Archive of Our Own

Adrenaline was starting to make his head feel fuzzy.

It was good. It was a low hum, just in the background, making everything fade into a blur of light and sound. His muscles burned at just the right frequency, giving him a workout high rather than a sense of exhaustion. His arms would kill him after this, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

He and Bruce worked well together. Maybe they weren't on the same wavelength as Bruce and Dick had been, seeming to have some psychic link, but they could go shot for shot. He could understand what Bruce was signaling with hand gestures and was even starting to decipher what it meant when the corner of his mouth twitched a certain way. They were partners. They worked well together.

The exception was when Tim actually acted his age.

He had his fifteen birthday a month ago. He was smart, unnaturally so, and could learn just about anything given enough time. His training had been kicked into high gear, and his muscle definition was proof enough. But he was still fifteen. He was still reckless and ambitious. He didn't have enough years under his belt to think of things past their undeniable facts. He was too logical for his own good.

Naive and analytical.

He was a walking dichotomy.

That was what caused him to chase down the Joker.

Three henchmen. One leader. That was the sight that greeted Batman and Robin as they kicked in the door. The goons were wearing gas masks, but the leather was worn and painted over in pure white. Grotesque clown smiles were drawn under the filter cartridge, and green rimmed the eyes. Perfectly anonymous. Perfectly uniform.

They were shoveling pill bottles by the arm full into duffle bags. Some drugs would be used to create more Joker Gas. Others, like pain medications, would be sold to continue funding their operation. The Joker had been low on cash. That's why he came to Bosnia.

Or so Batman thought at the time.

As the door crashed onto the ground, the sound echoing through the storage room, their leader turned, smile stretched unnaturally wide. The henchmen moved first, diving for Batman and Robin, but they weren't fast enough. They never were.

Robin had landed one solid hit while Batman took care of the others. That was all he decided he had time for. He leaped through the air, balanced himself by grabbing the man's shoulders, then struck him in the nose with his knee.

It had only taken a second, even if adrenaline always made it seem slower, but it had been enough time for Joker to cross the room, already wrenching open a back exit door. Robin couldn't let him slip through their fingers again. He was tired of playing Batman’s game, because that's exactly what it was: a game. If they wanted to see change, real change, then that madman would need to be incapable of hurting another person. Permanently.

He heard Batman call out “Robin!” as he ran after the Joker, but that didn't slow him. If he wanted Robin to be more calculated, to be more forward-thinking, then he got his wish. He would end this problem tonight. At the very least, he would be the one to capture the Joker, not let Batman shove him to the sidelines again.

“Robin!”

He didn't stop. He just kept running, pounding his feet into the concrete floor until he could feel the vibrations echoing around his body instead of his own heartbeat. There were enough goons to keep Bruce occupied for a while, maybe just long enough to give Tim the head start he needed.

Everything was echoing. His heartbeat. His footsteps. The giggles. That laugh was reason enough to understand the disgust held in Jason’s chest like it was a prized possession.

The hallways seemed never-ending, always twisting and turning in odd places. Tim had enough of the chasing, enough for a lifetime, so when a longer stretch of corridor was unveiled, he aimed his grappling hook and shot it at the far wall, swinging himself over and in front of the Joker.

“Birdie finally learned how to leave the nest?” The Joker teased, no longer running. He didn't need to. “Figured out how to stretch those wings and fly?”

“I've learned more than that,” Tim retorted and scoffed. The grappling hook had already been yanked out of its crack in the wall, so now it was being aimed again, right above the Joker’s head. Tim used the leverage to swing forward, legs pressed firmly together so he could drive his feet into Joker's face.

“Oh, that was cute,” Joker said with a low, humming laugh, as if the newly acquired crack in his jaw was nothing more than a papercut. “You certainly put up more of a fight than the last songbird. He never did learn how to sing for me.”

“Your whole shtick isn't gonna work on me.” Now that the Joker was on the ground, Tim decided to land some kicks on his back. “It's not as easy as bringing up my predecessor to get me to crack.”

Joker opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by a groan escaping his lips as another kick broke a couple of ribs, but as always, the sound eventually devolved back into giggles. “Pumpkin, I was doing nothing of the sort. I'm just reliving some good memories before you put me out of my misery.”

Tim wasn't letting conversation get in the way of his goal. He hooked his foot over Joker’s waist to turn him on his other side so Tim could kick him in the jaw again. “You're not planning on making it that easy for me.”

“What makes you say that, dear?”

Tim pulled a face as he shot his grappling hook once more, only now it planted itself into the floor. He could use the rope to tie Joker up.

“You're a one trick pony,” Tim said as he brought the expanse of metal lined rope around the Joker’s body. “You only make it easy when you want to be caught. What, planning on taking over Arkham Asylum again?”

“I would never dream of such a thing,” the Joker gasped as if that was an outrageous thought, one that would never occur to him. “Perhaps I've just missed my time with you boy blunders. You're, what? Number three? Four? Oh, I lose count. But Batsy keeps me far away from you. Wouldn't want to make a mistake like last time, huh? I mean, once you abandon one kid and get the other two killed, you gotta start baby proofing the place.”

Tim was letting his judgment become clouded and he knew it. That was the downside of being intelligent yet human. He was aware of every irrational decision he made, unable to stop it. He was focusing too much on the words pouring from those painted lips rather than the task at hand. At least Joker was tied up, unable to start an altercation, unable to put Tim right where he wanted him.

“I say he should let me have my fun,” the Joker continued, craning his head back awkwardly from the position he was forced into, chest pressed to the ground with Tim's boot against his back. “My songbird may have sung a final note, but he came back stronger, louder. More fiery!”

He was getting too into it, like every other disgusting criminal reminiscing on a particularly perverse memory, so Tim pressed his foot down harder. The move managed to steal some of Joker’s air, but he wasn't done, not by a long shot. He wouldn't be done until there was a shot.

“That boy came back with the power of the sun in his veins!” It was getting difficult to even understand him between the giggles, every word breathless and slurred. “Had a passion for spilling blood! Oh, how I saw myself in him. Just a chip off the old woodblock.”

The boot left Joker’s back only to connect with his skull. Tim pretended not to appreciate the crack that sounded. Pretended not to imagine how similar it would have sounded to Jason.

“My point!” Joker continued, even if his voice was getting harder to conjure, like there was blood pooling in his mouth, blending in with the lipstick. “He came crawling back to the big bat. More powerful than ever. More sure of himself. I'm surprised he doesn't want the same for you. What is it they say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

Maybe his goal wasn't to be the one to capture the Joker. Maybe he was less like Bruce's son than he thought. Maybe he did want blood on his hands.

“Have I hit a soft spot?” he cackled. “I think so, given the way you're cracking my skull like fine China. That sound certainly brings back memories. I remember the way I drove my songbird's head into the concrete like it was yesterday. So stubborn, though. Not even that drove a note out of him.”

Where is Bruce? Tim thought distantly. Joker hadn't been traveling with the most advanced henchmen. They wouldn't have been able to hold off Batman for this long. Was he hurt? All because Tim was standing here, letting this psycho taunt him?

Why was he not here? Why was he not stopping Tim? Why was there no one to stop him from what he was about to do?

A crack echoed through the halls.

Always echoing.

Always the afterthought of action. The ripple. The cause and effect.

More goons had come out of nowhere after the first wave was handled by Bruce. They must have been purposefully split up with the intention of slowing him down. If that was true, that meant Joker had orchestrated this to separate him and Tim. He wanted Robin alone.

He could hear the sound of metal and bone, though he was miles away. Robin's mask had been damaged early on, but he still wore his belt, which held the backup communicator. Robin wouldn't be able to hear him, but he'd be able to hear Robin.

