Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim paces back and forth. He watches as the second hand spins on the clock on the wall. He’s late to Bruce’s memorial service. He should go. But he can’t force himself to stop, turn to the door, and walk out.

The memories haunt him, particularly when he closes his eyes at night. The caskets lowered into the ground. Here Lies Jack and Janet Drake. Beloved Mother. Resolute Father. Survived by their only son.

Bart and Kon didn’t get headstones. Instead, their statues stand in the hall of heroes, along with everyone else who have paid the ultimate price.

Steph is different. Tim honored her, even if everyone else wasn’t sure how. Her time as Robin had been brief and fraught with frustration, but she was still one of them. Tim lights a candle for her on her birthday and holidays, and pretends she’s there. He talks to her, in the darkness, alone. She never answers.

Tim clenches his fists at his sides and hisses at the sharp pain in his knuckles. He broke open the skin last night, punching some creep who came after Robin until he was unresponsive. Just like Bruce used to do after Jason died. In some sick way, Tim feels closer to Bruce now. Too bad he's dead. 

Nightwing had to pull him off of the guy. And now Tim is benched. Damian sends Tim a smug smirk every time he sees him in the cave but Tim couldn’t care less. He’ll run comms or whatever. At least he’s still useful. At least he still has someone who hasn’t left him.

Tim’s phone chimes, freezing him in place. Its Cassie. “Can’t make it. Sorry.”
Tim sighs, tightening his grip on the phone. He knows that he and her haven’t been the closest since they lost Bart and Kon, but she’s still his friend. He wants her to come with him as moral support to his father’s funeral.

In fairness, Cassie had come to the last one. The whole team had. Tim feels a flicker of warmth at the memory that is quickly snuffed out.

Instead, anger boils in his chest, threatening to spill over. Tim is handling this on his own. Just like everything else. Just like he did everything before the Waynes got involved.

Tim hurls his phone at the wall and feels nothing but hollow as it shatters.

“You alright, Master Tim?” Alfred’s concerned voice comes from the over side of the door.
“Fine, just dropped something.” Tim says, voice light. “Sorry, I’ll clean it up and be right out.”
“Are you sure?” Alfred tries, twisting at the locked handle.
“I’m sure.” Tim says. “Why don’t you get the car started and I’ll be right down? I’m sure Dick could use your help wrangling Damian into his suit.”

“Oh.” Alfred replies, having stopped trying to open the door. “Master Richard must have forgotten to tell you. He and Master Damian will be staying behind. He believes it is best for the boy.”

Tim grits his teeth and forces his face into a smile, even though no one can see him.
“So it’ll just be me and you?” He clarifies. Alfred hums a confirmation. Tim adjusts his suit, leaving the smashed remains of his phone on the floor. He walks over and unlocks the door, pulling it open.

“Fine.” Tim stares at Alfred, daring the butler to call him out on the mess. Most of his room is destroyed. Nothing that can’t be replaced but splinters of wood and glass litter the plush carpet.
“Let’s go.”

*************************************************************************************************************

The funeral sucks. Everyone is grieving Gotham’s resident billionaire playboy philanthropist. No one is grieving Batman. No one is grieving his father. Except Tim. Maybe Alfred. Although, Tim suspects the man is too busy grieving his son to acknowledge the loss of what he meant to others. Tim has to load him back into the town car after the service, he's crying so hard, and drive them both back to the manor.

When they arrive, Dick is already angry and tired, unable to intervene. Damian is throwing knives at Tim as soon as he steps through the door. Tim says nothing. He does nothing. He walks straight through the foyer and into the family wing.

Damian taunts Tim as he goes. But it isn’t necessary. Message received. Tim might have the Wayne name, and he might be one on paper, but he is not part of this family. Never was. He is a placeholder. He fills in the gaps. He picks up the slack and gives the others a break.

Stomping into his room, Tim tosses what little he has into a duffle bag. He packs clothes, toiletries, and essentials. An old t-shirt that still smells like Kon. A sweatshirt that smells like Bruce’s cologne. Bart’s favorite candy. The pillowcases everyone had drawn on when Young Justice had their first team sleepover and it felt like a night at sleep-away camp.

Tim leaves behind his case notes. He doesn’t need them. He has back ups at his nest.

Tim leaves behind his framed photo of him and the Flying Graysons. Dick will probably want it anyway. He does face the smiling photo down onto the desk. Their faces make him sick to his stomach. Everyone in it is dead except him and Dick.

Tim grabs a backpack and heads down to the cave, careful to avoid any of the Waynes. He packs only his suit, a modified version of Red Robin he’s been using since Damian took over. He grabs a few spare batarangs, a couple of smoke bombs, a stack of domino masks.

Taking one last look around the cave, Tim pauses. He hasn’t stood and stared at the place since he found it all those years ago. Bruce had begrudgingly shown him around, at Alfred’s behest.

Unwanted. Tim recognizes the all too familiar feeling. Bruce didn’t want him. Dick hadn’t wanted him. Damian certainly doesn’t. He's been unwanted from the start, and just too stubborn to leave. 

Tim turns on his heel and heads out, leaving his trackers and distress signal behind. What’s the point of keeping them with him? Tim will just stitch himself up if he gets hurt. He always does.
His parents had always praised Tim for his hyper-independence. If only they knew.

Chapter Text

Tim goes out on patrol as his modified version of Red Robin. He maintains a strict routine, providing the illusion of control. Not a hair out of place. Always the correct expression on his face. Somehow holding himself together well enough that no one notices the shattered pieces held up by the hope of a miracle.

Wake up. Study for his GED. Go to work at Wayne Enterprises. Come home. Warm up. Patrol. Come home. Pass out.

Dropping out of high school had really freed up a lot of his time. Unfortunately, it also comes with an irate Dick Grayson finally giving Tim the time of day. Dick begs Tim to move back into the manor. Tim declines. Dick tries to cajole him into joining him and Damian on patrol. Tim declines. Alfred asks Tim to come over for Sunday brunch. Tim declines.

He isn’t really one of them. Tim knows it. He can see it in how differently they treat him. How they address Damian in the attempts on his life, but never check in on Tim. Always too busy or distracted by something more important.

Tim can see it in how they talk about him to the Justice League, dismissing his theories about Bruce’s survival. Tim knows that they buried a body, he was there. But, in his bones, he knows that Bruce is out there somewhere, too stubborn to die.

He just didn’t want to be around you anymore. A voice hisses at Tim in his mind. Tim ignores it.

Instead, he funnels his time towards his open cases. Solves a child trafficking ring in under 48 hours. Takes down Penguin, alone. When Dick tries to call him after, Tim blocks him.

Robin follows him around for a few nights, no doubt at Dick’s command. Damian wouldn’t give a shit about Tim if the world was ending and he was the only one left capable of stopping it. It hurts to know that Tim will never get the little brother he’s always wanted. But Tim’s gotten used to disappointment. He lets Robin shadow him. He does not engage. He does not complain to Oracle. He just continues about his night like the little birdie was never there.

After a long week of patrol, finally sure he’s gotten Dick off his back by exchanging fake tired smiles and platitudes about the weather at a gala earlier, Tim wanders down to the tracks where they used to train surf. He always wanted to bring his friends here, Tim thought they had all the time in the world to be able to do it. What a fool he was.

Tim stands there, on the elevated rail, letting the wind tug gently at him. If he closes his eyes, he can picture Kon flying them somewhere on a mission. Tim can smell the ozone and fresh air wafting over him. The smooth and lean leather of Kon’s jacket.

“Looking good, Superboy.” Tim teases. Kon grins.
“I know.” He replies with a wink.
“How come I don’t tear my skin off wherever you fly me around?” Tim asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“My famous Tactile-telekensis baby!” Kon says smiling.

His smile looks so bright it hurts. Tim moves one hand to shield his eyes. Kon says something that is lost in the wind. Tim grins back. “Whatever you say, Cloneboy.” Tim replies, uncaring what he just agreed to.

Feeling light for the first time in years, Tim wonders if this is what it is like to feel like a kid for once. He lets everything else melt away, sinking into the sensation.

The wind whistles in his ears, growing louder and louder, eventually drowning Kon out. Tim clings to Kon tighter, refusing to let go. The sound grows into a train whistle, blaring out a warning. Pulled from his dream, Tim dives out of the way just before the train blows past him. Wind tugs at his cape and hair. A millisecond later and the city would be scrapping bits of dead bird off the tracks for miles.

No matter, he thinks, I felt for a moment.

Tim staggers away from the tracks, catching a flash of yellow across from him on a nearby rooftop. He checks it after the train cars finish passing, but no one is there.

No one cares, his brain insists. No one will even notice. No one is around to see.

