Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim surveys the gala again, trying to decide who he wants to talk to next. He’d already thanked the host for the invitation and complimented them on their amazing (boring, overdone, bland, uninspiring) decor. He’s exchanged his pleasantries with DI’s major investors and most of the important people from the companies with which they have major deals. He might go over and speak with Mrs. Dawburst; he’s been wanting to go to one of her tea parties for a while, since they’re the best place to get gossip, and Tim has been terribly bored lately. Low-stakes drama might just be the solution he needs.

He moves toward her, circling the room, getting caught up in the exchanging of pleasantries with a few acquaintances before continuing on while meandering closer and closer to the corner she’s set herself up in. Tim mustn't brush anyone off or make it too obvious that the only person he was walking toward on this side of the room whom he intends to speak to, is Mrs. Dawburst. The quickest way to offend anyone in high society is to act as if they are unimportant or not worth reciprocated interest.

 Tim cannot afford to offend people; he has had to rebuild his company from its bankruptcy and the damage it took from being under the negligent leaders' care. He relies on his connections to keep his company afloat and profitable without having to use less-than-legal ways, and everything he does is a reflection on his company and business practices. He does not have the money or power that allows him to be outright dismissive of people- even if they are not worth his time- without it damaging his reputation, thus his connections, thus his company's success.

His reputation needs to be pristine, or no one will take him seriously as a sixteen-year-old running a company. No matter his accomplishments or the blood, sweat, and tears he’s put into the company, his age always makes people call into question his competency. They assume that he is just a nepo-baby with no idea how to run his company, and every speck on his reputation compounds that. 

Make no mistake, Tim is still a force to be reckoned with in high society- trained from birth on how to run the company and maintain connections as a Drake ought to be- but he needs to be careful lest he give the people gunning after him more leverage against him. He’s removed powerful, well-connected but corrupt people from his company, and they are waiting for the second he slips up so they can tear him apart. Tim will not slip. He refuses. They will not take his company from him.

He stops his meandering walk when movement in a shadowed corner catches his eye. He decides to investigate, and what he finds makes him seeth. Charles Newman, the disinherited third child of a model and a chairman. He’s a politician and well-known sleaze, has been known to cut corners not meant to be cut during business, and is an all-around disgusting human being who wouldn't know how to keep his word even if he had an NPC coaching him through it on tutorial mode.

 Newman is shit-faced drunk and has a kid backed into a corner, spitting racist venom, threatening the kid, telling him to “go back where he came from, you leech, or I swear, you won’t like what’s coming for you”. Tim is going to fucking ruin Newman. How dare he. How dare he act like that to a child. Tim’s mother had warned him. 

Had he thought that because she is dead, no one would make good on her threat? Tim bids his reputation- and his potential tea party invite- goodbye. He’s going to make a scene- he feels it in his bones. It does not matter if he destroys everything his parents and he have ever worked for in the process. Tim is going to take everything Newman ever loved from him and set it on fire, then use the ashes to deface anything he might manage to rebuild. As soon as he gets that kid out of his grasp-

Wait.

Tim recognizes that kid. That’s Bruce’s new robin. The one with the knives. And he looks like he’s about to get stabby. Fuck. that would be Bad, capitol B. If B’s mini-me pulls out LOA blades and knows how to use them, it will raise a lot of questions, and Newman knows how to spread a story faster than two shakes of a lamb's tail.

 Tim needs to intervene quick. “Mr. Newman!” Both the kid and Newman’s heads whip over to look at Tim. He strolls up to them and holds out his hand for Newman to shake. “It’s been a while since we’ve last talked. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Tim knows for a fact that Newman remembers the day that he’d met Tim. He’d been following Tim- who was near Damian’s age now- stalking him around for the entire gala, watching from a distance, waiting for Tim to be separated from his parents. When he’d finally cornered Tim, Tim had been about to pull out the pepper spray he always carries on him, but Tim’s mother came out from nowhere and gave Newman a dressing down, including revealing several peices of blackmail she had on him to the entire gala, an event which is still whispered about in fear and reverence to this day. From that day on, Tim’s Mother and Father had a vendetta the size of the moon against him.

That is not a day that one easily forgets, but Newman is floundering, and he truly doesn’t seem to recognize Tim. Odd, given that Tim has grown up to look just like his mother. Perhaps Newman thought she, too, was beneath him- until it was too late for him to take it back. Tim waits for Newman to take his hand before he looks into Newman’s eyes with his mother’s gala smile and says, “My name is Timothy Drake.” Tim takes great pleasure in the way the man pales and his hands start to shake. It seems he at least took Mother’s warning to heart.

Tim drops Newman’s hand. He seems dumbstruck and checks his hand as if expecting it to be burned. Tim looks at the newest Robin, who is watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. Tim smiles at him, slightly more genuine. “I don’t believe that we’ve been introduced.” He holds out his hand to the kid. The kid shakes it and introduces himself. “My name is Damian Wayne. I am the youngest of the Wayne children. It is nice to meet you, Drake.” Tim looks the kid over. He doesn’t look to have sustained any injury from his little conversation with Newman. Nor does he look scared or overwhelmed by the berating he'd just endured. Tim nods to himself. “To you as well, young mister Wayne.”

Newman is still standing stock still, watching them. Probably calculating how to get Tim to leave him and the youngest bird alone again, or at the very least get out of this gala with his reputation still intact. Joke’s on him, Tim isn’t about to let that happen. Under no circumstances will he allow this little chick to be left alone with this degenerate. “Young Mister Wayne, I haven’t had the chance to say hello to your father or brothers yet this evening. Would you like to accompany me while I make my way over to them?” The birdie looks him up and down, assessing. He comes to a decision and nods. “Very well.”

Tim turns to Newman. “Perhaps you’d like to come with us and continue your discussion? Surely young mister Wayne’s father would be interested in what you had to say to his child.” Newman’s face goes even paler, then flushed red. He shakes his head. “It’s fine.” His words slurred. “We weren’t talking about anything important.” He has the gall to imply that the birdie isn’t important? The bastard won’t even look Tim in the eyes. He fixes his eyes on Damian, just for a moment. 

“I’m sure that we can talk about it later if we need to.” Was that supposed to be a threat? Is he trying to threaten the murder bird while Tim is standing right here? Tim needs to get out of here, because if this pathetic, simpering worm of a man dares to speak a single word more in his presence, Tim is going to tie him up and use him as a practice dummy for some of Lady Shiva’s techniques . Tim nods and turns on his heel, making his way out of the alcove and back out to find Bruce or Dick. Robin flanks him.

The people who intercept Tim (more, now that Tim has a Wayne at his hip) are met with simple pleasantries and always some iteration of the words “Hello, sir/mx/ma’am. It’s great to see you again. Oh? This is young Mister Wayne, the youngest of Mister Wayne’s children. Mister Newman, whom was the only person keeping young mister Wayne company at the time, introduced us. I’m sorry that I can’t chat longer, but I should return young Mister Wayne to his father.” Accompanied by a look at the people intercepting him when he mentioned Newman. Most adults looked scandalized at the thought of Newman alone with the Birdie, and quickly made their own excuses so they could scamper off and spread that particular piece of juicy gossip. 

It's a calculated move on Tim’s part- spreading that information. With the way that Tim’s acting, everyone will remember the child porn charges that Newman tried and failed to keep quiet a couple of years ago, and then make their own assumptions about his actions toward the littlest Wayne. By morning, the grapevine will have embellished and blown up every detail Tim's given, and the people will create terrible stories to fill in the large gaps. The smart ones will exile him from their circles and cut ties with Newman again, assuming he was trying to make a move on Damian when he cornered him. Their allies will follow. No one wants to get on The Wayne’s bad side, and associating with Newman would be too high a risk.

 Pretending ignorance has less risk, but it’s still too high a chance for most everybody in polite society. If everything goes the way Tim wants it to, Newman will be ousted or uninvited from any and all events he attempts to attend while Tim is in the process of demolishing every good thing in his life. This is the beginning of the end for Newman, the start of Tim’s plan. He’s taking away the most valuable thing in Newman’s life- his status- and forcing Newman to watch and clutch onto straws as he does so.

 Missus McLan, whom Tim remembers from his lifetime of getting his cheeks pinched before his parents died, gets a look in her eyes when he mentions Newman, and makes her way to Mrs. Dawburst’s table with purpose after their conversation. Looks like she just acquired the juiciest story of the entire gala season so far, and Mrs. Dawburst’s little posse will want to hear it as soon as possible.

During all this, the stabby Robin never says much more than a “Nice to meet you” to whomever wants to talk to him and Tim. (They really only want to talk to Damian, wiggle their way into his good graces while he isn’t being guarded as fiercely as a dragon protects their horde by his family. At least he seems to know this.) He seems much more interested in watching Tim, happy to leave the social interactions in his hands. Like father, like son, it seems.

Tim laughs and lies and manipulates his way through the crowd, Damian quiet at his side. Finally, finally , the crowd parts and there is Dick, surrounded by a gaggle of people- most of whom are clearly attracted to him- some of them way too old to be appropriate. He scans the room and lights up at the sight of Tim and Damian. He waves them over, calling them to the attention of the gaggle. They seem annoyed that Dick’s brother caught his attention, and a few wander away knowing that their chances of a midnight trist with the oldest of the Wayne kids have evaporated with Dick’s kid brother around.

When they join the group, Damian stiffens, and he clicks his tongue under his breath in disapproval at the gaggle. Dick smiles his bright smile at the stabby baby bird, then turns it on Tim. “Tim, it's been forever!” Tim smiles back and nods. “I see you’ve met Damian. I hope he wasn’t too much of a handful.” Tim shakes his head. “He wasn’t any trouble. He was practically the picture of manners.” One of the women starts cooing at Damian.

“Oh, this is your baby brother? He’s so cute!” Dick nods and pulls Damian into his side- probably to keep him from attacking anyone. “He is, isn’t he? Where’d you find him, Tim? I've been looking for him for the past thirty minutes.” Time to start the next step of ruining Newman’s life; time to get Dick to go protective big bird mode. Tim’s eyes glint, and he can feel Dick notice and his eyes sharpen in response. 

Tim lowers his voice as if trying not to draw attention to his next sentence. Naturally, everyone leans in to hear him better. “Mister Newman was conversing with him in that alcove over there, and I had him introduce me. I asked if he wanted to continue his conversation with your brother in front of you or your father since he thought it interesting enough for your brother, but he didn’t seem to like that idea very much.” Hook.

 With every word, Dick became more and more the picture of wrath. He was there for the fallout of Tim being cornered at that gala. He knows what kind of man Newman is. Just to put a little more fuel on the fire, Tim admits, “I was not a fan of the tone he was using with your little brother. That and the location of their conversation had me concerned.” Dick’s shoulders and spine straighten. The Ricky Wayne mask is slipping. Line

Tim hunches his shoulders in a little bit, curling himself up to make himself look smaller, just to make Dick’s hero instincts go a little more haywire. In the quietest, most apologetic voice Tim could manage, he tells Dick “I got him out of there as soon as I could. I know that it feels really gross to be followed around by that creep, and the things he said- ” Tim does not have to fake the tremor of anger and disgust in his voice. An angry glint in Dick’s eyes appears, and it tells Tim that he got the vigilante more bloodthirsty than he’s been in a long long time. Sinker . 

Dick will protect his chickity. He will do anything to protect his family. And now, he knows that Newman tried to threaten Robin’s safety. It is Nightwing’s voice he uses when he speaks to the crowd. “ I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse us, we have to find Bruce.” He nods to Tim. "Thank you." Tim watches as Nightwing steers the Birdie away.

 The fury of several bats out of hell is about to be brought down on Newman’s head. It will not take long for his life to crumble. Now, all Tim needs to do is ensure that Newman can never build himself back up again. It’ll be fun to work with the Bats for one last case.

Tim watches as they find their way over to Bruce. He watches as Bruce straightens. He watches as, for the first time in possibly ten gala seasons, Bruce Wayne leaves the gala impossibly early. He watches the ripples of shock and speculation make their way through the crowd, rumors already beginning to fly. He watches them wonder what- who- could possibly cause that strong of a reaction from the Waynes. 

 Tim watches as those he spoke with spread about knowledge of the littlest Wayne’s interaction with Newman. Watches as his name is murmured, the last person to be seen with the Waynes before their exit. He watches people begin to take notice of him. Watches as they get that hungry look in their eyes.

Tim spends the rest of that night planting seeds of discontent with Newman, through murmured conversations with three or fewer people and quiet, infrequent but impactful questions whenever he is in a large group discussion. He does not elaborate on what happened between Newman and Dickie’s Chickety beyond what Tim’s already said, instead letting his silence and the gala goer’s assumptions speak for him.

Tim gets pestered with questions about everything that Dick and Damian said to him, what he said to them, what would make them leave the gala so fast with Bruce in tow, each person trying to squeeze as much information about the Waynes out of him as possible. Tim refuses to share. It’s annoying to be asked the same questions repeatedly like every single person who approaches thinks he would make an exception just for them. Still, Tim uses it to his advantage and manages to steer every conversation he has that night.

=

Even after the gala, Tim finds that now that he has information about the Waynes, and what made them leave the gala early, a surprisingly large number of people he barely recognizes suddenly just want to call “to say hello,” or “Just want to check in with you,” or think that “it would be mutually beneficial to build stronger ties between DI and my company” or want to invite him to a “little get together”. Tim has to spend practically all his time in the office this week, fielding calls and chit-chatting for an acceptable amount of time with each person who calls. Tim has to start writing down each caller and their proposals, and his theory for what they really want. 

Today brings in another influx of calls, as every businessman Tim even vaguely knows of seems to think of this Friday afternoon as prime networking time. Tim can kind of follow the logic behind it; ‘no one wants to do work so close to the weekend’, right? Easier to keep someone on the phone if you’re both avoiding paperwork. It’s really too bad for them that Tim would rather be meticulously checking the numbers from the quarterly budget, making sure that no one is trying to embezzle funds out from under his nose. God, if it’s like this every Friday- 

As his phone begins ringing again, Tim sighs and pulls out his gala face once more. He swears people can tell if he’s not smiling when he answers the phone. “Hello. Timothy Drake speaking.” A smooth, musical voice replies. “Hello, Timothy. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”. Tim feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Mrs. Dawburst, it is wonderful to hear from you again! I was sad to have missed you at the last gala- I was headed your way, but I’m afraid that I got swept up in quite a commotion.”

Tim hears the old lady harrumph. “A commotion, he says, as if he didn’t engineer the whole thing.” Tim smiles, a little shark-like, this time. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Dawburst? It would have been almost impossible for me not to be caught, what with the way the littlest Wayne was practically attached to my hip.” Tim can almost hear the way Mrs. Dawburst's eyebrow raises.

“Sonny boy, you can act innocent all you like, but you and I both know how well you can disappear. You were seen, so you wanted to be seen.” Tim has always adored Mrs. Dawburst- how she sees him when all the other adults see through him- and he refuses to disrespect her intelligence by trying to lie to her again.  

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Mrs. Dawburst? It's not often that I get the delight of a personal phone call from you.” It's true, too. Tim can count on one hand the times he's gotten a personal phone call from her, and he treasures each of them. After every phone call with her, Tim has learned a new skill or gained an important new insight into Gotham's high society.

Mrs. Dawburst is a very frank woman who finds her time very valuable and does not deign to waste it on frivolous chit-chat with people whom she dislikes. She is also very powerful, being directly tied to the largest mafia in Gotham. Her money is almost as old as Bruce's, and her attention is worth more than gold.

“You're to come to my afternoon tea tomorrow. I want to hear a first-hand account of what happened at the last gala. After that, I expect there will be much to discuss.” Ah. So she wants more information on what ruffled the normally unflappable Wayne’s wings. Well. Tim cannot refuse an order from Mrs. Dawburst. Looks like he has twenty-four hours to get his story straight and his most expensive business-casual outfit out. 

“Yes, Ma'am. Is that all that I can do for you?” Tim can hear the approval in her tone when she replies. “Yes, Timothy. That is all. Good day.” She hangs up. 

She's just handed Tim a golden opportunity on a platter. When he originally wanted an invite to the tea party, Tim was thinking that he'd get invited as a plus one to a guest. But now, he's gotten a personal invite from the event host herself to one of the most coveted social gatherings in their circles, and he will be allowed to present his case to The Ring.

Tim is going to milk it for all its worth. He calls Tam. There is suddenly so much to do. Each step of his plan is falling into place, and Tim is going to execute them with prejudice. 

=

The party is a roaring success.

=

The plan is perfect. It goes off without a hitch. Newman is awaiting his trial within thirty-six hours of the official end of Mrs. Dawburst’s Tea Party. The amount of evidence brought down against him by the Bats is staggering. There is not a judge in Gotham, or even the whole state of New Jersey, who is willing or stupid enough to take a bribe from Newman. His reputation is shattered beyond repair. His fate is sealed. That man is never going to so much as look at another child again, so long as he lives. He kept her word; he fulfilled her promise. His Mother’s vengeance is executed, swift and final, just as Mother taught him.

Tim's work is done.

Chapter Text

It takes almost a full month for Tim to get bored again. Between basking in the success of his plan and managing the sudden increase in his popularity within high society because of it, and still having to run his company like a good CEO, it’s honestly a little novel- to feel bored. He’s reviewing the budgets for DI again when the boredom hits him like a truck, leaving him stunned on his kitchen floor at two in the morning.

 It makes his fingers itch for the feeling of a weapon in his hand. He’s kept up his Robin training, but maybe he should practice with a few of the weapons Shiva taught him. He hasn’t used those in a while.

Or maybe he could- no, that's a bad idea, right? Tim shouldn’t. It’d not like he’s even allowed to- he isn’t a bat anymore. But- well- it has been a while since he messed with the Justice League. Tim slips into the back door he left in the Batcomputer and checks B’s schedule. He checks his watch. Two hours. There's a lot he could do in two hours.

Tim bites his lip. It’d be so much fun to try and get around the JL’s defenses. And it’s not like he’ll actually do anything once he hacks it. It could just be a fun little treat to keep him busy for an hour or two. Fuck it. He hacks into the Watchtower.

It's a little easier for him to do because Babs showed him her tricks, and he knows her signature anywhere. It's practically written across every line of code he can see. So, he knows how to avoid most of the alarms. And, he’s using his Robin laptop. The one that he and Babs built together. It’s practically untraceable. 

Tim misses Babs. Maybe he should give her a little care package of computer parts and a couple of blueprints left on his old workbench in the Clocktower to let her know that he’s been thinking about her. She’d probably appreciate that. Tim adds that to his to-do list.

Tim works through the firewalls, munching on a snack while he does so. Then, he reaches a section of unfamiliar code that doesn’t look like Oracle’s work. It doesn’t really look like any of the Bat’s work. When Tim roots around, pulling out the entire JL’s roster from the Batcomputer to see if another member of the JL did it, he figures out that this was probably Cyborg’s work. He has to compare the code to several of Cyborg’s other projects to verify it, but such is the way of the Bat. 

He flags the section of code under the Batcomputer for someone else to check his work on the verification, but moves along. The code, when run on its own, seems pretty harmless. Dick or Bruce should be able to ask Cyborg about it pretty easily. Tim has to spend more time unraveling this unfamiliar code than he does with Oracle’s work, but he gets through it. And… done. Tim’s still got it!

… Well. He’s in. Tim got to have his fun working through the Watchtower’s firewalls. Nothing else to do unless he wants to start messing with its settings. He should probably go now. But… Tim wonders how many settings he could change before someone asks about it. He could try it. As an experiment. For science. 

Tim starts slow, just lowering the resting temperature by a degree. He dims the lights a smidge, then brightens every screen in each room by two points to compensate for the dimmer rooms. Nothing overtly noticeable. Tim starts his stopwatch to see how long it’ll take the heroes on duty to notice. He pulls up the cameras to see who’s on monitoring duty, and anyone else in the satellite. 

The heroes on duty are Flash and Green Arrow. Tim doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or to celebrate. Neither of them have great passive situational awareness, so Tim could probably change a lot, and if he does it gradually enough, they won't notice. On the one hand, that means he can make fun of them for sitting in darkness with only the light of their screens to illuminate the room, but on the other, they might not even notice that something is wrong before a shift change, and that can be boring to watch.

Oh well. Tim’ll just see if they notice, and if he needs to make it more obvious the settings on the Watch tower are changing, he will. Tim familiarizes himself with the Watchtower’s systems again, making notes of a few weak points in the digital security that he could probably patch the next time he gets bored. That might be a fun challenge. 

Tim checks the time and decides that it has been long enough that another setting change wouldn’t be noticed. He brightens the screens and lowers the temperature more, dimming the lights further. Green Arrow seems cold, (consequences of a sleeveless costume), but when Flash offers him a blanket, he refuses. The coward. Flash is tapping his foot a little too fast to be normal.

Tim checks his watch and clicks his tongue. At this rate, B's going to get to the Watchtower, figure out it's been hacked two seconds in, and freak out before Flash and Green Arrow even realize anything is wrong. He needs something to make this interesting . This was supposed to cure his boredom, not exacerbate it. But what would catch Flash and Green Arrow’s attention?

Tim locks the fridge. He knows they probably only have the nasty high-calorie nutritional bars left in the pantry, given it's a Saturday and they replenish basic groceries on Sundays, and eating those should be qualified as torture. (Seriously though, B, why do you need a smart fridge in the Watchtower- especially one that can lock? Wait- never mind. Tim bets it was Dick’s idea. He was the one who got Tim into messing with the JL in the first place.) 

 Flash wraps himself up in a blanket. The first sign of weakness. Finally. It took them long enough. But neither of them are even going to mention it? They haven’t even looked at the thermostat! God, this is kind of sad. What else can Tim do to get them to notice anything is wrong? 

When B watches this back (and he will review the security footage) he’s going to be running situational awareness bootcamp on them for weeks . The longer they don’t notice anything is wrong, the worse it’s going to be. Tim should probably feel bad for being an indirect cause of that, but honestly, it looks like they need it. What if Tim was a hacker with bad intentions? They need to be able to notice these things.

Annnnd they’re still just sitting there. Not a word about the changes in their environment. Tim checks his stopwatch and grimaces at how long it’s been. Taking inspiration from the internet, he plays the YouTube video “Two hours of silence occasionally interrupted by vine boom sound effect” on one of the speakers in the corner of the room at a low volume. Just to see if they’ll notice.

Tim plays a round of Candy Crush on his phone. Checks the time. Lowers the temperature and the lights, brightens the screens. It takes three more rounds of Candy Crush, lights, screens, and temperature, before Green Arrow gives up and wraps a blanket around himself. Score: Tim- one, Green Arrow- zero.

