried about the future of Crow. He didn’t begrudge Cass for her change in mantle, of course, but her support had become critical in maintaining the mystique and power of Crow in the underworld, especially as Rogues and gangs became more wary of him as his notoriety grew. Without Cass, Crow’s functions would be gutted.

Yet, deep down, Tim couldn’t find it in himself to be panicked about Crow as a mantle. Cass would still help as Batgirl in apprehending Rogues and helping with takedowns, and Oracle’s network was bigger than ever. Gotham would be fine and Tim would be…

Tim didn’t know where he’d be. The thought was as frightening as it was freeing, and he had no idea why. Having emotions was a relatively new phenomenon for him and he still wasn’t great at working through them. He needed to talk to someone.

Cass and Barbara were out for obvious reasons. Neither of them would appreciate being blamed for his crisis, even if he knew it wasn’t their fault. Normally, this would be the perfect problem to bring to Dick, but his conversation about Robin with Jason was still fresh on Tim’s mind. Tim didn’t want to touch that for now, so both of the former Robins were out as well. Steph had already left as soon as dinner was over, and Alfred hated partaking in any vigilante business that he didn’t need to be involved in.

That left Bruce. While the man wasn’t exactly Tim’s go-to choice for talking about emotions, he was usually pretty good about it when it came to vigilante topics. Besides, ever since Tim had come clean about his identity and moved into Wayne Manor, Bruce had been a lot less intense about everything. Tim didn’t even begrudge him his behavior, after he’d explained that he’d simply been worried about Crow’s home life and believed him to be unsafe. The man had seemed vindicated when Tim had “exposed” his fake uncle, but Tim still maintained that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

Luckily for Tim, Bruce wasn’t scheduled for patrol tonight after Alfred had discovered that the man had broken a rib in one of Riddler’s traps. He was now regulated to comms for the next week, which meant Tim knew exactly where in the Cave he’d be moping. Sure enough, Tim found him by the Batcomputer when he descended the long stairs down to the Batcave.

“Bruce,” Tim called out, catching the man’s attention. “Can I talk to you about something? It’s not urgent.”

“Of course,” Bruce agreed, visibly surprised but not unhappy. “Let me give out patrol assignments and I’ll be right with you.”

Tim nodded, stepping to the side as Batman related orders to Nightwing and Spoiler. Within a minute, Bruce turned back to him, the weight of his undivided attention resting on Tim.

“With Cassandra taking on the mantle of Batgirl, I’m worried about the future of Crow,” Tim cut directly to the heart of the matter. “I’m not confident I’ll be able to provide the support needed without her, especially since I’m starting school again soon.”

“You’re not getting out of going to school,” Bruce responded automatically. Tim didn’t begrudge him the instinct, given Dick’s history with dropping out, but he still didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

“That’s not the point,” Tim sighed with an eye roll. “I’m just not sure what to do about being Crow.”

“Just because your reach won’t be as universal doesn’t mean that you’ll be obsolete,” Bruce reassured him. “If you really feel the need, you could take a break altogether.”

“I’m not stopping,” Tim cut him off. “I know you don’t want us out there, but that’s not what this conversation is about. You can’t get rid of me.”

“I’m not getting rid of you,” Bruce disagreed. Tim glared. “Fine, but you can’t blame a father for trying. What’s this really about, then? You’ve never let anyone’s lack of cooperation stop you before.”

“It’s more like…” Tim trailed off, pushing down the giddiness he felt at Bruce referring to himself as Tim’s father. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I fit Crow anymore. I still want to be out there, but it feels… small, now.”

“I see,” Bruce contemplated. “I’m not personally familiar with the feeling. Batman has always been me, even when I was a child. Dick might be a better fit for this conversation.” Tim hesitated, not sure how to bring up the Robin in the room. Fortunately, Bruce seemed to pick up on it immediately. “Though, I can understand how you might not want to bring this to Dick, given his recent debates with Jason.”

“So you’ve heard them too?” Tim asked rhetorically, though he wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, I don’t want to deal with that.”

“Understandable,” Bruce said with the knowing tone of a man who’d been the subject of his eldest sons’ argument before. “That said, I wouldn’t mind having you work alongside me as an equal in the field. As much as I appreciate you deferring to me when we work together, I miss having someone call me out when needed. Don’t tell the others I said that. Regardless, you’d do well at that.”