Tim sinks to his knees, gravel biting into his shins. He’s all alone. No one is coming for him.
“I’m just a kid.” Tim mutters to himself, trying and failing to hold back tears. “I - I’m just…”
He breaks off with a stuttering sob. Burying his head in his hands, Tim lets himself feel, for but a moment, a fraction of the weight he has been carrying.

I can’t handle all this by myself. He thinks. I’m just sixteen. I’m a fucking child.

Tim wants nothing more than to be wrapped up in Bruce’s cape and brought home. Alfred making his famous hot chocolate. Tim wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket and basking in the glow of the batcomputer as Bruce types up case notes.

Tim wants to hear his laugh again. Not the fake Brucie laugh or the intimidating Batman huff. He wants to hear the soft rumbling chuckle that is warm and bright and boisterous.

But he’ll never get that again, the realization hitting Tim like the train should have. Bruce will not laugh again. His eyes won’t crinkle when he smiles. He is dead. They buried him. He is gone.
Dick is right. Tim misses Bruce and nothing more.

Bruce isn’t coming back. Why would he? Tim isn’t worth coming back for.

Tim’s body wracks with sobs as he feels his heart break again. Why does everyone keep leaving him? Why can’t he have a parent that stays? Does he not deserve one? Has he done something to lose the privilege?

He spirals, there on the rooftop, until dawn breaks over the horizon. Tears long since dried have shifted his domino mask slightly askew. But Tim doesn’t care. Joker himself could walk up to Tim right now and try to bring out JJ again, and Tim wouldn’t care. He’d shoot the man again and walk away, letting nature take its course.

Tim can’t let himself be vulnerable again, he decides. There, on the rooftop, he makes a promise to himself.

Never let anyone else get that close again.
Never stay long enough to get left.
No more funerals.

Chapter Text

Tim continues to put on a brave face. He does his duties. Maintains the Wayne reputation, defends it from interlopers who sense blood in the water.

Tim rules the boardroom with an iron fist, and a cold sense of piercing wit that would make Janet Drake jealous. He wears his best suits, tailored to perfection. Although he keeps having to have them taken in, as he so often forgets to eat.

Tam, his assistant, gets Tim on a very strict meal plan which includes protein shakes and veggie snacks. Tim chokes them down as best he can. He hasn’t felt hungry since the funeral. He hasn’t felt anything since that day on the roof.

Tim balances his responsibilities delicately. Some kids from his school or his old teammates reach out, and Tim responds with standard pleasantries. He inquires about their lives and adds the information to his spreadsheet. Too exhausted and too overrun to remember what they tell him without it.

Tim does just enough to make it appear that everything is fine. Everything is in control. He installs soundproofing in his bedroom in his penthouse apartment to muffle his screams. The neighbors appreciate him keeping the noise down. The constant nightmares and waking hallucinations don’t cease, so Tim creates a system to manage them. If he isn’t sure something is real, he refuses to engage until home alone. Then he can determine it’s truthfulness.

The shades of his parents are easy to shake off. They stare at him disapprovingly from the shadows, lobbing insults at him. It is more time than they spent with Tim when they were alive, and a sad small part of Tim is grateful. At least he remembers what their faces look like before their deaths mangled their bodies beyond recognition.

Kon and Bart, too often, appear bloodied or injured. Begging for Tim to help them. Tim never does. He can’t help them. Not yet. He’s not dead.

Stephanie appears when he is being stupid. And she’s usually right, as much as Tim absolutely hates to admit the fact. Occasionally, on patrol, Tim catches sight of flashes of yellow, red, and green. Or a shiny red helmet. He isn’t sure if they’re real or not. They never follow him home.

Once, when confirming with Batman that he could, in fact, handle Riddler after he broke out of Arkham, a vision of Nightwing swam in front of Tim. But that one he knew wasn’t real. It didn’t prevent Tim from repeating not-real Dick’s puns to annoy the shit out of Nygma the whole night.

So Tim carries on, despite the visions. He buries himself in his work, hoping that figuratively burying himself alive might make him feel something again. Might make him feel less like dying.

It doesn’t. But Tim continues. What other option is there?

More clues appear, all centering around Bruce. Tim notes them down. Noticing the patterns, making connections, seeing the proof. But doing nothing. He hardly has the time to anyhow.

*************************************************************************************************************

Damian has been following Drake around for days, unnoticed. Surely, a mark in Damian’s favor for Father’s legacy. But Drake isn’t right, he seems…off.

When Drake stands on the tracks, eyes closed, and nearly lets the train hit him, Damian gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth to hide his shock. Damian saw Drake’s face when he managed to escape harm, he had looked disappointed that the train had missed. Damian fled quickly, ducking behind a neighboring building out of sight. But he doesn’t leave. He hears as Drake cries. As lets out such noises of grief that Damian feels a pull in his chest.

Richard could not know of this. He has been too stressed about taking on Father’s role as Gotham’s protector. At least part of this is Damian’s fault, he knows it is. He had pushed Drake too far. The boy has fallen victim to his circumstances. Damian feels a sour feeling twisting in his gut.

Damian knows that this news would not help matters. He has already disappointed Richard too many times since his arrival. If this damage is discovered, Grayson might send him back to the League. Mother would be so disappointed. Grandfather would punish him.

Drake’s problems must be solved without Richard’s knowledge, Damian decides. But Damian isn’t suited to solve this, as much as he is loath to admit it. Pennyworth might die of shock, or whatever kills the elderly, should Damian inform him of Drake’s behavior. Damian would get too irritated with the boy and stab him. So that leaves the next best option, the black sheep of the family.

Damian goes to Crime Alley as the sun begins to rise, ignoring Grayson’s demands for him to return to the cave. Father’s second failed attempt at perfection, Todd is… an adequate sibling. He did survive the League, after all.

Todd’s safe house is pathetic. Dingy, small, and filled with books, Damian picks the lock on the window easily. How disappointing, Damian thinks to himself, a moment before the alarms begin blaring.

Scowling, Damian tumbles gracefully from the window and onto the floor to avoid the paintballs hurtling toward him. A rumpled Todd emerges from the bedroom, gun trained on Damian. Huffing, Todd lowers the weapon and pulls out his phone to disable the security measures.

“What do you want?” Todd demands. Damian appreciates someone who gets right to the point. Small talk serves no purpose.

“I require your assistance.” Damian admits, closing the window behind himself. He was not raised in a barn with Batcow. “It is in regard to Red Robin.”
“Replacement?” Todd questions. “What about him?”
“He…” Damian begins, unsure. “I think he just tried to take his own life.”

All the blood leaves the older man’s face.

“What?” Todd asks. Damian tuts. Truly, does Todd not speak english?

“You heard me.” Damian mutters, crossing his arms. “He moved from the tracks in time, but only just.”

Todd nods shakily, and lowers himself onto the threadbare couch in what passes as a living room. Running a hand over his face, Todd gestures for Damian to join him.
“Explain everything.” Todd demands.

Damian complies, beginning when Drake left after Father’s funeral. When he recounts the knives, he feels the guilt budding in his chest. Is this all his fault? It must be. There is no evidence that Drake was suicidal prior to Damian’s arrival.

He continues to explain to Todd the course of events, detailing the week of rapid change. Red Robin patrolling alone. Robin stalking him, noticing the ferocity and violence increasing in his fights. One particular fight, with a few of Black Masks’ men near the docks, includes Drake egging the men on to hurt him more. To hit him harder. Damian has to pause as he begins to feel ill. Surely, it is the inadequate air circulation in this stuffy apartment.

By the time he arrives at tonight’s events, Todd has moved from the couch to the kitchen, boiling the kettle for tea. Sunlight peaks through the window when Damian is handed his mug. Peppermint and green tea, an odd but surprisingly decent combination.

“So tonight is when Timmy decided to try to kick the bucket? I’m not exactly shocked and surprised.” Todd observes. “Walk me through what happened at the tracks.”

“Drake signed off for the night, then walked to the switchyards.” Damian began, swallowing a warm sip to ground himself. He wraps his hands around his mug, hiding how they shake slightly.

“He climbed up to the elevated track and stood there, eyes closed.” Damian explains, voice quieting. “Then, even as the train approached, he just… stood there, smiling. When he jumped out of the way, onto the service ladder, he looked…disappointed.”
Todd nods slowly, narrowing his eyes at his tea.

“He’s definitely not in a good place.” Todd acknowledges. “And you did the right thing bringing this to an adult.”

Damian’s chest warms with pride. He does not deserve it. He is the cause of Drake’s distress.

“You’re barely an adult, Todd.” Damian scoffs, dismissing the feelings. “You hardly qualify. You are simply the best solution to the situation at hand.”

Todd cracks a smile over his mug and takes another sip. “Whatever you say, kid.”
Sighing, Todd lowers his mug to rest it on the table.
“We need a plan on how to intervene, neither of us are exactly suited to get through to Tim.”

