Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Narrowed eyes glued on his watch, Tim counted down the seconds, digits shifting in steady pace, as he loomed waiting. The explosion bloomed like a miniature sun in the distance, the force rattling the rooftop beneath his boots. Even prepared for it, the blast still left his ears ringing, but he didn’t mind. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Go time.

Moving swiftly, he crossed the rooftop he’d chosen hours ago—prime real estate for surveillance, high enough to stay unseen, low enough to make a quick exit if things went sideways. He walked into the shadows, exactly the way Bruce had drilled into him. Gotham’s night was his element, the darkness his cover, the scowling gargoyles his sentries. 

He perched near a particularly gnarly one, tracing a gloved hand on its weathered snoot. He’d claimed this one as his own when he first started as Robin. It wasn’t just a Gargoyle now, no. He was Toothless. Tim caught himself wondering what Jason Todd would think if he somehow knew he’d named a Gotham gargoyle after a cartoon dragon. And a cute one at that .

The thought made him smirk.

“Exactly, pal,” he murmured near the statue’s ear. “He’d have so much to say.”

Tim’s smirk widened as he spread his arms, glancing downward. His breath hitched and his legs fought him for a second, before he vaulted over the edge of the building. The city rushed up to meet him, wind slapping his face, adrenaline spiking in his veins. No matter how many times he did this, freefall still made his heart lurch—six months into Robin duty, and he still wasn’t used to it.

Jason never looked scared, he thought, his predecessor's vibrant smile flashing before his eyes, the excited howls of the second Robin echoing in his ears. He pushed the memory aside and fired his grapple, angling his body to build momentum. The line went taut, swinging him cleanly across the gap, straight into position. He landed exactly where he was supposed to—quick glance at his watch—at the exact second he was supposed to.

Three steps back. Back against the wall. Hidden in the dark.

The explosion had done its job. The shattered street lamps left the alley in shadows, just the way he liked it. His gaze flicked across the scene, every detail aligning with the hours of surveillance he'd put in. The Escabedos were funneled right where he wanted them—out in the open, vulnerable. The SUV was prepped for a getaway, predictable. Sloppy. He knew they’d rush. Knew they’d make mistakes. He just had to separate Manuel from his men.

Right on cue, eight figures stumbled from the ruined building, coughing, dragging heavy duffel bags, shoving them into the SUV. Tim’s fingers tightened around his bo staff, knuckles whitening. Almost there.

And then there he was. The great Manuel himself, kingpin of kingpins, the almighty druglord of druglords, burst onto the scene, barking orders and swearing in rapid-fire Spanish. Tim made a mental note to look up a few of those words later.

For now, he had more important things to do.

Tim crouched lower, eyes sweeping the scene, analyzing patterns, tracking movement. Manuel’s guys flanked the SUV. He mapped out angles, ran through contingencies, predicted their reactions three moves ahead. These guys weren’t tacticians. They were all brawn, no brain.

His gaze flicked to the duffel bags and just like that his confidence wavered. Too small. They didn’t match his calculations—too light for the volume of product he’d predicted. His mind raced through possibilities: Decoy? A setup? His numbers weren’t wrong. Couldn’t be. But something was off. He just hadn’t connected the dots yet. 

The goons scattered, piling into the SUV and a minivan across the street.

Manuel scanned the alley, gearing up to leave. 

There.

Tim launched forward, bo staff striking behind the drug lord’s knees. Manuel’s legs buckled, balance lost in an instant. And right on cue the roar of an engine. Tim’s lips curled. Called it . Manuel never risked the product. Tim had studied him, knew him. He’d watched the pattern play out a dozen times. The drugs always came first. And Manuel was fearless and arrogant. Overconfident. Certain of his power, his reputation, the fear he commanded—among cops, civilians, rival criminals.

Tim was none of those things. And Manuel was about to learn that the hard way.

Manuel’s gun was out before his ass had hit the ground. Predictable . He twisted mid-fall, craning his neck to take aim. Expected .

Tim was already in motion, dodging the line of fire, slamming a sharp kick to Manuel’s wrist. A crack of bone, the gun went flying, skidding across the pavement.