 Five rounds after that, Flash zips up to the kitchen. He’s violently yanked from his momentum by the locked fridge and falls, faceplanting into the fridge, then stumbling back and tripping over his feet, landing on his butt. Tim snorts. Poor guy must not be used to fridges that lock. He's staring up at the fridge in betrayal.

Tim screenshots his face. Then he lowers the temperature, dims the lights, and brightens the screens. The vine boom plays, and Green Arrow tries to jump up and whirl around. He trips on his blanket instead, face-planting. Tim boos him and mimes throwing tomatoes. Literally anyone with a cape could do better. Tim could do better during his first week as Robin. 

Green Arrow has to scramble up from where he’s tangled in the blanket, and he spills a few Arrows from his quiver in the process. Then, he’s facing the room, bow drawn, only to find nothing. He relaxes- the fool- then looks down at the spilled arrows mournfully. “This is why I don’t do capes.”

Tim just laughs at his pain. (And another round of lights, temperature, and screens.) Green Arrow sadly stoops to pick up his arrows, looking like a pathetic wet cat. Flash is trying every password he can think of on the fridge, but it won’t budge. Tim kind of wants to see him lose his shit.

 In a fit of diabolical insanity, Tim adds an “I forgot my password” button. It takes Flash three more failed passwords to notice it. When he clicks the button, a seemingly randomly generated parental lock question comes up. “What is four squared?” it asks. Flash, like the poor, hungry soul he is, answers. “Sixteen,” he answers the fridge, hope written on his face. 

Tim, the sadist that he is, takes great joy in watching the hope crumble off his face. “Incorrect. Try again in 30:00 minutes,” reads the fridge. “What?” he mutters, dumbfounded. Tim lowers the temperature and the lights and brightens the screens yet again. He wonders if Flash is too preoccupied to be cold.

 Green Arrow is shaking, but he’s refusing to use a blanket again. The vine boom sounds. Green Arrow fires in its direction before it even finishes. He shoots a wall. 

Flash stares at the fridge, slack-jawed confusion melting into righteous fury. “But- Four Squared is sixteen. Four times four is sixteen damn it!” He paces in front of the fridge. He whirls on it, and tries to open it again. No dice. The lock is strong. (Tim searches B’s records for its blueprint, and almost cackles when he finds out the fridge is reinforced.)

The vine boom sounds. Green Arrow whirls, looking for the sound, bow drawn. He starts searching the room for bugs. Good instincts, but he won’t find any. He won’t even suspect the sound coming from the JL’s own speakers. Tim lowers the temperature and the lights, brightening the screens. Green Arrow jumps at the sudden screech that echoes through the Watchtower, accidentally shooting another wall.

He notches his bow with another arrow, moving swiftly through and clearing each room, running to the aid of his distressed teammate. Said teammate turns on him with a demonic glint in his eye. “Arrow. What. Is. Four. Squared.” Green Arrow recoils slightly. “What's wrong? Why-” Flash interrupts him. “ Answer me or so help me god. ” Green Arrow takes a step back from his hangry teammate. Tim gets the funniest idea ever. “Sixteen?” Flash growls. “Then why, praytell, is this damn thing not unlocking? ”

The vine boom sounds from the fridge. Green Arrow shoots the fridge. Right in the countdown. Tim turns off both of the screens on the fridge. Flash walks up to it and tugs, but the doors won’t budge. He turns on Green Arrow, leveling a glare his way. “Why would you shoot it? Now it’ll never open! ” Green Arrow rolls his eyes. “Relax. It’s just a fridge, how hard can it be?” Ouch, bad move, do not give the hungry speedster attitude. Flash looks one more comment away from decking Green Arrow as hard as he can at full speed. Tim has war flashbacks.

 Green Arrow walks over and also starts tugging on the fridge. It still won’t budge. He grunts and tries harder. Flash takes the other side and tugs on that door. Tim lowers the temperature and the lights and brightens every screen in the tower.

GA and Flash have begun trying to break the lock with pure force. Then they tried both pulling on the same door. Then they tried counting and pulling at the same time. None of it works. Tim smiles, knowing Bruce made it Kryptonian-proof. They’d end up tipping the fridge before they ever got even close to breaking the lock. Tim texts a video of their attempts to the YJ group chat. He captions it “Look what I did :))”.

Flash tries to vibrate his hand through the door and unlock the lock. The lock on the fridge doesn’t budge. Flash punches the fridge. The fridge doesn’t budge, but Flash’s hand does. With a sickening crunch, it breaks. There isn’t even a dent on the fridge. Flash goes to keep pulling on the fridge, but Green Arrow seems to come to his senses- seeing your teammate breaking his hand and then acting as if he doesn’t notice will do that. He knows they need to call in reinforcements.

Green Arrow stops pulling on the fridge as he pants out a “Wait- wait-” and slumps to the floor as he catches his breath and takes out his phone and puts it on speaker mode. Tim smiles. This’ll be fun. Flash is looking at Green Arrow with a crazed glint in his eyes, as if contemplating what flowers to put on his grave after he sacrifices him to the Fridge in order to appease it. His foot is tapping the floor so fast that the sound of it practically blurs together.

One ring. Two rings. “What.” Oh shit. That’s B. What the fuck? They didn’t even call a nicer teammate first; they just went straight to B? Way to ruin Tim’s fun. He wanted at least four leaguers trying to open the fridge before they think to call B. (To be fair, B is the only one who would make a lock on the fridge that could stand up to two Justice Leaguers.)

“Did you make the lock on the kitchen fridge fucking reinforced? ” Flash starts pacing. Bruce hums. Tim can hear his little smug smirk. “So what if I did?” Flash is vibrating in rage. “How do we unlock it, then?” Tim can also hear B’s raised eyebrow. “Hello to you, too, Flash. Use your authorization code.” Flash growls again. “I tried, but it. Just. Wouldn’t. Open.”

Bruce’s tone is dripping with amusement. “Try it again.” Flash huffs and storms up to the door. Tim unlocks it. Flash tugs with all his might. And falls flat on his ass as the door opens. Green Arrow gapes at the fridge, then at the phone in his hand. Flash is stuffing his face with the leftovers he definitely contemplated killing Green Arrow over. Batman hangs up on Green Arrow.

Tim decides he’s entertained himself enough and sets the watchtower to its original settings. He takes satisfaction in the way that Green Arrow and Flash yelp at the sudden brightness of the lights, then exits out of the satellite’s systems. That was A Good, Productive Hour of Tomfoolery, as Dick would say. (God, he misses Dick.) Tim’s satisfied.

He emails Babs from a burner email address. “U should check the security footage from the Watchtower 2nite, I did a thing -Agent C”. Just so the Bats don’t worry too much about who hacked the Watchtower. Not because Tim still craves validation from people he cares about. Not at all.

O replies within a minute. “Nice. Nightwing’s asking me to invite u to dinner" Tim stares. Speak of the devil, huh? It's been a long time since he’s gotten to talk to Dick- to actually talk to him as himself. It’s been a long time since he’s talked to Babs, too. Maybe- maybe it’d be okay if Tim indulged. Just this once. “I’ll see what I can do ;)”

=

Tim takes the next Wednesday off. His secretary looks shocked when he tells her at the end of Tuesday, and flabbergasted that he sets up an out-of-office message for his email and work phone. Tim once again contemplates if he really wants to keep letting her spy on him. Then he wonders if Tam would be willing to take up the position if he found her the proper bribe.

Tim spends his Wednesday morning going store to store, picking out everything O would need to make an untraceable top-of-the-line computer, and anything else that catches his eyes for his care package. He drops it off and waves at the camera that he lets see his masked face.

 After that, he takes a bus to Bludhaven in a baseball hat and a medical mask. He spends an hour wandering the streets in the general direction of Dick’s current apartment. He stops at a small grocery store and buys a few things that Dick tends to use a lot of. He also buys a couple of ingredients for a simple crockpot meal, something easy and filling. Dick taught him to make it, and it's become comfort food. (Alfred always did enjoy company in the kitchen, and everyone in the family knows how to cook and prepare good food if need be, and everyone has to learn at least one family recipe.)

He finds another store and buys a fancy Sudoku book with gold letters on the front. Dick, the math freak that he is, will love it. It’ll be a good, simple puzzle for him to do while he contemplates other things. It has over two hundred puzzles in it, but Tim bets that he’ll have it solved by the end of this week.

 He also finds some yarn and a crochet hook and buys it on a whim. He continues to wander through Buld, cataloging the changes that have been made since the last time he was here. He stops at a bakery (that was definitely a mob front, but the baked goods smelled too good to pass up), and buys some freshly made croissants and a cookie. He munches on the cookie as he makes his way to Dick’s apartment.

Tim reaches Dick’s apartment and climbs up the fire escape. He disarms the window’s traps, pulls it open, and looks down. He smiles at the comically giant, inconvenient glue-trap mat that Dick swears by. Some things never change.

He flips into the apartment, avoiding the juvenile trap. He puts away the mat to its designated spot for while people are here, and grabs the groceries from the windowsill. He closes the window, arms it, and puts away the food. Then, he pulls out Dick's flower-patterned crockpot and dumps everything in to simmer.

He wanders around Dick’s apartment, cleaning and snooping in equal measure. He finds a couple of new pictures placed around with Dickies chickity in them, and a pretty watercolor landscape hung on the wall. It’s signed DAGW. There are two new go-bags in the go-bag space, one with a red helmet and one with the signature yellow cape. Steph, and Cass’s go-bags are the same as ever. B’s go bag is notably the most inconvenient to reach. Dick is petty like that. 

Tim checks and- yep. His go bag with his collapsible staff is still here. He could change into the clothes that he has in here- he’s going to use his own domino, it’s not like it's a hassle to use his clothing. But that isn’t any fun, is it?

He wanders into Dicks room, mask in hand, and picks out a soft pair of Nightwing sweats. Tim takes the (somehow, despite the average-at-most water pressure) best shower he’s had in a while and changes into his stolen goodies. He applies his domino last. The last of the tension loosens from his shoulders. 

It’s something about Dick, but his presence- even just in the way that everything in this apartment is so clearly Dick-  never fails to make Tim relax. It's like his body registers that Dick is near and lets all his walls down, trusting Dick to protect him while he’s vulnerable. 

He plops onto Dicks couch and finds a soft, fluffy blanket with the most atrocious pattern Tim has ever seen to wrap around himself and something to watch. He decides to marathon the Ocean’s movies. Something easy that always ends the way you think it will. “The Master Con Artist Befuddles The Government, how surprising!” He starts crocheting, just letting his hands move without much thought.

Curled up in Dick’s apartment, covered in a blanket, and sitting on the couch, with the only light coming from the TV and the warm yellow lights of the table lamps, Tim finds that he can’t be bothered to do much thinking. He doesn’t need to worry about his reputation or company. He doesn’t need to fret about his responsibilities or extracurriculars. He can just be . It’s good.

That's how Dick finds him, two hours later. Tim heard him disarming the door, but he didn’t dare be standing where Dick could easily see him before he registers that Tim isn’t a threat. He’d rather not have something sharp thrown at him, thank you. If Dick think’s he’s a threat, Tim isn’t getting out of that fight without at least a black eye before Dick realizes it’s him.

 “Dinner’s gonna be ready in like an hour,” he calls. Dick stumbles into the living room, and Tim raises an eyebrow. Dick barely ever stumbles. He scans the room, then his eyes fall to Tim, who is sitting on his sofa, looking at him unimpressed.

Dick’s face splits into a grin. “Baby Bird!” before Tim could even think to duck, Dick launches himself at him and they go tumbling to the floor. Tim sighs. “I’m not getting out of the smothering, am I?” Dick directs his grin at him. “Nope.” He pops the P like the absolute ass he is. He pops up from the floor and offers a hand to Tim. “How are you, CC?”

Tim rolls his eyes and stays firmly on the floor. “I regret not just giving you a fake name. That was a mistake. Agent C was a mistake.” Dick’s infernal grin grows wider. “What, you don’t like my ‘C’ themed nicknames?” Tim injects every bit of venom he can into the word “ no. ”

“Not even Crustation? Clementine? C-horse? Caleb?” “Caleb is just a name! It isn’t even a nickname.” Despite himself, Tim feels a smile twitching onto his lips. God, he missed Dick. “Nu-uh! You’re smiling! You like it! You like Caleb!” Why did he miss Dick again? “Call me Caleb one more time and find out.” Dick tilted his head at him. “Caleb.”

Tim launches himself at Dick, and Dick dodges, cackling. Tim lunges again, and suddenly they’re off. They’re flipping and dodging and launching and cackling and play sparring and playing tackle tag, and it feels like no time has passed at all. It feels good. Makes Tim feel happier than he’s been in a while.

He ends up tackling Dick onto the couch, then they both get distracted by heckling the detective on screen and making fun of him. Tim doesn’t know why, but he starts giggling, then Dick starts, and they just can’t contain it. Giggles turn into snorts, turn into full-bellied laughs. They wind down only to be sent into another giggle fit several times, and by the time they’ve fully settled down, Tim feels warm and heavy from where he’s still laid atop of Dick. 

Dick quiets down and starts playing with Tim’s hair. Braiding it and unbraiding, running his fingers through it, fiddling with the ends. Tim sighed. He missed this. He feels like he’s come home after a long time away. He’s watching the movie passively, so he just lets his eyes flutter close as he listens more to Dick’s heartbeat than he listens to the movie. His breathing slows, and he falls asleep on Dick.

It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in a long time. Something about being wrapped up in Dicks arms makes Tim feel like nothing can touch him. It's safe and warm, and comforting in some innate way. The low lights and the smell of slow cooking food, and the steady thud of Dick’s heart, and the warmth swelling in his heart, herald Tim off to sleep.

There are no dreams or nightmares, only blissful darkness, and the ambient sound of Dick’s apartment. Tim could sleep for days if Dick let him. In fact, Tim might. Dick isn’t allowed to move now; he should just quit his job (what’s his job again? It changes so often Tim can’t keep track) and stay as Tim’s pillow forever. 

Dick wakes him up when it's time for food by pushing him off and onto the floor. Like an asshole. Tim bites his ankle. That'll teach him. Dick yelps and kicks Tim. Tim Trips him. Tim practically glows. This is good.

They amble over to the crockpot and get two bowls of food. Dick pauses, looking down at the food, an almost sad expression crossing over his face. He looks up at Tim, and Tim really hopes that the tears gathering in his eyes are just from the steam. 

“Is my cooking that bad?” Dick smiles at him, watery and a little warped at the edges. “No. It's just been a while since I ate this. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” Tim nods, mock solemn. “Tears of joy. Make sense, I’m a world-renowned chef behind this mask.” Dick’s smile seems a little happier this time. “You were hopeless before Alfie.” Tim gasps. “ Lies! Lies and slander!” The weird emotion disappears from Dick’s face, and Tim lets himself be satisfied with that.

Tim listens to Dick babble about his day, happy to just sit and soak up his attention. This month, Dick is an interior painter, apparently. Isn't that neat? (Tim is never going to let him live down his cop days. ‘I can fix the entire system from the inside without help’ he said, as if he didn't spend his entire childhood watching Commissioner Gordon try and fail.)

When it's Tim's turn to yap, he tells Dick about being so bored, so suddenly, that he decided to hack the Watchtower. How he caused chaos. He shows Dick the photos and videos from the security cameras. He's very proud when he gets Dick to laugh at the picture of Flash's enraged face at his supposed “incorrect answer”. He tells Dick about dropping off a care package for Babs this morning, and how he thinks this computer will be her best one yet. Dick asks where his care package is, and Tim punches him.

They bicker about the best toppings for pizza and which character in that new TV show is hotter, and how to pronounce GIF and a million different weird things that cross their mind. They have practically three conversations at once, jumping back and forth between topics on the dime, going in circles that are still somehow productive. Almost no one else can follow when Tim gets like this, and he’s surprised to remember how good it feels to have someone who can keep up.

Dick shows Tim a few cases that are slow going or that he's stuck on, and they toss ideas back and forth, looking for different angles or missed clues. They spread out on the floor and lay out all the evidence they have. They eat snacks and bicker and giggle like two teenagers at a slumber party. 

Tim uses his Robin laptop to hack into several governments’ files while Dick reads through old disorganized reports. They work fast and uncover at least three separate mafia deals going down. They work through an impressive amount of information, and between the two of their detective skills, Dicks know-how of the city of Bludhaven, and Tim’s fresh perspective, they have a very productive night.

It’s good, being able to sit in comfortable silence with Dick as they work, and good to have chaotic trains of thought out loud. It’s good to be allowed to be himself, without judgment or fear of misstepping. Tim hasn’t been this comfortable with someone since the last time his team hung out. Tim’s missed this- missed Dick .

 Tim finds a connection between two of the cases, and it snowballs until suddenly Tim is out on patrol in some basic black body armor, a grappling gun, his collapsible staff, and his old Robin cape, investigating and following the case right beside Nightwing.

They make arrests. They fight together. They swing through Bludhaven, and Tim gets to fly again. He feels so in tune with Dick, in tune with the city, even if he hasn't fought in it as much as Gotham. They’re a team in every sense of the word, and Tim can feel in the very marrow of his bones that Dick feels the same.

It's good to be so uncomplicated with someone, good to know Dick will have his back no matter what. It’s good to fly again, and it's good to fight. All of this feels right to Tim. 

He needed this, he thinks. And by the looks of it, Dick did too. He’s smiling brighter than the lights of the city, and his steps seem lighter today. He’s adding more flips and tricks as he flies through the city, practically daring Tim to try to one-up him. He’s become so different from the broken and jaded man who terrorized Bludhaven’s streets when Tim first became Robin. So different from the angry teenager who only came home to scream his voice raw and bloody.

 When Dick catches Tim watching him, he smiles and salutes, swan diving off the roof of a building. Tim grins right back and chases behind him. God, Tim wishes he had his camera. He wants to keep a little of this brightness to himself. Have a physical reminder of how far Dick has come. 

It's good to see Dick like this. Tim made a good choice when he accepted Dick’s dinner invite. Today was a good day. Better than he’s had in a while. So why is Tim crying on the bus ride home?

It’s not like he had a bad time. Tim doesn’t even think he’s sad. It’s not like he has anything to be sad about. He had a good day! He’s okay. Tim is good. He tries to wipe his tears away, but they just keep coming.

Chapter Text

Since his invitation to Mrs. Dawburst’s tea party, Tim finds himself swamped with invitations to nearly every event in the lower and middle circles of high society. It’s begun to get on his nerves: the number of people he hasn’t spoken to more than five sentences in as many years whom think to expect him at their social functions. Where were they when Drake Industries was failing and his parents were dead? Where were they when Tim was fighting to keep his company and root out the corruption from within it?

Most of them didn’t even deign to send well wishes to Mother and Father’s funeral. The ones that did were either in the process of trying to drain as much money from their company as possible or were too far abroad to be of any proper comfort.

Tim had to rebuild his life from scratch. He had to go over every interaction he had with anyone with a fine-toothed comb to try and discern their intentions. He had to get himself a job while he was in school to prove himself capable enough to be emancipated, because no one else would take care of Tim and the company without ruining them, intentionally or otherwise.

Tim had to fight every step of the way to reclaim his company. He had to prove that it would go under without his help. He had to be condescended to every day just for the chance to sit in the meeting room of everyone who was ruining his parents’ legacy. He had to defend his every action and inaction, and there was no satisfying their greed.

Every misstep was criticized. Every success was ignored. When Tim made his official debut into society, every person he talked to acted like he was their pity project or an annoying fly they couldn’t get rid of. His near impeccable manners (ones that even most adults struggle to uphold) went unnoticed. His opinions went unanswered.

Tim had to work to be seen as anything more than that. He had to take charge of his company and have it succeed before people so much as looked at him instead of through him. He had to be present and actively making decisions in every meeting before adults looked at him instead of any adult he was with for answers to questions about DI. He had to stand alone, without an adult to accompany him, to be spoken to with any modicum of respect at Galas.

It was only when Tim started taking out every scumbag he could find in DI with prejudice, and DI began succeeding again, that Tim was remarked upon. When he built it into something that could grow, they called him too ambitious. Then it grew. When he made deals that seemed to be in another company’s favor, they scoffed at him. Until he turned the tide and used the wording of the contracts against people. 

DI flourished, and the society talked. Tim let his work speak for itself. Bit by bit, he restored the respect put on the Drake’s name. He attended enough galas and events to see and be seen by the elite of Gotham. He networked enough that it benefited his company without him being seen as a social climber. He brought DI back to its former glory and continued to grow it. He even hosted a few fundraising events for charities that would do a lot of good for Gotham.

Soon, Tim was regarded in a similar respect to his parents. And Tim is happy with that, really, he is. He doesn’t mind all the attention that he’s getting right now, but it seems a little tiring, and if Tim tried to sustain the momentary popularity he achieved from being seen with the Waynes and Mrs.Dawburst back to back all by himself, Tim wouldn’t have time to run his company. And Tim doesn’t think that he could handle all of the people who supposedly were ‘good friends’ with his parents for much longer without losing his temper.

 Isn’t it funny that it’s only when Tim seemingly climbs the social ladder that they want to be friends, or reach out with their condolences? He’s begun to have to become even more choosy of the invites he accepts, if only to keep his schedule manageable and his ties to the mafia at a minimum. 

Tim’s been establishing a fairly good network for himself beyond what he already has, and any overt involvement with the mafia on his part will ruin the reputation he’s cultivated for DI of being strictly above board. His actions reflect on his company, and Tim needs for his company to succeed.  It’s what his parents would have wanted. They would have killed him if he had let this opportunity pass by.

So, Tim grabs the opportunity presented to him by its throat. He attends events, charms investors, and makes his way into the good graces of people higher in the social hierarchy than himself. He attends photo-ops that he wouldn’t have been invited to previously. His donations to charity and projects to improve the city, previously overlooked by the masses, are suddenly remarked upon in interviews. Tim makes new business partners and builds connections everywhere he goes.

Accepts as many invitations as he can stomach, building a good repertoire with hosts as a good guest. He holds lunch meetings with people who think they’re more important than him, but want to get to Mrs. Dawburst or B. He introduces contacts to one another. His PR team is working overtime, riding the waves of the good publicity.

Business in Drake Industries is booming, but he has no illusions that it’ll be like this forever. Tim’s novel appeal will wear off eventually.  The memory of the incident where he talked to the Waynes before they left early and his appearance at Mrs. Dawburst’s tea party as her personal guest shortly after will fade from mind, and (since Tim does not plan on making another scene or doing anything else that is remarkable anytime soon) it will take with it the interest in Tim, thus interest in DI. 

This popularity will be forgotten soon, but the ironclad contracts he’d signed with the business partners that flocked to him because of that popularity will not. Tim made sure to get every deal and alliance he made on paper, in legal documents that cannot be taken back without considerable effort and a good reason. Tim is ruthless. Just like mother.