Damian nods. This is an appropriate response. Better than Richard freaking out or Pennyworth keeling over.

“We should call his team, his friends.” Todd suggests. Damian scoffs. Nevermind, Todd is the stupidest of them all.

“They’re deceased.” Damian informs him. Todd’s eyes widen.
“All of them?” He clarifies. Damian shrugs.
“I believe Wonder Woman’s protege is alive but indisposed. I heard mention of a cult.” He replies.

Todd runs a hand through his hair shakily. “Damn, any relatives?”
Damian shakes his head. Drake’s family are all deceased. Damian should know, he checked to see if anyone else would be willing to take Drake off their hands.

“Deceased. And I believe Drake has filed the paperwork to become legally emancipated.” Damian adds, cutting off that avenue of solution as well. “It appears that we are all he has.”

“Shit.” Todd says, leaning back and blowing out a breath. “No wonder the kid wants to kill himself.”

Damian raises a stern brow at the man, sipping his rapidly cooling tea.
“We are more than adequate to prevent Drake from doing something as idiotic as suicide.”
Todd shakes his head and pulls out his phone again. Dialing someone, he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hey, O. Sorry to bug you at this hour, but it’s important. Can you set me up to meet with Batgirl? I have some important info for her.” Todd says. Damian considers Todd carefully. Cassandra Cain-Wayne would be an excellent ally to their cause.
“Perfect, thank you.” Todd says before hanging up. He quirks an eyebrow back at Damian, very Alfred-esque. “We have fourteen hours to get Dickhead off our backs and come up with a plan before we meet with her tonight. Call your not-Dad.”

Todd tosses Damian the phone. He catches it, obviously, and calls Richard. Damian explains that he would like to spend time with Todd to ‘recount their memories of Father’. Thankfully, Richard buys the story when Todd rudely interrupts their call to cut off Grayson’s dreaded lecture.

“C’mon kid. We’ve got a birdie to save. Robins gotta stick together.” Todd says, walking back into the bedroom to grab his computer. Damian sits there, letting the weight sink in. Drake is was a Robin. But Robin doesn’t end when you move on, or it moves on from you. Todd is evidence of this too. Maybe, if they are able to prevent Drake’s plan from moving forward, then Damian can be Robin even after Grayson sends him back to the league for destroying the family.

There might be hope for him yet.

Chapter Text

Tim is trying. He’s tired and unmotivated and irritable, but he is trying. He manages to get himself into a place where he’s treading water instead of drowning. He damn near misses his exam to get his GED, but arrives just in time. Results come back next week, and Tim finds himself looking forward to something for the first time in a while.

Tim keeps himself busy. He attends galas and charity fundraisers. He buys plots in the cemetery and puts in headstones for Bart and Kon. Even if their bodies aren’t there, it feels right to have somewhere out of suits to grieve. Bart and Kon were more than heroes. They were people. They were his friends. His weekly routine now involves changing out the flowers at his friends’ and family’s graves.

Tam says he’s morbid and that his life is depressing. Which is fair. Tim knows that he is depressed. He doesn’t have an appetite. He doesn’t feel, just numb. He keeps imagining his inevitable death just to be able to fall asleep.

But, despite it all, Tim is managing. If you ignore the constant hallucinations and clues from Bruce. He keeps delegating responsibilities, training people to take on aspects of his position. If he is really going to investigate Bruce’s clues, then WE needs to be able to run without him. The clues will be taking him across Europe, North Africa, and Western Asia. Tim doubts that he’ll be able to maintain quarterly meetings if he’s robbing the damn Louvre.

Of course, Tim will only rob the pieces if he has to. He consulted Catwoman for pointers. She shat on his sneaking skills but helped him improve fairly quickly. Ideally, Tim will be in and out of these collections without being noticed. However, if necessary, Tim has been brushing up on the moves Lady Shiva taught him.

Cass has begun patrolling again as Batgirl. She took time off after losing Bruce and Steph. She grieves Kon too, but he and her had gone on two dates over a year before his death. They weren’t as close.

Wondergirl is back too. She broke free of the cult. Even texted Tim to apologize for missing the funeral. Now she’s in therapy to deprogram. Tim even saw that she and Cissie are hanging out again, since they posted a picture together. Tim is happy for her, really. Just jealous that she’s able to heal when he isn’t.
Seems like everyone else is capable of moving forward. Just not Tim.

Makes sense, he thinks bitterly. Something has always been wrong with him.

“You’ll never be enough.” His brain whispers to him, echoing his parents’ tone.
“Shut up.” Tim snarks back under his breath.

Obsessive, stubborn, too smart for his own good. Seems like Bruce had him pinned in his initial assessment as Robin. The lack of progress that Tim has made since he was thirteen should be embarrassing, or disappointing. But, instead, it makes sense. Tim’s never been good enough for Robin. Bruce knew it. Dick knew it. Jason knew it. Damian knows it. Tim is the last to know.

Maybe that’s why Batgirl has been keeping an eye on Tim on patrol lately. They don’t trust Tim to be able to do his job anymore. They’re right. Tim’s been slipping. He lost to a couple of goons last week that he should have taken care of easily. Back when Azrael was Batman, Tim would’ve been expected to do more and perfectly. And he would have.

But Tim can’t now. He’s getting worse. He falls asleep on patrol. He’s slipping when he shouldn’t. Getting hit more frequently. His bruises have bruises. Tim has to cover up his injuries at work constantly. Tam is so concerned about him lately that she gave him an abuse hotline to call for help.

Tim ignores her concern, along with everyone else’s. He just needs to stay alive long enough to bring Bruce back. Once he does, Dick will be better. Damian will be better. WE will have strong leadership. Then Tim can join his friends. He has already cleared his plans with an estate lawyer to arrange to be buried by them. They were around more than his parents anyway. Plus a gravestone sounds less presumptive than having himself installed in the Drake family mausoleum.

*************************************************************************************************************
Damian has enlisted Oracle as another ally to keep tabs on Drake. His online activity is equally concerning as his behavior on patrol. Plans for a funeral, but who is Drake planning to kill?

If Damian was in his place, he might kill the pretender who stole Robin from him, who stole his place in the family. But Drake’s arrangements don’t appear to involve Damian at all. Instead, he’s booked a ticket to Paris. First class, which Damian appreciates. But it means that they have limited time to stage what Todd refers to as an ‘intervention’. Surely, Drake is planning to flee the country after he takes out his target. What this has to do with Tim’s suicidal behavior is unclear to him. Maybe Drake is having a mental collapse from breaking Father’s ridiculous no kill rule?

Cassandra reports that Tim has been spending more time with villains. Perhaps he plans to switch sides? Damian would respect that move, if it did not spell a likely attack on him as well.

Damian straightens the straps of his pack on his shoulders. The imposing edifice of Wayne Enterprises rises before him. Drake’s office is on the top floor.

Taking a deep breath and dropping his scowl, Damian pushes forward, joining the crowd of people reentering the building after the end of the lunch hour. He is shoved and jostled, but is able to make a beeline to the front desk.

“Pardon, I am here to visit Timothy Drake.” Damian states loudly, his eyes barely meeting the edge of the desk. “I believe I require a pass for the lift?”

The woman smiles down at him sweetly and dials her phone. “Hi, Tam?”
The voice at the other end of the line is muffled but the tone is surprised. Damian tries not to hunch his shoulders up to his ears. He feels out of place, and he hates it.

“Yes, I have his little brother here.” The woman says. Damian does not interrupt and correct her. Drake is emancipated, it is clear that he does not want Damian for his brother.
“Alright, I’ll send him right up.” She adds cheerfully. Damian takes the visitor pass from her outstretched hand and clips it primly to his school blazer.

Navigating the busy lobby crowd again, Damian makes it to the elevator with minimal unnecessary contact with other humans. He waits patiently for his turn, several groups board before he can. Finally, he boards alone, and scans his pass. The elevator dings brightly and selects the floor for him. The car lurches slightly and Damian feels himself lifted quickly as the machine takes him to the top floor without stopping.

Damian throws himself out as soon as the doors part, wanting no part of a potentially buggy system and everything that could go wrong. He schools his features, collecting himself, before approaching Drake’s assistant.

“Hello, Damian. I’m Tam.” The woman says, offering him a seat near her desk. “Tim is finishing up a meeting and then he’ll be right with you.”

Damian sits on the edge of the chair. It's comfortable, surprisingly. And Tam has an acceptable selection of vegetarian snacks which she offers. Damian takes a fruit, just to have something to do with his hands.

He’s peeled the orange entirely, and eaten half of it, by the time the door opens. A grown man, probably in his mid to late forties, runs from the room. Tears pour down his face. He glances back at Drake fearfully as he passes Damian, and trips. Whimpering, the man scrambles back to his feet and flees down the hall, disappearing around the corner.