“I guess,” Tim shrugged, feeling uncomfortable with the apparent pride written across Bruce’s face. “I don’t know, I still feel like — I’ve been Crow for so long. I’m not sure I’d be good at anything else.”

“That's a sunk cost fallacy,” he pointed out without judgment. “Besides, you’re still young. Dick had been Robin for far longer than you’d been Crow when he became Nightwing. You’ll do well no matter what you choose.”

“If you say so,” Tim begrudgingly agreed. “Anyway, this has helped, but I need to think more. Thanks Bruce.”

“Anytime,” Bruce replied easily, sounding like he actually meant it. “Get some sleep.”

“Never,” Tim deadpanned as he headed back up the stairs. He heard Bruce give a small huff of laughter before he donned his headset to return to comms.

As Tim pulled himself upstairs towards his room, he couldn’t help but reconsider Robin again. This time, he imagined himself as Batman’s partner, rather than his shadow. He considered how it would feel to stand beside the Dark Knight as an equal, solving cases and taking down bad guys without regard for who saw him or what he let slip to Bruce.

Just as before, the fantasy was intoxicating, but Tim drove it away before it could take root in his mind. He couldn’t be Robin — didn’t deserve to be Robin — so nothing good would come of such daydreams. He’d think further on Crow’s future, and in a few days he’d figure something out. Robin didn’t need to be involved.

He fell asleep with that promise on his lips.

Tim broke his promise a lot in the next few days. He tried to keep himself busy, but every time he slowed down for a few minutes and tried to think about Crow, the only thing he could think of was Robin: what it would feel like to wear the colors, to fly openly along rooftops, to stand beside Batman against injustice.

Robin was a distraction, one that Tim couldn’t afford to dwell on. He needed to cut this fantasy out of himself and fast. There was only one thing to do: talk to Jason.

“Timtam!” Jason greeted happily when Tim unceremoniously ducked in through the kitchen window of Red Hood’s current safehouse. Thankfully, Jason wasn’t wearing his helmet or covered in blood, so now was as good a time to talk to him as any. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Tim hesitated. Unlike with Bruce, where he could just jump right to what was bothering him, Jason required a more delicate hand. His anger tolerance was a lot higher than it used to be, but Tim was well aware of the fine line that laid between talking about sensitive subjects and Jason having a full on mental breakdown. He’d need to be subtle if they both wanted to leave this conversation with their heads.

Then again, subtly was for people with emotional intelligence and excess time, of which Tim had neither.

“I overheard you talking to Dick the other day,” Tim told him bluntly, careful not to use the name “Robin.”

“Of course you did,” Jason sighed, surprisingly not angry at all. Tim was immediately suspicious. “You know, there used to be a time where I didn’t have to worry about every conversation I had in private being listened in on by every member of the family. I miss those days.”

“If you didn’t want everyone to listen to you, you shouldn’t have had a conversation in Dick’s room,” Tim rolled his eyes remorselessly. “Private conversations are for places without bugs.”

“Does Dick know his room is bugged?” Jason asked, amused. Tim just shrugged. If Dick didn’t know, that was his problem. “Anyway, not the point. You want to know about Robin.”

Tim almost flinched, despite the relatively calm tone of Jason’s voice. He suddenly felt like he should’ve ignored his busy schedule and gone the more subtle route, emotional intelligence be damned.

“I didn’t mean…” Tim trailed off lamely, not sure how to conduct this conversation now that he was in it.

“Hey, I get it,” Jason said. “Though to be honest, I’m not too jazzed about the idea of new Robins running around, no matter who’s wearing the lack of pants. I mean, the only reason I didn’t go full berserker after the Pit was because there you weren’t Robin.”

“I understand,” Tim nodded, having already known all of this. “I just came here to get the thought out of my head. I already know I’m not good enough to be Robin, don’t worry.”

“Woah, that is not what I said,” Jason protested, much to Tim’s befuddlement. “It’s not about you being good enough, it’s about the fact that Robin is designed to die! He’s literally a walking traffic light made to distract the bad guys from Batman lurking behind them. It’s like the opposite of Crow.”

“That’s not what Robin is,” Tim protested before he could think better of it.

“No?” Jason challenged, the tiniest flare of bright green in his eyes.