The deals he’s managed to secure for Drake Industries by taking up on offers of “good faith” from people trying to use him as a connection to the Waynes, combined with the deals he’s made with people who were more interested in gossip than business, will be enough to keep the company running for the next five years, and pay for the expansion to Metropolis all on its own. If you add that to what DI will do with the materials that some of the deals helped them acquire and the revenue that DI makes on its own, you'll get record-breaking profits for DI.

So, Tim has no qualms letting the people attempting to climb the social ladder by piggybacking off him and his company’s success sign contracts, thinking it’s a way to the top. They can try, but Tim’s not going to be the one taking them there. Tim’s staying right where he was in the social hierarchy. He’s not making any more waves anytime soon.

 =

It is at a charity event for the renovation of one of Gotham’s largest no-kill animal shelters when Tim next has an interaction beyond the exchanging of pleasantries with the Waynes. It starts with Damian Wayne having been separated from his family. Again. You would think they’d have learned their lesson about letting a ten-year-old wander around a gala alone.

It doesn’t matter that he’s Robin and can handle himself against most physical assailants. The most dangerous people here prefer to hurt people and reputations through words. Rumors, gossip, racist rhetoric- all of it can hurt a child even more than it can hurt an adult. It’s important that all children, no matter their standing, are accompanied by an adult who can protect them from people trying to twist their words against them or trip them into making a faux pas. Someone whom they can learn from. 

Tim’s parents never trusted anyone to chaperone him but themselves. They believed that the best place for Tim to learn was at their sides. They even had strategy meetings with Tim in the car, explaining which parent he should stick with that night, or if they were all staying together and why.

 Tim stuck with his Mom more often because his Dad was expected to drink and participate in useless small talk with business partners as a way to keep good relationships with them, and his Mom had much more mobility throughout the night, showing Tim how to collect information, manipulate people’s perception, and navigate conversation with impeccable manners. Having a child on her hip also helped her in her information-gathering process because it was an easy excuse for conversation, and it made her look more disarming. 

When Tim did stay with his Dad, it was so that his Mom could speak to people who don’t want to share their information in front of a child, be it because they thought it was too inappropriate or because they were worried Tim would blab. Dad would spend his time with Tim showing him how to read intentions, keep connections, and determine if business deals offered were genuine and profitable. He’d show off Tim to his “friends”, then let him watch as they discussed business between mostly meaningless conversation.

When all of them stayed together, they fell into their roles perfectly. His Mom and Dad showed each other and Tim off to their respective “friends”. Tim stayed quiet, with only a few respectful comments to flatter someone. They sweep through the event, defending each other from any nasty comments and showing off their family unity. They charm anyone who likes the idea of a perfect little family. They smile for any photos. When they get back into the car his Mom and Dad talk about the event and the people, and anything new that they’ve noticed that could be useful. If Tim catches something they didn’t, they go for a treat or a fast food meal.

All that is to say: it’s become so ingrained in gala culture that children must be at their parents or a trusted adult’s side at all times until they reach a certain age that the mere absence of a mentor watching the chickity is causing speculation to fly. It’s a bad look for the Waynes, especially since the Wayne children before the demon bird had always voluntarily stayed close to B. This is an ambush waiting to happen, a scandal in the making.

Tim can see the way that competitors of Wayne Enterprises and enemies of Bruce are starting to size the little Wayne up, trying to figure out how to trip him up in conversation. Tim desperately looks around for any sign of Bruce, or Dick- hell, he’ll even take Selina at this point- to get them to come collect their birdie. 

If Tim is seen escorting #5 to the Waynes again, he’ll be put back in the spotlight, and his alleged relationship with the Wayne family will be all but confirmed to Gotham’s elite. (As if being kind enough to show a lost kid to their parents more than once is a novelty. These people need to get a life.) If he’s associated with the Waynes, every choice will be evaluated, looking for any way to hurt them through him.

The whole point of pulling away from the Bat clan in the first place was so Tim couldn’t hurt them. He isn’t about to start now. Tim cannot be seen with Damian Wayne. It’ll just make everything worse for all the parties involved. But… Tim can’t spot anyone who would swoop in to save the birdie.

 Tim hears two women gossiping in the corner, already speculating about why bittie birdie is on Bruce’s bad side. More and more people are looking at the littlest bird. He sees two businessmen beginning to converge on the chickity. Tim weighs his options. He could leave the birdie to fend for himself, to make his own way back to Dick, thus saving everyone from future hurt. 

Or Tim could swoop in now, and live with whatever consequences befall him if he’s seen. The birdie needs help. He doesn’t deserve to be attacked while he’s unprotected and still learning the ins and outs of high society. Tim’s mind plays out every way that this could end, and none of them are good. So, he takes a deep breath and makes his choice. He makes his way over to them and steps up beside the littlest bird.

Now that Tim’s closer to the men, he can identify them clearly. Jake Wilson and Arnold Macmillan. Wilson is a god-awful, two-faced busybody, but on his own he’s relatively harmless when you know how to navigate gala-talk. (Which no one seems to have taught the littlest bird to do. God, if Bruce were even a little bit more familiar with Civilian Tim, Tim would give him the dressing down of a lifetime.) The bigger threat right now is Arnold Macmillan.

 The man and his real estate businesses have been threatened by Ivy several times, and for good reasons. He’s holding a near monopoly over the buying and selling of warehouses, especially the ones used for nefarious purposes. He has money and criminal connections galore, but Tim can’t tell what his intentions for the birdie could be.

He inclines his head toward them as they approach, having arrived to the birdie just before them. He steps up next to Dickie’s Chickity so that when he speaks to the men he won’t be a surprise to the stabby bird. The bird tenses at Tim’s sudden appearance from behind his back, about to attack, but stops himself when he realizes that it’s Tim and not some ninja or something sent to attack him.

Tim nods toward the men approaching them so that Damian would pay attention to them instead of questioning Tim, then he speaks to them.  “Mr. Wilson. Mr. Macmillan. It’s been some time since we last spoke.” They nod at him, and Macmillan speaks for them both. “It has been quite some time indeed.” They lapse into silence, and Tim stares both of them down. An interrogation tactic that B taught him to force them to break the silence.

Wilson shifts. “We- uhm-” Macmillan cuts him off. “We were concerned for Mr. Wayne here, couldn’t help but notice him standing alone.” Macmillan gives a smile so saccharine that Tim can practically smell the rot of his teeth on his breath.

 Tim smiles back at him, shark-like. “That’s very noble, but I’m afraid that you needn’t have worried. His brother had just sent me to retrieve him.” Wilson seems doubtful of this and seems to see it as a good opportunity to fish for gossip. “He’s been standing here by himself for a while. Was he only now summoned back?” Tim shakes his head, faux concern on his face. “He slipped away from Mr. Grayson a while ago- looking for something to eat- whom thought young Mister Wayne had escaped to his father’s side. Mister Wayne thought that his sons had stuck together. I’m afraid it was all a misunderstanding.”

Wilson seems unconvinced and tries to push his luck. “Are you sure? I, myself, have an older brother, so I can understand how frustrating they can be. I wouldn’t blame young Mister Wayne here if he, say, stormed away.” Tim stiffens. “I’m sure. I find that young Mister Wayne and his older brothers get along quite well most days.” The littlest Wayne nods. “That is correct.”

Tim places a hand on the chickity’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this conversation short. I need to return Mister Wayne to his Father’s side.” Macmillan nods. “Very well.” He looks at the stabby bird. “Have a good night, Mr. Wayne.” He leaves without so much as a nod at Tim. Wilson follows.

Birdie #5 turns on Tim with a frown. “I’m not a child, nor do I need you to speak for me, or escort me back to my father as if I were one.” Tim frowns back at him, momentarily forgetting that he’s in public. Surely someone should have told him about gala culture? It’s a massive oversight not to have trained him on this. One of these days, Tim isn’t going to be conveniently placed in a spot where he can see if anything is about to go wrong.

Tim begins walking on the outskirts of the room, steering the Robin toward B. “I’m sure that you’re a mature young man.” Tim pauses, trying to find the words to explain this in a polite, socialite-approved way, without coming off as patronizing. It is the thinnest of lines to walk. The littlest bird frowns a little harder, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “But?” He prompts. “But,” Tim says, gathering his thoughts. “You are still perceived as a child in the eyes of most everyone in this room. That will not change, no matter how hard you try, until you grow older.”

Tim switches to the birdie’s other side, keeping him between Tim and the wall. “At galas and upperclass events, most children are fiercely protected by their parents, because any mistake or faux pas the child makes, if not corrected by a parent or mentor, can be used against their parents.” Damian opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but Tim steamrolls right over him, continuing on. He doesn’t have much time to say all that he needs to the birdie- since he needs to be seen at B’s side ASAP- so Tim can’t afford an interruption. 

“Because of this, it has become an expectation that children are to stay at their parents’ or a trusted mentor’s hip at a gala. You standing alone reflects poorly on your father because he isn’t there to correct any mistakes you make, and it looks like he doesn’t care enough to get you a mentor who will in his absence.” Damian looks furious at this.  “How dare- ”

Tim cuts him off. “I’m not implying anything of the sort. However, there are people who will if you aren’t careful. Rumors had already begun to spread when I came to collect you. Those men who approached you? Wilson was fishing for gossip. Hard to tell if Macmillan was trying to get into your father's good graces by returning you to him or goad you into making a mistake that he could use against your father, but that just depends on whether he has a grudge against him or not.”

Tim stops at a corner in the room that has a direct line of sight to Bruce, and he turns to face the birdie, who is practically steaming out of his ears in anger. “Sympathy sharpened into a blade is not sympathy. It is manipulation. It will serve you well to remember that when interacting with the elite of Gotham.”

Tim decides to level with Damian. “There are many people in this room who want to use you. Your every action and inaction holds great power and meaning. You remember the last time I walked you to Mr. Grayson?” The Robin nods. “Even just the act of being seen escorting you through the room before you and the rest of your family left early contributed to a great rise in my popularity and led to an invite to the next tea party Mrs. Dawburst held. I was specifically invited so I could share what we talked about and why you and your family left early.” Bitty Birdie looks flabbergasted at this news.

“I used the prestige I gained from you to lead a smear campaign against Mr. Newman, who is a well-funded politician. He lost his funding, was disinvited from every event in the state for the foreseeable future. 

That. Is the power your actions hold. Something as simple as walking beside me can cause waves within the community, so you must be careful about how you handle yourself in the eyes of the public. Stay at your Father's or Brother's side. Learn from their actions. Keep an ear out for anything you can leverage against anyone.  You are the son of Gotham royalty, a prince in your own right. You could have everyone in this room at your feet groveling if you so wished, but you must learn the rules in order to win the game.” Tim searches Damian's face, which has been schooled into a perfect blank slate. 

“Do you understand?” #5 nods. Tim sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay- okay .” He nods to himself. “Your father is right there. I'm going to walk you most of the way to him, then I'm going to leave. You say that you wandered away from Dick in search of a snack, then lost him in the crowd. You've been looking for a family member since. That's going to keep the worst of the rumors at bay as long as you stick to B for the next few galas.” Damian pauses, peering at Tim, as if simply looking into Tim’s eyes will give him all the information that he wants. He nods, seemingly deciding to go with the plan.

Tim walks Dickie’s Chickity up to the crowd flocking Bruce, and catches B's eye. He nods toward the birdie. Bruce flicks his eyes from the Robin back to Tim. He nods his head in thanks. Damian watches the entire exchange. Tim nudges him forward, then melts back into the crowd. He becomes another faceless body in the crowd, watching as father and son reunite.

“Father!” Damian calls out, looking for all the world like a lost child. Bruce wheels around and smiles at him. The littlest Bird pushes through the first few people- who didn't realize what was going on- until the crowd parts around him. “There you are. I've been looking for you and Richard for ages .” 

B's face scrunches in worry. “Dick was supposed to be watching you.” The kid huffs. “I got separated from him while I was searching for something to eat.” Tim can practically hear the cooing that's about to occur as soon as Damian is out of earshot.

 ‘Oh, the littlest Wayne wandered off to get a snack and got lost, how cute.’ ‘Poor thing must have been so frightened, did you hear how desperately he called out to his father?’ ‘Is that what he was doing, standing all alone? Why did nobody help him?’ ‘Dickie Wayne must have been so panicked to turn around and see his little brother gone.’

He's done his job, and by the look of the people surrounding the “cute scene” that Tim staged, he's done it well. Oh, and here comes Dick. “B! Have you seen-” he deflates at the sight of the kid. “There you are.” He pulls his chickity into a hug, probably playing up his worry for the audience. “Don't scare me like that again, please.” 

Damian looks like he's trying not to bristle under all the attention. “I will endeavor to keep myself from becoming separated from you in the future.” Tim watches him evaluate the audience and his next words, and make a split-second decision.

 In just loud enough of a voice that the audience can hear, he says, “I apologize for worrying you. It was not my intention.” Tim can see the words wash over the audience, charming them. He nods at the choice. The littlest of the birds will be fine. He’s a quick learner. Tim has no doubt that by the time he’s Tim’s age he’ll be playing everyone like a fiddle.

If Dick is surprised by the apology, the crowd doesn’t know it. He just squeezes the birdie again and says, “It’s okay” as he releases him. 

As Bruce and Dick and the crowd fuss over #5, Tim turns away and walks back to the rest of the event. He continues his night at the gala, having done his good deed for the day. He ignores the feeling of a pair of green eyes on his back for the rest of the night. He’s had more than enough practice at that over the last few galas.

The littlest bird is not seen without a chaperone for the rest of the gala season. Tim gets five blissful Wayne-encounter-free events (if you don’t count the littlest bird staring at Tim while he thinks Tim’s oblivious,) and assumes he’s safe from even those little interactions when the gala-break occurs. It’s a two-month break between each gala season, and when the next gala season will take place. He’s wrong. God, is he wrong.

 =

Chapter Text

Damian is not scared to admit that Timothy Drake baffles him. There are very few people that don’t baffle Damian, quite honestly, but that is more because he cannot fathom their idiocy, not that he doesn’t understand it in theory. Damian does not understand Timothy Drake.

The first time he meets Drake, Drake prevents Damian from murder. He sweeps into the conversation with grace, and the scum that Damian was about to cull pales at his very name. It’s very odd, Drake does not seem threatening in the slightest. When Damian introduces himself, outright stating his family name, Drake does not react beyond a pleasant return of Damian’s “nice to meet you” as if Damian were any other child! 

When Drake asks Damian to accompany him while he says hello to Father and Richard, Damian appraises him. He doesn’t have any reason to refuse Drake’s offer, and while he is not in any sense intimidating, the boil-brained harpy that had cornered Damian is shaking in his boots at his mere presence. Drake is not of high standing, to his knowledge, so Damian would like to know why. 

Damian is taken aback when Drake takes his acceptance and uses it as a weapon against the puny flap-mouthed barnacle, effectively threatening him with the elder Wayne's wrath in a way that could not be taken as a threat if it were quoted to anyone who isn’t present. Drake then proceeds to leave without deigning anything the vain unmuzzled lout says with a verbal response.  

Drake cuts his way through the crowd at the gala easily. He redirects each person’s interests from Damian and back to him with simple pleasantries, and the ease at which he ends conversations quickly without offending anyone is impressive. Father cannot do so as swiftly as Drake, though perhaps that’s just because of the difference in station? People do seem to pursue any attention from Father they get much more fervently. They all seem to approach to garner Damian's attention, but he ignores them in favor of studying Drake.

Drake puts emphasis on the fact that the tottering dizzy-eyed miscreant had been alone with Damian to everyone he speaks to, which always causes quite a reaction. They vary from horror to morbid interest to scandal. The person that Drake is speaking to always leaves to go whisper to someone else shortly after. Damian knows that he’s missing information- racism is rampant in these circles, though it’s frowned upon to be so overtly racist as the loggerheaded varlet- so normally the barest implication of racism is not enough to get people at a gala so worked up. But what is it that Damian’s missing?

Richard greets Drake as if he were a friend- more warm and personal than he treats others at this event- but Damian hasn't met Drake at any of these events before, nor has he heard of him from Richard or Father. Drake smiles at Richard in a way that feels more genuine than anything Damian has seen from him yet. For a second, his eyes soften, and his shoulders loosen slightly, losing some tension Damian only now notices that he holds there. It’s odd.

Damian's attention is only brought away by one of the harlots vying for Richard's affections for a second, but by the time Richard restrains him (much to the harlot's delight, if Damian had to go by their repulsive cooing), Drake's demeanor returns to the cool but pleasant facade that he'd held before interacting with Richard. 

When he speaks, quiet but powerful, everyone leans in to listen. In a few words, he gets Richard furious in a way that Damian has not seen before. The quieter his voice gets, the more tense Richard becomes, acting as if he is ready to fight at any moment. Damian doesn’t understand what Drake is implying for most of the conversation, and it is only when Drake says “I know that it feels really gross to be followed around by that creep.” that everything that had escaped Damian clicks.

 He’s been implying to everyone they’ve come across that Newman’s intentions were sexual in nature when he cornered Damian. Drake’s lying to their faces and convincing them. He’s convincing Richard. Every word he used could still be plausibly applied to the actual situation at hand, and it might all be a terrible misunderstanding, true, but the tone that he uses leans toward the suggestion that Newman had different intentions than pure drunken bigotry. 

It’s manipulative. It’s wonderfully underhanded. It’s baffling. It’s effective. When Drake’s voice shakes- still in that tone- Richard springs into action, rage in every line of his body.

He steers Damian away from the masses- dismisses them with a voice too strong for his public persona- and storms through the room, no one daring to get in his path. When Richard catches sight of Father, all it takes is a sharp “ Bruce. ” from him for Father to straighten and dismiss his own horde of harlots and make his way over to them. 

Richard offers no more explanation than a clipped “We need to leave.” Damian knows better than to protest, even though Richard is reacting to faulty information. This is not the place to correct Richard. Not in public.

Damian keeps to Richard’s side (not that he has much of a choice, given the hold Richard has on his arm) and Father stays close at their backs. They haven’t even buckled their seatbelts before Richard is turning to Damian, eyes alight with his temper and demanding “Did he touch you?” Damian can hear Father startling, but that doesn’t matter. Right now, Damian needs to assure Richard.

“His only transgression against me was spouting his racist rhetoric and attempting to frighten me with vague threats, none of which were sexual in nature as you were led to believe." Father barks out a sharp “ Excuse me? ” but Richard ignores him. “Damian. If he so much as breathed on you in a way-” Damian shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that. I would have cut off his hand before he got the chance.”

“ Boys. ” Father looks between them, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. “What happened?” Damian jumps at the chance to explain before Richard makes a mountain out of a mole hill in his overprotective ways. “At the event I was approached by a drunken man, last name Newman, whom was trying to intimidate me into ‘going back to where I came from’ with vague threats like ‘or else.” 

Dick growls at his words, but Damian keeps talking before he gets the chance to interrupt. “Timothy Drake intercepted and effectively removed me from the situation by introducing himself to Newman and I- letting him know who he was threatening- then asking me to walk him back to you or Richard, and offering to let him tell you the same threats he was telling me, implying that that would not go over well.”

“I accepted, and Drake escorted me through the room, back to Richard’s side. He mentioned to everyone that we crossed that Newman was the only person keeping me company when we were introduced.” 

“When we approached Richard, he made it seem as though Newman had approached me with sexual intentions, though I cannot fathom why, given that even just the time it would take to approach the corner that Newman had backed me into would have allowed him to overhear Newman's threats and determine that they were rooted in bigotry.”

“Richard led me to you then we all made a swift exit. I sustained no injuries from this whole endeavor.” Richard looks over Damian, checking for injuries that are not there. “You’re sure?” Damian rolls his eyes. “Yes, Richard. Must I repeat myself again?”

Richard just shakes his head and turns to Father, who is gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles are white. “Why didn’t we know that Newman is back in the circles?” Father’s voice is low and angry when he speaks. “It was an oversight. One that will be rectified.” Richard’s laugh is mean. “Yes. It will be.”

They spend all of their free time during the next week digging up every wrong-doing that Newman had ever done, compiling heaps and heaps of evidence on top one another, from black-mail to extortion to money laundering for the mob to embezzlement, the list is long, even for a corrupt politician, and he isn’t very good at covering his tracks. 

It’s on the Friday after the Gala, the afternoon of their planned beating arrest of Charles Newman when Richard skids into the kitchen and vaults over the counter to show Father his phone, ignoring Pennyworth’s raised eyebrow. He must have just driven in from Bludhaven for this weekend. “You didn’t tell me you were going to the press ,” he accuses Father. “This is going to make tonight so much harder, he’s going to be hounded all night. Just because you think I’m going to be too rough with him-” 

Father’s eyebrows draw together, and he interrupts Richard. “I didn’t.” Richard shoves his phone in Father’s face. “Then what is this?” Father takes his phone, and Damian leans in to better see the screen. On it, a headline reads “CHARLES NEWMAN, CONTROVERSIAL POLITICIATION, MIGHT BE EMBESSLING GOVERNMENT FUNDS”. Which, granted, isn’t all that surprising for a politician, and is down right expected of someone from Gotham. 

What is surprising is that it made it to the press. Who did Newman piss off for it to get outed so publically like that? He’s going to have to pay a lot of hush money to make the article go away.  

“This past week, we at Gotham's finest newspaper got an anonymous tip that Charles Newman, a controversial local politician may be hiding a couple more skeletons in his closet than we first assumed.” Richard quotes. Father shakes his head. “Dick. It wasn't me.” Richard stares at him. Father stares back. 

“Then who? ” Father doesn't have an answer. 

Suddenly, it seems the flood gates have been opened. Almost every other hour a new article has been released about the turd, some new transgression of his come to light, each from a different news source, all having been spurred by an anonymous tip.  His arrest is being demanded by 9PM that night. The police release a statement about how they’re opening an investigation by noon the following day.

When the rank scut tries to flee the country, Nightwing is on it, taking him down before he can even open the airport’s door. He’s dropped on the GCPD’s doorstep with significantly less teeth than he had before he met Nightwing, and significantly more broken bones. 

The compiled evidence that the Bats curated for the police, combined with the unchinned snouted giglet’s reputation taking a nose-dive from all of those exposé articles, and all of his mafia contacts mysteriously ghosting him, keep him from being able to worm his way out of a fair sentence.

The whole thing goes too smoothly to be unplanned, but who could be smart enough to plan the mewling fat-kidneyed fool’s demise? It surely isn’t his political rivals, their intelligence would not be up to the task. Puppets, the lot of them. But who, then, could plan this?