“Tim!” Tam scolds. Tim grins cheekily at her and shrugs.
“He threatened our staff. I simply reminded him who he was attempting to extort.” He adds, waving Damian into the office.

Tam sighs and sits back down at her desk, calling security for the man. Damian deposits the pieces of peel into the trash before following Tim inside. He must admit, seeing Drake take a grown man down so thoroughly was a bit impressive. Or, at least, it was entertaining.

“What are you doing here, Damian?” Tim asks politely as he shuts the door. Straight to the point, which Damian appreciates.

“I am surrounded by ingrates at that insolate pathetic excuse of a school.” Damian complains, sitting on one of the leather couches.
“So you skipped?” Tim deduces, raising a brow. Damian shrugs off his pack, and fiddles with the strap.

“We were in the city for a field trip to the art museum. I stayed behind to enjoy the exhibits longer. The bus left without me.” Damian admits. He had planned this, to allow Drake to feel important and useful. But he does not need to know that part of Damian’s plot.

“So why didn’t you just call Alfred?” Tim asks, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Drake looks tired, the dark circles under his eyes visible through the concealer.
“Pennyworth is busy. He has been… very sad since Father’s death. Not the same man he was.” Damian explains. It is technically true, although marginally hyperbolic.

“Is he alright?” Drake asks, notes of concern leaking into his voice. Damian nods. Drake’s shoulders fall, tension bleeding out of him.
“I guess I should take you home then.” Tim says, reaching for his keys.

“Wait!” Damian requests. Drake freezes.
“I would like some time outside the Manor if you are not too busy.” He requests. Damian tries to be open, letting Drake see his emotions on his face. Todd and Cain had recommended it, and it appears to work.

“Okay.” Drake says slowly. He leans over to the intercom on his desk.
“Tam, please clear the rest of my day.” A positive response from Tam and then the two sit in silence. Drake clearly expects Damian to take the first step. Fine, if Damian needs to lead by example, then he can show Drake what it means to deal with emotions in a healthy manor or however his therapist phrases it.

“I think Richard is going to drive me insane.” Damian admits quietly, staring down at his shoes. “I know that he is trying to help me, to train me to be a good heir, but -” Damian bites his lip. Speaking against Mother or Grandfather would result in a beating. But Richard would not hit him. And he and Drake hardly speak now. Very little chance of this getting back to him. 

“Do not tell him I told you this!” Damian warns. Drake holds up both hands in surrender, a wry smile on his face. “I - I am frustrated.”

Drake stays quiet, gesturing for him to go on. Taking a deep breath, Damian continues.
“He treats me like a child. At home and in the field.” Damian says harshly. Tim chuckles.
“You’re nine.” He points out. Damian huffs.
“I am more than capable. My age should not be such a factor.” He adds, tutting when Drake laughs.

“What?” Damian demands, standing up. “Are my troubles laughable to you?”
Drake’s expression changes suddenly, and he moves to join Damian on the opposite couch.

“Your frustration is valid. Dick is well meaning but he can be overprotective.” Drake says. Damian deflates, sitting back down.

“What’s he got you working on recently?” He asks.

Damian swings his legs off the edge of the couch, scuffing the floor with his shoes.
“Mostly observation.” He replies. Which is the truth. Just observing Red Robin. “Which is far below my skillset.”

“Observing without getting caught is its own skillset.” Tim says pointedly. “Fighting is all well and good, but the element of surprise is a vigilante’s best friend in the field.” Damian nods solemnly. As much as he had degraded Drake’s abilities in the field, he is, on occasion, better at remaining unseen on long stake outs.

“I wish to be more useful.” Damian grumbles, crossing his arms. Being vulnerable is beginning to get uncomfortable. Drake nods thoughtfully.
“Wanna see what I’ve been working on?” He offers. Damian grins. “Yes. Obviously.”
Drake chuckles and hits a few buttons on his watch. The windows and glass on the door go dark, making it impossible for anyone to peer into the room.

“Here.” Drake calls, walking over to a panel behind his desk. It opens with Drake’s biometrics, and reveals a solitary computer off the main system. Damian follows, watching as Drake’s hands fly across the keyboard.

Images fill the screen. Bat symbols on cave walls. Old portraits that mirror those in the manor.

“What is this?” Damian breathes out as he skims Drake’s notes. “Do you -”
“Think that Bruce is still alive? Yes, I do.” Drake cuts him off. He crouches to get on eye level with Damian. Normally, he would find this gesture demeaning. But Damian is too focused on the possibility of getting Father back. Of undoing the damage to Richard that his death had wrought.

“Where?” Damian asks, voice small. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides to hide how they shake. “In time. It’s complicated.” Drake answers. “But I’m going to get him out.”
“Does Richard know?” Damian asks, tracing the bat symbol found in an ancient pottery sherd with his eyes.

“Yes.” Drake admits. “He thinks I’m crazy. Tried to make me go to some therapist in Metropolis.” He frowns. Damian wants an explanation. He wants Father back. Yet, then he would be in Drake’s debt. How do these clues fit together? None of this aligns with the grieving suicidal man Damian had seen on those traintracks.

“Let me help.” Damian requests. It comes out as a demand. Drake frowns.
“Can’t. I’m sorry. It isn’t safe.” Drake says, sounding tired.
“I am not a child. I can handle myself!” Damian exclaims, frustrated. Drake gazes back at the screen, eyes distant. “No. I’d never forgive myself if I let you get hurt.”

Damian growls, stomping back to the couch to shove his face into a pillow and curse Drake’s bloodline.

“You suck!” He yells when he takes a break to catch his breath. Drake cackles, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach. It makes Damian punch the pillow, repeatedly.

“I’m sorry, Damian.” Drake says as he continues to punch the pillow. Damian imagines Drake’s nose breaking and feels a small amount of satisfaction mixed with guilt.
“I just - a few weeks ago you’d have stabbed me or thrown knives or cut my line - " Drake continues. Damian does his best to ignore him and calm down.

“I apologize for my prior poor behavior.” Damian forces out through clenched teeth. Drake sits across from him again, the panel hiding the screen once more. 

“I appreciate your apology.” Drake says, smiling. “You’re forgiven.” Damian narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. “What?” Damian replies, baffled. Perhaps Drake was replaced with a pod person whilst he was punching his pillow?

“Dude, I forgave Jason before my stitches healed.” Drake replies, smile crooked. “And he totally shoulda known better being older and not raised in a murder cult.”

“Ttch.” Damian tuts. “You need better self-preservation.” Drake’s smile falls, and his gaze again grows distant. “So I’ve been told.” He says softly.

“C’mon Dami.” Drake prompts after a moment. “Let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

Damian is trying a new strategy, one Todd swore would work. Being nice to Drake. He appears with Grayson at various society events, and makes an effort to connect with Drake during such activities. Drake, at first, seems receptive. Then, when Damian continues this strategy as Robin, Drake distances himself.

The harder Damian tries, the worse it seems to go. He cannot tell if the failure is in his execution or with the strategy at large. Soon, Drake disappears from patrol entirely. It is frustrating. Damian grew up in the League of Assassins, trained with the League of Shadows. He should be able to track Drake. He should not be failing.

Grayson insists that his inability to track Red Robin is not a personal failure. But how can it not be? Damian is the person failing. He cannot articulate why he is convinced this is so important, another shortcoming. Maybe Drake had been right to hesitate to turn the mantle over to Damian.

Maybe Damian pushed Drake too far. Maybe the damage cannot be undone. Maybe it really is all his fault.

*************************************************************************************************************

Robin is being bizarre. It’s unnerving. He’s the same to goons and rogues and villains alike. But now he’s spending more time with Tim out of the suits, especially in high society situations.
He’s even being nice to Tim on patrol, trying to work together, asking for help with things that Tim knows perfectly well that Robin is capable of doing alone.

Frankly, it’s freaking Tim out. How much does Damian know? Will he try to stop Tim? Will he try to insert himself into Tim’s plans to bring back Bruce? What if he gets hurt?
Tim can’t allow that to happen. No more dead Robins.

So he limits his contact with the others on patrol, as much as it hurts. He drives Cass away. Refuses to collaborate with Dick. Pushes Robin into more collaborations with the others. Anyone but Tim. He can’t ruin anything if he doesn’t have any contact with them.

Oracle tries multiple times to breach his firewalls, hacking him repeatedly. So far, he’s been able to dodge her. But Tim knows that won’t last forever. Eventually, Tim will move up Oracle’s priority list and then there is no amount of coding that can save him.

Tim tries to keep up appearances as much as he can. He pretends to be okay. He does galas and charity auctions. He runs board meetings and sends emails. He makes polite conversation in the break room. Tam thinks that he’s doing better, despite the fact that his contingencies are still in place.