That familiar rush surged through Tim, exhilarating and electric. The thrill of the takedown, the satisfaction of a plan unfolding exactly as designed. A flawlessly executed bust. Sure, the drugs would get away. But Manuel? Manuel would be behind bars before sunrise.

And that left the cartel in Fernando’s hands—the last Escabedo standing. Fernando, the least experienced youngest brother. Fernando, the weakest link. The guy with a nasty habit of sampling his own product. Daily. Fernando, who was already doomed to be the end of the Escabedo family business, even if he didn't know it yet.

Manuel was already reaching for his second gun, but Tim saw it coming and was faster.He cracked his bo staff across the guy’s unbroken wrist with pinpoint precision. Manuel grunted. Easy , Tim thought. And his heart kicked in his chest upon realization.

Too easy.

Pain exploded in Tim’s skull before he could even finish the thought, a solid impact slamming into his right temple. His vision blurred for half a second, just long enough for a second attack—a kick aimed straight at his knee. He twisted instinctively, rolling with the force, and barely avoided his leg getting snapped in half. His grip tightened on his staff as he hit the ground, already preparing a counter-attack, only to stare up the barrel of an A4.

Shit. Rookie mistake. He should’ve double-checked. The SUV was gone, but the damn minivan was still there. Tim’s heartbeat spiked as he registered the situation: Manuel climbing back to his feet, peering down at Tim with barely contained rage, and the goon looming over him, gun ready, just waiting for the order.

Then—movement. A blur in the shadows. Tim saw it a split second before the gunman screamed, his blood splattering as a bird-shaped blade slashed across the exposed hand that held the gun. The A4 hit the ground. Manuel was already bolting toward the minivan, diving inside. An engine roared, tires screeching, then silence. Tim had barely kicked the gun away from the goon and the van was already gone, leaving behind nothing but the smell of burning tires.

Tim's head still throbbed as he pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t need to look to know who had descended from the rooftop, but he did anyway. He turned and watched Nightwing, crackling escrima sticks twirling ominously, knocking Manuel's gunman out with a single precise strike.

Tim was still panting, when Nightwing's rigid form turned slowly toward him, glare unmistakable even under the domino mask.

“Nightwing, I can—”

“Get in the car.”

The words were icy calm. The kind of calm that was 87% worse than Bruce’s barked 'Robin !' whenever Tim did something particularly reckless.

Tim cleared his throat, tried again with a half-hearted chuckle. “Night, just let me expla—”

Dick took another step forward, head tilting to the side. Tim, on pure survival instinct, stepped back.

“ Get. In the car. Now .” 

So. Dick was definitely not a fan of rogue solo missions. Noted.

Tim didn’t push his luck. He scurried toward the Nightbird, shooting a glance at Dick’s rigid, fuming figure as he slid into the passenger seat.

This was going to be a fun, fun ride.

Tim trailed stiffly behind Dick into the Batcave, both of them yanking off their masks in sync. Dick’s whole posture radiated tension—agitation, anger. The kind of anger Tim had never seen from him before. Or rather, the kind he’d never had directed at him before.

In the year and a half he’d been here—first as a trainee, then as Robin—he’d seen plenty of heated fights between Bruce and Dick. Hell, he’d even had a few of his own with Bruce. But Dick?

Dick had always been level-headed with him. Patient. Willing to listen, to understand, to help. The guy was the human embodiment of comic relief, cracking jokes even when things were falling apart. He’d lightly scolded Tim once or twice after a mission, but this? This was different.

This wasn’t chill Dick.

And it was throwing him off.

Not knowing what else to do, Tim made a beeline for the medbay, dropping onto the exam table without waiting to be told. Across the room, Dick moved with precise, jerky motions, gathering supplies. Every clatter of metal on the tray was way louder than it needed to be, the silence between them thick and wrong.

Tim shifted slightly, discomfort building. He glanced at Dick’s face—jaw clenched, stony expression. What the hell was his problem? Sure, tonight’s takedown wasn’t exactly by-the-book, but it wasn’t like this was the first time Tim had gone solo. And it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

Bruce had never lost his mind over it.

So what was Dick’s deal?

Tim kept his mouth shut, knowing he’d get his answer soon enough. Instead, he let Dick tilt his head, checking him over. The disinfectant stung like hell when it hit the spot where the gun had slammed into his skull, and Tim sucked in a sharp breath. The smarting pain told him the skin had broken, the deep throb confirmed a bump had already formed.

