Chapter Text
Tim was beyond furious that Dick would take the last thing Tim clung to, and give it to the least deserving Robin ever. Dear God, what was going to happen to Gotham when it was faced with a sword-wielding imp who gave off sociopathic vibes so strong he was the poster child for ‘Empathy? Who dat? I am the only real person in the world’.
What was Tim supposed to do? They couldn’t have two Robins at once. Heaven forbid, it would take away from Damian’s glory. Tim supposed he could rummage in the Batcave storage for a previously discarded identity, and alter it to fit. Alter himself to fit as well, suddenly relegated to a position with less authority than a ten year old who had only to threaten to run away to be awarded rights over Tim.
He could be… what… Red Robin…you know what, NO. Alfred had hastily basted him into one of Dick’s old Robin costumes in order to save Dick and Bruce. He started with a hand-me-down, why continue the trend?
Maybe Dick’s belated ‘I think of you as an equal’ bluster was a lead up to tossing Tim a used Nightwing costume. Put a little Febreeze on it, teach Tim how to copy Nightwing, dissolve the last sense of self Tim had. No, to the hell no to that, too.
Neither Dick nor Alfred had any respect for Tim. He accepted the blame for that. If you lie down as a doormat to soothe Batman’s grief driven behavior, then of course, everyone assumes you’ll happily let Bruce’s by-blow wipe his feet on you, too. Alfred was always Bruce’s enabler over everyone else, so why should Tim be surprised he had spent however long making a custom suit for Damian and never thought to mention it to Tim. Why should Tim be given any advance notice? He might come up with logical reasons for denying, or at least delaying, the Crown Prince’s ascension to the throne.
Much better to spring it on Tim when he was exhausted and emotionally wrung dry by so many losses, so many deaths. Then complaints can be called irrational, the same way Tim’s hypothesis that Bruce is alive is irrational.
Tim had, as expected, shouted and protested emotionally and been unable to muster any logical arguments, but now that he’d gone back to his own place and thought about it, he realized it wouldn’t have done any good even if he’d been cool and collected and had a power point explaining all the problems a Wild Damian would cause. Dick was overwhelmed, and instead of reaching out for help (arguably no one affiliated with Batman had ever been good at that), doubled down on his assumed authority and seized what seemed the simplest solution for the loudest screaming problem.
Fine. Tim was used to doing it his own god-damned self. Lucius Fox probably still has all the materials and skills to make vigilante costumes. Alfred took over because no one but him was good enough for the Waynes, but Tim isn’t a Wayne. Something in black and yellow… call it Oriole, that’s a good bird name. Short and unmistakably Not A Robin. Lucius likes Tim. He’ll help.
Oriole, as a new name, had even less respect in the Cape community than his old Robin had. Tim didn’t think it mattered though, since they had all accepted Bruce’s death; pushed the painful loss of an icon into a mental box and locked it up. Bringing up the possibility he might be alive, might be suffering, might be saved and possibly permanently damaged would be too painful a thought to entertain. Oracle remade herself, Bruce could too, Tim was sure of it. So long as he was alive.
Since the first clue was a portrait, Tim thought Bruce would have tried to leave his mark in objects that would be considered valuable enough to save down the years, but not valuable for the materials. Precious metals and gems would be broken up, melted, unrecognizable. Stone, ceramics, pictographs… Tim would need to become an expert on art. Who does Tim know who is an expert on art, and not overly burdened with qualms about unauthorized repossession of such? Yeah.
“I need your help,” Tim said when he met Catwoman on the roof of the museum housing a collection of cat’s eye chrysoberyl of dubious provenance. That was pretty much her catnip, so it was the first place he looked. Sure, he knew several of her lairs, but intruding on a cat’s personal space was rude, and he wanted her in a good mood.
She looked at him. “You have new feathers, Robin.”
Tim shook his head. “Gotham has a new Robin. Call me Oriole.”
Catwoman nodded. “I see. Did you fledge, or were you pushed out of the nest?”
Ordinarily, Tim wouldn’t give a rogue personal info on the Bats, but hell, he was quite sure Bruce and Selina had been an item, more than once. “New Batman wanted a new Robin. I was surplus to requirements.”
“Yess,” Selina hissed. She flexed her claws, scraping against the wall they were leaning against. “When I saw the stand-in I had hoped Batman was recovering from a minor injury, but a stand-in wouldn’t have dared to change Robin, too. Not unless he didn’t think Batman would return.”
Tim sighed. “Batman died.”
Selina froze.
Tim went on, “At least that’s what the rest of the Capes think. There was a body, and it was easier for them to accept and move on. His ‘death’ was caused by some kind of energy blast, they told me. But I found a portrait… an old portrait… it was Bruce. Painted long ago. I think he’s alive. I think he’s lost, somehow lost in time.I think he’s trying to leave clues to find him.”
Selina flexed her claws again and tilted her head. “And you think I can help?”
“I think he would have left clues in objects likely to survive to the present. Museum quality. Most likely art or even artifacts.”
Selina grinned, suddenly bright and cheerful. “An Oriole wants to become a cat burglar! A catbird! How delightful!”
“Will you teach me?”
“Of course! Gotham is so dreary without the Original Batman. His copy lacks… well…everything.”