Dick is watching Tim still. Tim can tell. Dick doesn’t trust Tim. Obviously.
After all the cases and plans they’ve worked together, Dick still doesn’t think Tim is good enough. Tim agrees. He isn’t. One day, he’ll slip and they’ll all realize how out of his depth he is. But until then, Tim puts on a brave face.

Dick freaks out when Tim disappears from interactions on patrol and tries to interact with Tim more in other aspects of life. But he’s busy as Batman. Tim lets Dick tag along for a case or two, whatever. He takes down the trafficking ring and a penguin syndicate. He puts on a good show. Dick might be the world’s best acrobat, but no one can fake it like Tim Drake. He’s been putting on a good face his whole life. He won’t let that mask crack now.

Still avoiding the manor, and avoiding Jason’s territory when possible, Tim isolates in his own little bubble. No more shared cases. No more casual nights on rooftops or games of grapple tag. His nest, his home base, is a mess. Tim writes on the walls, the floors, the surfaces. He creates a giant conspiracy board in the spare bedroom.

When Bruce’s body does not rise up during the Blackest night, Dick and the others finally begin to believe Tim. But it’s too late. Tim’s got a bag packed. He is leaving at the first sign that Dick is trying to reel him back in. Tim had let his walls down with the Waynes, believing he was lovable.

That had been a mistake. A miscalculation. It will not happen again.

Tim goes down the rabbit hole of Bruce’s clues, alone. They had their chance to help him before the Blackest Night proved he was right, and they blew it. Tim scrubs every bit of evidence of his investigation from his place. When his psuedo-siblings inevitably break in to look for him, they’ll find no trace of him or where he’s going.

*************************************************************************************************************

Tim disappears off the map entirely. It isn’t until a trafficking case brings him into Jason’s territory that they can even confirm that he’s still alive. Even then, Tim is in and out with business-like efficiency. Red Hood has to follow the kid halfway back uptown until Red Robin pauses long enough to let him catch up.

“Hey kid, long time no see.” Jason greets, voice filtered by his helmet.
“Not a kid.” Red Robin retorts dryly, sounding bored.
Jason snorts, the sound harsh. “You’re sixteen. A literal teenager. You’re a kid.”
Red Robin tilts his head to the side creepily, sending a shiver up Jason’s spine.
“You seem to be the only one who thinks so.” Tim replies. When he doesn’t continue, they both let the silence stretch.

“Look, RR, I’m glad I caught you. I could use your help on a case.” Jason begins, trying to get Tim to stay. But Tim frowns, and narrows his eyes.
“Can’t.” He replies. “Busy. Plans. You know how it is.” Tim picks at his gauntlet idly.
“You don’t even know the details.” Jason points out. Tim shrugs. He sends Jason an apologetic smile before jumping off the roof, shooting his grappling gun off into the distance.

Jason swears and runs to the edge. But Tim is already gone.
“O.?” Jason asks. “Can you track RR please?” A moment of silence passes, so long that Jason double checks that his comm is in fact functional.

“Negative. He disabled his trackers.” She replies.
“He what?” Jason exclaims, at a loss. “Even the ones B put under our skin?”
“Affirmative Red Hood.” Oracle confirms. “Including the one meant to be unremovable.”

“How, in the world, did Red Robin manage to do that without alerting Big Brother?” He asks, plopping down to rest on the edge of the roof. Oracle hums in reply, not really answering.
“I… don’t know.” She admits, sounding pissed. “But it can’t be good, given what we know about his mental state.” Jason sits, staring at the Gotham skyline, contemplating what his life has become. What life has done to the sweet smart kid who forgave Jason before he deserved it. What he has done since with that forgiveness. How little he has tried to be in Tim's life. 

“Do you think we should bring N in on this?” Oracle asks after a while. “If we think Tim might hurt himself-”
“No names on comms.” Jason growls. “And no. He’ll freak and probably make it worse. The kid won’t take well to being cornered, especially by his idol.”

“Understood.” Oracle says after a moment, clearly having muted herself to speak to someone else. “I’ll make sure to keep an extra eye on him. Batgirl too.”
“Thank you.” Jason acknowledges. “As long as he stays in Gotham, we should be able to intervene before things get too bad. Let’s just hope the kid doesn’t get a hankering to expand his sphere of influence.”

Jason is baffled, unsure if the kid is suicidal or crazy or both. Tim goes about everything with rigid efficiency. Jason recognizes the posture, the way he moves through a room. Trying to not take up too much space, trying to pass by unremarked. Makes sense during vigilante work. But Tim does it all the time.

It cannot be a good sign, he decides. Whatever is going on with Timberlina is serious. Perhaps a matter of life or death, if the homicidal gremlin is to be believed. Someone taught this kid that he takes up too much space. That his needs don't matter. Jason wants to kick the teeth in of whatever idiot clearly beat that mindset into his little brother. When they save Tim, and they cannot consider any alternative outcome, Jason is tracking down whatever asshole he needs to and dealing out some serious comeuppance.

*************************************************************************************************************

Damian sits in his Robin suit at the Batcomputer, on comms only as punishment for ditching his school trip and repeatedly disobeying orders to follow Red Robin. He listens in on Todd and Drake’s conversation. Curiously, Drake is not using their channels. Perhaps he built his own? Damian contemplates how exactly one would go about it when something else catches his attention. Oracle has mentioned something that shouldn’t be possible.

Drake has dug the tracker out from under his skin. Father had them embedded so that they couldn’t be removed before his passing. But Drake figured it out. Damian feels a begrudging respect for the boy. Perhaps there is more to him than being an inadequate Robin. Perhaps Damian isn’t a permanent failure for his shortcomings of late. Perhaps he too could become as skilled as Drake with more experience. Perhaps failure is not the ultimate condemnation of his worth. 

Damian has thoughts regarding Tim’s plans. The tickets to Paris, his sudden change in behavior like turning down Todd’s request for assistance, the number of public appearances he has attended as of late. Something connects and Damian is struck suddenly by how obvious it is. 

It is a front. A farce. A mask. Damian recognizes it. He does something similar when he feels particularly unsafe in his place in the family. His therapist has helped him realize it.

Drake is going to make his move soon. Very soon, if his distancing during patrol is any indication. Whatever he has planned has to do with the symbols he showed Damian on the secret computer in his office. Many of those images appeared to be from museums in Europe, based on the artifact identification numbers in their pictures.

Footsteps behind Damian spook him from his reflection, causing him to flinch. Richard, cowl down, is back from patrol. His expression is stern, and arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Hey, Robin.” Richard greets, shaking his hair out of his face. “How was comms?”
“I believe Drake is planning to go to Paris to retrieve something in his quest to bring Father back to life.” Damian blurts out. Richard sighs and pulls up a chair.
“Not you too.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “Alright, spill.”

“Timothy is making a show of public appearances, doubling down on public connections.” Damian starts, uncertain. “I believe that he has been researching Father’s disappearance since the funeral. In part, due to my actions forcing him from his place in the family.”

Damian gulps, turning back toward the screen. He focuses back on the keyboard, bringing up his notes. Richard places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and leans toward them.

“Timothy has been mentally struggling from what I believe is severe depression. It is to be expected, given what he has endured over the course of the last eighteen months or so.” Damian says hurriedly, not letting Grayson interrupt. “Tickets to Paris have been purchased. Suspicious activity under several subsidiaries of Drake Industries have been flagged. And Drake has registered a last will and testament with a lawyer.”

“What?” Richard breathes out, horrified.
“It is my fault.” Damian admits. “I drove him to this. I pushed him from the dinosaur. I cut his grapple. I stabbed him, and tried to poison his Zesti.”
“You what?” Grayson nearly yells. Oh, right. Neither Tim nor Damian had brought those up in front of Richard while arguing.

“I have made a grave error, Richard.” Damian whispers, hanging his head in shame. “And I worry that what I put in motion cannot be stopped. I understand if you wish to send me back to the league.”

“Send you back?” Richard questions shrilly. Damian risks a quick glance and finds him utterly devastated.

“You are never going back there.” Grayson says firmly, with no room for argument. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to make you.”

“Batman doesn’t kill.” Damian argues weakly. Grayson scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“As if that matters.” He responds. “Anyway, our priority is Tim.”
“I’m glad you agree.” Damian says, grateful for the pivot. Richard even ignores Damian brushing away many tears as they return to the task at hand.

“Now, what do we know so far?” Richard asks, kneeling next to the desk. Damian pulls up notes from Cassandra, Jason, and Oracle to join his own on screen.
“Here’s the plan we’ve been using thus far.” Damian begins, finally able to let go of his greatest fear. He is still part of the family. No one is going to force him back to the league. Back to Grandfather and his beatings. Damian is beginning to understand what Drake had been trying to say that day in his office. Grayson loves Damian, however misguided it is, no matter what.