=

Damian has heard many stories about Agent C. Brown’s predecessor. The Third Robin. The Robin who hid his identity from even Batman’s detection. The detective that escaped Grandfather’s grasp, then Father’s. The mystery that Father could not solve. The family member that could not be caught. Damian has heard so much about the missing Robin. Many stories of his successes, and plenty of his failures.  He is greatly surprised to learn that the missing Robin is active again on an average Saturday night , of all things. 

There is no great disaster to lure him out of hiding. No family gathering for him to randomly show up to. No great bribe to entice him out into the open. No sudden reveal of his identity. Nothing. It’s perhaps one of the most typical, boring nights out on patrol Damian had ever encountered! Only a stray mugging or two and a couple of drunk teens to walk home.

 It starts with a simple phone call. Surprising, only in that it’s coming from Father’s designated Batman phone. On coms, Damian can practically hear his siblings perk up, ready for anything to entertain them. Father, surely sensing the same, checks who’s calling. “Odd. It’s Green Arrow. He’s supposed to be on the Watchtower.”

“I’ll patch him in.” Pipes up Oracle. Father just sighs, knowing that this phone call would be heard by everyone, and nothing would stop her. The line connects. “What.” Father says. “Did you make the kitchen fridge fucking reinforced? ” Richard cackles loudly, as does Brown, but Damian assumes that Oracle muted them on the call, given Green Arrow doesn’t react. Father’s lip twitches up in a little smirk. He hums a little sound in faux contemplation.

“So what if I did?” a new voice comes over the line, clear and angry. “How do we unlock it, then?” Richard’s laugh somehow becomes more demented over the comms. Father seems to be trying to do his best Pennyworth impression in order to cover up his amusement. He raises an eyebrow, and attempts a dry tone.

“Hello to you, too, Flash. Use your authorization code.” A growl. “I tried, but it. Just. Wouldn’t. Open.” Father is trying not to laugh now, and Richard’s laughter seems to be making it worse. He mutes his side of the call. “Dick- Dickie stop laughing-” he huffs, still holding back his own laughter. Richard just quiets himself down to giggles. 

Brown, who’d been slowly quieting down, starts up again with her own hyena laughter. Father unmutes himself on the call. “Try it again.” There’s a crash on the other end of the line. Father has to mute himself once more so he can laugh. When Green Arrow and Flash don’t say anything else in the following seconds, he hangs up.

“Alright, alright.” Richard laughs. “Who did it?” No one claims it, too busy with their amusement. “Cassie?” Father asks, still chuckling. Cain’s voice, far away and somewhere on Gordon’s line carries through. “Nope.” “Barbara?” “I wish I had thought of it first.” Richard’s line rings, and Todd picks up. “What do you want, Dickface?”

“Heyyy Jay. You’re on comms. You wouldn’t have happened to have hacked the Watchtower just now, right?” Todd snorts. “Nope, who framed me?” Father’s smile fades. Damian can feel him start to worry. Richard’s voice also sounds tight. “You weren’t framed this time. It’s just- no one’s owning up to it so we figured- Hm. O?” Gordon’s clacking on her keyboard is the only sound for a tense moment, but then she laughs, sounding a little breathless.

“Agent C just sent me an Email-” Agent C? Like the Agent C? Why on earth would he- “Are we sure it’s him?” Father’s using his mission briefing voice, serious and strong. He’s typing on his wrist computer in his gauntlet. “It reads- ‘U should check the footage from the Watchtower 2nite, I did a thing’. The writing style checks out and the burner email is [email protected], and it’s untraceable.” Richard laughs. “That’s definitely him. Ask him to come over for dinner sometime.”

Oracle’s keyboard sounds, then silence reigns. A beat. Two. “I’ll see what I can do, winky-face.” Richard whoops. “ Yes! I’ve still got it. Told you, B, I’m the best at luring Baby Bird back to the nest.” Father sighs. “It’s not a competition, Dick.” Richard disagrees, apparently. 

“You didn’t say that back when you were winning .” Father smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “So you admit I was winning!” This is a juvenile argument. Damian swings away from Father, though he cannot escape the squabbling with his comm still in his ear. “So you admit it was a competition!” Todd disconnects from the comms, the lucky bastard. Damian would too if he was allowed to without consequences. “I didn’t say that-”

=

A week passes. Agent C does not come over for family dinner. Damian is not disappointed. He doesn’t need another brother anyway. Especially one who makes promises that he doesn’t deliver on.

=

News of the Third Robin flying again in Bludhaven surfaces. When Richard comes over this weekend, he’s practically glowing. Oracle’s been quiet. Cain tells Damian that she’s working on a project that was gifted to her by Agent C when he asks why. Father is working on situational awareness drills to spring on his teammates and puzzling over notes left in the Batcomputer for him with glee.

Damian is not jealous, nor is he avoiding them. Cain might beg to differ, but she’s been spending all her time with Damian, so she has no fucking room to talk. 

If they both linger outside the doorway to the kitchen to listen as Richard gushes to Pennyworth about the time he’d spent with Agent C, then, well. It’s not like they’d tell on each other.

=

Damian has taken to watching Drake at every event he can. He’s very odd. The people he approaches to speak with seem genuinely delighted to have a conversation with him, but there are people in every event that he attends that hold thinly veiled hostility toward him. They may blabber and exchange pleasantries with him or speak only fondly of him in public, but their body language gives them away.

When he points them out to Cain during one of the few events she attends, she confirms his suspicions of their hostility and joins him in watching Drake and the people around him. “He’s confusing.” she says. “His words and his body say such different things- like the others-” she waves her hand at the mass of people at the event for emphasis, “but he keeps himself held tight. He does not use everything that he has for the game that these people play, even though it should be the only game he knows.”

Damian turns to her, baffled. He looks around at the people near them. Then at his Father. “Surely not everyone here is trying their hardest. What is it that makes him confusing?” She shakes her head. She gestures at the crowd again. “ They do not care, so they do not try.” She gestures at Drake. “ He cares, but he only puts in some of what he has. It’s weird.”

Damian nods. “I find him weird as well.” Cain smiles at Damian, and slips away to go see how many people she can creep out or scare into leaving early. Damian still watches Drake. When Cain returns after a productive haunt to see Damian still observing Drake, she forces him onto the dance floor with her for the rest of the night.

=

It is at an event that Damian is not watching Drake that they next meet. He’d been stuck with Richard- who was being unbearable- all night, since Father is the one hosting the event and they both seem determined not to leave Damian alone at an event again. Richard is being embarrassing just to annoy Damian. 

He tells everyone they meet about how “Dami is the whole reason for this event in the first place- he just has such a big heart, you know? Asked Bruce to renovate the place since it was struggling, and Bruce couldn’t say no! He figured it was a good opportunity to raise awareness and money-” and on and on, in the most chipper, grating voice Damian has ever heard.

Thankfully, Damian managed to escape, but now he has nothing to do. He hovers near the food table, picking at the options, but nothing looks good so he wanders away. He finds a good spot next to a pillar to people watch, and looks at the people around him. They’re all whispering, but that’s pretty normal for events like these. The looks Damian is receiving are also par for the course, but they feel… meaner, somehow. 

He’s probably being over sensitive because he’s alone and therefore on high alert. It’s not a big deal. Damian resists the urge to wrap his arms around his body, to guard his softest parts. He is at a Wayne fundraiser, not on the streets of Gotham. No one will attack him here.  

There’s movement in Damian’s peripheral vision, and Damian almost whirls and stabs it with his knife before he registers it as Drake. He relaxes, if fractionally, when he sees that it isn’t a hostile.

It’s surprising that Drake was able to sneak up on Damian. Perhaps Damian has been slacking in his situational awareness training lately. He will need to rectify that. Before Damian could question Drake, he nods towards the two men that had been making their way over to this side of the room. It seems they want to talk to Damian.

“Mr. Wilson. Mr. Macmillan. It’s been some time since we last spoke.” The shorter one- Macmillan, if Drake is to be believed- agrees. The conversation lulls. Damian is used to silence, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be the one to break it. By the look of it, neither is Drake. 

Damian decides to stare down the taller one, Wilson, to see if he can get Wilson to break. The longer the silence drags, the more he fidgets. Damian tilts his head. Wilson breaks. “We- uhm-” Macmillan interrupts him, sadly. Damian wanted to see what Wilson would say under stress.

Macmillan ignores Damian entirely, choosing to talk to Drake instead, but the gleam he held in his eyes while approaching is diminished. “We were concerned for Mr. Wayne here, couldn’t help but notice him standing alone.” Damian bristles at the implication that he needs babysitting and goes to retort, but Drake beats him to it. “That’s very noble, but I’m afraid that you needn’t have worried. His brother had just sent me to retrieve him.” Damian doubts that. If Richard wanted to find Damian, he would do it himself. Not send someone Damian doesn’t know.

“He’s been standing here by himself for a while. Was he only now summoned back?” What is it with these people and implying that Damian must have an adult looking over his every move? Damian is not incompetent, and he does not appreciate being treated like he is! 

“He slipped away from Mr. Grayson a while ago- looking for something to eat- whom thought young Mister Wayne had escaped to his father’s side. Mister Wayne thought that his sons had stuck together. I'm afraid it was all a misunderstanding.” That is wholly untrue. 

Father trusts Damian to behave at these events, and though he and Richard have been keeping a closer eye on Damian recently, it is not as if Damian is not allowed to traverse these events on his own. Especially since this is a Wayne Event, so anyone that could be a potential danger to the family was disinvited. Why would Drake lie about such a thing?

 “Are you sure? I, myself, have an older brother, so I can understand how frustrating they can be. I wouldn’t blame young Mister Wayne here if he, say, stormed away.” While that is what happened on some degree, Damian does not like the tone or implication that this man is using. Neither, it seems, does Drake.

He stiffens up, and his tone is colder. “I’m sure. I find that young Mister Wayne and his older brothers get along quite well most days.” Brothers. Not brother. Odd, given that the public doesn’t know Jason is alive, much less if Damian and him get along. Perhaps it was just a slip of the tongue, but it itches at Damian’s mind. Still, Damian nods. This is an important thing to corroborate. Family unity is important for their image.  “That is correct.”

Damian tires of these bothersome people, and so, it seems, does Drake. He ends the conversation swiftly, and doesn’t bother to act offended that the men refuse to so much as nod a goodbye at him. When Drake makes as if to lead Damian back to father, Damian snaps.

He plants his feet and turns to face Drake. “I’m not a child, nor do I need you to speak for me, or escort me back to my Father as if I were one.” Drake frowns, and it startles Damian enough that he allows himself to be moved in the direction of father. Drake never frowns. Not once in all the events that Damian has been watching him. 

“I’m sure you’re a mature young man.” And Drake seems to mean it. So then what could possibly be his problem? ”But?” Damian prompts, because surely there is a catch. “But, you are still perceived as a child in the eyes of most everyone in this room.” Damian wants to protest, but something in Drake’s voice stops him. He speaks as though he knows this from experience.

“That will not change, no matter how hard you try, until you grow older. At galas and upperclass events, most children are fiercely protected by their parents, because any mistake or faux pas the child makes, if not corrected by a parent or mentor, can be used against their parents.” Damian does not make juvenile mistakes like most children his age.

He’s been told that he’s one of the best behaved children that his teacher has ever met, in fact. He will not scream or cry or throw tantrums. Drake does not even seem to notice his objections, just continuing on as if Damian isn’t trying to speak. 

“Because of this, it has become an expectation that children are to stay at their parents’ or a trusted mentor’s hip at a gala.” No one told Damian this was a rule? Surely Drake is exaggerating. “You standing alone reflects poorly on your father-” what? Why didn’t anyone tell Damian? Has he been making Father look bad this entire time? “-because he isn’t there to correct any mistakes you make, and it looks like he doesn’t care enough to get you a mentor who will in his absence.”

Bullshit. This is some odd powerplay, Damian just knows it. Father cares for Damian, it is clear for everyone to see. What place does Drake have, trying to act as if that isn’t true? “How dare- ” but Drake cuts him off before Damian can fully start on his tirade.

“I’m not implying anything of the sort. However, there are people who will if you aren’t careful.” Who? Who would be so bold as to even imply such a thing is true? Because where Damian is standing, it seems that only Drake has the audacity to think such a thing.

“Rumors had already begun to spread when I came to collect you.” Damian is struck with the memory of the whispers and looks that seemed a little meaner than before, when Damian had been by Richard’s side. “Those men who approached you? Wilson was fishing for gossip.” Wilson’s assertion that Damian might have had a fight with Richard- his information fishing in the form of acting sympathetic.

 “Hard to tell if Macmillan was trying to get into your father's good graces by returning you to him or goad you into making a mistake that he could use against your father,” the gleam in Macmillan’s eyes while Damian was people watching- the way he was watching Damian back. The way that it seemed to dim when he noticed Drake beside Damian. “but that just depends on whether he has a grudge against him or not.” Pits below, Damian really fucked up, didn’t he. This is not something that should have been overlooked or neglected to be mentioned to Damian.

Why is it that he has to learn this from a near complete stranger? How on Earth did he not notice that staying away from Father and Richard would hurt their image? Why did nobody tell Damian he was expected to stay at their sides? Family unity is one of the key values of the Wayne's cover, and here Damian is, messing it up without even knowing.

Drake stops, and Damian can see Father off doing his little playboy act near them. Drake turns to Damian. “Sympathy sharpened into a blade is not sympathy. It is manipulation. It will serve you well to remember that when interacting with the elite of Gotham.” Damian stops and considers that. The way that it did not even take five minutes for grown men to approach him with dubious intentions. Damian will have to keep that in mind during future events.

“There are many people in this room who want to use you. Your every action and inaction holds great power and meaning.” Yes, tonight has made that abundantly clear, though Damian isn’t sure that his every action means that much. “You remember the last time I walked you to Mr. Grayson?” Damian nods. He remembers that night very well. 

“Even just the act of being seen escorting you through the room before you and the rest of your family left early contributed to a great rise in my popularity-” Okay, that must be an exaggeration. Damian had just walked across a room with him. That’s trivial. It should be barely a footnote- if that- to these people.  “and led to an invite to the next tea party Mrs. Dawburst held. I was specifically invited so I could share what we talked about and why you and your family left early.” What the fuck.

Mrs. Dawburst is well respected and very powerful. Surely she must have better uses of her time than wondering why Damian and his family left an event early.

“I used the prestige I gained from you to lead a smear campaign against Mr. Newman,” Ah yes. The vermin. “-who is a well-funded politician. He lost his funding, was disinvited from every event in the state for the foreseeable future.” That explains the Vermin’s sudden loss of mob ties- the elite of Gotham only see money as money, they do not care where it comes from so long as they can have plausible deniability.

A great many of mob higher-ups make up a percentage of the socialite circles- but Pits Below surely there must have been some other factor to Drake's popularity because Damian cannot fathom how Drake could turn the supposed clout he’d gotten from walking Damian across a room into defunding a politician. Damian misses the League. This bullshit would never happen if Damian was still living with Mother.

“ That. Is the power your actions hold. Something as simple as walking beside me can cause waves within the community, so you must be careful about how you handle yourself in the eyes of the public.” Yes, Drake is making the amount of power Damian holds abundantly clear. What the fuck? How is Damian supposed to manage that? Apparently walking can cause a splash in this community and Damian is just supposed to ‘be careful’? 

Damian schools his face, wiping all emotion off it. He cannot show weakness. Not here. “Stay at your Father's or Brother's side. Learn from their actions. Keep an ear out for anything you can leverage against anyone.” That’s more manageable… and the whole point of the expectation that ‘children’ are supposed to stay with parents is so that they can learn without fearing mistakes because their parents will correct them, right? Damian nods. Then probably for the best that Damian is supposed to stay with Father.

Drake meets Damian’s eyes. “You are the son of Gotham royalty, a prince in your own right.” If only he knew. “You could have everyone in this room at your feet groveling if you so wished, but you must learn the rules in order to win the game. Do you understand?” Damian nods. He will learn how to play this game, and he will be the best at it. Damian lifts his chin. He will become better than even father one day, mark his words.

Drake sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay- okay. Your Father is right there. I’m going to walk you most of the way to him, then I’m going to leave.” Leave? Why is Drake leaving? He can’t just leave after dropping a bombshell like that on Damian. What is he supposed to do?

  “You say that you wandered away from Dick in search of a snack, then lost him in the crowd. You've been looking for a family member since.” Dick. He’s always referred to Richard formally, which struck Damian as odd, since Richard refers to him informally and they both seem fond of each other. Why is it only now, with a slip of the tongue, that he refers to Richard as Dick?

“That's going to keep the worst of the rumors at bay as long as you stick to B for the next few galas.” B. As in Father. He called Father B. Damian studies Drake. He doesn’t even appear to have caught his second slip of the tongue, referring to Damian’s family so informally. It’s odd. 

But Drake seems sincere in his advice, and earnest in his seeming want to help Damian. Damian takes a second more to study Drake, but he nods. He will trust Drake and go along with Drake’s plan. If only for the chance to study him more.

Drake walks Damian through the crowd, hand on his shoulder, until he catches Father’s eye. They seem to have a whole conversation with only the barest of expressions and gestures, and Father’s eyes land on Damian. Drake’s voice echos in his head. ‘Stick to B.’ Damian feels the hand on his shoulder nudge him forward, then release him. Damian feels oddly bereft, already missing the warmth it had provided, but he has a part to play.

He makes his way through the crowd, and calls “Father!”. The crowd begins to part for him. ‘ That. Is the power your actions hold.’ hears Damian. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you and Richard for ages. ” Father’s eyebrows knit together. “Dick was supposed to be watching you.”

Damian huffs, and feels color rising to his cheeks. He feels like a child, having to say this in front of a crowd. “I got separated from him while I was searching for something to eat.” Father raises a brow at him, amusement evident, but Damian refuses to respond. Richard’s voice cuts through the crowd, and again it parts.

“B! Have you seen-” His eyes meet Damian, then gain an evil glint to them. “There you are.” He pulls Damian into a hug, knowing Damian can’t refuse it in front of all these people, the ass. “Don’t scare me like that again, please.” He’s treating Damian like a child in front of all these people on purpose. 

Damian is going to kill him. He is going to kill his older brother. Cain is officially his favorite older sibling. (Todd is too consistently infuriating to be in the running.) Richard knows he would never get away with this if they were alone. “I will endeavor to keep myself from becoming separated from you in the future.”

Damian watches the crowd, who are all ensnared with the whole charade. He thinks back to the way that Drake controlled the whole crowd surrounding Richard the night that Damian met him, and wondered if he could do the same. If he could endear these people to him so easily. If he could pull the same trick on them Drake did.

So, he relaxes in the hold Richard has on him, leaning into it, and he makes his voice smaller. He looks down at his shoes. “I apologize for worrying you. It was not my intention.” He can hear the whispers pick up, and the crowd looks charmed. Richard tenses, surprised. “It’s okay.”

He squeezes Damian, then releases him, probably feeling bad that he was harassing Damian since Damian had just apologized. Damian does not apologize often. He looks Damian over, probably for injuries, then gives him a questioning look, but Damian just shakes his head.

Damian is quiet for the rest of the night, and he stays with a chaperone. He watches the way that Father interacts with each person he speaks to, how there’s a pattern that Damian didn’t notice before. He watches Drake charm the people he speaks to. He watches, and he learns. 

=

Damian is not caught alone again for the rest of the Gala season. He will not make the same mistake twice. Though, it’s hard to determine the rules of this society from just watching Father and Grayson. They both seem to pick and choose which rules they want to follow, and they apply the rules inconsistently. 

Fathers conversation partners always seem to follow the same script, but father messes with their interactions by playing a bumbling fool. Damian cannot get a sense of which answers he gives are acceptable and which are not because no matter what he says, the conversation partner always seems to take his idiocy in stride, long used to the way that he disregards pre-set conversation scripts. They only seem to approach Father if they want someone to entertain them or to make fun of.

Richard’s interactions are more complicated. The people who approach him often are lusting after him, so the conversations they have follow a different script, and they are bold in their attempts to seduce him. People don’t approach Father with those kinds of intentions when Damian is around, perhaps because they know it won’t work from their past experiences with Damian’s siblings as they grew up. 

(Richard and Todd delight in giving Cain new ideas to scare off people getting too friendly with Father. Damian would never lower himself to most of their methods, but the stories they tell about times they used them are entertaining enough, so Damian listens to them all the same.)

These harlots don’t seem to notice that Richard has never once taken a dancing partner to bed, or that he doesn’t have sex with people who he isn’t dating. If they do, they appear to think that if they bat their lashes and try to touch him enough he will make an exception just for them. Damian knows that that’s part of Richard’s cover, the flirting and the stupid jokes are meant to overshadow his intelligence, but honestly, do these people have not a lick of sense about them?

The people that don’t approach Richard with lust seem to be under the impression that since he is the eldest of the Wayne children, he will be the one inheriting the company. They attempt to talk business with him, to get into his good graces, and those are the most interesting conversations that Damian observes by far. Damian is ready to kill Richard the first time he rebuffs the business talk with a “Oh, no, I’m not inheriting the company. I tried my hand at running WE while Bruce was taking a spiritual retreat in the Alps, and I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

Damian needs to know why Mr. Tomlin predicted that TechCorp was going to be going downhill when Mr. Oneil takes over. The drama- what did Mr. Oneil do to spur on that comment? Their families have been friends for generations. That is not something that Mr. Tomlin would risk without good reason.

For the most part people ignore Damian, and from what he can tell it's supposed to be like that. The few times Damian added his opinion into a conversation unprompted, the adults looked at him, shocked, presumably because children are to be seen, not heard. But… that doesn’t seem right. Damian watches the other children at the events he attends, and they seem to be allowed to speak.

Perhaps it is what Damian is saying? But, he mostly just introduced himself, or extrapolated factual inferences from the data he has access to. Surely, that cannot be controversial. Father has allowed it, but the more Damian watches, the more he realizes that Father doesn’t seem to have a good grasp on the more delicate and unsaid rules, himself.

 He has manners, sure, but just manners doesn’t seem to be enough to fit in. There’s an etiquette that these people abide by that Father and Richard seem ignorant to.

Drake recognizes the etiquette. Drake seems to know exactly how to act at all times. Damian has seen him walk up to people who are obviously looking down their nose at him, and by the end of the conversation he has them in the palm of his hand. Damian wants to learn how to do that, not learn how to play the bumbling fool .

Damian is starting to contemplate putting a bug on Drake at one of these Galas, if only to observe how these conversations are supposed to go. It certainly wouldn’t be the worst idea Damian has ever had. Perhaps he should speak to Oracle, see if she has any spare bugs to lend him.

=

Damian is venting his frustrations to Pennyworth (the human) about the whole thing while they knead his various batches of sourdough (he has to make a lot given how many of the people pass through his kitchen are actively burning an astronomical amount of calories every night with their vigilante activities) after the last event of the season when Pennyworth pauses in his kneading and raises an eyebrow at Damian.