But it wasn't Robin he heard. He never spoke a single word. He heard the Joker's voice echoing around his cowl, through to his skull. The vile, filthy things coming from his mouth would haunt Batman for years to come. He would never forget it. Even when shining eyes found his again, when warm flesh was pressed against his own, when he could say that name and be met with a response, this night wouldn't leave him.

He would never have dreams of replacing Robin with himself. He didn't go to sleep at night and find himself broken, unable to move, staring up at that unnatural face. No, he would be in the corner, watching, unable to stop it. When he went to sleep, he heard the Joker's voice like a distant echo, too far away to silence.

Batman didn't talk to himself. He didn't cry. He didn't let out so much a heavy breath. He couldn't. He had to be focused, calm. Tears wouldn't save Robin.

He knew the Joker was done with Robin when he said his final farewells. This didn't cause him to panic, either, because the interface built into the windshield of his motorcycle displayed Robin's vitals. His pulse was thready at best, and he was losing too much blood for comfort, but he would live. Batman would grab him and treat him and maybe he'd never fully recover but at least he'd be alive. That was all he needed. He was selfish and cruel and would be reminded of such until his final day, but he needed Robin to live.

Only then the ticking started.

And he knew he was too late.

“He's not yours.”

“So glad to hear that voice again,” Joker responded, still grinning despite his injuries. He'd survived worse. “You got quiet on me. I was starting to think you were like Number Two after all. The numbers are really working for me, really shows the hierarchy. You Robins get worse with every new generation.”

“He's not yours,” Tim said again. He wished he could say his tone was low, rough, confident. He wished he had the cadence that Bruce did. He wished his very voice was infamous, that just the sound of it struck terror. But it didn't. He sounded young and upset and angry. He sounded like a child. “He's not your songbird.”

“I'd beg to differ.” The Joker was swaying slightly in midair, one claw from the grappling hook hanging him from the ceiling, the other still buried in the floor to keep him from moving too much. All tangled up in the web of his own making. “I made that boy who he is. He'd already be another forgotten sidekick if it wasn't for me. I gave him opportunities. I opened the door. He's even got those pretty scars to show off my handiwork. You have no idea how relieved I was to find out that nasty Lazarus Pit didn't take those away from me.”

Tim punched him. There was really no reason for it. It didn't knock him out. It certainly wouldn't stop him from talking, from giggling. It wasn't getting them anywhere. But Tim was young and naive and he couldn't just stand here and listen to this. If only he could figure out something else to do other than stand here and listen.

“Are you a singer, pumpkin? If I hit the right button, will you play me a tune?”

Tim took in steady breaths, trying to ignore the urge that started as an echo in his mind but was now a force in his fingertips.

“Maybe if I'd had more time, my songbird would've cooperated. Next time, I'll have to get him farther away from Batsy, give myself enough time to really work my magic.”

Tim had to calm down, and he knew it. He should walk away. Joker was tied up, and Bruce was only on the other side of the building, maybe even approaching his location now. But his feet couldn't move. He was stuck. Leaving meant giving up. It meant agreeing with Bruce's teachings, his own beliefs, once and for all. It meant saying Jason was wrong for wanting to end this life. Staying meant crossing a line, one he couldn't come back from, one he himself had to pull Bruce away from. It meant disobeying. It meant vengeance.

“He didn't give me much to work with, you know. So much is still unknown. Oh, but yes, just a little time, and that would all change. He'd become the birdsong to wake me, the lullaby to lure me to sleep. Maybe he'd advance past my songbird. Maybe I could get him to say whatever I wanted, like an ugly parrot. Please, Batman, save me! Oh, Batman, I hate you! Batman, why did you do this? Yes, yes, he'd be so fun then.”

Another crack echoed.

He had heard one word from Robin.

The building was nothing more than a pile of debris now. Smoke was billowing around him, curling its ash-laced fingers around anything it could get its hands on. His muscles strained as he pulled up slabs of concrete and metal, checking any nook that might hold Robin. The weight wasn't too much. It shouldn't be a struggle. But the longer the search took, the weaker he felt.

And that's when the communicator sounded one last time with a single broken, terrified word.

“Dad?”

The footsteps echoed. It wasn't like a voice being carried through a canyon. It was the ripples in a glass of water that signaled distant thuds. It was a warning.

He rounded one last corner, finding Tim, face splattered with blood and hands shaking violently at his sides, in front of a cocooned Joker.

“Robin!” he called out for a second time tonight. The inflection in his voice was impossible to understand, as always. The very first second, there was something desperate to his tone, like he expected to see something before actually catching sight of Tim. But then the sound changed. Was it anger, hollow and familiar?

“He's unconscious,” Tim said without input, eyes still trained on the Joker's face, somehow more disturbing now that it was slack, no smile to tug at the paint. His voice was still too small, but it was morphing to match the harsher tone of Bruce’s words. “Not dead.”

“Why did you–”

“--I'll be in the car,” Tim interrupted. The anger was hollow. Echoing. It sounded like it was coming from someone much older than himself who had to use his shaky voice to communicate. At least, it was easier to believe that than to think the anger was his own.

They didn't talk on the way home.

Tim slumped as far as he could in the passenger seat, body turned fully towards the window. He watched the raindrops trickle down the glass, watched them couple up and race towards the bottom, out of sight. He didn't know why his heart felt so odd in his chest. It would stutter and stop, and for a second, he'd think it was finally giving it out after another sleepless night, only for it to kick back on with a roar.

He didn't like being angry.

But it echoed around his ribs.

Before the car had even come to a full stop, Tim pressed the button to retract the roof so he could hop out, swinging his legs over the door and landing perfectly on his feet. Bruce slipped out and closed the door with a bit more force than necessary, rounding the car to approach Tim.

“Why did you chase after him?”

Tim recognized that voice, though he didn't often hear it. It was more stern than his usual tone, but not as rough as Batman. Perfect for scolding.

“He was running off,” Tim shrugged, eyes downcast. He couldn't face Bruce because he couldn't even face himself. “I didn't wanna let him escape.”

“You should have waited for me,” Bruce said, moving to stand in front of Tim so he couldn't continue to walk away. “The Joker isn't like anything else you've ever fought alone. He's a madman. He's a master manipulator. He has absolutely no moral code or compass. He's dangerous.”

“I didn't think this job was supposed to be a walk in the park,” Tim muttered.

“It's not,” Bruce agreed, reaching out to grasp Tim's shoulder. “But that doesn't mean you need to add unnecessary risk.”

“It's not like you would've done anything."

“What?”

Tim wrenched his arm away, his nostrils flaring. His anger wasn't directed towards Bruce. That's what he told himself, at least. He was mad at Joker. He was mad at the man who tortured and killed Jason. That was the extent of it.

But the echoes of his anger were spreading, infecting those around him. Notably, the man who proclaimed the need for vengeance yet never sought it.

“You won't kill him,” Tim started, walking away as he spoke. He needed to get out of this damn getup. “You have your limits. Whatever.”

“The limits you agree with,” Bruce interjected. “The ones you reminded me of.”

“Yeah,” Tim said with a scoff. “But sometimes it seems like you don't even want to catch the Joker. Like you like the chase.”

“You know that's not true.”

Tim blew out another laugh, shaking his head. He approached the rarely used locker room off to the side of the cave, needing to at least get some layers off of his too-hot skin. He couldn’t wait long enough to go up to his room, especially without the knowledge as to whether this would be a quick spat or an hour-long screaming match. “Yeah, you just keep throwing him in Arkham so he can escape all over again. What was that thing Einstein said about insanity?”

“And what would you suggest I do?” Bruce argued, voice slipping into Batman territory. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his cowl still adorning his face. “Just kill him? Appoint myself the judge of life and death?”

“He does that every day!” Tim snapped, whipping around to make eye contact as the words flew from his mouth. He exhaled sharply, turning away again. “Joker decides who lives, who suffers, who dies, and all he gets is a reserved room in Arkham.”