*************************************************************************************************************

Tim goes on patrol one last time. Dick reaches out and Tim declines the call. Jason tries too, Tim blocks him. Damian calls and Tim sends him to voicemail with an automatic message “busy now, I’ll call back later.”

One last patrol, then Paris. One last case, then he gets to die. Once Bruce is back, Tim will have served his purpose. He’ll be done. Retired. Whatever they want to call it.
Then he can finally rest.

Tim goes through the motions. He avoids all of the bats. He disables Oracle’s cameras, preventing her from tracking him. Then he heads back to his nest, changing and packing the last of his supplies.

Several pre-written letters sit on his desk. The Waynes are nosy, eventually they’ll come to poke around. When they do, letters addressed to each of them will be waiting. Alfred, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Cass, Barbara, and Damian each written out carefully by hand.

Tim doesn’t want them to think that his choices are their fault.
He chose this. He is the one who will always fail them. The one who will never be enough.

Tim checks his phone. The private jet he chartered through a shell company founded specifically to hide his funding is ready at the small high-end airport outside of Gotham. It’s time to go. He takes one last look around his apartment. The nest he had put just enough effort into for it to be livable. The fridge is empty. All shelf-stable goods from the pantry have been donated. A few generic pieces still hang in his closet, but otherwise, there is no evidence of his existence.

Good, the voice in his head insists. You don’t deserve to take up space. You’re a burden.

Tim shrugs it off. He has a mission to complete. Once Bruce is back, everything will be fine. No one will miss him. Everything will be back to normal.

*************************************************************************************************************

Finding Tim’s nest was easy. The kid hadn’t exactly been hiding it once he moved out of the manor. Getting inside, that was the trick. The building has a doorman, and elevators that require a fob to take upstairs. Jason had expected to have to storm the place or threaten the elderly attendant for the key. But it turns out that Tim had thought of everything.

“Hello.” The doorman greets, ushering him inside the lobby. “Mr. Drake said to be expecting you.” Jason does a double take. He is here, in full Red Hood gear. Why the fuck had replacement expected him to come? And not in disguise.

“Oh.” Jason manages to reply. “Um, so it’s cool if I head straight up?” The old man nods, a gleam in his eye reminiscent of Alfred. His body language too.
Huh, Jason thinks, Tim got himself another former SAS agent didn’t he?

Either way, he escorts Jason to the elevator and scans a fob to take him to the penthouse. Jason rolls his eyes behind the helmet. Of course, Richie Rich lives on the top floor.

The doors ding as they open into a surprisingly modest hallway, and, at the end, a single door. Jason makes his way towards it, checking for traps and additional security measures. But his searches are fruitless, and the door handle has no key hole for his kit to pick.
Instead, a biometric panel reveals itself from the wall as he jimmies the handle.

“Please scan to enter.” A computerized voice requests. Jason removes his helmet carefully, and steps in front of the panel to examine it. A bright blue light blinds him for a moment.
“Individual recognized. No additional persons detected. Entry permission granted.” The voice says again and the door cracks open.

Jason pushes the door tentatively, preparing himself for the sickly sweet smell of decay mixed with the putrid stench of rotting food and flesh. He remembers the day he found his mother’s body. The smell. How he lost his lunch at the sight of her.

Instead of Tim’s dead body, thankfully, Jason finds a pristine apartment, seemingly untouched by human occupation. No photos, just sterile basic art hanging on the walls. No food in the kitchen, cooking utensils still sitting polished in the drawers and cabinets. Few garments in the closet, looking unworn and freshly cleaned.

Jason’s stomach drops. Tim isn't here. He isn't coming back. But is that because he's going after Bruce or because he chose a different place to take his own life?

“Oracle.” Jason says, plaintive. “How long is the rent paid out?” She hums and Jason can hear the distant sound of her keyboard clacking. “He bought the building. Money has been set aside to cover all tenants’ rent through the end of the year.” Jason curses, picking up the envelopes.

“What is it?” Oracle asks. She's still tracking down where the Drake money has been going lately.

“Letters.” Jason croaks. “For each of us.” Shaking, he rips open the letter with his name, unfolding the pages. The careful cursive is clear and legible, but no easier to read given the circumstances.

In the letter, Tim forgives Jason, repeatedly. He explains his awe of Robin, his admiration of the work Jason is doing to improve the city. Jason sinks to his knees, curling up in a corner. Clutching the pages tightly, Jason struggles to find his voice. Tears are fogging his vision, trapped between his face and domino mask.

“I don't think Timberly plans on surviving this trip, wherever he went.” He gets out. “He wants me to protect the Foxes from the fallout of his death.”

“Death?” Oracle repeats. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“That's what the letter says.” Jason explains helplessly. “Baby bat was right. Timmy plans on killing himself once Bruce gets back. Probably the only reason he’s held off this long.”

“Why?” Oracle breathes out, voice desperate.
“He doesn't say.” Jason replies. “But I can take a few guesses.”

“It doesn't matter.” She says sternly after a moment. “We’re not letting that happen. We're going to find him. We’re going to bring him home. We're going to help him. And he is going to get better.”

“O.” Jason interrupts, levering himself off the floor. “I don't think we can will Tim to not be suicidal. We can be there but we can't just make it better by being stubborn. If that was the case, Bruce coulda solved my mental illnesses ‘cuz ain't no one can out stubborn the bat.”

Jason snags the other letters, carefully pocketing them to distribute to the intended recipients.

“We have to do something.” Oracle insists. “I’m going to figure out where he went.” Jason can hear the fear and concern in her voice.
“We will.” He assures. “But if we trap him he'll lash out and double down. Best to approach slowly. Be there when he needs us.” She hums in response.

Jason’s ears are buzzing. His body feels fuzzy, distant, and numb. What if they get there too late? What if they can’t stop Tim in time? What if…. No. Jason can’t even allow himself to think it.

“I found something.” Oracle cuts in, interrupting Jason’s spiral. “Can you get everyone to meet in the cave?”

Jason grunts in acknowledgement, resetting Tim’s security system and closing the door behind himself. Reaffixing his mask and grabbing his helmet, Jason steps into the elevator and punches the button harshly. His brain whirs, letter still clenched tightly in his white-knuckled grip.

No more dead Robins, he repeats in his head. No more dead Robins.

The repetition and crunch of the papers in his fist grounding him, keeping the swirling green haze at bay for now. Breathing heavily, he hurries back to his bike and speeds off for the cave, making no effort to appear casual now. The doorman tries to flag him down, but Jason pushes past him and keeps moving. The clock is ticking. Time is running out.

No more dead Robins.

*************************************************************************************************************
A slight and lean figure, cloaked in all black, crouches at the edge of a skylight. Peering through the glass at the artifacts below, they find their target. A lone reconstructed vessel, decorated with an incised bat symbol, painted in charcoal.

Steady hands make quick work of the security alarm system, and carefully cut the frame. A slow descent on a singular rope, and feather-light feet touching the ground. As the figure lifts the glass case off the vessel, they look up at the camera in the corner of the room. The light glows green. The figure freezes. The camera goes dead, and the figure resumes their task.

Slipping the vessel into a specialized bag, reinforced with supports, the figure places the case back into place on the plinth. Then scurries up the rope, back onto the roof, and into the night.
They have left little to no trace of their endeavor, and yet, they know that time is running out.

“Even in Istanbul, she somehow finds me.” Tim whispers to himself, alone in his hotel room. He cradles the ceramic in his hands. Bruce made this. It’s a clue. Tim is so close he can almost hear his former mentor.

Instead, Selina’s voice comes to mind. “Next time, feed a virus into the system to erase any footage in case the cameras come back online. Leave no trace.” She advises, her transparent form lounging on the room’s small balcony.

Hallucinations of Robin, Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Hood play cards on the floor between them. Tim knows they can’t be real because no one is arguing; they’re all just going through the motions calmly.

“That’s a good idea.” Tim murmurs to himself, carefully placing the artifact back into its bag. “Next time, I’ll be a ghost just like you.”

Tim places the bag next to the others. He almost has everything he needs to find Bruce. The last place he has to check is the cave, the earliest appearance of the symbol. Somewhere in the desert, the exact location lost to time and villainy.

“Soon.” He promises. “Soon it’ll all be over.”

Chapter Text

Tam Fox, administrative manager for the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, just eighteen, is a former child prodigy turned inventor. Her family, the Foxes, have been intertwined with the Waynes for generations. While Bruce had been a competent mechanic in his own right, he never could have invented the Batmobile.

Tam resides in a fairly middling neighborhood outside of Jackson Park in Gotham. She lives modestly from what Jason can tell. And, apparently, from what he and baby bat can glean from hacking her email, has to know where Tim is.

Jason knows that a straight interrogation would be pointless. Tam could face down Luthor without blinking an eye. They’d need a softer, less aggressive approach. They need Cass.