“If you want so badly to learn how to command a room like Mister Drake, why don’t you call him and ask him to teach you?” Damian pauses. “I’d need a plausible way to have gotten his number.” “Master Grayson and I both have his number.” Damian blinks. “It’s that simple?” “It’s that simple. ” Oh. Huh. Damian might just have to do that.

But… Damian cannot think of anything that he could do for Drake in return, and Damian despises asking for favors. Especially favors from people that he doesn’t know well. Drake does not seem all that interested in the social power that Damian has to offer him, and Damian refuses to sign up Father’s company for any sort of deal just so Damian could have a teacher for something he might be able to figure out on his own.

Drake is well off, and his company is making record profits this year, so Damian’s money will most likely not sway him. Damian will have to call this plan a work in progress, and will only resort to asking a favor if he must.

Perhaps he could ask Father or Richard what Drake would want, given that they seem familiar enough with him. They have a full two months to figure it out together before the next event. It can’t be that hard.

Chapter Text

Tim is blindsided on a random Sunday afternoon, during his gala season break, when he gets a call from Dick. Timothy Drake, the civilian, is getting a call from Dick Grayson’s civilian number. Tim had honestly never thought that Dick would use his number ever again- he really hasn’t had a reason to after Tim ended his internship under Lucius at WayneCorp and started his climb at his company. 

Is Tim in trouble? Did they find out he’s Agent C? Oh god, has he accidentally spilled the beans on all their secret identities? Tim cannot possibly think of a reason that Dick would be calling him, which means the reason has to be bad. He stares at his phone in dread as it rings. Tim doesn’t have to answer it. He can just let it go to voicemail. But. God, what if it's important? What if someone is hurt? What if Tim’s skills are needed on an emergency consultation? Tim can’t just let it go to voicemail. 

Tim sighs and pulls on his Gala smile. “Hi Dick! What’s up?” A second of silence, then “Heyyyy Timmy.” Oh fuck no. That’s Dick’s ‘got in trouble’ voice, and he only calls Tim ‘Timmy’ when he wants a favor. Tim sighs. “What did you do?” Dick sputters. “I am completely innocent this time!” Tim puts as much skepticism as he can into his tone when he says “Uh-huh.”

Dick just sighs. “I know it’s a huge favor to ask of you, but would you be willing and able to come shoot some portraits today, like ASAP?” He wants Tim to shoot some portraits? What? Why? Tim’s surprised that Dick even remembers that Tim can do that. Sure, he shot Dick once, but that was because he heard Tim complaining about not having anyone to take pictures of for his photography class! And maybe he said the photos were good, (of course they were, Tim’s been taking pictures of him for years) but that didn’t mean that Tim expected him to remember!

 Tim is frozen, shocked silent, and Dick seems to take that as his cue to keep talking. “I can’t tell you much without having you sign an NDA- you know how it is, we’re trying to keep as this to as few people as we possibly can, even with the NDA’s- but, Me, Bruce, and the fam were out this morning, and the paparazzi got a hold of a personal story that we’d rather release ourselves.” Tim knows how that feels- hell, he’s lived through it. If a story is going to get out either way, better to control the narrative, right?

Tim hums an acknowledgement as encouragement for Dick to keep talking, and shakes himself into motion, gathering his things he’s going to need to go shoot the portraits. “Our PR team has been pushing to be allowed to publish the story for a while now, so they have all of the official story put together, but we’ve been putting off getting the portraits to really sell the official personal Wayne story, since we were admittedly hoping to have longer before we released it-” Tim feels a pang of sympathy for Dick. He sounds genuinely upset about it, in the way that anyone pretending to be all fine and dandy can sound genuinely upset.

“-and our photographer that we knew we could trust not to leak private information moved, so it’s been a mess scrambling for someone trustworthy-” Tim nods his head and checks all his equipment in his camera bag. “- and the only freelance photographer that our PR team could find on such short notice was a nightmare-” Tim grabs his keys and heads to the car. “I’m assuming that you’re at the studio right near Wayne Tower?”

“-he was being so creepy to Cass, and he kept- yeah, we’re on the top floor- he kept insulting Damian and Jason and- wait. You’ll do it?” Tim bobs his head even though Dick can’t see it. “I’ll do it. Does the studio still store its own backdrops and lighting equipment and props, or do I need to bring my own?” Dick takes a deep breath and it only stutters a little bit. “I’m told it has all the inventory from last time and some upgrades.” “Cool. Upgrades.” “Yeah..”

Tim can practically hear Dick steeling himself for whatever he’s about to say next, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits. Dick blows out a big breath. “It’ll be okay if you change your mind and don’t want to do it. Our team is resourceful, we’ll figure it out. I know this is a really big favor to ask of you with no warning.” Tim smiles a little at the sentiment. 

“Well. I’m already on the road, and you know Gotham Traffic. If I tried to turn back now, it would take me longer than the photoshoot would to get home. Might as well do it while I’m around.” Not quite true, given that he hasn’t hit the traffic yet, but the joke made Dick laugh, so a win is a win.

Tim chats with Dick as he drives, trying to keep some of Dick’s clear anxiety about the whole thing at bay. It’s only when Dick sounds significantly less stressed that he asks, “What kind of vibe is the PR team going for with this press release?” Dick just huffs, which is better than him getting stressed again.

 “Family unity, ooey-gooey feelings, ‘oh look! They're actually people just like you!’ Type shit. Same old, same old, you know the drill. They have us all in black and gold, in damn near matching outfits.” Tim smirks. “Matching outfits? Do you even own anything black without a pattern on it?” Tim sees the way Dick throws his hands up in his mind’s eye. “I didn’t, until today.”

Tim actually laughs at that. “Nothing? Not even- like a pair of socks that were a gift?” Dick sounds offended when he answers. “No. The people who get me gifts know better than to give me something that’s plain black.” Tim nods. “Alright, fair enough.” He pulls up to the studio. “I’m outside, I’ll be up in a sec.” “Cool. Mandy’s at the front desk, she’ll give you your NDA and then send it to our legal team and your lawyer. See you.” The call ends.

Tim gets to the studio, signs his NDA at the front desk, then takes the elevator all the way up to the top floor. He knocks on the door, but was not prepared for who answers it. He figured it’d be Dick, since they were just on the phone. Instead, it’s Jason Todd-Wayne, whom is legally dead. Is he the “personal story” that Dick was alluding to? The fact that he’s very much not dead?!?!

 Dick had even mentioned Jason on the phone, and Tim was so caught up gathering his equipment and trying to get his wits back about him from the surprise of it all that Tim didn’t notice. He should have, it would have given him more time to prepare. Now he’s been caught off guard, which is a big no-no in high society. If this gets out they’ll be talking about his unprofessionalism for months.

Tim read the case files. Tim knew in theory that the Redhood is Jason Todd, which logically means that Jason Todd is not dead, but it's not the same as seeing Jason Todd alive and breathing in the flesh, holy fuck. 

Tim blinks at the sight of him. He has to take half a second to process and regain his composure. Then, he pastes on his prettiest and most non-threatening gala smile, and holds his hand out for Jason to shake. “Good evening, Mr. Todd-Wayne. We’ve met once or twice at a Gala, I believe, so it’s nice to see you again.” Jason eyes his hand warily. Tim shifts the camera bag on his shoulder with his other hand.

Tim kind of wants an autograph. Holy fuck, thats Robin, and he’s alive. Tim got over most of his fanboyishness for Dick through exposure to him during Tim’s time as Robin and the sporadic visits Dick would pay to WayneCorp, but this is the first time Tim is meeting the second Robin (he’s actually meeting the second Robin, oh gods almighty) and his fanboy heart has had no time to prepare. Tim cannot mess this up. 

Tim tries to break the tension, feeling awkward. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I was your neighbor for a good few years before you fell out of the public eye. My name is Timothy Drake.” Jason keeps his hands held firmly in his pockets during Tim’s introduction. Tim decides to cut his losses and drop his hand. Jason keeps watching Tim.

He nods at Jason, then moves toward Dick, who’s further into the studio room, looking for a way out of the awkward non-conversation. He raises an eyebrow at the absence of anyone non-Wayne in the room. Usually at least a PR manager, make-up artist, wardrobe person, and several interns are had at photo shoots like this. Looks like this is really rushed, and the Waynes are scrambling to find people they trust not to leak any of it to the press. 

Given the presence of Jason, Tim shouldn’t be surprised. He’s grateful he picked up the phone and agreed on such short notice if they were that desperate. He would never want to leave them hanging for something this important. It makes Tim feel warm to think that Dick trusts him with this. Dick doesn’t entrust many people with anything pertaining to his family when he can help it. Dick chose to reach out to Tim- Tim, not Agent C- and it’s a precious trust Tim refuses to break.

“So. Who all am I shooting portraits of?” Dick goes to respond, but he’s cut off by Jason, who followed Tim into the studio. “Wait. He’s our mystery, magical photographer? He’s a kid, Dickie!” Tim blushes at the implication that Dick was praising his work. 

 Dick shoots Jason a glare. “He’s doing us a huge favor right now, and his portraits were some of the best I’ve ever gotten.” Tim almost sighs in relief at the conversation turning back into familiar territory, then he rolls his eyes at the blatant flattery.

 “I don’t need you to butter me up, Dick, I’m already here.” Dick looks like he’s about to try to act like he wasn’t ‘buttering Tim up’, but Tim’s already moving further into the space before he can try to correct Tim. Tim’s moving around and assessing the space and the backdrops, and the furniture stored on the left wall. 

The setup is fairly simple. From the entrance opens up a large, wide-open room with a skylight. Up against the left wall is everything you’d ever need to stage a photo shoot, including massive furniture and good film equipment packed away in bags. The far wall is mirrored and has a dancing bar installed into it. On the right wall, there are three doors. Two massive dressing rooms with several vanities and makeup stations, and a bathroom. 

In the middle of the room, some lighting equipment is already set up, and the framework and drop cloth are prepared as the background. Tim checks the equipment and tisks at the settings. He takes a couple of practice shots, and they prove the terrible quality. Someone didn’t account for the skylight, apparently, which is a tragedy. They had the flash on the camera turned on. With this gorgeous lighting? Tim can’t imagine it.

Tim adjusts, then readjusts the equipment. He starts absently humming the tune of a catchy, popular song as he works. He changes the drop cloth. He drags an ottoman over to test how it looks. He readjusts. When he’s ready for a human test subject for the lighting, he looks around and finds Jason gawking at him (Jason Todd-Wayne is looking at Tim!!!).

 Not that it would look like gawking to anyone outside the Bat-clan’s inner circle. It really would seem more intimidating if Tim didn’t see him suppressing the surprise in his body language with Bat-training. The rest are probably in the dressing room retouching their makeup and plasters that cover their scars.

Tim tries to be cool as he calls him over, and Jason levels him with a glare and sulks toward him. “What do you want?” Tim raises an eyebrow at the aggression, but just gestures at the ottoman with a wave of his hand. “You might as well sit there while you brood, since I need a test subject and you’re not doing anything.” Was that too sassy? That feels like it was too sassy. In Tim’s defense, B basically trained him to respond to any Batglare with sass. It's a natural response nowadays.

Jason keeps glaring at him, but sits, and Tim’s off again. He takes a couple of photos, adjusts the settings, takes a couple more, and adjusts them again. He takes photos from multiple angles, making sure that they’re all how he wants them. He doesn’t give Jason much direction, since these are practice shots, but Jason keeps his eyes on the camera no matter what.

 It’s so very different from Tim’s days as a vigilante chaser. He has photos of Jason as Robin, but never of him looking directly at the camera. Always from his side profile or while he’s looking at something in the distance. Always candid. This is different. Tim wouldn’t say bad- the little fanboy inside Tim for the older Robin is squealing at this opportunity- but definitely different.

By the time that Tim’s finally satisfied, the rest of the Waynes have trickled out of the dressing rooms and are watching Tim’s process. He shoos Jason off to get his makeup and scar patches retouched and starts the individual portraits. For each person, he makes a few adjustments to his camera settings, then he takes a couple of photos with different angles, both sitting and standing, and in a few poses that fit their personalities. 

Bruce is by far the easiest to pose, having done a couple of modeling gigs and not camera-shy in the least. He doesn’t flinch away when Tim gets in close with his camera, and he’s heard every direction Tim gives him at least a million times before, so he can easily correct any mistakes he makes. He has some simple rings on, and when Tim gets a couple of candid shots of him running his hands through his hair, he fears the rabid fans he’s about to set upon the world.

It takes Cass a little bit of coaxing to stay still, but she has the effortless grace about her that makes her look good no matter what. Tim takes to making gestures or reflecting the pose he wants to see from her with his body language. It makes it easy for Tim, since he doesn’t have to figure out a way to articulate what he wants, and she can pick it up more quickly than he can even open his mouth.

 Her gold jewelry and simple black dress leave her looking like a goddess on earth, and the contrast between the golden dainty vine-like bicep cuff and the hard muscle underneath will have men and women alike begging to be wrapped up in those strong arms. Tim has her flex for a couple of poses, just to put the last nail in the coffin for anyone who’s in denial about being liking women. (He can hear Steph’s reactions in his head, the way her bi panic will leave her screeching. Tim should call her soon, he misses her.)

Tim doesn’t even have the opportunity to direct Dick before he’s posing. Tim takes that and runs with it, calling out the vibe he wants for the next pose, and letting him do what he wants. He’ll give little directions here or there to improve the pose so it reads better on camera, or move Dick to a spot with better light, but he leaves the majority of the directing to his model.

 Dick knows every pose that makes him look best and uses that to his utmost advantage. At one point, he looks at the camera through his lashes, and Tim can hear the fangirls’ screams. Yeah… the fans are not getting out of this press release with their dignity intact. 

The Chickety is … very stiff. He’s been watching Tim for a while now, probably since the first time they met, and he seems uneasy at the thought of Tim catching him watching Tim. Every time Tim looks over at the bitty-bat, he’s looking away from Tim. The uneasiness combined with his clear dislike of being in front of Tim’s camera makes for a very tense Birdie, which leads to awkward-looking photos. He needs to fix his face. 

Tim looks through his photos and sighs at the clearly very forced smile. It doesn’t fit him in the slightest. He looks Damian in the eyes and tells him, “This isn’t working.” and feels every other occupant in the room tense. “We’re changing strategies. You’re going to do what I say, nothing more, nothing less.” The birdie’s gaze searches Tim’s face, but for what Tim doesn’t know. He looks over Tim's shoulders, then back at Tim. He nods. “Very well, Drake. Do your worst.”

Tim nods back at #5. He pulls out every tool in his arsenal to get the stabby bird to relax. He poses him. He talks Dickie’s Chickety through closing his eyes and relaxing every muscle in his face. “On three, you’re going to open your eyes and look at me. Nothing more, nothing less.” The babiest bird nods.

“One, Two, Three.” Click. “Again. One, Two, Three.” Click. “Again. One, Two, Three.” Click. “Again. One, Two, Three.” Click. “Change your pose. I’ll make corrections if need be.” Click. “Tilt your chin down.” Click. “Good. Look to the side.” Click. “On three. One, Two, Three.” Click. “Again. One, Two, Three.” Click. “Again. One, Two, Three.” Click. 

And so it went. This set’s coming out much nicer already, and Damian didn’t look nearly as tense as before. Tim finds that with more awkward models, if you don’t give them time to think, then the pictures come out more natural. Tim doesn’t do this strategy all the time because it's whole point is to overwhelm, and most people can’t handle that or keep up. 

Jason isn’t great at smiling for the camera, but that doesn’t really seem like his persona anymore anyway. He looks awkward like this- uncomfortable- and he keeps slouching into himself. Like he’s trying to make himself smaller to fit into the person he used to be.

 It only takes a few clicks of the camera before Tim is saying, “Don’t smile at me. Smirk.”, and suddenly it's like Jason is a whole new person. He adjusts his pose into something a little bit more confident and dangerous, and he smirks. Tim has him roll up his sleeves in a way that he knows will make Gotham swoon, and gets some nice candids of him in the process. It’s not hard to make him look good after that.

Tim was never actually told whose specific portraits are supposed to go in the press release, but he figures that since it’s a personal- most likely family-centered if the press release is about Jason, like Tim expects- story, then it’s best to get as many pictures of them together and acting like family as possible.

When he’s finished with portraits, Tim starts the group shots by getting each Wayne kid individually a few pictures with Bruce. Then each Wayne Kid with each of their siblings. Then all the Wayne Kids together. Then, finally, the group shots with the entire family.

Of course, when overhearing or watching their family’s antics make any of the Waynes smile (especially Jason or the stabby one) Tim takes advantage of it for the good shot of them- no matter if it’s a portrait or a group shot- but he doesn’t force it. He keeps himself as unobtrusive as possible, and his favorite shots are the candids that he gets, when the Waynes do something that comes instinctively to them.

They look good together. Powerful. Beautiful. Like the full might of nature at it’s most deadly. At ease in each other’s presence. It’s incredible to watch them all together, the way that they act around each other. To think that Tim could have been one of them once, if he had stayed, seems surreal. It hurts, but looking at them, Tim thinks he made the right choice. 

 They fit together like a puzzle. Tim can’t help but think of all the times he couldn’t fit- couldn’t slot into place with the rest of the bats. Times when he needed too much and gave too little. Times when any attempt he made to comfort ruffled feathers accidentally poked old wounds. Times when he gave his all and still fell short. Times when all he seemed to do was worry the people around him, taking attention away from more important things.

Tim was a good Robin. He knows that- he was capable and efficient. But Tim also knows that he will never truly fit into the family in the ways the others do. The others found this life organically. Tim is the only one who had to seek it out and take hold of it with both hands. If Tim had tried to force himself in, he would have just hurt everyone. At least this way, the only person hurt by Tim’s actions is Tim. Tim’s heart is a fool for getting so attached to these people. He was always temporary. 

Until Batman stabilized. Until Batman found another Robin to train. Either way, Tim wouldn’t be needed anymore. Finding a way to try and be more than temporary would only hurt everybody, and yet his heart still yearns. How greedy it is, begging for more time, for more care. Begging to be seen again. Tim doesn’t need to be seen. 

All he needs is to know that the people he cares about are happy, and as Tim watches them, he can see the tension, yes, but he can also see the way they smile at each other. He’s okay keeping himself away from them if it’ll keep them this happy. They don’t need him anymore. They haven’t needed him in a while.

Tim can see the way Jason is trying not to laugh at Bruce's terrible airhead himbo act. He can see the way that Dick and Cass share mischievous looks before bugging the babiest of the birds. He can see through a little of the birdie's bravado to the smile that he can’t seem to wipe off his face, and the little laugh that he lets out when Cass switches sides to help him get back at Dick. 

He sees the way that they speak to each other in every language under the sun, entertaining themselves when they aren’t in front of Tim’s camera by listing and rating the most creative insults from each language they know, little snorts of laughter heard every so often. He sees the inside jokes they have with each other. He sees the way someone will start to sing a song or say a quote and the others will join in. The way every time B makes a dumb comment or a stupid pun or pretends not to understand something, faithfully playing Brucie, his kids try not to laugh.

They look happy. Whole. Like a family. It's good. 

=

While Tim is crouched on the floor, packing away his camera, absently humming another tune as he works, satisfied with the photos he got, Bruce approaches him. Tim smiles and inclines his head. “Mister Wayne.” He turns his focus back to his equipment, forcing his eyes away from B. He looks happy. “Tim! It’s been wonderful, working with you again, truly a pleasure.”

Oh god, he’s still playing Brucie. He needs to stop. B used to pull out the Brucie act to make Tim or Dick laugh on their bad days, and he could keep at it literally all day- pulling out these crazy stories that nobody could tell if they were true or not. He’d do it until the person having a bad day laughed, then he’d ask if they wanted to talk about it over ice cream.

 Tim used to deadpan replies back to him, playing along, and it turned into a game to see who could go the longest without breaking. The first time B lost it and started laughing at his own invented idiocy, Tim felt like he’d just conquered the entire world. He became determined to do it as many times as possible. Tim held the record for the number of wins he got against Bruce. (He’s sure someone’s broken his record by now..)

Tim’s been humoring the whole Brucie shtick because it’s an easy way to make any and all of his kids laugh at him (acting like an idiot will do that, especially when they know it’s specifically to mess with people), which leads to good shots, but Tim cannot handle a conversation with Brucie without breaking into hysterical laughter today. 

It was hard enough to keep his professional facade when the full force of Brucie wasn’t directed at Tim, but if Tim looks at him while he’s making a pun to Tim, he’ll lose it. Timothy Drake does not lose it, and Tim refuses to break his track record now. He’ll need to get Bruce to tone down Brucie, if that’s going to happen, though.

Tim shakes his head fondly and looks up at B. “It is always wonderful to work with you and your lot, but I assure you that I don’t need the whole chipper song and dance. I’ve seen you chug a thirty-two ounce black coffee so you could power through fifty pages of paperwork in between meetings-” Bruce grimaces at that, much to Tim’s amusement. He acts like he’d hoped that Tim had forgotten every sleep-deprived interaction they’d had during Tim’s paid internship at Wayne Enterprises.

“-and I know how exhausting handling the paparazzi and everything after it must have been. Today must have been a taxing day, I won’t be offended if you aren’t the picture of your public image.” B sighs and gives Tim a wry smile. “You caught me.” Tim returns his smile with a grin. “I always do.”

“I’ll send you all the photos I took, and you and your PR manager can decide which ones to edit for the press release. I would edit them myself, but I took a lot and I’m not quite sure what the press release is for, so I’d have to take a lot more time than you have if you want to release this with your story before the paparazzi get to the story first.” Tim zips up his camera bag and slings it over his shoulder, standing up.

“Tim?” Tim tilts his head at Bruce. Bruce’s smile turns genuine. “Thanks.” Once again, Bruce makes Tim feel like he just conquered the world. “Of course.” Tim says, a little breathless. This man has so much power over Tim, and he doesn’t even know. He genuinely has no idea. Tim can push it down all he likes, but at the end of the day, a part of him will always be that star eyed kid, watching Batman and Robin soar. Another part of him, the dutiful Robin, practically begging to prove how well he can do, how easy he could make himself to love. 

Bruce could destroy Tim. He could rip out Tim’s heart, tear apart his hope, and obliterate Tim’s will. He could take a look at every facet of Tim presented to him and turn up his nose at it. All it would take would be a few well placed words, and they’d be effective as a knife to his heart.

After all, if Batman, whose ideals are all placed in hope, empathy, and optimism that people can change- if Bruce, who took in so many broken children and held them together and tried to heal them with pieces of himself- if that man decided Tim was unloveable? What hope could Tim have of ever finding someone who would still love him, in all his many shattered and sharp parts? 

