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Dick knew, as soon as he heard that Bruce had adopted the little neighbor boy, what would happen. Tim was strong of resolve, smart, dedicated, beautiful, and recently damaged enough by the tragedy of his parents to be perfect for Robin—that brightly colored wish of a Persona.
Dick knew Robin’s proclivities better than perhaps anyone did. He’d had a lot of experience with Gotham’s Personas, and there were many of them. Maybe it was only natural that a city so festering with despair and fear would wish so fervently for hope and safety as to give that hope so many physical forms—forms as dark as the city itself. Even Gotham’s wishes were shadowy, gloomy things. The people of Gotham didn’t know how to wish brightly.
Except for Robin.
Robin was everything the city needed, perhaps even everything the other vigilante Personas needed—the reminder of brightness and joy beyond the perpetual gloom steeping the city. But that reminder came with a price, one Gotham’s inhabitants didn’t really understand—didn’t try to understand—too elated at the prospect of someone out there in the dark to save them, too filled with awe by the flash-frame glimpse of the boy in the cape. They didn’t know what they were sacrificing. But Dick knew all too well about that sacrifice, and it filled him with a keen sort of terror that Tim might be next.
He caught the fastest plane he could find back to Gotham, back home, to stop it if he could, or to be there for the boy if he couldn’t. His long-time friend and newest brother.
Watching out the darkened window of the plane, he sent up his own wish, hoping that Robin would hear.
Not Tim. Not Tim.
True dark found him perched on Tim’s desk chair—a position favored by both he and Nightwing, the Persona that had claimed him—watching the boy sleeping soundly in the bed. Tim’s eyelids crushed black satin lashes together in his dreams, locking against the world that had stolen everyone he held dear. The world that was about to steal more, if Dick was right.
He didn’t have to wait long.
He watched, fascinated as always by such changes, as Robin took over Tim Drake, thieving the unsuspecting boy on the bed. The black domino mask appeared across his face, a solidifying shadow, then green gloves covering pale hands, looking out of place on the soft sheets—on Tim, sweet Tim. The gloves twitched as the fingers inside them curled, eyes fluttering open behind the mask. Robin sat up even as the rest of the Persona settled into solidity: the trademark R on his chest, black boots wrapping around his shins, cape falling around his shoulders last of all.
Dick’s hands clenched on the back of the chair. He’d hoped, fleetingly, that he was wrong, that Robin wouldn’t take Tim. As little hope as there was of that.
The Gotham Personas had an uncanny fondness for Wayne boys. Dick had suspected for years that Bruce was their creator, but he couldn’t dredge up any ill feelings any more. Bruce could no more stop wanting to keep Gotham safe than he could stop breathing—it was an ironic accident that his desire to protect his family had led to them all risking their lives as the vigilantes required to fulfill that wish. Wishes strong enough to manifest Personas couldn’t be undone easily, which was just as well, because Dick wouldn’t trade Nightwing for anything. Not now that they’d come to understand each other.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with the need for Robin. It just wasn’t fair that Robin should take Tim, who’d already suffered so much, but Robin was, in many ways, an unforgiving Persona.
They all were.
In the darkness, Robin turned to face him with unerring precision, the lenses of his mask hard and unreadable.
“Nightwing.”
“No,” he growled, even as Nightwing’s black mask bled across his face, the blue stripes along his arms. “You can’t have Tim.” He hopped off the chair, standing to meet the smaller Persona inhabiting his brother. Robin tilted his head, bird-like, considering.
“You disagree with my choice?” Robin spread Tim’s arms, examining his newfound vessel a little. “Is this specimen not perfect?”
“Choose someone else.”
“This Tim is compatible with me. There is no other of similar quality.” It was true that Tim was beautiful, and he was smart—things Robin favored, like the soot-black hair and smoky blue eyes. Or maybe it was Bruce that favored it in Robin. It was sometimes hard to differentiate between the Persona and the creator’s dreams and wishes.