Dick moved on without a word, grabbing the penlight and flicking it toward his eyes. Tim tracked the movement, willing his pupils to behave. The last thing he needed right now was a concussion diagnosis—because a concussion meant a benching, and a benching meant wasted time.

Dick finally spoke, voice edged and no-nonsense. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Tim met his gaze for half a second before looking away, suddenly feeling weirdly like he was being interrogated. “No, Dick. I’m fine.”

Dick nodded once. “Command center. Now.”

Not a suggestion. An order.

Tim clenched his fists, irritation simmering under his skin. The way Dick was treating him—like a kid, like a kid in trouble—was really starting to get on his nerves. He hopped off the med bed and stalked after him toward the Cave’s main area, frustration mounting with every step.

Then Dick spoke again, tone dark and far too serious. “Oh, perfect timing. Hey, Bruce.”

Tim glanced toward the Batcomputer, where Bruce sat, eyes locked on the screen, his face unreadable as ever. Tim's lips twitched in something that resembled a smile but wasn’t quite, then threw himself into a chair at the massive conference table, draping his right leg over the armrest and lying back comfortably, just to be a little shit about it. If Dick thought Bruce was about to back him up on this?

He was in for a reality check.

And Tim was so here for it.

"Hey, Dick." Bruce’s voice was distant— shocker . He didn’t even glance their way, and Tim shook his head, biting back a smirk. Bruce hadn’t even realized Tim was currently in the Cave. Let alone that he’d snuck out of the manor as Robin to tackle a whole-ass drug cartel.

Yeah. This might actually be fun.

“I’m not alone, Bruce,” Dick ground out, slamming a hand on the table. The sharp thud echoed through the Cave, and Bruce finally turned toward them, looking mildly— mildly —annoyed.

“Oh. Hi to you as well, Tim.”

Tim bit his lip harder to keep from grinning. Dick’s frustration was practically radiating off him now, which made this way funnier than it should be. "Hey, B."

Dick, visibly done with both of them, exhaled sharply. “Do you notice anything weird about Tim, Bruce?” His voice had dropped an octave, which was never a good sign. Tim tensed slightly, that familiar discomfort creeping up—the one that always hit right before Bruce and Dick had one of their epic shouting matches.

His brain made the involuntary leap to his parents' fights, but—no. Not the same. This wasn’t a couple tearing each other apart. This was father and son. Batman and freaking Nightwing.

One of those pinch me moments.

Tim wondered if Jason had gotten used to this when he was Robin. He bet that if he did, he wouldn’t be rattled by it, like Tim was. No. He’d likely just sat back, popcorn in hand, and watched the drama unfold.

Bruce, dragging his eyes from the screen at a pace that could only be described as deliberate, finally really looked at Tim. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he took in the Robin uniform. “Today is not one of your patrol days.”

Not a question. Just a very Bruce-like statement of fact.

Tim met his gaze unfazed. “I know. But I found a lead on a guy I’ve been trying to pin down for a while now and thought I’d check it out.” He shrugged, keeping his tone just casual enough.

Let the games begin.

“I see,” Bruce said with a nod, like Tim had just told him something mildly interesting about stock market trends. Then he turned to Dick—because even Bruce couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed just how pissed off Nightwing was.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Oh, Bruce. That was the absolute wrong way to phrase that. Tim was seriously struggling to keep a straight face by now.

“What’s wrong with me?” Dick repeated, voice pitching higher, his arms flinging out. “ What’s wrong with me? Your fourteen-year-old Robin just admitted he went solo on a mission you had no idea about and your response to that is ‘I see’ ?”

“Tim can handle himself, Dick.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, steady. And just like that, Tim felt the sharp sting of two entirely contradictory emotions clashing: pride and resentment.

“Tim is fourteen , Bruce!” Dick shot back, pacing now, hands cutting through the air. “He’s been in costume for six months , and you think he can just—just handle himself ?”

Tim wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or touched. Dick’s worry was—objectively—misplaced, but it was still nice to have someone care.