Also, Tim would probably ugly cry if Bruce gave him a hug, and Tim could never recover from the embarrassment. So. There’s that. He’s too dad-shaped for his own good. Tim once saw Batman give a kid a head pat and tell her she was very brave, and Tim swears he could see her short circuiting, see the way she contemplated taking Tim’s job so Batman would do it again.

When she looked at him, bowled over by the paternal feeling coming off of Batman, eyes shiny with tears from all the emotions she was experiencing, Tim just nodded in sympathy. He felt a soul-deep kinship with that girl, and Tim knows she could see it on his face. Her baffled look of ‘you deal with this every day?’ is met with another commiserating nod. (Tim’s actually still following the fan blog she made for Batman a few days later. She's doing well.) 

Tim shakes himself from his thoughts. He tells Bruce “I’ll get these to you as soon as I get home. Tell Dick I’m happy he called.” Instead of saying good-bye, and he leaves, practically vanishing before B could say anything else. 

Goodbyes with the Waynes always make him antsy. They feel too final. Like if Tim actually says bye, it’ll finally be the end of anything that might lead to more. Might lead to- family it’s stupid. Tim’ll say goodbye next time. (He ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling him that he thought that last time he saw them. And every time before that.)

Tim should like goodbyes. They’re good, after all.

Chapter Text

“Y’know, if you missed being a hero, you could’a just said so.” Tim startles, looking up from his paperwork, the tune he’d been humming catching in his throat. And there- in Tim's office- he floats, in all his glory. Superboy. Conner Kent. Kon-el, windswept and pretty in his classic leather jacket and circle shades. He slips in through the window Tim had cracked open, and closes it behind him.

Tim shakes himself and goes back to his paperwork. “I was a vigilante. Not a hero.” Tim hears Kon roll his eyes. “Sure Rob, whatever you say.” Tim turns a page. “I’m not Robin anymore.” A scoff. “You’ll always be our Robin, no matter who is currently holding the title.” Tim smiles. 

“What do you want, Superboy?”  Kon smiles back at him. “You know what I want, Rob.” Tim tilts his head. “I don’t have a suit.” Bart zips up the building and in through the window. “We can fix that. Come onnnn Rob-” he snatches Tim’s papers from him “-you’re bored-” Tim feels called out “-and it's been forever. We need you.” He gives Tim his best puppy eyes. Well. that is a very convincing argument.

Tim looks to the side, to where Cassie is climbing into the window. “Team leader gets the final say.” She gives him a look. “Get your ass moving.” Tim salutes. “Ma’am yes ma’am.” He jumps on Bart’s back. Bart staggers, not expecting the weight, but straightens quickly. Tim feels warm.

“I have a drop point with supplies a couple blocks away. You remember it, you were there last time. Let’s go.” Tim tightens his grip on Bart, and Cassie grins at him, then the world blurs. In less than a second, Bart has Tim at the entrance, typing in the security codes over his shoulder. 

The bricks of a solid wall move. Tim hops off Bart’s back and he walks in. Cassie and Conner join them within the minute. Tim re-engages the fake wall and disarms the traps, then turns on the lights. 

It’s a simple garage, nothing overly flashy. It’s functional. It stores the Redbird. Tim’s pride and joy, the car that he’s taken apart and rebuilt a dozen times, updating; upgrading. It used to just be a flashy car, but now it’s fully armored, and has a couple tricks up its sleeve. Tim adores his car, (not as much as supercycle, but it has a family now. Tim and his team wouldn’t bother it for a mission while it’s living out its dream. That just wouldn’t be fair.) and he can’t wait to take it for a spin now that he has an excuse.

Conner whistles at it. “Damn Rob, you’ve gone to work. I almost can’t recognize it.” Tim preens at the praise. “I need to take it on a test ride, see how it does.” Kon laughs. “This is definitely the mission for it.” Tim grins. 

Bart zips back and forth between work stations, fidgeting with a few of the prototypes Tim has laying around for some tech and trying different weapons, generally just touching everything that catches his attention. Tim notes the things he's already improved, and he goes through his calendar mentally to see if he can clear a lab day for the both of them.

 Cassie’s floated up to play with the windchimes and other colorful and more delicate projects and gifts that Tim has hanging over head, where he’s less likely to accidentally break them. Tim tosses her a flashlight so she can see the cool way light reflects onto the floor.

Tim lets his friends explore while he goes on the hunt to gather gear for this mission. He has everything he’ll need lying around, so the only question is what combination he’ll bring. 

(He’ll definitely take a wrist computer. They’re useful, but he has far too many prototypes he never got to test. He could stand to break, or lose a few.)

Tim hums the stupidly catchy song he has stuck in his head as he contemplates all the alternate designs he had for something like this- a joy ride with his team- but decides to keep it simple. Black body armor and mask, a wrist computer from his overflowing stash, his staff, and a utility belt. 

Nothing too flashy. The only concessions he makes to his penchant for the dramatics are the new bandoliers he dons being the same color of the inside of his robin cape, and a change to his mask shape, making it cover much more of his face, having it almost mimic Batman’s cowl shape, with the nose of the mask pointed as if it were a beak.

When Tim comes out of the changing room, Bart wolf whistles at him and Cassie and Kon fan themselves dramatically. Tim laughs at them. He struts out and poses, then does a little twirl to show them the whole look. “What do we think? Am I good-looking enough to not embarrass the team if I’m seen in public with you?”

“We just might have to start calling you Pretty Bird, Wonder Boy” Kon flirts. Bart drapes himself over Tim. “No! We can’t let you go out, looking like this! You’ll get mobbed!” Cassie drapes herself on Tim’s other side. “How on earth would we ever continue without you? You’re supposed to be ours, but so many people will try to snatch you away from our loving grip!” Tim snickers.

Bart zips away and comes back with a bundle of fabric in his arms. He tosses it at Tim’s head with a playful “Cover them up, slut!” and with Cassie holding his arms hostage, all Tim can do is let it hit him. His laugh is muffled by the fabric.

Cassie plucks it off his head and shakes it out, showing him one of his Robin capes altered to be slightly longer, given that he’s grown since his Robin days. (Come to think of it, when Tim was in Blud helping Dick, his cape was the right size. Did he- no. Now’s not the time to think about that.)

Tim puts the cape on, a little more relaxed at the familiar weight of it, and does a spin for them again, this time adding a little flair with his cape. Cassie smiles. “There he is. That’s our Rob.” Bart claps. “Do it again!” Tim does another spin, and does a fun little trick with his cape that makes it look extra pretty. His team- his adorable, annoying, cape-less losers- cheer. 

“But no, seriously, is this distinct enough from Robin?” They exchange a look. “Yeah, you’re good. There won’t be too many people to recognize you where we’re going anyway.” Tim nods. “Good.” He tosses his keys and catches them again. “And where are we going?” Kon opens the car door. “Just drive. I’ll explain on the way.” 

Tim grins. Time to see how fast his baby can go.

=

So. There was a magician and slime and honestly a whole clusterfuck. Good news: Tim and his team managed to unionize the slime goons. Bad news: the magician got away with an off-brand teleporting trick. Good news again: Impromptu road trip with the team! Bad news again: fucking goo is dripping on Tim’s leather seats. 

When they’re all in civvies Tim uses his money and the various frequent traveler memberships his parents and he had to get the team two good rooms in a decent Las Vegas hotel, night of , the only comment from them is Bart saying, with a knowing look, “Glad having a celebrity doppleganger came in clutch again, Al. That's so crash.” Conner, Tim, and Cassie nod. 

Tim snickers. “From what I hear, he’s a genius. A real Boy Wonder. ” Bart and Kon roll their eyes at Tim’s double entendre referring to Robin- which they have no ground to speak on, they make puns all the time .

 Cassie just nods then tells him in a sickeningly sweet voice. “But I bet he doesn’t compare to you, our Wonder Boy.” She winks at Tim. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever been so inexplicably offended in his life.

 Tim shoves her. She lets herself be pushed into Kon, then goes limp, miming fainting. Kon plays along and sweeps her into a bridal carry, directing a playfully affronted look at Tim.  “How dare you put your hands on our woman like that” he says, trying to hold back a smile. His dimple gives him away.

When Tim shrugs, he huffs (trying to disguise his laugh) and continues on towards their connecting rooms. Bart gasps dramatically. “Take responsibility! Stop running like a coward!” Tim sticks his tongue out at the three of them, and Cassie smirks at him from Kon’s arms.

 The first thing they do when they get to the conjoining rooms is to open the door between them, allowing the four to wander back and forth through both of the rooms. Bart turned on the TV in this room, so it’s playing a Disney movie in the background. Tim settles in, on the floor on his laptop working through emails paperwork that he can do remotely from DI. Tim sings along under his breath to the songs from beauty and the beast as he works.

Bart wanders over with Kon, chatting about something or the other, Kon sitting beside Tim, pressing himself close, leaning against him. Bart sits above them on the bed, still chatting with Kon. It only takes a few minutes for Cassie to come in (probably just finished with a conversation on the phone with her mom), and settle in on Tim's other side on the floor. Her opinion on the conversation topic is apparently outrageous to both Kon and Bart for different reasons.

At some point, Wendy The Werewolf Stalker is turned on, but Tim’s memory is hazy. All he knows is the warmth pressed to his sides and the happy, familiar voices around him. He must have been moved, though, because when he wakes up, it’s to two beds pushed together, and three warm bodies surrounding him.  

He finds it easy to fall asleep again, content and safe in his friend’s grasp, clinging on to them a little tighter than before. The second room he’d rented and its two beds go un-used for the rest of the night. It’s like Tim never left. It’s good.

=

It takes four days of tracking, but they manage to find the magician. Yippee! But. But the magician is apparently a relatively high ranking member of a cult. A cult that’s about to do a magical ritual that they think will summon and bind a god to their power, but is actually going to set free a being of chaos and destruction. 

(Tim’s time learning Ancient Greek and Latin from his parents and Cassie’s time with Diana and her mom actually come in really handy often in their hero lives, usually in situations like this. Who’d have thunk? Tim should start offering free-lance translation consultations, if only to avoid more of these types of conflicts.

He can see that same sentiment in Cassie’s eyes. “I’ll start the business and handle the paperwork if you promise to take more of the Greek.” “Deal.”

From the comms, Kon calls, “I'm feeling left out over here. Do I need to learn Ancient Egyptian?” Tim sighs. “Cass, do you want to teach him the basics, or should I?” Cassie screws up her face. “Mom didn't do Egyptian all that often.” Tim nods. 

“I'll teach you, Kon.” Kon shrugs. “Better to have it and not need it, right?” The rest of the team nods. Knowing their luck, they would need it at some point. “Bart! You’re our speedster, so you’re helping with all the speedforce wibbly-wobbly time shit!” Bart zooms in from the other room. “Okay wait wait wait-” Tim smirks. “He said okay!” “ No, I said okay wait! Don’t you use my own tricks on me, Rob! What are we talking about?”)

Anyways. They need to raid a base and save the world. On a time crunch. Yippee. It’s lowkey nostalgic, and, hey, at least the slime goons’ union is still going strong even under the pressure being put on them. Great for them. 

Less-great for Tim and his team because more slime goons are answering the lower magician’s summonings now that they’ve heard that the magicians are abiding by the union’s terms, and they have to fight through hordes of them to get to the base. 

When Tim realizes that they vanish when the person summoning them loses consciousness, he has Cassie and Kon keep the slime goons at bay while he and Bart knock out the low-level cultists that are keeping them in this realm. When they’re all dispatched, Tim is utterly unsurprised to find that the base they’d been defending is much bigger on the inside, in that way that can only be explained through Magic.

He double checks that everyone has their comms on and working, and a back up comm, then they split up. Bart finds an entire farm, complete with livestock and some droopy looking potatoes. Cassie finds a library that’s completely upside down, that has reversed gravity. Tim finds the barracks, completely deserted, not a cultist in sight. Most of their bags packed, too. Looks like the ritual is happening soon, if it’s not already underway. And Kon? Kon finds-

“Jon?” The comms go silent. “Jon what- fuck- C, I need you down here now .” Tim starts running, following the path that the tracker in Kon’s comm shows he went. Tim hears a woosh on Bart’s side, and suddenly he’s there with Cassie. Tim tosses Bart his wrist computer with its map, and hops on his back, none of them having stopped moving all the while. Bart fastens it to his wrist, tightens grip on Cassie, and they’re suddenly all down in what looks to be a dungeon.

 Superboy and Robin lay in a cell that holds a salt circle, dark purple runes surrounding the circle, and a glowing crystal pulsing light facing west. Jon is bound to the floor in obsidian chains due north of the circle, and Damian south. Another crystal lies askew, birdarang near, from east of the circle. Clever bird.

Jon is passed out, and he has dark circles under his eyes, a sure sign that something is wrong with the kryptonian. Damian is sitting cross-legged, fumbling with the chains weakly, but when Tim calls for the Robin he doesn’t respond. The cell door is the same ominous combination of magic and material as the chains, and Kon looks weak just looking at it. He pulls on it, but it doesn’t budge. 

“Kon- Kon stop. ” He doesn’t hear Tim. “Cassie-” and she’s already there, pulling him away from the door. Tim goes into the next cell over and observes the walls. They’re stone. “We’re going to get them out. They’ll be okay.” Tim doesn’t know if he’s reassuring Kon or himself of this fact. He pulls out his explosives. 

It takes a minor explosion on Tim’s part to chip away the wall connecting the cells enough that Cassie could punch through it without being worried about shaking the whole building, but they make a hole large enough for Tim to get through. While she and Kon work on chipping away at the wall, and Bart inspects the rooms around them to see if he can find a way to turn off the magic, Tim approaches the second Superboy. 

The birdie is awake and picking at his locks, but Superboy isn’t looking too hot. The injured take priority, and #5 is fine. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine. 

  Okay. Okay. A lock is a positive sign. Usually it means that the magic user took pre-existing chains and imbued them with magic, which means the lock is pickable. ‘Every lock is pickable, Chum.’ Bruce’s voice chides him. Tim hopes for Robin and Superboy’s sake that B was right. 

Tim settles next to the Kryptonian and pulls out his picks, careful not to touch the chains. He enters the picks, and feels around until he hears a click . He lets out a relieved sigh. This lock can be picked. He unlocks one hand, then the other, and pulls the younger Superboy up into his arms. He clicks on a UV lamp he carries and settles it close to Jon’s skin. 

He hands Jon over to Conner and says “Go. We’ve got it.” Kon doesn’t even question it. He takes Jon and flies them out, to see the sun. He’ll come back if Tim calls for emergency back-up, but his priority is his brother. Now that the hole in the wall is big enough to carry someone through, Cassie asks Tim “You got it from here?”, and when Tim nods, she flies off to help Bart in his search to put a stop to the Magic.

Tim watches the birdie. His hands are fumbling, clumsy, as they try to pick the lock on the chains. They get weaker by the second. Tim takes a deep breath, and kneels close to Damian. Tim takes #5’s hands in his, stilling them. He gently takes one hand from Robin’s and taps the side of his mask, retracting the lenses. Robin startles and looks up, eyes unfocused and pupils huge in the dim light . He sways. Tim starts talking to him as he gets the bitty bird out of the chains. “Hi Robin. I’m getting you out of these, okay?” No response. He’s staring at Tim, eyes uncomprehending. 

Okay. That's okay. He’s awake, and he responds to Tim touching him. It could be worse. The first chain cuff clicks and falls off. The tiny tot sways again, and his eyes wander. Tim takes a page straight from Dick’s play book (that was originally Bruce’s) and reaches out, running a finger down from between Robin’s brows to the tip of his nose, then tapping once on the nose for emphasis. “Stay with me, Birdie, we have to get you out of here.” Robin’s eyes focus on Tim again, and Tim goes back to unlocking his cuffs. The second falls off in another click.

Robin’s brows are slightly furrowed as he looks at Tim, as if he’s trying to figure something out. “You’re okay, chickity, I’m getting you out of here. I promise.” He’s studying Tim, or maybe just zoning out in his general direction, but he’s responding to touch, so he’s okay. He’s fine. “You’re okay. You’re okay, I promise.”

Bart’s voice comes through Tim’s comm. “Hey guys? Looks like the JL found the cultists and their summoning circle. It’s totally crash, we’ll be done in like- yeah we’re done. Uh- Batman is looking extra scary- oh so is Supes- oh hi Batman.” Tim cringes, just a little bit. Angry Batman is an overbearing Batman. 

Cassie’s voice comes over the comms, clearer than Bart's babble. “Kon, Superman is asking where Jon is? Yes, Kon is here too, yes, Kon has Jon-” Kon just sighs. “Jon is okay. Send him up. I’ll explain- Oh, hi. That was fast.” His line cuts out. Bart is still talking to Batman.

  “Yeah- yeah I actually have an extra comm if you want- no? Okay, crash, crash, yeah one sec hold on, lemme ask my Bat, K? Cool- Hey, C, Batman wants our Comm frequency.” Tim wants to roll his eyes. Or maybe cry. This is why having the comms under his cowl is a bad idea. Tim told Bruce. 

 “I got it Bart. Thanks. You and Cassie okay?” “Yeah dude! We're totally crash. You go do your Bat thing.” He's saying it in that tone he uses when he's on autopilot mode deconstructing a new gadget, so Tim just checks to make sure. “Cassie?” “I"ll make sure he only blows things up in non-populated areas. … until we understand how to use it.” “No promises about after though!” “Bart don't say the quiet part out loud-” 

Tim switches to the BatFrequency. He’s not giving the YJ comm frequency out, even to B. “Hey B. I got him.” 

Batman let out a relieved sigh. A small bit of the knot in Tim's gut relaxes at the sound of B's voice. “He and his Super were in a pretty tight spot, I need to get him out of here, but I'll come back and take some photo evidence.” Bruce’s voice is tight with worry when he speaks. “What happened?” Tim looks over the baby bat. No injuries. “From the looks of it- a magic user got the drop on the baby bat and his super.” 

Tim runs his hand gently through Robin’s hair, checking for any bumps on his head that might indicate a concussion. There are none. “He has no injuries, but he’s not responding to anything verbally, and he’s unfocused and weak. The symptoms are matched most closely with exhaustion, but it’s magic so who knows.” The stabby bird is leaning into Tim’s hand hard, so Tim guides his head to rest on Tim’s shoulder. He slumps into Tim.

B grunts- his distinctive ‘fucking fuck magic’ grunt. #5 curls his body toward Tim, and Tim gathers him up into a more comfortable position in his arms and stands up. When he checks on the birdie, he realizes that the little guy has fallen asleep. Tim keeps his voice quiet so he won’t wake him. He looks like he needs the rest.

 “From the look of the scene, the magic users were trying to use Robin and Superboy as a part of a summoning ritual. They were hoping to keep whatever they were about to summon contained, so they had both a salt circle and the cell door was imbued with magic. No one else was in the cell, so we can assume they didn’t want to be around while the summoned creature is getting acquainted with earth. From the position of an out of line crystal and a birdarang near it, I can make the conclusion that Robin used the projectile to prevent the full summoning from commencing.” 

Batman grunted. “Clever.” So much fondness in that one word. It truly is a marvel that the world hasn’t discovered that Batman is a softie yet. Tim starts walking toward the exit as he speaks. “I agree. He and Superboy were held by chains imbued with yet more magic, which seems to be the cause of their states. From what my super tells me, Jon is already recovering, which bodes well for our bitty bat here, because that means that we likely won’t have to remove a curse or some such nonsense from him for him to heal either.” 

At this, Alfred speaks up. Unsurprising, since he often runs comms from the Batcave if the Bats need to rescue another family member. “Mrs. Zatana has been contacted and is on her way to the Watchtower so she may look him over before she heads on-scene to help Mr. Constantine with the banishment and proper disposal of any concerning items or creatures.” Tim and Bruce say “Thank you, A” almost simultaneously.

“I was able to free Robin and Superboy by circumventing magic using non-magical means. I did this by chipping away a non-magic imbued wall of the cell- creating another exit point- then picking the locks on their chains. End report.”

“I have the Batmobile at the entrance to the base, and Impulse gave me your wrist computer to give back to you.” Tim hums. “You should also get checked over by Zatana. Superman says that Conner also looked affected by the magic.” Tim rolls his eyes. “Superman is a worry wort.” Kon acted like he hadn’t gotten much sunlight, not like he’d been hurt. He says he’s tired but okay.

 “And I’m not?” … That's a fair point. “That’s not a positive thing, you know.” Only B would think it was. “So you keep telling me. You’ll get your wrist computer back when you get checked out by Zatana. I'm confiscating it until then.” Tim sighs but the corners of his lips twist up in a smile. “You’re really twisting my arm here, B.” The bitty bat stirs, then settles back down in Tim’s arms. “But I suppose, I’ll allow it. Just for today.”

Tim exits the base, and smiles at the familiar sight of the Batmobile. He settles Damian in the backseat, and buckles him in laying down. He slips into the opposite seat, keeping the birdie’s head in his lap so that he won’t be jostled too much on the ride over to the closest Zeta tube. 

The trip to the Watchtower is quiet, a companionable silence that Tim often has found himself missing since he resigned from Robin. B glances back every minute or so to check on Damian and Tim, probably looking for any sign that they’re injured. Tim lets him without comment.

 He knows that being checked on like this annoys Dick and Steph and Babs, makes them feel like B thinks they aren’t capable, but Tim just feels warm. He enjoys the sign that Bruce cares for him, even if he isn’t family. It’s sweet. Bruce is sweet.

He’s at Damian’s door and picking him up before Tim can even unbuckle his seatbelt, but he waits for Tim to catch up before he enters the Zeta tube. Tim flanks him as they walk through the halls of the Watchtower, feeling a strong sense of deja vu from his time as Robin. It's good, to be allowed to watch B's six, even after all the time they’ve spent apart.

 Zatana is already waiting for them in the medbay, an exhausted-looking but awake Jon in one of the beds, surrounded by sun-lamps. 

He tries to shoot out of bed- presumably to check on the baby bat- but Superman blocks him with an arm. “No. I’m letting you stay in the medbay instead of getting real sun so you can check on Robin, but you stay under those UV-lamps, or so help me God. ” Both Tim and Kon wince at the full might of Superman’s midwestern parent disapproval, remembering times it was directed at them. Not that it ever stopped them if they really wanted to do something- but yeah. It’s a strong deterrent.

 Batman sets Damian the cot next to Jon that’s not occupied by Kon and his myriad of sunlamps. Tim raises an eyebrow at Kon, and Kon rolls his eyes and jerks his head toward Superman. Tim nods and smirks at him. Mother hen Superman strikes again. Kon scowls back at him and sticks out his tongue.