“He’s a boy. His parents just died.”
“He’s strong.”
When Dick reached out to grip either side of Robin’s head, his hands were black, covered with Nightwing’s gauntlets and Nightwing’s authority over lesser Personas—it had taken him years to master that, to not become Nightwing completely but retain awareness and control.
He had watched Jason die and he wasn’t going to lose Tim.
“Choose. Another.”
“Don’t constrain me.” Robin tried to pull back, pushing up on his toes. “A lesser vessel would only fail faster.” Dick gritted his teeth, because it was true. If he used his authority to make Robin let Tim go, he’d only be endangering some other boy who had even less of a chance. If the Persona claimed Tim was the best choice, then he was.
Robin wrapped his arms around Dick’s forearm suddenly, leaning in and smiling up at him mischievously, pulling him out of his brooding thoughts.
“We’re together again! Don’t be angry!” It was actually hard to be angry with Robin. The Persona seemed to be comprised at times of brightness, laughter and warmth. Dick tapped it on the nose. Tim’s nose. Which was adorable when it scrunched up like that.
“That’s my brother you’re wearing.”
Again that head tilt from Robin, smile fading.
“We were once one. You remember the wishes of the children. Would you take me from them?” Because Robin had his own mission. Sometimes Nightwing’s mission superseded it, and sometimes Batman’s superseded them both, but they all had their specific agendas, their reasons for existing. Robin seemed fixed most strongly on protecting the children. Dick felt desperation well up, and he fought Nightwing’s impatience to be out there, to stop dallying with human trivialities.
Robin was right, he did remember the wishes: the prayers for help, the distant sobbing. He could hear some of them now, or rather, Nightwing could—an awareness of the necessity of their Personas that was bright and bitter—and every minute he kept Robin tied up was someone Robin couldn’t save. But it was Tim, darn it! It was Tim under that mask, Tim’s body pulled by the puppet strings of the Persona, Tim in danger when Robin was.
“Bring him back alive. Nothing else matters.”
“I will.” Robin grinned, already bounding away.
“You didn’t do so well last time,” Dick reminded him, but he was already out the window.
Nightwing didn’t stray far from Robin that night, accompanying the younger, greener vigilante while Tim’s body was unable to keep up with the Persona’s demands. Not that Robin wasn’t adept at working around the physical limitations of a vessel, but the Persona was partly reliant on the prowess of said vessel, and Tim was going to feel the strain of it in the morning, muscles sore and body aching after such use. For a long time to come even. Until those muscles were built up, it was too easy for something to go wrong.
Batman found them on the rooftops, the dark shadow of a Persona snagging Robin’s green-gloved hand as they passed.
“Batman!” Robin’s face lit up, moving to embrace the larger man with lithe, not-quite-yet-graceful limbs.
“You’ll take Tim from me too?” he asked, hand swallowing Robin’s jaw to tilt those emotionless white lenses up to meet his own.
“I’m borrowing this body. You know that.” Undaunted, Robin’s mouth crinkled with unrepressed joy at this meeting, seeming even to enjoy the harsh grating of the black gauntlet against his skin. Or was it Bruce that enjoyed it? Tim? They were both an influence on the hopes and dreams that comprised Robin now after all.
“The mission,” Batman grunted.
“Yes.”
Dick felt his mouth tighten watching Bruce accept their little partner back so quickly. But then, Robin had always had a calming effect on the rougher, darker Persona of Batman. Bruce had once told him that Robin’s presence made Batman easier to deal with. When they fought, Dick knew, they would fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Even standing there, Robin seemed to mold to Batman’s grip.
“Nothing dangerous,” Batman admonished, hand tightening on the younger Persona’s green glove. “Not until your physical counterpart is trained.” Robin trembled under the imposed restrictions, turning Tim’s head this way and that against the new fetters.
“Nothing dangerous,” he agreed, tongue painting Tim’s lips.