When Cass knocks politely but insistently on the door to Tam’s apartment, the girl looks startled to see them. Jason takes this in stride. Timmy didn’t think they’d care enough to look for his dumbass through the business side, a blindspot they could exploit to find him.

“Hello… Waynes?” Tam says, stepping back to allow them inside. Jason pushes Damian and Cass inside ahead of him. They’d come in civvies today, and his hackles are up because of it. Cass had even made him leave most of his guns and knives at the manor. But three Wayne kids, in one spot, plus a WE employee? Their goose is cooked if anyone tries to kidnap them right now.

“Hello, Tam. I’m Jason.” He says, nudging his siblings. “This is Damian and Cass.” Cass smiles and waves. Damian scowls. Well, can’t win ’em all.

“Hi.” Tam says shortly, giving them each a wary once over. “What do you want?”
“Tim.” Cass replies. “You help him, right?” Tam nods hesitantly.
“Then you should know where he is.” She suggests, leaning into Tam’s space. “We want to help.”

Tam eyes them suspiciously. “How do I know you’ll actually help him? Last I heard, he was on pretty thin ice with at least the two of you.” She says, gesturing to the boys. “What’s changed?”

“Tim changed.” Cass answers, crossing her arms. “He used to take care of himself, and eat when he should. Now he forgets. Doesn’t sleep. Talks to himself or to people who aren’t there.”
Cass pauses, looking at Tam pointedly. “I know you’ve been helping. But he needs more support.” Then she gestures at the siblings. “We be the cavalry.”

Tam raises her eyebrows, surprised, if not a little taken aback.
“I thought no one else cared.” She admits. “I mean Damian is the only one who has visited.” She shoots Jason an unreadable look. “Two older brothers who could’ve taken over instead of letting a kid do it.”

“Technically, I’m still legally dead.” Jason defends. “But you have a point.”
“And how can that be possible?” Tam asks, incredulous. “You Waynes are straight up cursed, I swear.”

“It’s a blood debt.” Cass says seriously. Both Jason and Damian nod solemnly, playing along.
“For real?” Tam asks, aghast. The three then crack up laughing and shake their heads.

“Seriously though, we do want to help Tim.” Jason adds, as the giggles die down. “We just need to know where he is.”

“And you think he told me?” Tam asks skeptically, pointing a finger at herself. “Gee, if only.”
“He didn’t?” Cass asks, curious. Jason has to tamp down a grin. Here we go, he thinks, no one can resist Cass. Tam shakes her head with a wry chuckle.

“Tim? Giving me a heads up? Unheard of.” She explains, leading them over to her little nook of a living room to sit. “He’s a great boss most of the time. Just not to fantastic at communicating.”
“Don’t we know it!” Jason complains jokingly. Damian elbows him roughly in the ribs. Jason ignores it in favor of trying again for more information from Tam.

“Do you have any idea where he is?” Cass asks patiently. She gives Tam a sympathetic smile. “Maybe we can work together to figure out his location and help him.”

Tam nods thoughtfully. “I mean, I don’t know what information I would have that y’all don’t.” She adds. Damian, who has remained mostly silent so far, turns on a new facet Jason’s never seen, a worried little brother.

“Please?” Damian says quietly, playing up a little fear in his voice. “Any little detail could help.”

Tam melts almost immediately, and agrees to go get her work laptop. While she loads up on supplies to help in the other room, Jason gives Damian a congratulatory fist bump. The kid’s skills are seriously improving.

As the girls lay out the paperwork, laptop, and spiral notebook to work out their theories on the table, Jason mulls over what Tim wrote in his letter. He hadn’t left one for Tam, at least not that Jason had seen. But she seems to genuinely care about Tim.

“He said something to me the other day.” Jason says quietly, interrupting Tam’s braindump regarding Drake industries’ financials. She turns to face him. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Jason continues. “He asked me to take care of you guys. You and your family. If anything happened to him.”

A white lie as to not freak Tam out completely, and one she immediately sees through based on her expression. But she doesn’t call him on it. “Glad he’s delegating some responsibility.” She replies dryly. Jason grins and she cracks a small smile at the joke.

“Seriously, though, we can take care of ourselves.” She adds, turning back to their improvised theory board of a coffee table. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

*************************************************************************************************************

Stuffing the pieces he had extracted from each artifact haphazardly into his pack, Tim tosses the bag over his shoulder and yanks open the window. The thudding on the hotel door grows louder as Tim judges the best angle to jump. He’s three stories up and without his grapple. Damn thing broke two nights ago. Tim knew he should’ve fixed it that same day, but he was following the lead on the ceramic vessel. He was busy. Now he knows that it was a miscalculation.

Wood splinters behind him. Ghost Selina smirks as Tim looks down at the drop. A cylindrical metal container is tossed inside his room. A miniscule hiss is all the warning Tim has before…

An explosion rocks the building. Tim dives out the window, smoke streaming off his clothes. His descent is stopped abruptly by the awning, which flings his body up. Tim log rolls with the momentum, tumbling off the side. Landing on the ground on his hands and knees, head ringing, Tim groans in pain. He stumbles to his feet and starts running at full speed.

Concussion. Pathetic. The voice in his head insists. Tim shakes his head and the world spins.

People around him are screaming. Some try to chase him. But Tim doesn’t stop running. He pushes forward. Hands grab at him, some of them well intentioned. Tim keeps going, spinning and pulling to break their hold. The early morning crowd is no match for Dick’s training.

Always keep moving. Dick’s voice says. Can’t hurt you if they can’t catch you.
A shaky ghostly vision of a younger Nightwing flickers in front of Tim, urging him forward.

Smoke billows out the remains of the window. Local police swarm the scene. But the hotel room is empty. Three league operatives, clothed in black, have already stripped it of any evidence of their presence, and therefore Tim’s.

Tim ducks into an alley, sliding into the shadows. He leans against the brick wall, panting. A gouge in his left calf oozes blood. Blood drips into his vision, but Tim can’t tell where or how deep the wound is. His ears are still buzzing, but the high pitch ring has finally relented. Sounds are muffled, but Tim can still hear the League assassins approach. He tucks himself tighter into the corner, like he used to do when his dad got angry.

Timothy, Jack’s voice sneers. You have to face the consequences for your choices boy.

Tim gulps, squeezing himself smaller. The three black clothed figures pass by, looking for him. A loud sound from the next street over catches their attention and they move on quickly. It isn’t until they turn the corner, completely out of sight and ear shot, that Tim lets himself breathe again.

He checks his pack. The bag is intact. Tim cannot check each of the pieces for damage from the explosion, not here, not in full view.

A flickering Jason, as Robin, appears before Tim. Flashes of Red Hood peak through as Tim stares at him.

Patch up your wounds silly. Ghost Jason chirps at Tim. Then eat something, dingus.

Right, Tim must meet his needs in order to stay functional. He has a mission. Nothing is more important than the mission.

Tim pushes himself off the wall, finding a drain pipe to climb. Hauling himself up the side of the building, Tim carefully scooches across the rooftops. He levers himself between two rooftop units, the sheet metal reflecting his body heat. As his adrenaline rush leaves him, and the pain begins to seep in.

Tim pulls out his improvised first aid kit, but his supplies are low. Easing his leg up to press against his chest, Tim cuts his pant leg and flushes the gouge with sterile water from his water bottle. Biting his sleeve to stifle any noise he makes, Tim stitches the wound close. He then covers it with gauze, tying a flat bandage to hold it in place. The bleeding from his head has stopped but Tim still rinses his hair with shaking hands. Fresh blood seeps down briefly before stopping again.

The two rooftop machine units are covered in sheet metal shined enough for Tim to see his reflection. He looks like shit. Pointlessly, Tim runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. Splotches of smoke, grime, and blood smear across his face and down his neck. His hands have a few superficial lacerations and small burns, nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

A small pack of roasted nuts, still in their waxed paper package, are undamaged when Tim fishes them out from a side pocket on his bag. He eats a few and wishes he had some of Alfred’s cooking. The nuts are fine. They actually taste pretty good if you ignore the flash-bomby aftertaste. Chasing the nuts with some dried fruit, Tim soon begins to feel less like trapped prey and more like an actual person.

Pulling out some make up wipes to clean his face, and a wig to hide his hair, Tim flips his reversal jacket inside out. He pins his pant leg back together, attempting to make it look like an intentional haphazard punk modification. Disguised as well as he can be, given his rough morning, Tim picks the lock on the roof access door. He walks calmly down the stairs and outside the building, acting like he belongs. Tim passes a group of people gathered on the street, watching the police investigate the scene at the hotel.

Many of the people are murmuring to each other, gossiping about what they saw. Tim picks a few pockets, taking only their cash, and returns the wallets. He then saunters casually a few streets over to the fresh air market.