“No,” he repeated anyway, suddenly feeling brave despite the potential danger. “Robin is… freedom. It’s the idea of being alive, of living and doing according to what’s right, rather than what’s logical. It’s not about being a distraction to danger, it’s about bringing hope to those who have suffered and survived. It’s the promise of dawn after the long night. Even when Robin doesn’t win, the idea of Robin does. The tomorrow always comes.

“And sure, there will always be people who hate Robin and try to kill him. To them, any display of positivity and hope is a sign of violence, and they’ll always be intent on bringing it down. Why do you think the Joker was so obsessed with killing him? Because he didn’t just make Batman better, he made Gotham better. No matter what else, that was always true.”

Tim stopped, aware that he was rambling. He looked up to Jason, only to see the man looking at him with wide, stunned eyes. Tim suddenly felt self-conscious, giving a speech about the eternal nature of Robin to the boy who’d died in the Robin suit, but Jason pulled himself together before Tim could try damage control.

“Do you really think that?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You really think that highly of— Robin?”

“Absolutely,” Tim answered at the same volume. “Robin meant everything to me. I wish you could’ve left on your own terms. You deserved closure.”

“Yeah,” Jason whispered, almost to himself. “I did.”

Silence hung in the air for a minute as Jason processed, and Tim felt no rush to pull him out of it. Jason deserved the time that Tim could give him.

Eventually, Jason rallied himself.

“Alright, enough of that,” he declared, shaking himself out of his funk. He smiled at Tim. “I’m hungry. Why don’t we get some food, like in old times? I’ll pay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim matched him, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got Bruce’s card, so he’ll pay.”

“Now that, baby bird, is an offer I can get behind.”

After that, Tim assumed the matter had been put to rest. Neither Dick nor Jason hadn’t mentioned it since, and Jason had seemed pretty dead set against the idea of any more Robins when their conversation had ended. So, while Tim privately had a few more dreams about flying through the air uninhibited, he resigned himself to finding a new moniker in the future.

First, though, he had a bigger, scarier problem to tackle: Christmas.

Technically, Tim and Bruce were both Jewish, though Tim himself had never observed any high holidays or traditions, even before his parents decided he was dead to them. While Bruce was only moderately more culturally involved than Tim, both of them were outshined by the dazzling excitement of Dick Grayson, who had grown up Orthodox Christian and had always been insistent that Christmas was a time for family. Alfred had only ever encouraged the idea, which meant that the holiday was mandatory for everyone even remotely involved in the Wayne family.

This year, with Cass, Steph, Jason, and Tim all being added to the family in various degrees of officiality, the holiday was more stressful than ever. Before he knew it, Tim found himself in the second week of December needing gifts for literally everyone and having none of them. He spent the next week and a half furiously gathering intel on his new family members and determining exactly which gifts would have the highest emotional and practical impacts on their lives.

Eventually, though, he had gifts for everyone: a custom, camouflaged voice changer for Bruce’s undercover missions, a pair of red, green, and yellow mittens for Dick’s perpetually cold hands, a second edition copy of Jane Eyre for Jason’s new bookshelf in his apartment, a smart but colorful bow-tie for Alfred’s collection, two tickets to an upcoming tech conference for Barbara’s insatiable curiosity, a book on puns for Cassandra’s growing vocabulary, and a purple sweatshirt with Steph’s favorite anime cover on it for her hatred of all practical gifts.

Needless to say, Tim thought he was going to win Christmas. If winning Christmas was possible. He wasn’t sure about it, since Jason said it was and Dick claimed it wasn’t and Tim wasn’t sure who to believe in this case. He was erring on the side of possibility, just in case.

Thankfully, Christmas Day itself was much more relaxed than the weeks preceding it. Alfred had made a mouth-watering ham, as per tradition, and by the time dinner was over even Barbara had arrived, since her father was still on duty to keep the city safe. That pleasant surprise quickly became a hindrance as they started opening presents: Barbara was Tim’s only real competition for winner of Christmas.

While most of the family lacked either the intel gathering skills or the shopping experience to truly compete with Tim, Barbara had just as much skill — if not more — in both areas as him. Each grateful smile thrown at Tim would be matched by a delighted laugh in Barbara’s direction.