“You understand why I won't kill him.”

“‘Course I do,” Tim answered with a harsh sniff, running a hand down his face after he pulled off the domino mask. He undid the cape and let it fall to the floor before continuing. “You don't want to cross a line you can't come back from. One death leads to more. I get it. But how can you sleep at night knowing what he's done? What he plans on continuing? You threw him back in Arkham tonight. Congratulations. Where will he be tomorrow?”

“So you want to be the decider then?” Bruce challenged, stepping forward as Tim let his utility belt fall into the same pile as his cape. “You'll be the judge? Where's the line, then?”

Tim didn't answer, instead collapsing onto the bench so he could work his boots off.

“No, you need to draw it.” Bruce stood right in front of him now, towering. The light was behind his head, face still shielded, so he looked like nothing more than a shadow. “Be the judge. Where is the line that decides who should live and who should die?”

“I think if someone's tried for years to kill an entire city, maybe they should be put down.”

“Fine. Okay. Let's say someone who wants to cause city-wide destruction deserves to die. Then what? The next guy wants to level a neighborhood, not a city. Should that man die?”

“Probably.”

“Okay. The next man wants to take out a building. And the next, a room. And the next, only one man. Is one life equal to another? Should we just abolish all prisons and kill every single person who commits a crime?”

“Of course you would say that,” Tim said through gritted teeth, pushing off of the bench and practically shoving Bruce out of his way so he could leave the much too small room. “Everything is always so black and white with you.”

“You're the one who wants to play God,” Bruce countered, following him. “You need a system set in place for that. A line drawn in the sand.”

Tim groaned loudly as he walked, wishing he could just disappear into his room and take off this uniform that threatened to suffocate him. “Theres such a thing as nuance, Bruce.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Bruce yelled after him. “Deciding on life and death like this is a philosophical debate and not actual lives.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Tim turned on his heel once more, stopping perfectly in front of the computer, its screen illuminating his right side, leaving the left in darkness. “After everything that man has done–”

“Why won't you ever listen to me, Jason?”

“I had to take him down!”

“You shattered his collarbone!”

Jason pushed himself off of the side of the batmobile, arms crossing over his chest like he’d seen Bruce do a hundred times before. Both of their masks were discarded, leaving nothing in shadow, nothing hidden.

“He’s a drug-dealing pimp! I didn’t think I had to prop up some pillows before I took him out.” Jason’s arms lowered as soon as he raised them, instead stiff at his sides, fists balled tight.

“We needed him,” Bruce argued, mirroring Jason’s stance without realizing. “He would’ve talked, but you put him into shock!

Finally, Jason deflated, if only a little, and his brow smoothed out. He still clenched his fists, but his shoulders fell, and remorse was creeping up his spine. “I’m sorry,” he said, but it sounded like he still wanted to argue, maybe with himself. “That was dumb.” Then, unable to resist, added harshly, “But he deserved it.”

Tim didn’t want to be angry. He was tired of anger.

He felt a flurry of emotions from either end of the spectrum. Remorse. Fondness. Pity. Resentment. It all combined to create a hive of wasps buzzing in his chest, knocking him side to side, stinging at the soft tissue.

It was a sound behind him that snapped him out of it.

It was footsteps. Fast. Clumsy.

Dick stood at the bottom of the stairs, lips parted yet silent, and next to him was the quickly retreating form of Jason.

“Tim, I–”

“Just leave me alone.”

Tim ran off upstairs, just like Jason had.

He didn’t want to run away. He liked to think he never ran from a fight, but that wasn’t a fight anymore, was it? He should be understanding. He tried to be. Bruce had never moved on from Jason’s death, even after he came back to life, even after they reconnected, even after Jason moved back in. No, Bruce was never the same. Tim had helped, but he couldn’t get rid of the pit, only shrink it, cover it with a tarp like a pool in the winter.

Tim didn’t run away. It wasn’t what he did. No matter how challenging or scary or impossible something seemed, he faced it. And yet, he ran from this. Such a childish thing to do. It was a slip of the tongue. It was an accident. Something had reminded him of Jason, and it just came out.

So why did it hurt so much to hear?

He didn’t go to his room. Or Jason’s room. It’s not like Jason would be there. Tim would be lucky if he was even in the manor still, but he had one of those gut feelings.

“Jay? You in here?”

Jason was stretched out on one of the awkwardly-shaped leather couches in the library, holding a book above his head but obviously not reading, just gazing at the pages. When Tim’s voice filtered in, he dropped the book on his chest and propped his head up on his forearm. “Yeah, hey.”

“I didn’t know you guys were home,” Tim said, shuffling over to Jason while making a conscious effort to not fidget with his fingers in front of Jason. Jason could be quiet, even reserved, sometimes downright mean, and yet he still took the time to stop Tim's nervous habits. “I thought you were heading over to Blüdhaven with Dick.”

“We were,” Jason said, shifting to sit up a little more but still leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Got distracted down by the docks.”

“What happened?”

“Came across some guys moving drugs,” Jason explained. “Nothing crazy, just K and Percocet, but we stopped anyway. Weren't a lot of them, but they were on something and fought like it. Dickie got cut on the arm and it bled like a bitch so we headed back to get him stitched up.”

“He's alright, though?”

Jason’s eyebrows pulled together in curiosity though the corner of his mouth was twitching with an odd smile. “Yeah, man. You know him. A cut's not gonna take him down, and definitely not the stitch.”

Tim knew Dick was fine, and yet he asked, even dropped any sarcastic comments he would've made about getting injured from such a nothing group of criminals. That was what gave Jason pause.

Tim didn't want to ask about Jason, because that meant there was a reason to be asking. That meant he might actually be feeling something about what Bruce said. Tim didn't want to be the one to bring it up.

“You two were back early,” Jason commented after a second, taking the book off of his chest and setting it on the small table next to him. Tim could see the cover now: Pride and Prejudice. Jason hadn't read it in years, still trying to make up for lost time by whittling down his laundry list of unread novels, but this was the book he always returned to when everything in the world went to shit. Tim wondered if Jason even knew he did this, gazed at the pages and caressed the cloth cover, or if only Tim was the only one who watched him that closely.

“Yeah,” Tim said shortly. He needed a second to think, to figure out what he should share and what he should keep to himself. “The bust was easier than we thought.”

“But you came back to the cave instead of going out on patrol.” Nothing ever slipped past Jason, did it? “What happened?”

Tim slowly sat on the far end of the couch, just barely on the edge, and brought one leg up so he could pull his knee to his chest. It was a good thing he took his boots off already or Alfred would kill him.

“Just… something came up.”

Jason flashed a look that showed he was wholly unimpressed with that answer.

Tim sighed, resting his chin on his knee. He looked down at the expanse of black leather, reaching a hand down to trace the lines of even stitching along the couch. Slowly, he said, “Joker was there.”

“What happened?” was Jason's immediate response, like it came out purely on instinct. The Joker's presence didn't bother him, at least not in this kind of way. They'd all come across Joker dozens of times since that night in the warehouse. He didn't freak out anymore when their paths crossed. But if it had Tim this quiet, if it had Bruce yelling and calling Tim by that name…

“Tim,” Jason said softly after a moment. “Come on. What happened?”

“It was a setup,” Tim whispered. “He wanted me there.”

“Joker?”

Tim nodded. “He lured me away from Bruce. He kept… provoking me.”

“You can't listen to him.”

“I know.” Tim's restless fingers curled into a fist. He knew exactly why he shouldn't listen to the Joker. That man had a way of getting into your head, filling it up, replacing thoughts with his own twisted versions of them. The sound of his voice could travel between the layer of skin and muscle like an involuntary chill. “I was trying not to. But…”

“He gets to you,” Jason finished for him. Jason knew this aspect of Joker's character more than anyone, minus maybe Bruce. The Joker still felt like he was a physical presence in any room Jason was in. It had gotten easier to cope with, with time, especially after he moved back into the manor, but it never ended. Just lessened.

