Chapter Text
Tim is a humble person — likes to think himself humble at least, so when he says he’s smart, it isn’t a “nice thought” or some “dream”. It’s the damned truth.
He puts together plans that out-plan his original plans. He’s strategical in a way that makes him prepared for the impossible. He’s aware of his surroundings in a way that allows him to take down opponents in a matter of seconds. He knows his resources well, and like a dried well, thirsty and yearning to be full of water, he consumes it all.
Every moment — the flick of a wrist, tilt of his head, glance of an eye, tone of voice — everything is a thought out decision.
It’s what makes him a valuable asset to the Batman.
It’s what makes him a prospect for The Demon Head, Ras Al-Ghūl.
It’s frustrating to hate a man so much and not be able to rid of him — that is Tim’s relationship with Ra’s. A tick that’s attached itself to him with no intent to leave until Tim has been sucked dry of blood.
It’s annoying. Infuriating. Aggravating. And even more synonymous along those lines - but the worst of it all, is that Tim nearly found it endearing.
Not something he would ever admit aloud, he barely allows it to be admitted to himself, and when he does, he feels heavy with guilt and shame.
It’s a secret, Tim likes to imagine, that no one will ever learn of.
The logical — the well-thought-out version of Tim knows that Ra’s already knows this secret. It’s why the man makes his way back into his life so often, but for all Tim’s smarts, is he not allowed some ignorance?
“Detective.” His voice is smooth, deep, and coated with age and knowledge. The voice of a man who has lived and died to many lifetimes. The sound of Ra’s voice was that of one Tim could never get used too — and if the opportunity ever prompted itself, Tim would give Damian full permission to stab the man (although, how twisted would that be?).
“Ra’s”, Tim says smoothly, greeting the man from his seat. He stirs his tea, watching the contents swirl, until finally looking up to meet the dark and unforgiving eyes of Ra’s Al-Ghūl. “I would say it’s weird seeing you here, but then again, it isn’t all that surprising. You really do fancy stalking me, don’t you?” And Tim can’t help it — a smug little smile curls onto his face. He despises Ra’s. He does. But a small part of him enjoys these conversations (a part of him that he should take a lighter to and burn, but he doesn’t want to, not yet).
“I would not consider it stalking,” The Demon Head responds in return. His green eyes looking over Tim, once, twice, and then the man is moving to sit across from the vigilante.
Tim observes, stirring his tea once, then twice. “No?” he questions, “Then what do you consider following me everywhere I go, practically knowing my schedule better than I do, and learning of my house address so you may confront me in private for these little talks?”
Ra’s form does not take on any discomfort. No, he stares rather impassively at Tim, like some disappointed father.
“All of the information you detailed is incredibly easy to come by, Timothy. No stalking required.” The Demon Head rests his chin to his palm, “And I would not have do such things if you would simply take me up on my offer.”
And there it is. The reason Ra’s is here.
The smugness Tim held before withers up and dies in that moment, being replaced by disgust and annoyance. That same annoyance slips out in his tone of voice as he says, “And I would not have to decline you each time you asked if you stopped asking.”
Tim does not hide away from Ra’s eyes, that seem more like a pool of time, and that stare directly back at him with an intensity that would leave any normal person at least a little shaken. He’s been on the receiving end of those eyes for far too long now for it to matter anymore.
Amusingly enough, it reminded Tim of Bruce. And that was a bit of weird thought — to see a resemblance of someone who is his adoptive father, in a man who is an assassin, but like mentioned before, he is quite perceptive. Sometimes those perceptions are not as pleasing as others.
Maybe it should concern Tim that he is seeing something in Ra’s that he also sees in his father. Maybe it is a sign that he is becoming far too comfortable with The Demon Head.
Maybe his first sign of that should be that the man is sitting in his furniture inside his apartment.
Lots of ‘Maybe’s’.
Tim could ignore them for now.
Finally, something of Ra’s shifts. The man’s posture taking on something more serious—more professional, and his eyes harden, staring into Tim without mercy.
“Timothy,” the man begins, “I wish to propose to you an offer that differs from my last.”
Those words set off an alarm in Tim’s head. Different than the last? What is that meant to mean?
“I swear if this is your weird pedo-way of asking me to marry you-“
“I would never ask such a thing of you, Detective,” and Ra’s does truely sound disgusted. His mouth even curls slightly to show the emotion, and it almost makes Tim laugh to think about how that might be the most expressive he’s seen Ra’s.
It made it easy to believe that Ra’s meant what he said.
(There are sirens going off in his mind, screaming at him that he should not believe Ra’s so easily. He ignores them).
Taking on a playful tone, Tim shifts his weight to his right, and says, “Then what is the proposition? If I may ask?”
“I am disappointed with the Batman. There used to be a time when I considered him my equal — the Detective, as I would call him. He out-smarted me in more ways than one and bested me on multiple occasions, as I did to him. I thought him strong.” Ra’s clicks his tongue and stands from his seat, walking away from Tim, and towards a window (how dramatic), “But I was wrong. I see that now. I never cared much for how the Batman treated his protégés. It was never in my interest to care.”
Ra’s turns on his heel, looking at Tim, “But I was wrong to think that way. You’ve shown me that, Timothy. You are not just a protege. You are meant to be the son of Batman — yet he treats you like something to be ignored. A tool to use when times are tough. He does not properly appreciate you, Detective.”
The vigilante sits forward in his seat, keeping his eyes steady on the other. “I’m struggling to see how this differs from your past offers, Ra’s,” Tim says blandly.
“Ah, let me finish then, Timothy.”
And Tim (like a too-curious cat) lets him, leaning back into his chair.
Ra’s continues.
“I admit, when I first approached you, it was because I, too, had wanted to use you as tool. You are talented, Timothy. It does not take a genius to see that. But now, I admit, that to only see you as a tool is foolish of me. You are much more than that. The Batman will never understand that, and that will be his own downfall — but it does not have to be yours, Timothy. Join me,”
The space between Ra’s and Tim, shortens, leaving Ra’s within arms length, “Join me, not as the Detective, but as my son.”