And then Batman’s hand fell to the boy’s shoulder, a warm weight, and the smallest of smiles pulled at his mouth.
“Welcome back.” Even the darkest Persona of them all softened around the boy. Dick shook his head, amused by the resigned fondness and protectiveness Batman harbored for the younger, more flighty Robin.
He had to admit one thing: it was nice having Robin’s light back. The city needed it. Even if it wasn’t what he wanted for his little brother. By the faintly worried crease of Batman’s cowl, it wasn’t what Bruce would have wanted either. Dick could imagine the conflict, one he understood all too well. For Batman it was like getting back a lost son, and for Bruce like losing one. But Robin had chosen, and as much as Dick really hated to admit it, Robin looked good on Tim.
Suddenly, amid the whispered prayers, the faint sobbing and faraway wails—the cacophony always on the edge of hearing that Nightwing existed to answer—a single voice broke through, louder and more desperate than the rest.
“Stay away from me!” It was a desperate shout, loud in his ears despite being too far away to hear. Dick looked up, pulled by the same force as Nightwing: the need to aid. He wasn’t the only one who’d heard it either. Robin jerked toward the cry, perhaps pulled the most strongly of all of them by the younger voices in the city.
He didn’t get far. Batman’s grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder, and for a moment Dick wondered if he’d let go, but then it was gone, the man pulling away reluctantly.
“I’ve got him covered, B.” Dick smiled reassuringly.
“Go!” Batman told them, not so much of a growl as it had been recently, and they needed no further prompting. Robin was already flinging himself over the edge of the building.
Batman faded back into the shadows, but Dick knew that the older Persona would keep a watchful eye on Robin, even if they didn’t always see him. There wasn’t a Persona in Gotham that wouldn’t willingly lend Robin a hand during the next few months. Dick warmed at the knowledge of that safety net, even as he followed the younger Persona over the building’s edge with grim determination to watch over him this night.
He made sure Tim made it home safely—not that he thought Robin wouldn’t take good care of the boy, but having an extra, stronger Persona around couldn’t hurt. Robin returned Tim to his room, stopping in the downpour of light from the window, lensed-over eyes turning to find Nightwing. Dick landed on the sill behind them, casting a dark shadow across the boy, and fixed the younger Persona with a hard stare. Robin tilted his head, considering again.
“Nightwing…” He reached out, perhaps only to mend the perceived offense to a comrade, the distance that had been between them all night, but Dick shook his head, refusing to be swayed.
“It’s time to let Tim go now.”
“You’re still angry about my choice of vessel.” Robin let his hand drop.
“I want to talk to him.” Nightwing stared the little Persona down, waiting.
“I see,” but Robin looked hurt, and he couldn’t end it like that, denying Robin his brother just because the Persona had taken his.
“Robin…” He hesitated, grip tightening on the sill, before letting Nightwing’s pride and admiration flood him, letting them override his own worries. “You did good.”
Robin smiled—one last bright grin in the darkness—and released Tim, drawing into his chosen vessel—a diminishing of color and substance, the mask becoming a shadow, then a discoloration, until any trace completely faded from Tim’s skin—and the boy slumped bonelessly to knees on the carpet, left only in the scant protection of his shirt and boxers.
Dick watched Tim blink, watched blue eyes regain focus and crinkle with confusion at discovering himself on the floor, looking for all the world like a little lost fledgling finding himself inexplicably on the ground after attempted flight. Blue eyes turned to take in his room and caught sight of Nightwing instead, freezing instantly.
“Nightwing?” Tim asked, confusion etched in the lines of his face and the uncertain waver of his voice. Dick was across the distance in an instant, falling to knees and crushing the boy into his embrace—heedless of abrasive gloves and unyielding armor plating. The gesture took Tim by surprise, and he tensed, surely bewildered by the sudden appearance of this vigilante in his bedroom, surely worried about the portent of such a visitor. Tim didn’t scare easily, but Dick knew his presence was making the boy uneasy. The boy had, after all, just been forcefully hugged by a known vigilante intruder in his bedroom. “Nightwing, what’s going on?”