Bruce, as always, was immovable. Unshaken. “He made it home safe,” he said evenly, fingers already typing away at the Batcomputer. “Besides, I’m sure Tim wouldn’t risk engaging with anyone too dangerous or out of his league. He’s too smart for that. ”

Tim’s jaw clenched.

He had indeed made it home safe.

Jason hadn’t.

But Bruce had chased Jason down to the ends of the Earth, trying to bring him home. And now here Tim was, sitting two feet away, barely a blip on Bruce’s radar. Tim liked to think he’d made peace with that. That he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d gotten the broken Batman—the shadow of the man he used to be.

Grief was a vicious, all-consuming thing. Tim understood that.

He just wasn’t sure it excused this.

Though, to be fair, Tim had more or less forced himself into the role of Robin. Bruce hadn’t picked him—hadn’t wanted him. And that was fine. Expected, even.

Bruce didn’t owe him anything.

And Tim was used to being the adult in the room, no matter what Dick seemed to think. He was the one who had to keep Bruce in check, make sure he didn’t burn out, didn’t spiral, didn’t go too far. That he didn’t drink too much. That he ate. That he slept—at least sometimes. That he remembered he had a company to run, a legacy to uphold.

Tim might be fourteen, but that was just a number. Just a technicality. He hadn’t been an actual kid in years. Long before he’d ever set foot in Wayne Manor.

And that was fine. Or—if not fine —it was what it was.

“He made it home safe because I was there ,” Dick shot back, voice rising. “Because I saved his ass at the last second! Won’t you even ask him who he was going after? What he was trying to stop?”

Tim wasn’t sure why he felt such a wild satisfaction at watching Dick win this argument, even as it clearly wasn’t in his favor. He’d come in here expecting Dick to get a reality check—only to realize that, actually he kinda wanted Bruce to get one instead.

Bruce turned a glare on Dick. Not just any glare—the Bat glare. The one that made most Robins freeze, hold their breath, and frantically start explaining. Or backpedaling. Or apologizing. Or all three.

But not Dick.

Not right now.

“He was trying to take down Manuel freaking Escabedo , Bruce!” Dick shouted, voice cracking slightly at the edges. “In his base of operations ! And you didn’t even know he was out of the house!”

Tim flinched. Yeah, that sounded a little bad.

“He’s fourteen ! He’s in school ! He’s got barely a year of training and six months of field experience, and you think it’s fine to let him run around Gotham alone at all hours trying to take down the most dangerous drug cartel in the city ?”

Tim clenched his jaw. He really, really wasn’t liking the way Dick kept emphasizing the word fourteen.

Bruce’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, and his steely blue gaze flicked to Tim—just for a second.

It was brimming with shock.

It was brief, but Tim caught it. And Bruce never did shock.

The wild satisfaction that surged in Tim’s chest died just as fast when Bruce’s expression hardened, schooled back into that unreadable mask. That emptiness. The wall that Tim knew too well— too damn well.

“Dick is right, Tim. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Tim glanced at Dick, torn between laughing at the incredulous look on his face or throwing a chair at Bruce in hopes of getting a real reaction out of him.

“I almost got him,” Tim said, shrugging. “One of his goons just happened to get the drop on me.”

“With a freaking A4 ,” Dick thundered, and Tim grimaced a little.

“Yeah… if Dick hadn’t shown up when he did, things might’ve gone south. You’d probably be going through your future Robin recruitment list right about now.”

Tim wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—how casual he sounded saying it, or how Bruce didn’t even twitch.

For a split second, he considered throwing in a Jason reference. Maybe something just sharp enough to cut through that apathy, to force Bruce to feel something.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t that cruel.

“You’re not to go on missions without backup or clearing with me first, Timothy. Understood?”

Bruce’s voice was distant again. Tired.

Tim nodded emphatically. “Understood, B. Now, if you two will excuse me, I desperately need a shower.”

He pushed to his feet, already heading for the Cave’s exit when a firm grip caught his bicep, stopping him short.

Tim turned, brow furrowing.

Dick’s expression was set. Unmovable.

“Pack a bag,” he said. “Enough for a month or so. You’re coming to Blüdhaven with me.”

Tim gaped at him.

“What? Why ?”

“Because I said so.”