Tim purchases a few pieces of fruit, some more nuts, and dried meats. He adds two extra large bottles of water to his haul. The three figures who have been following him for weeks now are interspersed throughout the crowd.

Tim stays calm. He gives no visible indication that he notices them. Instead, Tim goes about his business. He walks toward the train station.

Two train tracks lay out in front of Tim. The platform is placed in the middle. The train on his right will take him further inland, towards a bat safe house and a way to contact his family. They could bring in the Justice League, now that Tim has proof. He could let the adults handle this.

The train on his left will take him down the coast, and towards the desert. Bruce is trapped in time. Tim could rescue him on his own, then, finally, give up the cape for good. The adults had their chance to do something, to believe him. They didn’t.

Tim boards the train on the left.

The three shadowy figures follow him. None of them have tickets. They stay a few carriages behind, but Tim begins mapping out escape routes.

The landscape blurs past as the train takes off. Carriages rocking gently side to side, an employee begins making their way through each car to check tickets. Tim tucks himself next to a family with several small children. The exhausted parents give Tim a grateful smile when he catches their toddler before he can topple to the floor out of the seats.

“Thank you.” The mother says in her language. Tim smiles politely and hands the child over.
“You’re welcome.” He replies. Her eyes light up.
“You speak our language?” She asks, delighted. Tim chuckles.
“I know a little.” He admits. “May I stay with you? I got separated from my parents.”
The woman frowns in concern. “Oh, yes. Come, sit with us.”

Tim does, helping one of the daughters braid her hair. He used to braid Steph’s when she was pregnant. A twinge of pain flashes through his chest. He misses her so much.

“You did well.” The woman approves with a kind smile. Tim returns it.
“Thank you.” He replies politely. “Your children are very well behaved.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Children do not behave, they learn by doing.” She says pointedly, taking a paper ticket from her toddler who was about to eat it.

The train employee comes by, scanning the parents’ tickets. He does not ask Tim for a ticket, as Tim is serving as a jungle gym for several of the children. The employee moves on and Tim feels a strong sense of satisfaction at having escaped the check.
It must show on his face because the woman quirks a skeptical brow at him.

“You don’t have a ticket?” She asks quietly. Tim shakes his head.
“I got separated from my parents. They have our money.” Tim explains haltingly, playing up a teenager struggling to translate his words. “I am sorry. I did not know what else to do.”
She glances back at the employee, and pats him on the shoulder.

“When we reach our destination, I will buy you a ticket to find your parents.” She says, no room for argument. Tim tries to dissuade her.
“Oh I couldn’t impose.” He tries. She stares him down like Alfred used to when Tim would insist on heading back to an empty Drake Manor in his early days as Robin.
“I would want someone to do so for my child.” She insists. “And you do not need to take this risk.” Tim nods slowly, a warm fuzzy feeling filling his chest. This woman is so kind. Tim really doesn’t deserve it.

You’re a billionaire. His brain reminds him. This woman could use the money on her actual children.

I’ll just jump from the train before we reach the station, Tim decides. The thickets of trees along the tracks do not bode well for his landing. Tim will just have to deal with it. He has made his bed. It is too late to go back now.

He smiles and agrees. The woman relaxes. Her children pepper Tim with questions, and Tim answers the best he can. He spends a few hours entertaining the children as the parents have a hushed conversation at the far end of the car. Tim can feel their eyes on him. How they linger on his scars and recent wounds.

A shadowy figure passes the door to their car and Tim knows that his time with this lovely family is limited. He carefully extracts himself from the children, ensuring his backpack is secure and on his person. The woman and her husband give Tim an odd look.

“Excuse me, which way is the bathroom car?” He asks. The father points Tim in the opposite direction of the figure. Tim gives his thanks and heads out. He will not endanger this sweet family. These children do not deserve to be put at risk because of Tim.

Tim makes his way to the bathroom car, leading the figures away from the family.
He positions himself just out of sight of the door, tucked into a corner. When the first shadowy figure comes through, Tim grapples them to the floor. A flurry of punches land on his back, bruising his kidneys for sure. But Tim continues with his plan. Freeing the knife from his assailant’s grip, Tim holds the weapon against the man’s neck to deter the others.

“Stop or I slit his throat.” Tim threatens. One of the assassins, a woman, scoffs.
“Then he will die like the failure he is.” She sneers. Tim tightens his grip on the knife as the man struggles against his hold.

“Tell Ra’s to Fuck off.” Tim spits, furious. Anger is flowing through him like a rushing river, the first thing he has felt in months. The woman chuckles wryly. “Tell him yourself.”
“Not happening.” Tim tosses back. He positions his back against the wall, preventing the third assassin, another man, from getting behind him.

“You are alone. Your family has abandoned you.” She insists. “They do not realize your skill. We can provide the resources you need to accomplish your mission.”

“Let me think about it… Yeah, no. I’m good.” Tim snarks, pressing the knife closer. A small trickle of blood dribbles from the man’s throat and down onto Tim’s unarmed hand.

“You need us.” She argues. “You cannot accomplish this mission alone.”

“I’ve managed to lose you about twelve times already.” Tim points out. “You honestly think you could help me?”

“That is our mission.” She confirms. “Bring back the Detective.”
“Fine.” Tim accepts, releasing the man from his grip and throwing him to his knees. “But we do this my way or I kill you.”

The woman nods, offering a hand to shake. “I’m Pru.” She says. “These are Z and Owens.”
Tim does not shake her hand. He slips Owen’s knife into his belt for safe keeping.

They all exit the bathroom car, together. Tim does not trust them. But he can use them.

Tim makes his way back through another carriage before he spots the train employee from earlier conversing with the concerned parents. Turning on his heel abruptly, Tim grabs Z and Pru by the arm and ushers them back. The train is approaching the station, slowing down.

“Time to go.” Tim says resolutely, throwing open an emergency exit door. Alarms blare.
“What have you done now boy?” Pru hisses in his ear. Tim grunts, positioning himself to leap from the train. “I’ll tell you later.” Tim answers, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly as the trees whizz by. A meadow is coming up, a decent landing space.

“On my count.” Tim orders. The others tense. “Three, two,...One!”

*************************************************************************************************************

Oracle finally catches Tim on surveillance, using the information from Tam's leads, her facial recognition programs finally paying off. But it’s with the League of Assassins. He is moving through a crowd, and shouldering a large pack.

With someone to go on, Barbara digs deeper. Tim has been careful, but even he cannot escape her network of resources. Several aliases are subject to manhunts, each alleged to have stolen art and killed many people. Has Tim really gone that far off the deep end? Has he become the villain Bruce feared he would become? What if this is how Tim becomes the ‘gun batman’ that his team mentioned hesitantly in scared whispers?

Then she noticed others behind the LOA. Shadowy figures behind the shadowy figures, stalking them, stalking Tim. Court of Spiders, she realizes. Her blood runs cold. What little they have on the group is the worst of the worst.

Babs pictures the polite little thirteen year old who introduced himself with a handshake all those years ago. She sees very little of that boy in the sixteen year old in the surveillance video from one of the museums. Bodies drop around him, and Tim doesn’t blink an eye. He just carries on.

Barbara feels her stomach turn. The Council of Spiders following Tim into the desert. LOA too. He might even be working with the assassins, given how close they follow without Tim batting an eye.

“Get everyone to the cave, now.” She orders. Dick, on patrol as Batman, grumbles.
“It’s about Tim.” She adds, chronicling everything she has found so far. “He’s in danger.”
That gets everyone’s attention. They haul ass back to the cave. Alfred comes down from the manor, bringing tea and snacks for all of them. Barbara isn’t sure how well their appetites will survive her updates, but she appreciates the gesture.

“Okay.” She starts when they are all ready. “Here’s what we know so far.”
She brings up the clips she has scrounged up.
“Tim is somewhere in the Middle East, possibly working with the League of Assassins. He is being followed by the Council of Spiders.”

That silences the room. Only the low buzz of electricity in her clock tower rings out.

"What's the plan?" Dick growls out. 

*************************************************************************************************************

Tim delves into the depths of the cave, found with the begrudging help of Pru, Owens, and Z. They remain toward the entrance, standing guard at Tim’s behest. He is not letting them anywhere near Bruce if he can help it.

Tim descends, using a flare for light. The bat symbol, carved long ago into the wall of the stone, glints back at him. Flinging off his backpack, Tim dumps its contents on the floor. The small pieces of the time sphere, hidden in each bat symbol artifact, fit together like a deranged jigsaw puzzle.

Time travel without companions is dangerous. But Tim is willing to take the risk. Afterall, he’ll be bringing Bruce back with him, it’ll be fine.

Tim builds a time sphere. His heart races, pulse thundering in his ears. There, in the sandy cave, kneeling before the symbol he has dedicated so much of his life toward, Tim takes another leap.