“What'd he say to you?” Jason asked. He wouldn't ask normally, but this was the crucial detail at the crux of tonight. It was what caused this shift in Tim's character, what triggered the fight, what made Bruce say what he said.

Tim didn't want to answer. He didn't like reminding Jason of that night, hated how often it seemed to be brought up. He didn't know Jason then, and perhaps that's what made it feel like an invasion of privacy. That night seemed sacred, only meant for Jason and the stars he saw as he took his final breath.

“He talked about you,” Tim finally said, knowing there was no way out of this conversation. “About… that night. About you now. About…” what he'd do to you if given the chance… Tim thought.

“He was just trying to get under your skin,” Jason said reasonably, but Tim heard the change in his voice. It was like thunder, a distant rumble, like clouds parting for the sun yet still so dark and heavy. The storm was over but still visible.

“I know…”

“You said it was a setup. Setup for what?”

“He was getting under my skin,” Tim repeated Jason's words, eyes flickering up for just a moment before falling again. “He was… pushing me. And I was letting him. I wasn't… fighting him. I let him keep talking. I kept listening. I…” Tim blew out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in a twitchy way that was far from a smile. “I wanted him to push me.”

Jason's brow had returned to a furrow, deep and questioning. His gaze flitted about Tim's face, hoping to catch his eye again. Deep down, he knew exactly what Tim meant, and yet, he didn't believe it. Or maybe he just didn't want to believe it. Maybe he wanted to believe it so much that it seemed cruel.

“Push you to do what?” Jason asked though he knew.

“Kill.”

“Just be happy I only killed one of them.” Jason turned from the splatter of blood painting the wall. “They're all assassins.”

“And what are you?”

Jason stepped from the body, rolling his shoulders back. “I'm cleaning up Gotham. More than you ever did.”

“You're stealing territory from Black Mask,” Bruce said as Jason started to walk away, “and killing anyone who gets in your way.”

This made Jason stop.

“Black Mask… is just a part of the plan,” he said slowly.

“Plan? You're becoming a crime lord,” Bruce shot back.

“Yes!” Jason turned on his heel, bringing his hands up to ball into fists. “You can't stop crime. That's what you never understood.” He pointed an accusing finger at Bruce. “I'm controlling it!”

Bruce simply furrowed his brow, in quiet, inevitable disbelief of the man standing before him.

“You want to control them by fear!” Jason continued. “What do you do with the ones who aren't afraid? I'm doing what you won't. I'm taking them out!”

“Did you?”

“I wanted to.” Tim finally found the voice he wanted earlier with Joker, the one echoing around his gut. It was low. It was old. It was full of a sort of wisdom he didn't have when he woke up this morning, when he ate breakfast, when he went to school, when he spoke to his friends. “Bruce was on the other side of the building. I had Joker tied up. I could've just… done it.”

“Why didn't you?”

That wasn't the question Tim had expected, though, the more he thought about it, he didn't have a clue as to what he thought Jason would say. What was odd was the way Jason asked the question. It wasn't an accusation, he wasn't angry that Tim didn't use the opportunity. He just wanted to know Tim's reasoning.

“I guess I got scared. I mean, I'm only here because I tried to make Bruce stick to his morals, you know? I'm the one that stopped him from ever…” He didn't feel the need to say it aloud. “I'm the one that reminded him of the line you can't come back from once you cross it. I… I could hear his arguments in my head.”

Jason blew out a breath, knowing exactly the arguments Tim was referring to.

“And I'm not… I'm not saying I'll never change my mind. I don't completely agree with Bruce. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to cross the line. And I don't want to cross it unless I'm sure.”

“You did the right thing, kid,” Jason said quietly. He reached over, patting Tim's knee that wasn't under his chin. His resentment of the Joker never faded. It never would. He would hate that man until he was burned to a crisp and then some. Even his disgust with Bruce for not avenging his death was hard to cope with most days. But he wouldn't pin that on Tim. “I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if you did that on my behalf.”

“It wasn't only about you.” It was, in a way, but there were other factors at play. It wasn't just vengeance. It was about saving future victims. Silencing the mouth that spoke about his brother in such a way. Control. Maybe control was all he wanted. Just a taste of it. Or was it a separation between him and Batman? Something to distinguish them. Something that was a trait acquired all on his own.

It was about Jason. But it was also about Robin.

“I just want to protect people,” Tim added in a whisper, sounding far too tired for someone his age. “Stopping crime at the source just seems like the easiest way to do that.”

“I get it.” Jason gave Tim’s leg a squeeze before withdrawing his hand again. “I mean, obviously. Look at me.”

Tim laughed quietly, rubbing at his eyes. It felt like the domino mask was still pressed against his face, his cape suffocating him. Everything felt too tight.

“But don't try to be like me. Don't try to be like Batman. Don't be Superman or Batgirl or Flash or anyone other than yourself. You have to figure out who you are, outside of being a sidekick, outside of trying to follow guidelines or purposefully going against them. You have to be your own person.”

Tim was quiet, and Jason let him be. Jason never pushed, not on matters like this. If something needed to be said, no force in the world would stop him. But when he just sat with someone, and they needed a moment away from the constant echoing of the world, he was there. Silent yet solid. It wasn't like holding someone's seat while they learned to ride a bike. It was like learning to walk again, and his arm was there to grab onto if needed.

“Would you have done it? If it was you there tonight instead of me?”

“Probably,” Jason answered automatically. He wasn't the sugar-coating type. “That doesn't matter, though. You can look to others for inspiration, but that can only take you so far.”

Tim pulled his other leg up to join the first, loosely wrapping his arms around them. “What if… what I want scares me?”

Jason leaned back on the arm of the couch once more, tilting his head back to look up, panels of intricately carved wood making up the ceiling. “Then you have to figure out why it scares you. Is it because you won't recognize yourself? Because you'll be disappointing someone? Because you know it's right but others won't agree? Once you figure that out, then you can decide if it's still worth doing, and that's a decision only you can make.”

“You sound like Clark.”

“Yeah, well, he's not a bad influence to have.”

Tim tucked his chin to his chest, pressing his forehead to the top of his knee. After a moment, he asked, “You ever think about how weird this is?”

“Which part?”

“Having a life where you can reasonably debate murder with your brother.”

Jason blew out a laugh. “Guess it just comes with the territory of the superhero business.”

“Am I a superhero, though?” Tim asked, much quieter than he had been a second ago. “I know I'm just a sidekick but… am I a hero or a vigilante?”

Jason debated this, for once not having an immediate answer.

“Depends on your definition, I guess,” he finally said. “What's the difference?”

“I don't know,” Tim said with a shrug, peeking out once more. “In my head, vigilantes aren't quite so… attached to following the law. But then that doesn't make sense to me, because sometimes Bruce obeys the law above all else and he's labeled a vigilante, but sometimes Clark and Wonder Woman and Green Latern do whatever's necessary to complete a mission and they're heroes.”

“True,” Jason agreed, nodding along as Tim spoke. “I say you just have to stop giving a shit.”

“I don't know how well that mindset works with saving the day.”

“I mean stop giving a shit about definitions,” Jason clarified. “Who cares about rules and role models and literal meanings? Do what you think is right, kid. That's all I can tell you.”

Tim didn't say anything in response, eyes unfocused as his fingers returned to tracing patterns in the leather. How would he know when something was right? He had thought killing Joker was undeniably the right choice, but something in his gut had made him stop. Was it fear of Bruce? Was it what it felt like to make the wrong decision? He supposed time and experience would help to shape his opinion, but that didn't seem like enough, not when Jason lived with more scar tissue than smooth skin.

Jason let them sit in silence. Quiet was always easy with him. It wasn't filled with expectation, yet he always knew when to break it. He recognized the look that crossed Tim's face when he was stuck on a spiraling train of thought set to crash.