Dick closed his eyes.
Tim had already been through so much. How easy it would be to tell the boy that everything was all right and he had nothing to fear (he didn’t, not with Nightwing and Batman watching over him), to soothe the boy’s fears and let him sleep blissfully unaware, kept safely ensconced in the cocoon of forgetfulness Robin wove. But Tim looked at him with those blue eyes, so trusting, and he couldn’t. He wasn’t Dick holding his little brother; he was Nightwing soothing a soon-to-be partner.
So he petted black hair, fingers rough with Nightwing’s gloves, and tucked the boy tighter into his embrace.
“Robin, little partner, dear one.” He murmured endearments into black hair, feeling the boy’s fingers clench and scrape against his chest, and he held on all the tighter for it, wrapping the inevitable panic attack up with strong arms. It was quieter than he would have thought—more hiccup-like gasps than a true attack, muffled in Nightwing’s embrace—but then Tim had always been unhealthily soft spoken.
Dick rocked him gently in his arms, desperately trying to convey the warmth and comfort Tim needed through the cold suit and unfeeling mask of his own Persona. There were so many sacrifices ahead. This was only the beginning.
“I’m… Robin?” Tim asked at last, nervous and uncertain, into Nightwing’s shoulder. He had a right to be nervous. There was no way he couldn’t have seen the photos of Robin or heard tales of the little vigilante—even if the Gotham Personas were highly secretive, shadowy figures, they were still a huge part of gossip in the city whenever someone managed to catch one on film. He didn’t completely understand what was ahead of him yet, but he would: the nights of belonging to another entity, stolen and used for a purpose beyond his own, the exhaustion and blackouts.
“Yes.” Dick’s voice was rougher than he intended. He swallowed before continuing. “You’re Robin. Beloved Robin.” If Tim had to be chosen by a Persona, at least it was Robin—the one adored even by the darkest Persona of them all.
“What do I do?”
“You have only two options.” Outside, the sky was lightening, and Dick prayed that he could maintain the cold detachment of Nightwing long enough to say what had to be said. “You can become this Persona or you can die fighting it.” Tim’s blue eyes blinked up at him bleakly. Then morning light broke through the window and Nightwing faded from him like the phantom it was, and he was just himself holding his little brother.
“Dick?” Startled to find his vigilante visitor suddenly transformed into a friend, Tim pushed away to look at him, really look at him, blue eyes searching his, wide and wondering. “All this time…?”
“I’ve always been watching out for you?” Dick tried, momentarily chagrinned. Tim shook his head in dismay, still unable to take his eyes from his older brother, but some of the tension seeped away. And at last Tim was hugging back, laughing just a bit breathlessly, a bit hysterically, glad to see his older brother, or perhaps just relieved that he wouldn’t have to go through his newfound ordeal alone. When the moment petered out, leaving Tim leaning limply against Dick, worn out by so many developments, a sense of quiet camaraderie took over.
“What about Robin?” Tim asked into the comfortable stillness, muffled against Dick’s chest.
“Robin will take good care of you.” Even if Dick had to make sure of it.
“Is it always like this? Will I never remember?” Tim asked, a considering frown worrying his lips, already trying to shoulder the additional burdens. It pained Dick to see it. When he took Tim’s face in his hands, this time it was gentle.
“It’ll get easier. Become worthy of the Persona, and you’ll stop being completely possessed by it.”
“Show me.” There was the resolve he knew Tim possessed—the unyielding inner core, quick to adapt to adversity that was surely the reason Robin had chosen him. Looking down into that stony stare, he was certain that someday Tim would be able to control Robin, maybe even influence the Persona’s design and function like the best of them. He needn’t have worried for the boy.
“I will.”
Someday Robin would be Tim’s entirely.