At first, Barbara took it all with such grace and sincerity that Tim almost felt bad about being so competitive — that was, until Alfred thanked her for his new rolling pin after someone — Dick, obviously — had broken his last one. With that declaration, Barbara shot a quick but undeniably smug smirk in Tim’s direction. With that, the challenge was officially on.

Each gift was another point in one direction or the other, with Tim struggling to remember the gifts he was receiving himself in favor of tallying points between them. Not that they were bad gifts — on the contrary, Tim noted that most of them were rather useful or sweet — but Tim had a mission. Cass watched in open exasperation as the two people on either side of her silently vied for the title of Winner of Christmas.

This continued until Barbara and Tim opened their gifts to each other simultaneously after a silent agreement — only to find that they’d gotten each other tickets to the same conference.

“Truce?” Tim proposed after they finished laughing about it.

“Truce,” Barbara agreed, grinning.

“Truce?” Dick repeated, flabbergasted. “Truce from what?”

Cass and Jason threw him equal looks of pity.

The rest of the night was far more casual, with everyone seemingly enjoying their gifts as they opened them. Eventually, as all things ended, so too did the pile of gifts as scraps of wrapping paper littered the room.

“Wait, I’ve got one more,” Dick said before everyone started cleaning up. “Let me go get it.”

He darted away without waiting for a response, causing Tim to frown in concern. After a little bit of mental math, he realized that the only possible gift left would be from Dick to him, but he couldn’t imagine why Dick wouldn’t have brought it down with the rest of the presents. He didn’t need to wait long though, as Dick reappeared after a minute. Sure enough, Dick handed it to Tim with a smile.

Tim took the offered box cautiously as he mentally cataloged it: it was a pretty normal size, about two and a half feet by one foot, give or take a few inches, and didn’t weigh more than a heavy coat would. Tim considered shaking it, but decided that would be too juvenile. He pulled at the red bow until it came undone and opened the box.

Tim felt himself stop breathing as he took in the sight before him: the reds, yellows, and greens of the Robin suit stuck out against the soft white tissue paper, perfectly highlighting the stylized “R” emblazoned on the left side of the chest. He felt more than heard Bruce stiffen as the man caught hold of the sight, but most telling of all was Jason’s complete nonreaction as Tim looked to him for explanation, surprised.

“I thought…” Tim began, but couldn’t pull himself together to finish his sentence.

“I know, I wasn’t on board with this at first,” Jason admitted, “but what you said about Robin being freedom… I don’t see the magic in it anymore, but you do. So, while I’m still hesitant, I think you deserve a chance. And on a more selfish note, this is my closure. I can give Robin to you without regrets.”

“Thank you,” Tim choked out. He turned to Dick. “You know, even if Jason’s okay with this, you don’t have to give it to me. I know I can’t be your first choice—”

“No, baby bird,” Dick cut him off gently. “You are my first choice. I know you struggle with your self-worth, but you are worth it. I am so, so proud of everything you’ve done as Crow and as Tim. I know you suffered to get here, but I can never express how proud and amazed I am that you survived everything that you did. I would be honored to have you take up Robin. Not just anyone, you.”

“I—” Tim choked. “Really?”

“Really,” Dick said, smiling. “I mean it.”

Tim laughed breathlessly, his throat feeling dry. He felt a hand on his shoulder as Cass patted his softly with a warm smile. Tim cleared his throat and pulled a smile on, but it felt far more real than anything he’d ever worn.

“Just so you know, the first thing I’m doing is adding pants,” Tim said wetly. Dick grinned.

“My own brother, betraying my legacy!” Dick laughed dramatically, but his face was delighted.

“Thank god, someone with sense,” Jason said, rolling his eyes fondly.

“That applies to you too, you know,” Barbara pointed out.

“Tim has no sense,” Cass corrected.

“Excuse you!” Tim squawked, offended. “I have plenty—”

His voice cracked, freezing his sentence in his tracks. For a moment, everyone was silent, before—

“Your voice is changing!” Steph declared, cackling. “The T is kicking in! You’re going through puberty! Oh god, welcome to hell.”

“Shut up,” Tim said pathetically, his voice feeling weird and his face on fire, but inside he was brimming with joy.

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Steph continued, unbothered. “We need to celebrate. Let’s break out the finest champagne— I’m kidding, kidding, Alfred, sheesh.”