Zatana does her scans on #5. “He’s okay. No effects linger.” B sighs, relieved. Tim feels a knot of tension in his gut ease. “From both of the Superboy's accounts of things, it sounds like they were chained in dark magic, which kryptonians are especially susceptible to.” Tim nods, his team having had a fair few encounters with magic users. This sounds about right.

 “The chains, which- from their description- are a reasonably common magic item, were probably spelled to make someone weak enough that they can’t fight against them. They do this by taking the energy from their victim. That energy then fuels the spell and keeps it going. The side effects for the amount of time he was chained? He’ll be exhausted, but unharmed beyond that.” Tim and B nod along to the explanation. They exchange a look. Fucking magic.

Tim makes to start his goodbyes. “That’s great. I’m glad he’ll be okay.” He nods at Kon. “I should really be going, this was fun though-” B lifts him by the scruff of his cape, and Tim instinctively curls up in a way that would make him easier to carry, the way all Robins are trained to. Damn Bruce and his effective training- why does Tim still have this muscle memory? It’s been forever-

“No. You’re getting scanned too.” Tim tries to wiggle out of B’s hold, but Bruce has a firm grip on him now. “B I am literally fine. I didn’t even touch the things.” Bruce raises his eyebrows. “We live in Gotham. Better safe than sorry.” Tim feels mutinous “You’re assuming I still live in Gotham! I could live in Metropolis for all you know!”

Superman pipes up with a “That’s not much better for a vigilante.” and B makes a gesture at him to emphasize the point. Tim glares at Superman. Fucking Mother Hen, oh my god. Then he glares at Kon who is snickering at Tim’s misery. Worst best friend ever. He’s being demoted.

“And-” B says in his most smug tone “- you’re assuming I didn’t know that there were three unauthorized meta’s sighted in my city, avoiding most of my cameras, right before the Redbird was taken for a joyride.” Tim glares at Kon harder.

 He knows how to avoid all cameras, but he had to stop when a fan asked for a picture with Young Justice. Tim even made it easy for him, the window to his office he always leaves cracked has no cameras on it! (That Tim allowed himself to be seen in the background, yellow in his cape visible and three fingers held up, is not the point. She has a Batfanblog that Tim likes to follow, and met Tim and Batman once, and has since posted worries about what happened to Robin #3. Tim isn’t heartless .) Kon just rolls his eyes at him. 

B plops him on Damian’s cot, and gestures at Zatana. Tim lets himself be scanned, much to Zatana’s apparent amusement- which, rude, by the way. Tim expects it from the Supers and B, but Zatana? He thought she would be better than to find his misery funny. “He’s fine.” she says. Tim gestures at her. “ Thank you. ”

When B comes at Tim with a rapid blood test, Tim isn’t even surprised. Taking blood is just how he shows he cares. Tim sighs and undoes a chink in his armor he designed specifically for this. Tim can see B’s approval of the design choice. He sighs as his blood is taken.

While B is busy running his labs, and Superman is mother henning over Jon, Tim spins the Batmobile keys around his fingers, catching Kon’s attention. He grins at Tim, and Tim grins back. He vanishes into the shadows, hacking the Zeta tubes so he can get a silent exit. He takes the Batmobile back to where the Redbird is parked, then sends it on auto-pilot back to the Batcave. 

Let B have a little freak-out over the missing car. He’ll be fine. Tim writes a little note and sets it on the dashboard with the keys he took. “You should keep a better eye on these or one day I might steal the Batmobile 4 real ;)”. 

Tim gets back to the magic base, takes evidence photos, and is out without being seen once. He'll upload that along with his mask footage and after patrol report to the Batcomputer soon for review and post mission analysis.

Tim’s already set up three different new wild-goose-chases for B to follow (plus the ones he laid as Robin) if he tries to enter Tim’s blood in the system for anything other than his tests, so he isn’t too concerned about him getting his hands on his blood. 

It’s nice to think that maybe B would try, though. Tim put a lot of effort into those misleading trails, making them somewhat entertaining, and fun if B follows all the way through with them. All in the slim chance that B would think to look for Tim, even when Tim's right there. Maybe he should leave a note in the Batcave labeled “for training” after a while; just to make sure Tim's plans aren't wasted.

That could be good.

Chapter Text

She is many things. She is Strong. She is a weapon. She is The One Who is All. She is A Vigalantie. She is a protector. She is learning. She is a daughter. She is a sister. She is a person. 

She is Cassandra. That is her. She likes being Cassandra. Likes the way that her people say it. Likes how they call her name with love. But she is not Cassandra Cain, or Cassandra Wu-san. That is not her. 

She may have been theirs once, but they are not hers. Maybe they each have a little part of her, but that part is not enough to be her. She is Cassandra Wayne. That is her. Her people gave her that name. 

“Cassandra” given to her by Babs, for it’s connection to Oracle. It is a claim. She is Barbra’s, just as Barbra is hers. “Wayne” was given to her by Bruce, by her Dad, and was reinforced by each member of the clan. They stand with her, even in the light of day. She is theirs, as much as they are hers. 

Cassandra loves her people. Her family. And they love her. It’s written on each of their faces when they see her, always there, even beneath everything else they feel that day. They love her. And she loves them.

She loves Barbra. Barbra is intelligent. Barbra is kind. Barbra is funny. Barbra is imperfect. She has a temper and can hold a grudge, but she is learning. Barbra is learning how to be a big sister for Cass and Steph. Barbra loves Cass.

She loves Dick. Dick is affectionate. Dick is a showman. Dick is understanding. Dick is imperfect. He is stubborn. When he is angry, he is hard to reach, running away, physically removing himself and making himself emotionally unavailable. But he is learning. Dick is learning how to set down his anger and come back. Dick loves Cass.

She loves Damian. Damian is empathetic. Damian is moral. Damian is artistic. Damian is imperfect. He is quick to jump to conclusions. He is prone to lash out. He is a kid. But he is learning. He is learning every day, and growing, and Cass is proud of him. Damian loves Cass.

She loves Bruce. Bruce is optimistic. Bruce is strong. Bruce is compassionate. Bruce is imperfect. He’s over protective and mistrustful. He’s scared of losing another child. But he is learning. Bruce is learning that his attempts to protect his children will only leave them feeling controlled and miserable. Bruce loves Cass.

She loves Jason. Jason is driven. Jason is passionate. Jason is thoughtful. Jason is imperfect. He is quick to assume the worst and slow to correct his assumptions. He is reactionary. But he is learning. He is learning to set down his guard, and allow his family closer. Jason loves Cass.

She loves Agent C, though she has not met him yet. He is one of her people, even if he does not know it. When she does meet him- and she will- she will drag him home by his ear if she must. She will not let him go, not when he is part of her family. 

No one could deny that he is part of her family either. There is a missing space where he should be, aching and empty. Cassandra sees it. She sees it everywhere, in spaces that were carved for him, and how they stay still, and the pain on her family’s faces.

She sees it in the empty space in the Batcave’s garage. She sees it in the radio that sits in the kitchen, always on and buzzing, but never with anything more than static and white-noise.

 She sees it in the blankets that are only ever touched when Alfred washes them, and the Zesti kept in the fridges. 

She sees it in the room in the family wing that’s always ready, the only thing differentiating it from the guest-rooms being that it has an empty lock box and a full go-bag. 

Cassandra sees where he should be. So when he makes contact with another one of her people for the first time in a long time, she is ready to jump up, hunt him down, and bring him home. 

It had been a quiet night. Cass had gotten bored of it quickly, so she’d gone to bug Barbra, a coffee from Babs' favorite spot in hand. She snuck up on the older woman, and after the ginger’s loud and aggressive swearing died down, handed her the coffee. 

Cass had been flitting around from task to task, fiddling with different devices and folding spare pieces of paper and making up random tunes to dance to when the comms caught her attention. Babs is snickering, listening in as some joke makes everyone howl. Cass had taken out her comm a while ago, and she doesn’t bother putting it back in, just drawing closer to listen to the conversation from Bab’s computer instead.

On one of the screens, Green Arrow and Flash are in hysteria, but that isn’t what Cass focuses on. Instead, she finds herself looking at her people. 

Steph is leaning on a gargoyle for support, cackling as she slowly slides down it, ending up half sprawled at its feet, laying on the roof. Dick is wheezing, holding his knees for support. Cass watches as he squats, hiding his face in his knees, and tries to contain his giggles.

 B is trying to keep a straight face, but his entire being sings with amusement. The moment the call is muted he lets himself break into a genuine and pure laughter, the moment happy and good. Dami is trying to act like he doesn’t find this funny, but he can’t hide the twitch of his lips or the laughter in his shoulders. Not from Cass.

Barbra grins and sits back, watching it all unfold, her snickers joining the chorus of voices. She’s allowing herself to be still, to soak it all in. Cass is too. She watches this moment of joy unfold, memorizes the way it’s etched into each of her people’s bodies, unhindered for just a moment. It’s wonderful. It’s what Cass wants for all of them all the time. 

But. The moment ends. Cass does not like watching the way tense uneasiness introduces itself into their mist, creeping up her people's spines, forcing their posture straight. She does not like the way controlled panic tightens Barbra's jaw, wiring it into a hard line as she types rapidly on her computer.

She does not like having to watch her family pick themselves up from their joy and don the heavy weight of their responsibility once more. 

Dick's shoulders draw up as he sits, rigid where he was once slack. Her Dad is still, his mind working so fast that his body is left behind. Jason's gait has shifted, where it was once light, gaining more danger to it.

 Damian's hands rest on his weapons, when they had been happily free at his sides before. Steph has left where she'd let herself fall still, pacing back and forth as she waits.

All their bodies sing anticipation as they listen to the typing of Oracle's keyboard. The moment slows each second dragging them all deeper into impatience, closer to something worse. Waiting for something to snap, someone to give.

Then Barbra laughs. Relief. She lets her shoulders slump in just a tad more than she would on any other night. A part of the constant stress that Cass can see in her every movement releases, its grip on her looser than Cass has ever seen. Her amusement is back, and with it, someIsabella thing harder lines her eyes and furrows her brow. Determination.

Something has just happened. Something that goes beyond the spontaneity of the prank or the momentary stress of not knowing who pulled it. Something shifted, deep within Barbra, allowing unseen parts to peek through. This is new. But it is her. She is smiling.

“Agent C just sent me an email-” Cass’s head snaps up, and she searches the screens for this email. Could it be a clue? 

Cass is not the best or the fastest reader out there. The letters get mixed up easily, and it often feels like she reads backwards, with her brain skipping ahead and down the passage before she can read the beginning. It’s frustrating. But she’d read through a million of the stupidly thick trashy romance novels that Jason has if it meant finding C.

“Are we sure it’s him?” Batman’s voice rings out. It is steady. It is meant to be strong. But all Cass can hear is the fragile hope he is viciously trying to keep down. It’s- Cass is going to drag C home by the ear when she finds him. Of that she is certain.

Cass finds the Email as Barbra reads it out. ‘U should check the footage from the Watchtower 2nite, I did a thing. -Agent C’ Honestly, what the fuck kind of email is that? This? This is what he sends after years of silence?

Whatever. Cass tunes out the conversation going on in the background, and finds the backdoor Barbra left for herself in the JL’s system. They can handle that, see if there’s a clue in the message. Cass can handle this. This is what she’s good at.

She’s good at watching people. All she needs is a few seconds, and she’s sure she’ll be able to recognize him on sight. If from nothing else, at least from the way he walks. She’s excited to see her brother for the first time, even if it’s just through a screen.

She finds the security footage. Watches it. Lets the amusement of the antics pull at her lips, even while the focus of looking for C draws together her brows. But she doesn’t see him. She watches it again. Again. Again. 

She uploads the clip of the security footage- from an hour before the shenanigans to an hour after- to one of Barb’s algorithms looking for anything she missed, and then goes back to rewatching it. She can’t-

She’s missing something. She has to be. Cass starts the clip again. She even watches it on normal speed, four hours of searching, hoping, praying- but nothing. He isn’t there. When Cyborg calls, and explains that something seems off about his code protecting the JL’s cybersecurity- that someone touched it- Cass screams, a wordless and ragefilled sound, and storms out of the clock tower.

Agent C wasn't there at all. He decided that he didn't even want to watch the chaos that he caused in person. He didn't even want to give Cass that much of an opportunity to find him.

Her only consultation is that apparently he says he will come to dinner soon. It rings hollow in Cass’s ears, even while she sees the joy shaking Dick, making him vibrate with energy and excitement. Nothing is ever that easy.

She watches the excitement of the first night. Watches as Alfred sets aside an extra plate. Watches the way it gets harder to breathe, as a sprout of anxiety curls its way up under each person's ribs and starts to squeeze, making her family’s breath just a tad shallower. She watches it cover the space where hope burns, making the light that shines through a tad dimmer.

Agent C does not show. 

She watches the anxiety grow, become thicker and sprout new limbs to cover that hope on the second night. Jason comes to dinner. His shoulders are tight, tangled in a web of many things. He feels so much, and only recently has he started to allow the hard shell of anger to crack around him, and pieces of it to crumble from under-maintenance.

Agent C does not show.

She watches Dick take a day off from his job, so he could stay another day in the manor, for family dinner. She watches reluctance to settle in the back of his throat, making his voice a little thicker and a little less quick to respond. He smiles through it. Dinner goes on. Jason watches him too.

Agent C does not show.

Dick’s hope goes from dimmed to as completely dappled as the forest floor, guilt and regret growing and entwining with the anxiety, the regret wrapping up around his throat, helping the reluctance choke him- inside and out- and the guilt growing deep, it’s roots reaching toward his heart, through his hope, looking to settle there. 

He leaves for Bludhaven Tuesday morning, his responsibility pulling him forward, even as his reluctance also settles in his feet rooting him more firmly to the ground, making his steps heavier and his body harder to move.

Agent C does not come to family dinner. He does not come home at all.

Cassandra watches as anxiety is replaced by resignation. She watches it cover them, a slow sinking into quicksand, the more they struggle against it to keep their heads above it all, the faster they sink.

Alfred is the first to fall all the way in. He left leftovers in the fridge. He restocked the Zesti in the house. He washed the sheets and refreshed the bedding in Agent C’s room. He kept himself busy, fretting over every detail, because if he keeps himself busy, then he can’t feel the truth rising in his bones, overtaking his every thought. When the untouched leftovers begin to go bad, Alfred’s head goes under. He does not make an extra plate that night.

Bruce is next. He sinks, slow and sure. His feet were already covered in sand from the second that they got home the night Agent C said he would come home for dinner. But Bruce, with all of his optimism, and belief in people, kept himself still and nurtured the hope in his chest, keeping it alive even while he sinks. 

When he finds the notes on the Batcomputer, hidden cleverly and clearly made without the intention to see any of them soon, the sand claims him. He buries himself in the Batcomputer, determined to find and treasure every piece of the person he once knew.

Damian is the last to be claimed by it. He is resolute. He ignores the resignation all together, keeping himself above it all, clinging onto the length of his surety that C will come. He does not notice that the rope of his surety is fraying until it snaps, and he's dropped into the quicksand of resignation, fighting and thrashing in anger.

 It does not take long for it to swallow him whole.

=

The places where Cass used to see Agent C's absence are practically glowing neon, these days. Everyone feels his absence more acutely since he reached out. They’re all ready to find him and bring him home, desperately looking for new clues before the lead goes cold.

So, when Cass pops into the Clocktower, ready to keep Babs company while she obsessively tries to track him down, (feeling guilty for not having checked on her sooner), she is surprised to see the redhead doesn't have her nose glued to her screens.

Instead, she's elbow deep in a glass computer case, fumbling with a screw. She has her huge coffee mug out, her coffee maker running, and has not noticed the younger bat even though she's not been hiding her presence.

 Cass decides to be a little shit, and swings from the rafters, landing on the table holding the case with an audible thwump, causing Babs to drop her screw. “Fuck- shit- Cass, why.”

Cass gives a little shrug. “You wouldn’t know I was here if I didn’t.” She plucks the screw up and hands it back to Babs. The redhead rolls her eyes and takes it. 

Cass waits until Babs is back to fumbling with the screw- effectively ignoring Cass- before intentionally falling back from her crouch with another graceless thump, landing on her backside and crossing her legs, causing the table to shake. Babs drops the screw and begins to curse like a sailor again.

When Cassandra snickers she levels a glare on the mischief maker. “Cass.” Cass mirrors her tone and posture, almost eerily identical, but somehow still exudes amusement. “Babs.”

They have a stare off. Cass always wins stare-offs. Babs knows this, but it's still a hot minute before she relents with a huff. She flicks her hand to where the screw had clattered to the floor. 

“Would you grab that? For some godforsaken reason I can't understand yet I need to screw it in before the next step for it to properly work.” Cass feels the confusion make her brows pull together. Babs knows everything about her computers, hardware and software. (That's the easiest way to check for physical bugs.) It- the way she talks about this one- maybe its an experiment?

Cass hands the screw back to her, and- this time doesn't mess with Bab's fumbling. She watches Bab screw it in, then hears something click, whirr and ding. 

That- that's not normal. It's just a screw. Why is it making things click whirr and ding? That's not normal. Babs writes something down in a notebook in response to the noises. 

Cass tilts her head at the sight. “Babs. What…” she can't figure out a better way to convey her confusion, so she settles on a frustratingly vague question. “What is this?” She waves her hand over the computer(?), Babs herself, and the notebook she holds. 

Babs frowns a little at it. She has frustration on her face, but it's superficial. Her eyes betray her, where they should be crinkled at the corners and sharp, they're smooth and almost nostalgic. Her heart beats challenge-puzzle-competition all the way into her veins.

“I'm actually not sure yet.”

 What.

What.

Surely Cass heard that wrong. “You. You aren’t sure yet?” Babs nods, then looks up, and as she watches Cass, the frustration melts off her, replaced by amusement. The nostalgia in her eyes is overtaken by a.

Fuck. Is that a fucking smug look? She's enjoying this! She's enjoying getting to take Cass off guard! Cass crosses her arms, and wipes the shock off her face.

“How do you not know? You're the one building it.” The smugness spreads, helping the lazy grace of her shrug seem all the more infuriating.

“I wasn't the one who got it. C did. He left a ‘care package’ on his old work bench while I was out. The little shit decided that I need a puzzle on top of all my other work, apparently.”

Cass's head fills with buzzing. Agent C. Agent C was here. In the Clocktower. It- thats not possible. No way. No way would he be able to just waltz in and leave with none of them the wiser for it.

No.

“He was here?”

 Confusion. Why is Barbra confused? “Yeah. He dropped this off before dinner on Wednesday. He didn’t mention it?”

Dinner. Dinner on Wednesday?

That isn't- “He never came to dinner.” Barbra's shoulders tense. “He was sighted in Bludhaven with Nightwing- I thought- Shit. They're idiots. Both- god damn idiots.” 

She pushes away from her project- the project Agent C gave her- and rolls to her computer. Cass does not follow her. She is stuck, frozen by the racing in her head.

Bludhaven. Agent C decided to have dinner in Bludhaven. Not in Gotham. Not at home. No. He decided to have dinner in Bludhaven, of all places. 

Bludhaven, where Cass couldn’t get to him in time, even if Dick had deigned to let anyone know when Agent C had shown up, and not after the fact. Bludhaven, where the cameras are damaged or broken or all together not there in the first place, so Barbra can’t track him.

 Bludhaven, where no one would recognize the third robin right away, and post about him, alerting the algorithm on the Batcomputer.

Cass doesn’t think she likes Bludhaven all that much. Not when it tears apart one brother and allows another to hide. Not when she thinks about all the people who go about their lives there, knowing that any one of them could have passed Agent C by. Not when it takes in all the bad that they’ve driven out in Gotham.

Not when it's where her family seems to go when they want to run away from where they're supposed to be.

Cass climbs the rafters. She needs air. She needs space. She needs time. She needs to get away from here for a little while, away from all of the places with a gaping hole where Agent C should be.

Babs looks up, at a small scuff of her shoe on the rafter. “Cass- wait-”

But Cass is already gone.

=

Cass is not gone for long. But she does take a day. She lets herself wander, finding her way back to places that inspire her. Locks do not stop her, so she does not abide by them. It’s not like anyone will notice that she is or was there anyway.

 An old theatre in Gotham that the new owner allows kids from the neighborhood to paint on. A dance studio, filled with people who are the closest to speaking her first language- body language- as anyone she had ever met, working their talent into skill. An impromptu neighborhood potluck, everyone bringing as much as they can contribute, and leaving with a full belly. 

Gotham is beautiful. Gotham is gritty, and hard to live in, and deadly, but it is genuine in a way that is hard to explain or capture. This is what she wants to protect. This is her home now. And it holds her people. 

Just as she is drawn to Gotham, so are her people. It has pulled them into it’s orbit, and it will not be letting them go. They all return to Gotham eventually. They all return home.

B, even after his trip around the world and missions in space, always returns home. Dick, even in his anger and fight for independence, always returns home. Barbra, even after the many offers of sponsorship and teams in need of her, always returns home. 

Jason, even after his death, even after his hurt and fury, always returns home. Cass, even after her exploration to find herself and family, always returns home. Steph, even after the trauma of her pregnancy and Black Mask, always returns home. Damian, even after offer after offer of the LOA to come back to the fold and kidnapping after kidnapping, always returns home.

It is inevitable. Gotham always draws them right back to where they need to be. It has a hold on them. Cass is pretty sure that it has a hold on C too. Maybe she was looking at it wrong. He didn’t escape them. He’d suddenly appeared again, twice in a short time span. Maybe- maybe this is just the beginning of his return home. Maybe this is the start of Gotham drawing him in again.

Cass can be patient. She can wait for him to return home, just as everyone before him has. And if Gotham is struggling to pull him back in?

Well, she’s always loved to help Gotham.

When she returns to the Batcave, she finds B exactly where he’d been for days. (When he wasn’t being a civilian in the public eye or Batman, of course.) Hunched over the Batcomputer, coffee in hand, going though file after file, sticky notes scattered around him.

She taps his shoulder, and when he turns to look at her, holds her arms out for a hug. He stands from the Batcomputer to hug her. She melts into his embrace, just a little bit. Cass thinks that- yeah, she really needed a hug from her dad.

He sighs, settling further into the hug, and plops his chin on her head. He rocks them both, side to side, swaying to the rhythm of comfort. He needed this too, Cass knows.

=

More and more often, these days, Cass finds Damian in far-off rooms of the manor, or high-up places in the Batcave, or walled off indents that are just off of where another family member is residing. There are many places like this on the plot of Wayne land- old unused servants passages, pockets of cave not yet explored, far reaches of the house that aren’t really worth the hassle of the trek to get there.