Dick’s tone didn't leave room for argument or pushback and Tim blinked at him, still processing.

“I don’t care what you two think you’ve got going on here, but this?” He gestured between them. “This isn’t right. You’re a kid, not some seasoned vigilante, and Bruce is supposed to be the adult in the room. Or should be anyway. ”

His glare cut to Bruce, who was slowly—almost lazily—getting to his feet.

“Tower over me all you want, I don’t give a shit.” Dick’s voice didn’t waver, not even a little. “The difference between us is that I learn from my mistakes. And I’m not about to make the same one I made with Jason.”

Tim sucked in a sharp breath.

Bruce growled.

“Oh, now you’re mad?” Dick’s laugh was humorless. Bitter. “Now we get a reaction from you? Too little, too late , B. For everyone involved.” He held Bruce’s gaze as he pointed to Tim, and his voice was firm. “The kid is staying with me. Until you get your shit together and decide to be the mentor he deserves, he’s with me.”

Tim could only stare at Dick, stunned into silence.

Dick’s expression didn’t waver as he turned to meet Tim’s eyes.

“Quick shower. Pack a bag. Meet me in the garage.”

A beat.

“You have thirty minutes. ”

Tim rested his forehead against the cold glass of the car window, staring out at the blur of lights passing by. The rain-slicked roads reflected the street lamps as they sped away from Gotham and headed toward Bludhaven. The city shrank in the side mirror, and Tim couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next.

Dick’s voice broke the silence, calmer now, but still laced with that thickness Tim wasn't used to. “I’m guessing your parents are away?”

Tim’s eyes stayed on the lights, distant. “Yes. They won’t be home for another two months.”

There was a pause, and then Tim caught Dick’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, the way his grip on the wheel tightened. “What?” Tim asked, agitated.

“Nothing,” Dick muttered, but Tim could tell there was definitely something. “It’s just... Do you see how wrong this is? Your parents leaving you alone like this? Bruce not paying attention... You’re fourteen, damn it! Why doesn’t anyone get that you’re still just a—”

“If you so much as think to say ‘kid’, I swear, Dick…”

Dick shot him a look, frustration rolling off him in waves. “The fact that everyone around you is acting like you’re not a kid doesn’t change the truth, Tim! You still are one!”

Tim exhaled sharply, dragging his finger over the grainy plastic below the window. There was no point arguing about this. Not when both of them were right. An annoying little paradox.

“I’ll figure out something for your school,” Dick said after a beat. Tim shook his head.

“No need,” he said, voice flat. “I forged my parents' signatures and listed myself as homeschooled.”

Dick blinked, his eyes wide as he turned to look at him. “You what ?”

Tim shrugged, glancing briefly at Dick before turning his gaze back to the windshield. "It made things easier. I don’t have to worry about homework anymore or early mornings after sleepless nights patrolling."

Dick's fingers rapped on the wheel, and his jaw rolled, but he didn't respond immediately. "And Bruce knows?" he finally asked, several seconds later, disbelief in his voice.

"Yeah. I ran it by him, and he was cool with it. Even found it smart," Tim replied, keeping his tone casual.

Dick scoffed, shaking his head. "I can’t believe this. I can’t believe how far gone he is. He needs real help, professional help, but instead, he’s clinging to you and this whole crime-fighting thing. None of this is right, Tim. This isn’t what Batman and Robin are supposed to be. This isn’t who Bruce is—or at least, it’s not who he used to be."

"Yeah, well. It is what it is."

"No, it’s not," Dick shot back firmly. His knuckles were turning white around the wheel. "I won’t let you slip away like that. Bruce can handle his own issues. And you’re going to learn what it really means to be a Batfamily Vigilante—and how to be a kid again."

Tim’s brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Dick glanced at him briefly, his expression serious. "We’re starting out with a month with me and the Titans. If I’m convinced Bruce is ready to act responsibly around you, you can return to the manor after that. If not, we’ll stick together."

Tim’s stomach twisted at the idea. "But I want to operate in Gotham."

"I know you do. And you will eventually. But not before it’s safe for you to do so."