“Want me to read to you?” Jason asked softly, picking up the book from the side table once more. “I was about to grab Jane Eyre. Or I've still got those Witcher books around here somewhere.”

There was too long a pause between question and answer, but Jason didn't say anything about it. “No. Thanks, though.”

Jason hummed in the back of his throat, nodding. “We could ditch the old timers and go patrolling for a bit.”

“I think I'm just gonna go to bed,” Tim said. “I don't really trust myself to go out right now.”

“That's good, Tim,” Jason assured him. He raised to his feet so he could crouch in front of Tim, hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. “It's good to recognize that. Better to stay home then do something you'll regret.”

“Why?” Jason started gesturing wildly with his hands, trying beyond hope to understand. “I'm not talking about killing Penguin. Or Scarecrow. Or Dent.” He stiffened once more, pointing the barrel of the gun back at Joker, tied up on the floor. “I'm talking about him. Just him”

His body wasn't stiff with anger, with barely suppressed rage. It was as if he forgot how to move like a person after spending so long as an unfeeling weapon. Now that his hurt and betrayal and home sickness were bubbling to the surface, the facade was cracking, just like his voice.

“I'm doing it because…” He hated how shaky the words were, how young he sounded, but he had to continue. “Because he took me away from you.”

“I can't," was Bruce's stiff response. “I'm sorry.”

“Does Bruce ever talk about Jason?”

For perhaps the first and only time, Alfred's back stiffened, and his hands hesitated. It was only a second, but it was noticeable. He returned to preparing dinner like nothing had happened.

“Of course,” Alfred said, giving the pot on the stove a stir before replacing its lid. “He is the second son, he's much–”

“That’s not what I mean,” Tim interrupted. Even he could hear the slightly frantic way Alfred had spoken, like trying to cover up any and all emotion with fact. “Does he still talk about Jason? Like… who he was before everything?”

Once again, Alfred hesitated before quickly returning to chop some carrots. “Master Bruce doesn't much talk about anything.”

Tim laughed a little, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the island table. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, starting to swing one of his legs from the barstool. “But surely he's… you know. Brought it up before.”

“May I inquire what sparked this curiosity?” Alfred asked, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. He never looked at the kids when they talked to him like this, deciding it gave them more room to speak their minds without fear of judgement.

“Just curious,” Tim answered, though he knew Alfred didn't believe him for a second. “They're, you know, back on speaking terms now that Jay’s back in the manor. Same with them and Dick. But they never really talk about before. Not with me around, at least.”

“Do you wish they would talk about before?”

“Sometimes. I know I shouldn't."

“And why's that?”

Tim inhaled deeply, trying to focus on the smell of food and how hungry he was rather than the twist of anxiety in his stomach. He hadn’t been able to push past his nausea long enough to eat since he and Bruce's fight last night.

“I feel like I don't have a right to be told that stuff,” Tim confessed. “I wasn't around then. I didn't know any of them. It feels… wrong to ask about that time. Like I'm just another member of the press.”

“It's not predatory to want to get to know your family, Master Timothy.” Alfred said it so easily, so matter-of-factly. It was like he had some uncanny ability to look right inside you and find the thing you try to keep the most hidden. “You are not an outsider trying to peek in the windows.”

“Well, I was,” Tim tried to joke, but the sound was strained. “That's kind of how I became Robin.”

Alfred gave a well-meaning roll of his eyes when he thought Tim couldn't see him, wiped his hands off on a hand towel, then turned to face Tim from the other side of the island. “You are part of this family, Master Timothy. I will accept no arguments to the contrary.”

Tim put his hands up in defense with an almost amused smile tugging at his lips as if to say won't happen again. 

“As part of a family, it is perfectly natural to be curious. And I must say that I, myself, am a rather curious individual and know that it is not simply curiosity guiding you.”

Just like Jason, nothing could ever be hidden from Alfred.

“Me and Bruce had a fight.”

“About Master Jason?”

“No,” Tim shrugged, thankful that Alfred returned to his cooking. It was always easier to talk to him like that. “I mean, it sort of involved him, but it wasn't really… We were just fighting. He didn't like something I did during the bust yesterday.”

“He was particularly quiet about that,” Alfred commented, more to himself than Tim. “What did you do?”

Jason was one person in this house that wouldn't judge him for the thoughts that plagued him. Alfred was the other.

“We came across Joker. And I wanted to kill him.” He hadn't expected the words to come out so easily, but they always did with Alfred. Tim swore if they started bringing him to interrogations, he could get anyone to talk.

“Yet you didn't," Alfred said. He would have heard if Robin committed his murder.

“No, I didn't."

“Why was last night different from other encounters?” Alfred inquired.

“I was tired of chasing him.” He was answering in ways even he himself didn't understand. Conclusions were coming to him that had previously been hidden. “I didn't want to hunt him down anymore. I just wanted it all to stop.”

“I now see where your ‘curiosity’ is coming from. Master Bruce used to fight the young masters every day about such ways of thinking.”

Masters?

Both of them?

“Jason and Dick?”

“Oh, yes,” Alfred replied with that kind of breath that sounded like a restrained laugh. “My, he and Master Dick would go at it for hours. Sometimes, it got to a point where I simply went to bed for the night. I knew they'd probably still be at it in the morning.”

This had completely derailed what Tim had come in here to talk about. Bruce and Dick? Fighting over… what, murder? Or something similar, at least. It really shouldn't be such a surprise. He'd never fought with Dick, but the weariness had been evident in his eyes. When he had tracked Dick down in Blüdhaven to convince him to become Robin once more, the bitterness had been clear. It took years for things to settle between him and Bruce. But Tim never had a reason to think that their fighting had been a staple, that Dick had similar issues with the no killing code.

“In Master Jason's later years, he would give Master Bruce a run for his money,” Alfred continued, “but Master Dick was the firecracker of the family.”

Tim needed to get back to his original goal, and he had a feeling Alfred wouldn't say much more about those fights, anyway, deeming it something he should hear from Bruce or Dick.

“But Jason,” Tim said, trying to get back on track. “When he was… gone. Did Bruce talk about him?”

Alfred sniffed sharply, the tiny glint of light fading from his eye once more. He bent down to check whatever was cooking in the oven, Tim hadn't paid attention, before standing up straight once more, squaring his shoulders more than normal. “No, not particularly. The subject was broached once it was confirmed he and Red Hood were one and the same, but he never spoke much of Master Jason.”

“Did he…” Tim hesitated. It seemed a ridiculous question now that it was poised on the tip of his tongue, balancing dangerously close to the edge, but he had to ask. “Did he miss Jason?”

Alfred pulled his oven mitt off, hanging it back on its respective hook, before checking the pot again. It must be done, because he killed the heat. “Everyone missed Master Jason,” he said slowly. “Your father included.”

Tim felt the tips of his ears go a little red. He'd only referred to Bruce as his dad a handful of times over the last two years, but as always, Alfred seemed to understand that which others couldn't see.

“What makes you ask?” Alfred implored without waiting for a response. “I feel there is more to this than a simple fight.”

He and Bruce bickered some. Maybe once or twice it could be called a proper fight. Just having a fight that reminded him of Jason would be reason enough for the questions to Alfred. But Alfred knew. He always did.

“At the end of it,” Tim explained slowly, looking down at his nails as he picked at them, “he called me Jason. He didn't mean to, but…”

“I see.”

“And I'm not mad or anything," Tim quickly backtracked. “He's been through a lot, and I haven't exactly helped. I thought I was helping. But if I've just been reminding him of Jay this entire time–”

“I would recommend not finishing that thought,” Alfred interrupted. Most of the dinner preparations were done now, only waiting for what smelled like a baked chicken in the oven. He rounded the island in careful steps, conscious to not move too quickly towards the boy. “You are not Master Jason, and Master Bruce is well aware of that fact. It is not a bad thing to remind him of the boy.”