These places- they’re her haunts when she feels the need to stretch her legs, or observe without being seen, or process things without the constant buzzing of everyone else’s emotions, begging for her to see them. Far, and yet still near enough to hear and be present and observe if needed. Alone, not isolated.

 But Damian- even if he seems to think he wants to be alone, he doesn’t. Titus and Alfred (the cat) and Ace seem to know this; one if not all of them follow him through the house whenever he gets like this, and Cass is pretty sure a few of the fruit bats in the cave keep him company there, of course Batcow is there too.

When Damian wants to be alone, he closes and locks the door to his room. He goes on runs or long walks with Titus or Ace. He beats a training dummy until his fists are bloody. He locks the door to his art studio, and comes out later covered in chalk from the blackboard wall he has. He does not haunt all of Cass’s spots.

So, he does not want to be alone. But maybe, he, like Cass, does not want the company of memories not his own. Maybe he doesn’t want the reminder of someone they’ve yet to meet, but who holds the attention of their family none the less. 

Maybe he doesn’t want to feel like a green-eyed monster for wanting a gift from C too- or for the attention the gifts have received. It feels like that’s all their family talks about anymore, after all. Maybe he wanted to get away from those talks for a little while.

And Cass? She might as well sit with him. It’s her spot that he’s stealing, after all. She needs to stake her claim on it, or he might try to claim that it’s been his from the beginning. This is their alone time now. Not his. She’s hijacking his alone time for his own good.

 They sit together. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they observe the others from afar. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Damian needs a hug. (Sometimes Cass does too.) Sometimes they don’t need Damian’s horrible dogs drooling all over them.

But they always could use a little alone time together.

=

Cass does not like going to galas and events. Not in the way that Dick, Jason, Barbra and Steph don’t like going to galas. They find events irritating, tiring, not worth the effort and full of people that they’d rather never talk to again. 

Cass- they make Cass viscerally uncomfortable, and angry. 

They glitter with opulence and luxury that few can afford, but she knows- she knows with one glance- that very few, if any of the people there at all pay any attention to that at all. If they do, it is to sneer at them, pick them apart, or to look on in jealousy. It’s them, the people, that truly make Cass sick.

So many gathered at once- and yet she cannot find any joy. She cannot find much of any positive emotion. Victory- but only in the detriment of others. Giddyness- but only of the drunken sort, others around them watching on for any sign of a faux pas. Laughter- behind the back and at the extent of other ‘friends’.

Then- of course- lust. These people- they lust after many things. Power, violence, money, influence. Other people.

Cass despises lust. She hates it down to her very core. Hates the way these people look at her, lusting after one thing or another. She can read it in every line of their body, in every twitch of their face. It is greedy and most often cruel, and almost nothing she can do will prevent it. 

It makes her feel powerless. Violated. Their lust sticks to her skin, a hydrophobic goop, almost impossible to wash away. It makes her want to claw and tear at her skin, or maybe gouge out their eyes for daring to look at her like that.

She is a person. She is Batgirl. She is The One Who Is All. She is a weapon. She does not deserve to be looked at like that.

She wants to gouge out everyone’s eyes more when she sees that that is practically the only way that people look at her dad. They look at B, lusting after all he has, from his influence and assets to his ass. They want him. All of him.

They cannot have him. Not one bit of him. They can have none of her family. She will fight them all, keep them away from their family, their tentative peace.

All that is to say- she does not like galas. She skips every one she can, and spends her time chasing away people from her family if she must attend. But when Damian- with his big eyes and one of the most genuine and earnest expressions he’s ever given Cass- asks her to come to a gala with them, she cannot say no.

He’d asked something of her. Genuinely asked.

 He always hesitates to ask for things without offering something in return- even the smallest things like a hug or company while he draws. That he felt comfortable asking this of her, even if he meant it to seem casual and offhand, means everything. She will not refuse him.

So, she gathers her things, puts herself together, and braces for the gala. Dami is vibrating in his seat, anticipation and excitement a fuel, creating energy that overflows from him. Cass cannot imagine what at an event could excite her little brother this much, but that’s just one more reason for her to go and find out.

She watches him, and tries to figure out what the excitement is for. And she remains confused. All he does is remain in the corner, hidden, and watch. 

He is not excited for the fancy food, like Dick sometimes is- his plate is empty. He is not excited for messing with people, like the echoes on Jason’s face show he used to be when he recounts stories of mischief- he’s not talked to a single person. 

He’s not even excited for the drama that may occur, like Barbra had admitted to looking forward to once- a commotion had started on the other side of the room, and he hadn’t batted an eye. He’s just watching.

His excitement had begun to burn low throughout the gala embers turning to the ash of focus, until Cass approaches him, somehow adding fuel to his flame and igniting it again. She settles beside him and waits for whatever he wants from her. It isn’t even five minutes before he begins to speak.

“That’s Timothy Drake.” He nods towards someone. Cass glances out, marks him, and focuses back on Dami. She avoids looking into crowds if she can help it. When he sees that she’s marked the civilian, he continues. 

“I find that he constantly has odd dichotomies surrounding him. It’s fascinating. He seems un-noteworthy, but a man that had the gall to harass me paled at his very name.” Her baby brother had been harassed? Who. Who does she need to make a visit to? “Please stop making that face, Richard and Father already handled it.”

Cass fixes her face, but makes a note to talk to B later. “Drake has the ability to sway people to his side easily and command a room, but he does not climb the social ladder to a higher standing. Most look upon him favorably, but there are always a handful of people at each event whom seem almost overtly hostile to him.”

He points them out, a man and a woman arm in arm, and another lurking on the edges of the event. Cass sees it in their hands and backs. The violence that lurks there, the bloodlust directed at the teen on the other side of the room. It looks like barbed wire and sharpened claws gnarled and fused to bone, like one wrong move would send someone bleeding. The willing to harm like they’ve been harmed.

She nods. “They want to hurt him- maybe not physically, but hurt all the same.” She finds the teen in the crowd again, and falls silent. He is a liar- liar liar liar- like all others in the room, but the mask of lies that sits on his face, covering it, is so smooth she cannot tell how deep it goes. How far the lies have fused and spiked into his skin, if the mask will be possible to take off without tearing and blood and residue. Are the edges grafted to his skin? His muscles? His tendons? His very bones?

But this liar… “He’s confusing. His words and body say such different things-” Understatement. Understatement of the century, but it’s the clearest way to explain, even if it does not evoke the gravity of how different his words and body are. “like the others- but he keeps himself held tight.”

He isn’t held tight like a spring ready to bounce or a rubber band ready to snap. No, that would almost make sense. But this tightness is like- like a muscle being worked. Like standing on a hill and resisting the pull of gravity. He cares about this game all those in this event play- about fighting the gravity to keep from falling- but he does not work with his full might at it.

Where others are scrambling, running, walking, pushing, crawling up this hill to get higher, to the plateau, to fight the gravity, to win the game, he contents himself with staying standing where he is. Like he’s fought to climb up to mountain tops, to keep himself from the rising lava of a volcano, and knows that this hill, even if it might hurt to fall down, is not worth putting his full strength into.

“He does not use everything that he has for the game these people play, even though it should be the only game he knows.” It’s another understatement, but frustratingly still the best way she can explain it. Maybe she needs to spend more time with Jason to figure out how to make things seem like a bigger deal.

Dami tilts his head at her, drawing his brows into the very same look of confusion that B carries. He looks around, brows furrowing further, and his bottom lip pulls down into a slight pout. It’s so cute; Cass wants to squish him. 

“Surely not everyone here is trying their hardest.” Cass almost snorts as he looks doubtfully in the direction that B had gone. “What is it that makes him confusing?” Cass considers that.

She looks out the crowd and shakes her head. Of course there are some people not trying their hardest. They let themself roll down the hill, or lay in the grass and don’t care if the soil shifts. But this civilian- he’s made the effort to stand, firm and rooted. 

“They do not care, so they do not try. He cares, but only puts in some of what he has. It’s weird.” Damian nods. “I find him weird as well.” Cass just smiles. He’d wanted her opinion on someone he finds fascinating. That’s why he’d asked her here. That’s why he was excited. 

Mystery solved, she slips away to go drive off the person clinging to her Dad’s arm. No sticky lust is getting on him tonight. Not on her watch. And if she demands a dance or ten from Damian later? 

Well, it’s his fault for bringing her to the gala in the first place.

=

Cass is crammed in a booth between Jason and Bruce, with Dick and Dami in the booth across from them for a recoup brunch, devouring a stack of pancakes, when she hears a click and is blinded with a flash. The woman who’d taken the picture freezes, apparently also taken off-guard by the flash being on, then starts running. Cass shrugs and goes back to her pancakes. 

It’s not abnormal for someone to take photos of the family in public, especially if B is with them, and it’s not like she could do anything about it even if she wanted to. A civilian wouldn’t be able to jump out of this booth and past a full grown man in order to chase someone easily, and she doesn’t think she could make that motion look clumsy on her if she tried. It’s whatever. Nothing scandalous about them eating breakfast anyway. 

“Why on earth would that coward run away?” Dick shrugs at Dami’s question. “Maybe she was embarrassed that she got caught.” Cass furrows her eyebrows. “Shocked and panicked? Yes. Embarrassed? No, not really.”

Damian points his fork at her. “Which brings me back to my question. Why would she run? She has no reason to panic over a picture.” Cass shrugs, then steals the bite of waffle Jason had been cutting off his plate.

Jason squawks at the offence, then after a brief cutlery battle, takes her entire plate. Cass just pulls the plate of waffle Jason had pushed aside when making room to steal her plate. Jason narrows his eyes at her, performatively annoyed. (His jaw gives away his amusement.) “You planned that.”

She did, so she smirks at him. He was disappointed in the waffles he’d gotten, probably expecting deeper ones like this diner used to serve, and honestly these pancakes were getting a little boring to cut. It’s a win-win, she doesn’t know why he’s complaining.

She also doesn’t know why Dick is looking at Jason in horror. She’s not that bad when someone steals her food. 

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Everyone’s head at the table snaps to Dick. “I- wait not like that, I mean- I’m obviously glad you’re alive- you’re my Jaybird, my Little Wing, my baby brother- but, like, the public doesn’t know you- Jason Todd-Wayne, son of Brucie Wayne and a Prince of Gotham- are alive. Like- last they heard you died and suddenly you’re just having sunday brunch with the family. Thats- there are going to be questions when that picture gets out, Jay.”

They all blink at Dick. Jason is the one to break the silence. “Well, shit.”

Suddenly, Cass’s happy brunch with the family turns into a day of calls and stress and high-pitched voices giving her a headache. She has to answer a ton of questions, and she’s not even the one coordinating the PR release. She is not a happy camper.

Recoup brunches are supposed to be a happy time where they’d each gotten a couple of hours of sleep as the sun rose and can now all carbload and bitch about the terrible night that they’d had. They deserve a recoup brunch after the fucking four-way gang war last night. This is blasphemy. Cass is going to mutiny.

She’s also going to knock this photographer’s teeth in if he makes one more fucking comment about anyone in her family. 

It started with treating her Dad like an idiot. Annoying, but tolerable enough- B designed his civilian character to be like that anyway. But then- then he starts bitching and moaning about how Dick and Dami’s skin is dark, and ‘difficult to photograph’. Like it isn’t his fucking job. Like they’re an inconvenience to him. Before he even tries to point the camera at them.

Cass and Jason are already sharing looks. He tries to get Cass in front of his camera first, but B swoops in and says that since Jay is the star of this press release, they should start with him. The guy grumbles but doesn’t argue. 

He snaps a few shots of Jason, but doesn’t really seem to care how any come out. He gives no direction, no warning for when he’s about to take a shot, nothing. He doesn’t even check the pictures before declaring that now it’s time for a group shot.

He puts Dick and Damian on the very edges, and has Jason crouch in front of the group even through no one else is crouching. He nit picks everything about Dick, down to the way his shirt sits on him. Then he starts to pose Cass. It’s disgusting. It’s sticky. It’s lustful.

He gets one picture in, then insults Damian’s smile, and Cass makes eye-contact with Bruce. Bruce nods. He walks up to the photographer. “Hand me your camera?” He does, then his eyes go wide as Bruce takes out the memory card then hands it back. 

“We won’t be needing your services afterall. My son will escort you to the door.” Dick steps forward, and leads the man out with a bruising grip to his shoulder, the man sputtering and swearing the whole way down. When Dick comes back, he’s more relaxed than he’s been since the diner this morning.

“I got us another photographer. I know he’s good, and he won’t pull shit. His name is Tim Drake.”

=

Tim Drake is still a liar. Even when he isn't lying. It's. Cass doesn’t like it. The way he's trying to act- pleasant. Not happy to take photos of the Waynes, not like some people have been in the past, not greedy for the opportunity, but not absolutely thrilled either.

The real way that he feels is so complicated- so tangled. It shifts and sifts, like sand under your foot at the beach- still solid, but so many grains and little rocks and shells and little animals and footprints and the tide washing away old and bringing in new that it's hard to pin down with a few words.

He looks at them with evershifting, ever combining comradery, appreciation, guilt, awe, melancholy,  and-

And love. There's so much love. Affection- heating the sand to leave it warm for their feet. Worry- bringing sand dollars with the tide, gifts with no expectation of repayment. 

Yearning- the sound of waves crashing inside shells no matter how far from the ocean you travel. 

Bittersweet happiness- passing by with the wind, cooling heated skin, kissing her head as it passes, never enough bitter to bring sand on the wind and scratch the skin of those that stay.

Gratitude, lapping at feet and holding so many living, growing things that are being built and prospering and evolving, giving and becoming so much more than it had once been.

It's personal, these feelings. This love. It's history. It's not idolatry or parasocial, the way Cass has seen of people with her family before. 

It's true, and he's acting like it isn't. Like it's something to be tucked away and left unacknowledged, like he could develop any of those feelings- deep as they are, fleshed out and seasoned and weathered as they are- aren't anything important. Like he's better off as a liar than to show them this.

=

Her little brother is gone. He's gone and Cass doesn't know where he is. This means war.

She sneaks into the Justice League meeting. She listens to the theories. She goes hunting.

Gotham is handled. She's going to Metropolis. 

She finds a low-ranking cult member. She finds their supervisor. Then xer supervisor. Then his supervisor. Each one is useless. Each one she has a Super take away. But the next one?

The next one she takes to the Batcave.

He squeals. She sends the coordinates to B. He comms in that Dami is safe. She collapses where she stands.

She'll move to a more comfortable place to sleep in a bit.

=

Agent C was there. Agent C was on the rescue mission. When Cass and Damian hear this during the debrief, they exchange a thunderstruck expression before turning on their Father. 

“Why didn't you Bring. Him. Home.” Cass signs it too for emphasis. Bruce shakes his head. “I tried-”

“Bullshit.” Damian follows Cass's lead, signing it too. Bruce looks flabbergasted. “Damian!”

“Father!”

“Do you want to see the cowl footage? He was there one minute and the next the next he was gone.  I'm not able to contain any of my kids for long without drastic measures, Including C.”

“I would.” B wheels around. “Excuse me?” Cass meets his eyes. “I would like to see the cowl footage. Now, please.” He deflates, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah- yeah.” He moves to the computer. “Since I've already debriefed most of my side up until this point, I'll play you his uploaded domino footage, then mine and the JL's cameras.”

“We… have his too?” 

“Yes, Damian. We're lucky for it too, because there are no cameras in the magical base or around it, and this is the most reliable evidence possible.”

The footage starts. They fight, they split up, they explore. Then: “Jon- what- Fuck, C I need you down here, now.” A mad dash, a scramble. Then C is there, staring at Damian and Jon.

“We're going to get them out. They'll be okay.” Fear. Potent, but hidden. His hands say it in the way they curl before letting go of the explosives. 

BOOM. Then the breaking of the wall, Superboy and Wondergirl chipping it away. The click of Jon’s locks. He’s silent. Silent until- “Go. We’ve got it.” He’s not even looking at his teammate. After handing the second Superboy to the first, he’s already standing and moving to Dami. Barely even acknowledges the wonder when she asks if he’ll be okay.

All he does is approach Damian. He sits next to the littlest bird and reaches out. He is gentle. He is afraid. He is affectionate. Cass can tell all that from only his hands, and she wonders if she saw the whole of him what else she would find.

Sometimes, people are so blind. It constantly baffles her how much even her family can’t see that she can. She’ll make the most obvious observation in the world and her family will look at her and ask her to expand on in, like they can’t see it too.

 So, she looks at Damian to see if he catches how affectionate C is of him. And she finds silent tears running down his face. His anger at not being able to see Agent C has evaporated, and the matter of the feeling is beginning to condense around him, cooling to grief in his atmosphere. Grief at losing the chance to bring him home- maybe his only chance to bring C home. 

And as the video plays further, the grief becomes more dense, clouding further together, because he lost the memory of this affection too.

He puts down Damian’s domino lenses, then- from the noise- presumably his own. Their eyes meet. “Hi Robin.” Damian’s breath hitches. Cass slips her hand into his. 

“I’m getting you out of these, okay?” And he does. When Dami sways after the first is unlocked, he’s caught and steadied. C runs a finger from betwixt Dami’s brows to the tip of his nose, then taps it.

 It’s a gesture Dick and B have done, one picking it up from the other, or perhaps both picking it up from Alfred. It makes B take a shaky breath, though he’s already probably seen this at least once before. 

From there it’s a constant stream of comforting babble, though Cass isn’t sure who it’s meant to comfort. “Stay with me, Birdie, we have to get you out of here. You’re okay, chickity, I’m getting you out of here. I promise. You’re okay. You’re okay, I promise.” Even an automatic comfort of “Doin’ so good Duckie.” when the comms start buzzing with the JL’s arrival, startling Dami. 

He takes a totally different tone at the arrival of Batman, though Cass can’t tell if it’s from the comfort of B arriving or an attempt to be professional. Either way, Cass is struck with the sudden thought of liar liar liar- in a way that she hasn’t been in a while.

“Hey B. I got him. He and his Super were in a pretty tight spot, I need to get him out of here, but I'll come back and take some photo evidence. From the looks of it- a magic user got the drop on the baby bat and his super.”

He continues in his report, but Cass doesn’t hear it. All she sees is the gentle way that he runs a hand through Dami’s hair, checking for concussions. All she sees is the affection in the way he adjusts and holds Dami, making sure the little bird is comfortable.

 All she hears is his voice quieting at the realization he’s asleep. Him agreeing that Damian is clever, even when he wasn’t prompted to do so. His familiarity with Bruce, easy in routine though it's been years since they’ve fallen into it. The gentle way he hums to Damian while holding him in the back of the batmobile.

The realization strikes Cass, though it should not be a shock. Agent C loves them. There is so much love in him and she hasn’t even seen the whole of his body to need to be able to tell. It’s sure as the sun rising and setting everyday. 

Why does he hide away if he loves them all so much?

Damian pulls away from her after the end of the domino footage cuts out when Agent C is back in the Redbird after having gotten the evidence photos. He takes a BatTablet with the whole case and the rest of the debrief of it, and heads upstairs without a word. His face has dried, but he’s about to cry again.

Cass puts a hand on her Dad’s shoulder when he moves to follow Dami. She has him continue the debriefing with her, and give Dami a little space. He needs it right now.

After the debrief, she gravitates toward the training area. She works out. She showers. B is still at the BatComputer. She leaves him be too.

She kneads Dough with Alfred. Bakes it. Walks Titus and Ace. Checks on B. He’s still at the Batcomputer. She leaves him be.

She helps Alfred do laundry. Watches TV. Pops down to the BatCave. B is still at the Batcomputer. She leaves him be.

She pops her head into Damian’s room and. Stops. He’d dragged every one of his stuffed animals and soft blankets into a heap on his bead, in an almost volcano-like shape, with him and Ace and Alfred (the cat) and Titus all in the caldera. His eyes are red, but he looks- numb. 

He clicks replay on the video he was watching on a tablet and Cass hears a quiet “Hi, Robin.” Cass kicks Titus out of the volcano of stuffies and curls up with Damian. She doesn’t know what to say, but she does know that he needs her.

And maybe she needs him, too.

=

B is still at the Batcomputer the next morning. Cass says still because of the amount of coffee and half-eaten snacks surrounding him. She watches him, the electric line of stress so prominent in his entire body that one touch to a flammable substance could touch him and he’d set it ablaze.

She could practically see the electric signals of his brain, still firing rapidly, working him up into a spiral. She lands in front of him with a soft thwump. He startles, looking up at her. “Cassie, what-”

She interrupts him. “You think too much.” His confusion brings his shoulders up tighter, which is the exact opposite of what she wanted him to do. 

It's the Batcave, she decides. This cave has bad vibes. He's been stewing in it far too long. It needs to be aired out before any more stewing, brooding or otherwise head-hurting thoughts that occur in here can be productive.

She kicks him out of the Batcomputer's chair, then drags him by the wrist toward the stairs. He lets himself be dragged, even if he's trying to ask her questions the entire way.

On the way out of the Batcave, up the stairs, she stops by one of the security panels and initiates a protocol that will air out the cave. That will probably dispose of the bad vibes. And if it also locks the cave down for 24 hours while doing so, locking B and the rest of the family away from their gear, so be it.

Her Dad continues to try to get answers out of her, but Cass refuses to budge. She pulls him all the way to the ball room then turns on him. He's still tense. He's going to stink up this room with bad vibes too. Unacceptable.

She points at him. “You're still thinking. Stop thinking.” She pulls out the remote for the speaker in the corner and hits play. Music starts playing- soft violins- perfect for ballroom dancing. “Dance with me.” 

His entire form is live with tension. He's twitchy, wound up, ready to spring or collapse, ready to snap with one wrong move. Not at her- never at her, or anyone in the family really.

 She really never understood the way that phrase was used. When she watches people snap- they end up hurting themselves the most. Doing the one thing they'd been holding back from for so long?

 That hurts. It can break you. There was a reason you'd been holding back for so long. And sure, elastic can bounce back, but there are other ways elastic can snap, too. 

Like when you've worn it too thin, and decide to keep stretching it, and it breaks in two, right down the middle, unable to be repaired.

There are only so many times that B can bounce back after he snaps, and Cass doesn’t ever want to let him get to the point where he snaps in the first place. In fact, she refuses to let him.

So, when she watches him, when he starts again with “Cassie-” ready to refuse her, to ask her again why in the world she would drag him away from his hunt, why she wouldn’t let him snap, she interrupts him again.

“Dad.”

He freezes. Shock, elation, worry and pure love strike him- lightning flashing, making the entire world searingly bright and thunderously loud. 

The electricity of it all leaves him buzzing and at a standstill, looking as if he were about to fall over. Nothing else is in his body any more. She has all of his attention now. He is helpless to her whims. She holds out a hand to him.

“Dance with me.”

And so he does.