“I’m proud of you too,” Bruce whispered in Tim’s ear as the rest of the room got distracted by Steph’s antics. Tim looked up at him. “I look forward to working with you, partner.”

And there was nothing for Tim to do but smile.

Nine Months Later
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late to back out.”

Dick’s question was nervous and well-meaning, but Tim couldn’t help but feel a flare of annoyance at the repeated sentiment.

“Of course I am,” Tim answered. “We agreed that he needs this, didn’t we? He needs a place in the family, and I can provide him with one. It’s a good solution.”

“I know, but we both know this means more than that,” Dick said gently. “I’ve been in your place, remember? I know what it’s like to give this away.”

“I’m giving this away voluntarily,” Tim reminded him. “You didn’t have a choice. I do. Now stop questioning me and let’s do this.”

“Okay,” Dick agreed warily. He pushed open the door to the study, revealing an angry Jason and a scowling Damian.

“I told you, Robin doesn’t follow the right of conquest,” Jason repeated for what had to be the millionth time. “This is a family, not a command structure.”

At any other time, Tim would’ve been delighted to hear Jason call them a family, but his own patience had been wearing thin since Damian’s second assassination attempt against him. Unfortunately, it was becoming clear that Damian also had very little patience when he didn’t get his way, which was often.

“I am the superior heir,” the child declared haughtily. “If Timothy doesn’t agree to a duel, it is up to the head of the house—”

“Robin isn’t a meritocracy either, brat,” Jason interrupted before seeing them. “Oh thank god, please spare me from this child.”

“I am not a—”

“Damian,” Tim stated, cutting the boy off. Said boy looked offended again.

“What is it, Timothy?” he all but snarled. “Are you finally conceding Robin to me?”

“No,” Tim denied promptly. Before Damian could protest again, however, he continued, “But I have a role you’re currently better suited towards anyway: my first alias, Crow.”

“Crow?” Damian asked, startled. Tim jumped on the opportunity, not wanting to waste a moment when Damian wasn’t talking down to him.

“Crow is the silent protector of Gotham,” he explained. “More importantly, he’s the protector of Batman, whether it be from others or himself. He’s essential for striking terror into the hearts of criminals while still providing essential information to Batman and Oracle. Over the years, it’s become one of the most respected and feared names in the Gotham underbelly.”

“I know this,” Damian scowled, regaining his composure. “Crow was a non-combatant unit. You were too weak to engage with even the smallest of criminals.”

“Not too weak, too wise,” Tim corrected. “Crow’s importance is in his stealth, which becomes obsolete if you break it for any given person. Crow is all about choosing your battles, and knowing when it is time to fight and when it is time to listen and learn.”

“I have no need for such skills,” Damian scoffed. “I am a skilled fighter.”

“You are,” Tim admitted, albeit somewhat reluctantly. “However, you came to Gotham to learn, didn’t you? If you only stick to combat, you’ll learn nothing you don’t already know. Crow offers you a wealth of knowledge and experience that you’ve never tapped into.”

“I suppose,” Damian conceded, but he still sounded hesitant to Tim’s ears. Tim sighed, dreading what he’d have to do next: talk about his feelings.

“Look, I know what it’s like to be born to a purpose,” he admitted, watching as Damian’s eyes flicked towards him in interest; Like the League of Assassins, Damian knew nothing of his life before he was Crow. “I was made to feel like I was completely useless if I wasn’t the perfect child and heir. I felt that weight, like if I did a single thing wrong, it would all come crashing down and I’d be alone. I know. And that weight? It did crush me. I had no one else, and it destroyed my life. Crow helped me grow out of that, it helped me heal. Crow helped me find myself when I didn’t know anything but what other people thought of me. But I am more than what people saw me as, and I know you are too. You just have to learn. With that, Crow can help.”

Dick and Jason were quiet as Tim finished his pitch, all three of them watching as Damian processed the information himself. Tim was patient as the boy revealed nothing in his face or body, but his own silence indicated that he was thinking it over all the same. Eventually, though, he spoke.

“Very well,” Damian agreed, and it was all Tim could do not to let out a sigh of relief. “I will take on the mantle of Crow, at least until I learn enough to unseat you from the position of Robin.”

Tim smiled, not even needing to fake it.

“I look forward to working with you then, Crow.”