Tim didn't miss the way Alfred called him the boy despite Jason being in his mid-twenties.

“All of the children remind him of the others. It took months before he stopped relating everything Master Jason did to Master Dick. And the two eldest remind him of you constantly. It's not a matter of comparison, my boy. You are all his children. He loves you. And you must have frightened him quite a deal for such a slip up to occur.”

“I didn't mean to scare him,” Tim defended in a mutter, but it was weak.

“He is frightened because of where that attitude landed Master Jason.”

“If you won't kill this psychotic piece of filth, I will!” His grip tightened around the Joker, digging the barrel of the gun into the painted skin across his temple. “If you want to stop me, you're gonna have to kill me.”

“You know I won't–” Bruce started.

“I'm gonna blow his deranged brains out,” Jason interrupted, “and if you want to stop it, you're gonna have to shoot me. Right in my face!”

“This is turning out even better than I'd hoped,” Joker mused to himself.

The clattering of the gun registered before anything else. The sound was the only thing that made sense to Jason, not its meaning. Because no, it couldn't be true. Bruce wasn't discarding the gun, he wasn't turning away. He couldn't be. Jason was back, spoon-feeding him his redemption, and he was walking away.

Something might have flashed across Jason's features, though Bruce wouldn't have seen it. It was shock. It was hurt. It was something that couldn't possibly ever be described. His father was leaving him. Again. Willingly.

“Decide now, do it!” Jason yelled, aiming the gun now at Bruce's retreating back. “Him or me. Decide!”

There wasn't even a sign of acknowledgement, so Jason didn't care when he pulled the trigger.

“Are you staying the night again?” Tim tried not to sound too much like a little kid, but that never seemed to work, not with Dick.

Dick rubbed at hand along the back of his neck, blowing out a laugh. He hadn't been in the manor when Alfred finished dinner, yet Tim had found him standing over the sink with his own plate, only the light over the stove illuminating the room.

“Didn't realize you knew I was here last night,” Dick said as he turned the faucet on to start washing his dish.

“I saw you in the hall,” Tim explained, hopping up to sit on the edge of the island. He didn't feel the need to say going to Jason’s room.

“Ah,” was all Dick said at first, focusing a little too much on scrubbing his plate before setting it on the dish rack. “I was planning on heading back to Blüdhaven. Just wanted some of Alfred's cooking.”

“Oh.”

Dick dried off his hands, letting out a soft breath. “Did you want me to stay?”

“No, that's not– I mean…” Tim stammered for a second before trailing off. There was always an awkward gnawing in his chest when he was with Dick. It was like tension being released after being held for too long, causing the muscles to ache in a different way. He didn't just feel like a kid with Dick. He felt like a little brother.

“I can stay,” Dick offered, adding an air of nonchalance to his words. “I've got a meeting with an informant tomorrow, but it's not until after dark.”

“No, it's fine,” Tim said quickly.

“You know,” Dick started, theatrically stretching his arms over his head, “it's a long ride to Blüdhaven and I'm pretty beat. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Tim rolled his eyes, adding a scowl at the end, but the jitters were hitting his fingers, making the corner of his mouth twitch despite the face he was pulling. The giddiness never made sense to him. Dick was… his brother. In some sense of the word. Legally, at least. According to various adoption papers. Dick had referred to himself as Tim's brother outside of situations where it was strictly necessary to explain the relation. They worked together plenty and Dick did his due diligence to spend time with Tim.

Tim thought he would get over the giddiness by now, especially considering what it was he wanted to talk to Dick about.

Apparently not.

Tim knew why Dick insisted on staying.

Any other day, he would have apologized for having to leave but promised to plan a weekend when he'd come over to the manor. Maybe he'd even suggest another stay at his place in Blüdhaven. But, simply enough, Dick felt bad. After coming across Bruce and Tim fighting down in the cave, he hadn't hesitated in sneaking up to Jason's room that night to talk. He foolishly didn't think about how Tim would be feeling.

So that's why he was here now.

“I went to that museum in Metropolis you told me about,” Dick told Tim. “I meant to tell you yesterday. It totally slipped my mind.”

Tim swung his legs slightly over the ledge of the roof, watching as Dick walked along the edge like it was tightrope, his arms dramatically swung out at his sides to balance himself. The moon was high in the sky now, actually visible during this rare night of clear skies. He probably shouldn't have blown off patrol to hang out with Dick on the roof, but Bruce hadn't fought him on it.

“What'd you think?” Tim asked, leaning back on his hands.

“Well, I don't have the analytical eye that you do,” Dick started, balancing now on one foot so his other leg could swing out behind him. “But I thought it was pretty great. I can see why you like it.”

“Yeah, I've gone, like, a hundred times,” Tim said, reining in his laughter at the ridiculous poses Dick was pulling. You can take the boy out of the circus but not the circus out of the boy. Apparently. “They have new exhibits weekly so there's always something new to see. They do a lot of showcases for amateur photographers. Me and Kon go a lot.”

“We should try to get you in,” Dick declared, now doing a handstand. “What I saw doesn't even compare to your work.”

“Quit stroking my ego just because you heard me and Bruce fighting," Tim laughed, and only after the sound escaped him did he realize how forced it was. It wasn't even forced. It was like an automatic response, like instinct. Laugh when everything sucks. That was something he definitely picked up from Dick.

Dick flipped back onto his feet, pointedly stretching his shoulders as if to show he was tired of the acrobatics anyway, then plopped down on the ledge next to Tim. He looked out over the back gardens for a moment, waiting to see if Tim would say more, but when he was met with silence, he said, “Jason told me what you guys were talking about.”

“You're late to the game this time,” Tim chuckled quietly, fidgeting with the strings that stuck out from the holes in his jeans. “I've gotten all the sage advice I need from Jay and Alfred.”

“Trying to replace me, Moonbeam?” Dick grinned, nudging Tim's arm.

Tim pressed his lips together to hide the smile forming at the nonsensical nicknames Dick gave people. Each one was more elaborate than the last.

“Definitely. You're cramping my style.”

“Ugh, I thought I was supposed to be the one that was ancient," Dick groaned while laughing.

Tim laughed too, a little, but it faded as quickly as it came, now just part of the echoes of wind whipping around them. When he glanced over, he could see Dick's throat working, his gaze far off, down in the foliage, like he was contemplating something. After a moment, he said, “You know B didn't mean to hurt your feelings, right?”

“No, I know. And I'm not… I mean, my feelings aren't hurt,” Tim explained. “I'm not mad. I'm not upset. I…” He hesitated to say more.

Tim was close with each member of the family but it was all different types of closeness. He and Jason obviously didn't start off on the right foot but being able to overcome their conflict is what made them as thick as thieves now. Jason was his brother in the DCOM sense of the word. They fought and they laughed but they would always be there for each other at the end of the day. Jason would talk to him straight, not hide behind metaphors and a sense of right and wrong.

Bruce was his dad. Tim had never tried to fight that title necessarily, but when he was adopted by Bruce, his parents were still alive. It didn't seem right to try to replace them, even if they'd never been exactly close-knit. And after they passed, Bruce was already his mentor at that point, his leader, his… He was Tim's dad. They bickered and they made up just like any other father and son. Bruce made sure he didn't blow off his schoolwork for Robin and counted how many hours of sleep he got and encouraged his interests outside of being a detective.

Alfred was… Alfred. The intimidating yet fascinating grandfather Tim never had. He was cold and calculating and terrifying, and Tim didn't want him any other way. He knew when to be firm and when to soften up. He ran the manor with military precision, all fueled by his desire to take care of the family. Dinner would be served and shelves would be dusted and the kids would be safe. He made sure of it.