"It’s perfectly safe—"

"Come on, Tim, cut the crap." Dick cut him off sharply. "Dropping out of school at fourteen and going solo on missions you haven’t cleared with anyone, without backup, is about as far from safe as you can get. That changes now. You’re going to follow the Titans’ rules, or there will be consequences. And just to be clear, we’re not done with tonight’s little escapade. Tomorrow, we’re having a serious talk about what’s acceptable and what isn’t when it comes to crime-fighting. And after that, we’re setting some ground rules."

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“This is happening whether you want it to or not.” Dick’s voice was firm, resolute. “I won’t lose you like I lost Jason. I can’t. You’re a brilliant kid and an amazing Robin, but you need to understand there’s so much more to life than just looking out for everyone else. You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

Tim was gaping at Dick, his stomach swirling faster than his brain, entirely uncertain about what to make of any of this. He was torn, caught between wanting to jump out of the car and run back to Gotham—to everything he knew as normal—and wanting to experience what it might feel like to have someone take care of him for a change.

He leaned back, resting his head against the car’s headrest, closing his eyes in an attempt to will his mind to slow down.

Dick was sprawled on the kitchen island, his forehead pressing into the hard surface between his hands, palms cupping a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. He'd barely touched it anyway. It wasn’t even about the caffeine at this point; it was about trying to gather some kind of focus, some kind of clarity in his brain, because everything felt like a blur. The Tower was quiet. Wally had taken Cassie and Gar to school, while Kori and Victor were still asleep after their late patrols.

Dick hoped Tim would be sleeping too. It was close to 3 am when they made it to the tower and the kid certainly needed the rest, especially considering what lay ahead for him today. Dick let out a sound—half a whimper, half a sigh—as he lifted his head just enough for it to thud back down onto the counter at the thought.

"Need any help with that, D?"

Dick slowly dragged himself up and turned toward Wally, giving him the most annoyed-leader-look he could manage, which wasn’t much considering the circumstances.

"Dude, you look like shit. What’s up?" Wally didn’t even try to hide the concern in his voice, snatching a granola bar out of the snack cabinet, but Dick wasn’t in the mood to care.

"I brought Tim over," Dick muttered, dragging the coffee to his lips again.

"Oh, cool. Long weekend again?"

"Long month. Possibly more. We’ll reevaluate," Dick grumbled.

Wally’s chewing paused mid-bite, and Dick could see the shift in his expression.

"Is your d—"

"Bruce’s Robin privileges have been revoked," Dick deadpanned.

"What happened?"

Dick drained the rest of the coffee in one long gulp, wishing the bitterness would numb him somehow. "Tim needs more than what Bruce can give him right now. He needs structure—and he needs to understand that there are lines he can't just decide to cross on his own."

"What Tim doesn’t need," came a voice from behind, sharper than a batarang, "is people talking about him behind his back, Dick."

Dick set his mug down with a little too much force. “He’s letting Tim run feral. That’s what happened. Kid sneaks out and goes solo to take down one of Gotham’s biggest drug lords last night, and Bruce doesn’t even notice —didn’t even bat an eye when I brought Tim home and told him what he was up to. If I hadn’t figured out he was missing and gone looking for him—he’d be dead right now.”

"Shit." Wally shook his head, eyes wide. "Sorry, man. And to think how hard he came down on you, on us too, during our Young Justice days..."

Dick drained the rest of the coffee in one long gulp, wishing the bitterness would numb him somehow. "Tim needs more than what Bruce can give him right now. He needs structure —and he needs to understand that there are lines he can't just decide to cross on his own."

"What Tim doesn’t need," came a voice from behind, sharper than a batarang, "is people talking about him behind his back, Dick."

“Good morning to you too, Tim,” Dick grunted out, fighting to keep his voice calm as he turned to look at him. It was a battle he was already losing. “And for the record, I wasn’t talking about you behind your back. I was letting Wally know you’d be staying here for a while.”

“Oh yeah? Funny how I just happened to overhear you talking about my solo patrols and ‘lines I can't just decide to cross.’” Tim’s glare didn’t budge. “Must be the acoustics in the tower, huh? Real tricky, those.”

Dick’s grip on his coffee mug tightened. He loved Tim—like a little brother, like family, like someone he’d die for without hesitation. But right now, Tim was riding the line between ‘snarky’ and ‘outright brat’, and especially after last night, Dick's palm was itching.