And Dick. Tim was sure there wasn't a single person in the world he loved as much as him, even if he would never admit that. Not that he had to. It almost didn't seem fair to the other people in Tim's life because no one would ever compare to Dick. He was the one Tim went to with his doubts, his panic attacks, his nightmares. He was the one Tim would let stroke his hair and hug him and call him all of those nauseating nicknames because Dick was the only person who could make him feel young and safe. Maybe it wasn't as easy to get the words out with Dick as it was with Jason or Alfred, but it was where he felt the most secure to talk, to not be questioned or scrutinized, even if he didn't make sense.

“I guess it just felt like my worst fear was finally being confirmed,” Tim said quietly.

“And what's that?”

“That I was just Jason's replacement.” Tim parted his lips to say more, but his throat suddenly felt rough and dry, his chest hollow. It took a second before he could continue. “And I know that's not fair. Bruce didn't want to replace Jason but I made him. I… I inserted myself where I had no right to be. I can't do everything I did and get my feelings hurt because I don't feel like part of the family.”

“Tim, baby–”

“No,” Tim cut him off. He needed to get this out before he let it all be bottled up again. “I tracked you and Bruce down. I made everything about me. Bruce didn't get to mourn Jason because of me.”

“He needed you.”

“He needed you,” Tim shot back, but immediately wished he hadn't said it. Bruce and Dick were on good terms now, as well as they could be, at least, but they hadn't been back then. Even when they weren't fighting–which Tim now knows was a much more frequent occurrence than previously thought–they weren't anything like the dynamic duo they were. Just an echo of before. No one blamed Dick for not dropping everything to return to Gotham after Jason died. Tim didn't blame him. That was why Tim brought the blame back to himself, because he couldn't pin his actions on anyone else.

“I just mean,” Tim started again, “I feel like I made everything worse. I helped Bruce, sure, but… he and Jason are good again. I'm not… needed. I don't know why I'm still here.”

Dick's eyes were softer than they'd ever been. That was the best word to describe him when he was with Tim: soft. His eyes were always the focus of his features, always the key to understanding his expressions. And now, they were so utterly tender that Tim could feel his throat constricting just from the sight.

“What did Jason tell you?” Dick asked quietly, brushing past what was said for some reason Tim couldn't understand. “What was the advice he told you?”

Tim furrowed a bit, hands unconsciously fisting the material of his jeans. “He told me to be my own person. To just do what I think is right and not care what anyone says.”

“And what'd Alfred say?”

“That…” Tim paused, focusing on his ability to speak without letting his voice crack. “That it's okay if I remind Bruce of Jason. And that… I'm part of the family. No matter what.”

“Did you believe him?”

Tim pursed his lips slightly, his eyebrows raising now as he searched Dick's eyes for some kind of answer because he didn't have one.

“I don't know.” He felt like he said that a lot lately.

“Well, you should,” Dick said firmly, turning his body towards Tim. “They know what they're talking about. You did what you thought was right with no one else to help you. And because of that, you became part of this family. That is what earned you your spot, Tim.”

The tightness in his throat was getting worse and if he couldn't contain it, tears would start to form in his eyes and he couldn't do that.

“I'm sorry I wasn't around," Dick continued. “Really. If I could go back and change the past, I would. I would've been there for you because you're a great kid and I love you and I'm so glad to have you as my brother. Don't let a stupid fight with B change that. Don't start doubting yourself, not when you've come so far.”

The curtain was open, which was unusual. It let in too much of the moonlight allowed to stream in from the cloudless sky, casting twisting shadows on the wall from the trees. Tim hadn't remembered falling asleep, barely even recalled the walk to his room, so it had taken a few seconds of blinking his eyes to piece together where he was. As he had instinctively shifted to stretch his muscles, he realized he was tucked into Dick's side. Dick was sitting upright, eyes closed and lips ever so slightly parted, head leaned back against the headboard. He had one arm thrown lazily around Tim, fingers twitching every so often, suggesting he wasn't asleep all that deeply. He simply sat on top of the comforter, but Tim had it pulled up to his chin in the way only Dick ever arranged it.

It was warm. Safe. The position always made Tim feel like he'd never be able to sleep normally again.

Tim's initial slight movement had caused Dick to stir, muttering something while half asleep, before drifting off again. Tim, even though he couldn't fall back asleep, just laid there for a while, watching the gentle rise and fall of Dick's chest.

When the position started to become uncomfortable, Tim slowly extracted himself, slipping out from the covers. Picking up his phone on the nightstand, he saw it was only two in the morning. He never could seem to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time.

He needed to stretch his legs, to do something other than lay in bed and stare at the shadows moving slowly across the wall. Knowing Bruce, he'd still be out on patrol if for no other reason than to avoid Tim. Neither of them were very good at the whole talk about your feelings thing, not unless it was being dragged out of them, so they were just trying to be in different places.

Bruce was getting better at letting people know where he was, at least, especially if he was alone. Tim was always told where Bruce would be, even if Tim could track him down easily enough should the need arise. Tim tried not to think about how it was his presence that caused this shift in Bruce's actions.

So that's how he was sure the Batcave would be empty when he descended the stairs.

Only it wasn't.

He had wanted to clear his head, to go over some case files while Bruce was on patrol, but he was already sitting at the computer. Once Tim saw him, it was too late to retreat.

“Tim,” Bruce greeted, the name a little frantic as it fell clumsily from his lips. Automatically, he pushed himself up to his feet, letting the desk chair roll a couple of inches behind him. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I thought you were patrolling.”

“Our informant was at the Iceberg Lounge tonight. I'm going over the recordings,” Bruce explained.

“Oh,” Tim said shortly, purposefully keeping his hands behind his back so Bruce couldn't see him picking at his nails. He was almost as bad as Jason. “Get anything good?”

“Nothing outright incriminating but we have more leads now,” Bruce answered as he took a step away from the computer, pushing the chair back neatly into place. “Harvey J. Lee's name came up.”

“That guy that used to run with Black Mask?” Tim asked, not caring about keeping a distance anymore so he could take a look at the screens. “I thought he was locked up?”

“Released on good behavior,” Bruce said, an air of annoyance filtering in. That was good, Tim guessed. It was better than the oddly nervous way he had greeted him. “He's back at Crime Alley.”

“Jay know about this?” Tim asked, scrolling through the audio transcript of the footage. It didn't matter how much time passed or how much they reconciled. Crime Alley was Jason's territory, especially if it involved drug peddling.

Bruce's gaze swept the ground, his right thumb cracking his knuckles. “Not yet,” he answered slowly, returning to hesitation. “I'd planned on informing him in the morning.”

“But he's on patrol right now. If he comes across Lee, he needs to have all of the information.”

Tim wasn't sure why he was so up in arms about this. Yes, he was Robin, and yes, it was expected to communicate this kind of information with other vigilantes, but that wasn't what was fueling him. There was something echoing around his ribs, harsh as hail yet burning like fire. He couldn't name it. It was similar to something he experienced near daily, and that was the intrinsic sense of wanting to help people. It was the drive that pushed him to be better, smarter, faster, to save the day. It also felt akin to the guilt that followed him like a shadow anytime he thought about Jason, about who he was before and who he became. What was this that he was feeling? This vibration that should be so obvious and yet evaded him?

“Okay, I'll call him,” Bruce said, voice much too slow and soft to sound anything like the man Tim knew. He sounded like he was talking down a jumper.

Had Tim sounded that upset in so few words? Did his voice crack? Had he yelled? He hadn't meant to.

Tim didn't say anything as Bruce stepped off to the side to call Jason. He didn't pay attention to the short, tense conversation. He didn't hear the vague yet promising details or the promise to call again when Bruce knew more.

He just stood there.

As still as when he had the Joker tied up in front of him.

The corner of his nail was bleeding.