“Alright, who wants coffee?” Wally piped up, a forced bright tone trying and failing to break tension. He clapped a hand on Dick’s shoulder, forcing him to look away from Tim’s infuriating glare.

“Me,” Tim grumbled, dropping into a seat at the island. “Thanks, Wally.”

“I’ll make you some eggs, too,” Dick said, getting up from his own seat and heading to the fridge for the eggs. “You can’t just have coffee for breakfast.”

Tim arched an eyebrow. "Oh you mean like you do?"

Dick shut his eyes and started counting backward from ten. He loved bantering with Tim, truly, but there was a distinct difference between playful Tim and passive-aggressive-little-shit Tim. And right now, he was dealing with the latter. And after last night his patience was already paper-thin. Still, he managed to let it slide. 

“We’ll all eat. Granola bars don’t count as breakfast either, Wally.”

“Yes, Mom,” Wally teased, throwing a mock salute. 

Dick bit back a sigh. It wasn’t like Tim’s attitude was unprovoked. He knew the kid was being defensive, doubling down after a close call. But knowing that didn’t make it any less frustrating. Dick watched as Wally slid a mug of coffee toward Tim and sat down on the vacant stool right next to him.

“Thanks,” Tim muttered, offering Wally a short-lived half-smile.

“You look like you need it,” Wally said, all casual and Dick wondered if he knew he was fumbling with a little teen-sized grenade.

“Dick looks worse,” Tim shot back, earning a quiet laugh from Wally.

“I’m not used to seeing you pissed at him,” Wally commented.

“You’re not used to seeing him pissed at me, either. He’s overreacting about the whole Escabedo thing.”

“ Escabedo ?” Wally sputtered in his mug. “That’s who you went after solo ? Tim, my boy, that’s certifiably insane!”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I almost had him, okay? I set up the perfect operation—flawless. But I made one tiny mistake, and now that’s all anyone cares about. And by anyone, I mean Dick."

“That ‘tiny mistake’ almost got you killed, Tim!” Dick snapped, his voice rising, worry and anger bursting out of him. “If I’d shown up even five seconds later, you’d be full of more holes than Swiss cheese!”

Tim shot up from his stool so fast it toppled over, cluttering loudly as it met the floor. With a last death-glare to Dick, he snatched his mug and stormed out of the kitchen.

“Your eggs,” Dick hollered after him.

“I’m not hungry anymore!”

Wally’s eyebrows had almost vanished under his hairline, eyes darting from Tim’s departing figure to Dick slamming the pan back on the stovetop.  “Dude this is surreal. I swear I’ve seen this scene play with you as Tim and Bruce as you and it’s mindfucking me.”

“Shut up, Wally,” Dick grumbled, picking up the fallen stool and plopping down onto it. He dragged his coffee cup in front of him from the other side of the island, before running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe he still acts like a bratty jerk and doesn’t admit he screwed up!”

“Well if Bruce lets him pull stunts like this and then all of a sudden you come along and stop his fun, what do you expect?”

"It’s not fun, Wally,” Dick snapped. “I wouldn’t have dragged him here or even told Bruce if it was something stupid, like him sneaking out with his friends past curfew or whatever. But no, this is different. He’s a mess, and Bruce is just letting it happen. His parents? Nowhere. They barely call, just leave him to fend for himself at fourteen. And Bruce, instead of being the one to step up, is... “ He shook his head and let out a breath of sheer frustration. “Tim’s been the adult in way too many rooms for way too long, and it’s not fair to him."

“Well, my friend, then he’s in luck. ‘Cause you’re the real-deal adult in almost every room I’ve ever been in. So go fix that kid.”

Dick's gaze dropped to his mug, watching his reflection stare back at him through the dark surface of the coffee, his own uncertainty creeping up his chest like a slow burn. "Easier said than done, Wally," he muttered quietly.

“Dude, you’ve been doing it for Gar and Cass for months now. Stop second guessing yourself. Your dad collects kids and you collect siblings, we all know that. Tim needs you and you’re already stepping up for him.”

Dick nodded at his friend's words and took another sip of his coffee, all traces of sleepiness long gone by now. “Thanks for the pep talk, Walls.”

“Anytime, Dickster.”