“Jason's going to keep an eye on Lee,” Bruce said after returning. “He won't approach until we go through the recordings. He'll simply watch from a distance.”

Tim nodded once as if to approve. “Good,” he added after a second. Hearing Jason's name from Bruce's mouth for the first time since the fight made Tim realize with stunning clarity what it was that had crawled into his chest, curling up like it had every right to.

It was possessiveness.

Completely unjustified and yet so enveloping.

He didn't quite know what to do with it now that he'd named the feeling. He'd never felt possessive over a person before. He could be close with someone, he could be protective and transfixed and even obsessed, but this was another thing entirely. Somehow, someway, he felt like he was the only person who actually gave a shit about Jason, even though he knew that was entirely untrue. Maybe it wasn't about caring. Maybe it was…

Tim didn't know. Perhaps this was the natural conclusion to the link the two shared that could never be replicated. Possessiveness seemed the only way his mind could process their odd bond.

“I wanted to kill Joker,” Tim said without prompting, eyes finding Bruce's, “and I didn't, but it wasn't because of you.”

Bruce pressed his lips together, the wrinkle between his brows deepening. He was holding back saying anything in response, deciding that Tim should be allowed to speak freely on the matter.

“I only kept him alive because of Jason,” Tim continued. He hadn't known this was his reasoning in the moment, when he had the Joker right in front of him, tied up and defenseless, but as he looked back, he could understand things with an unusual sense of clarity. “It's Jason's decision, Jason's call. Your rules had nothing to do with it.”

Bruce's facial expressions were never a cohesive image. It was scraps from a magazine taped together to form his face. Each feature showed a different fraction of his emotions, his eyes and mouth and brow all mismatched. His lips were a thin line now, clearly having to reel in his displeasure from the slight. His eyes were a different story, perfectly resembling Dick's gaze last night, soft and worried. At certain angles, in the right light, Tim swore they were identical.

“So go ahead,” Tim barked, the beginnings of a snarl becoming apparent though he tried to push it down, to reel himself in. “Yell at me. Bench me. Take Robin away from me. If calling me Jason is what you need to cope or prevent yourself from reverting to the dark days, then fine, whatever. Do it.”

Tim himself didn't entirely understand where all of this anger was coming from. Maybe later, once he had a chance to calm down, he'd think things through logically because that's what he did best and he'd realize this was just his outlet. He was seizing the opportunity to yell and to contemplate violence and to just be mad for the sake of being mad.

“I don't want to yell at you, Tim,” Bruce said softly. He made a point of saying his name now. “And I'm not benching you.”

“You should,” Tim argued, crossing his arms tightly over his chest so he could bury his hands against his body. His nails were a wreck. “I'm going rouge, I'm becoming violent. Isn't that why you benched Jay?”

“I benched Jason because he hadn't yet learned how to control his anger,” Bruce corrected. “You have an extremely level head on your shoulders, Tim. I'm not worried about what you might do on the job.”

“What if you're wrong?” Tim challenged. “What if next time I snap and kill someone?”

“You won't."

“You don't know that!"

“Tim, look at me,” Bruce said after a deep breath, grasping Tim's shoulder. “You wouldn't be this worried about hurting someone if you were actually at risk of doing so.”

“Don't give me that fake psychology crap,” Tim huffed. “That's not how the real world works. How many have you locked up in Arkham that were afraid of what they were feeling?”

“Tim,” Bruce said again. The name didn't even feel like Tim's anymore. “You're spiraling again. You're catastrophizing. This isn't about your fear of hurting someone. This is about me and my carelessness.”

“Not everything is about you.”

“You're right. It's not,” Bruce conceded, “but this is. I never should have said what I did, even if it was an accident.”

Tim pulled away from Bruce's grasp, just as he had done during their last fight. The touch was making his skin crawl. He looked over at the computer just so he didn't have to watch Bruce's face. “I'm sorry I'm not him.”

“No one is asking you to be.”

“I know you miss Jay,” Tim said, his voice a little softer now. It was easier to keep himself in check when he didn't have anyone touching him and when he didn't have to look at anyone. “But I can’t… I can't be him. I wish I was but I'm not.”

“Don't say that,” Bruce interjected. “You shouldn't want to be anyone else. Especially not Jason.”

Tim couldn't help but be reminded of something Joker had said. He barely remembered it before, given this was at the tail end of his ramblings and Tim had been focused purely on not killing a man, but now, it was clear.

“I say he should let me have my fun.”

He'd been ranting about Jason, about how Tim should receive the same treatment so it'd foster a stronger bond between him and Bruce. Even Joker could see the similarities between him and Jason. Or how they could be similar, given the right circumstances.

God, maybe he should've taken Joker up on his offer, then he could be more like Jason.

“I know you might not feel the same, and that's okay,” Bruce started, “but you're my son, Tim. I mentored you for a reason. I offered for you to live here for a reason. I adopted you for a reason. I didn't do any of this so you could replace Jason, or because you reminded me of him.”

“Then why did you take me on?”

Bruce let out a soft sigh, gaze returning to the floor now that Tim was looking back at him.

“Well, in all actuality, I appointed you Robin because I thought you would be dangerous on your own. You were one of the most intelligent and clever individuals I'd ever met, all at the age of thirteen. I thought… if I didn't mentor you, you'd go down the wrong path.”

Tim, despite himself, laughed. It was harsh and muted, but he couldn't help but laugh. “I thought you said I wasn't at risk of hurting anyone."

“I said you weren't currently at risk.”

“So you do think I'm like Jason?” Tim shot back. “This is all about your savior complex? You just want to save me from myself?”

“I did want to save you!” Bruce shouted, the rapid change in volume causing Tim to unconsciously square his shoulders and suck in a breath. “That was my original intention! But then you were my partner. You were part of my life. You had your similarities, but so does Dick, who also has similarities to you, who has similarities to Dick.”

Tim had to step away, leaning against the edge of the control panel to the computer. Bruce's words kept echoing around his head, and with each new wave, a new detail fell into place. First, the knowledge that he did remind Bruce of Jason actually put him at ease, even if only slightly. Just the fact that Bruce was finally admitting it helped. Then, he was compared to Dick. That could never be an insult, not to Tim. And for Dick to then be compared to Tim? The idea was almost enough to make him dizzy. And finally, if Tim thought being compared to Dick was such a compliment, then was it so bad for the same to be true with Jason?

Maybe none of this was about comparisons. Maybe it was just traits that connected the three despite no biological link and only Bruce could see it.

“I know I'm not your father, but you are my son,” Bruce said again, “because you are you and I wouldn't want it any other way.”

Tim tightened his arms around himself, his face inadvertently pulled into something akin to a scowl yet he was simply in deep concentration. The soft click of a button was what made him finally look up.

Bruce was taking his gloves off, gently setting them on the control panel next to Tim. Then, with great care and slow movements, cupped Tim's cheeks in his hands. “You are my son,” he said for a third time, voice softer than Tim had ever heard it. “I love you, and I am so proud of the young man you're growing into.”

The scowl immediately melted away, replaced with crumbling features and screwed up eyes. He knew Bruce thought of him as a son, well before tonight, and knew, on some deeper level, that Bruce loved him, but the words had never been spoken aloud before, not to Tim.

He still felt angry, though it seemed more and more that that was a sensation that could never be eradicated, only muted. This was the start, Tim supposed, to doing so. By allowing himself this, by accepting Bruce's love and accepting that he and Jason were similar, he could start to grow.

Tim took that clumsy step forward, burying his face into Bruce's chest in the way he'd only ever done with Dick. Bruce still had most of his armor on, only the gloves and cowl having been discarded, so as he wrapped his arms tightly around the boy, the cape fell forward over his shoulders, partially enclosing Tim.

He liked the slight claustrophobic sense of it. He liked the encircled darkness and the strong arms and the warmth he convinced himself he could feel even through the chest piece.

“I love you, too.”