Archive of Our Own

The Batcave was unusually calm.

Which, in hindsight, should have been everyone’s first warning sign. (For being the world’s greatest detectives, they sure are dense)

The hollow of the cave stretched around them in layers of shadow and low electric light, all cool stone, steel, and the endless murmur of machines that never truly slept. The Batcomputer cast pale blue across the main platform. Monitors blinked. Servers hummed. Somewhere deeper in the cave, water moved in a slow black current. While bats flittered around above.

Tim sat at the main computer, one leg tucked under him in a position that would have horrified any physical therapist unfortunate enough to witness it. He was absently scrolling through case files with one hand while nursing a bottle of 5 Hour Energy in the other,(by bottle, I mean he took like eight 5 Hour Energy shots and put them in a mug)  the kind Alfred definitely had not approved of and would absolutely confiscate on sight if he materialized from the shadows like the vengeful spirit of nutritional balance.

Across from him, Damian was sharpening one of his many swords.

Not because it needed sharpening.

Because it kept his hands busy.

The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone echoed softly through the cave. Steady. Controlled. Familiar enough now that no one so much as looked up when the sound changed pitch. A few weeks ago it might have set everyone on edge. Now it blended into the background like the computer hum and Jason’s occasional muttered profanity.

Nobody seemed bothered by it.

Mostly because everyone had grown used to the sight.

A few weeks ago Tim would have been halfway across Gotham, operating on two hours of sleep and untreated caffeine poisoning while trying to juggle three different investigations, one stakeout, and a self-destructive need to prove he could still outrun his own exhaustion.

A few weeks ago Damian would have been training alone, choosing solitude with the rigid stubbornness of someone who had spent too long convincing himself that needing people was weakness.

Now?

Now they somehow ended up in the same room more often than not.

Neither acknowledged it.

The rest of the family absolutely did.

Steph was currently winning twenty dollars because of it.

Jason refused to elaborate on how he’d lost that twenty dollars in the first place.

Cass was somehow winning every bet regardless of the subject matter, which had long since become less suspicious and more supernatural.

Dick had stopped asking questions.

Bruce looked up from the mission reports spread across the Batcomputer.

“Patrol assignments.”

Immediately everyone’s attention shifted.

Tim sat up slightly.

Damian set the sword aside.

Jason groaned with the long-suffering drama of a man being personally persecuted by fate. “Can I file a complaint before you even assign me somewhere?”

“No,” Bruce said.

“What if it’s a really good complaint?”

“It won’t be.”

Jason snorted.

Steph threw a pen at him.

It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. He didn’t even look up, which only offended her more.

Bruce ignored all of them.

“Robin and Red Robin.”

Tim and Damian both looked up.

“You’ll cover the East End.”

Neither complained.

The cave fell silent.

Bruce frowned.

Dick frowned.

Jason frowned.

Steph slowly lowered her phone, her expression turning solemn in a way that would have concerned anyone who knew her.

Nobody said anything for several seconds.

Tim blinked. “What?”

Steph pointed dramatically between him and Damian like she was accusing them in court. “That.”

“That what?”

“You didn’t complain.”

Tim looked confused. “I don’t usually complain.”

The cave immediately erupted.

Jason nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

Dick physically covered his face.

Steph looked like she had just witnessed a religious miracle.

Even Bruce appeared mildly surprised, which on Bruce translated to seismic activity.

Tim looked around.

Offended.

“What?”

“You complain constantly,” Jason informed him.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I don’t.”

“You once complained about gravity.”

“Gravity deserves criticism.”

Damian nodded once, grave and immediate. “Agreed.”

Tim pointed triumphantly. “See?”

“That does not help your argument,” Steph said.

The two of them shared a look.

It lasted less than a second.

Somehow it still communicated an entire conversation.

Steph immediately pulled out her phone. “That’s another twenty.”

Jason groaned. “This is financial abuse.”

Cass, seated cross-legged on the platform railing like a patient gargoyle, looked very pleased.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “What are you people doing?”

“Nothing,” Steph said far too quickly.

“We are absolutely doing something,” Jason corrected.

Damian sighed. “Drake, I believe we have once again become the subject of their bizarre social experiments.”

“That’s fair.”

Bruce cleared his throat before the betting pool could evolve into an actual argument.

“East End.”

The room refocused.

Mostly.

Tim nodded. “Got it.”

Damian nodded as well. “Understood.”

Bruce continued down the list.

“Nightwing and Spoiler.”

Steph immediately groaned. “No.”

Dick looked offended. “You love me.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You tell jokes while fighting.”

“I tell excellent jokes while fighting.”

“You made a henchman cry.”

“He laughed first.”

Steph looked unconvinced.

Jason was openly recording the conversation now.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

Eventually the assignments were finished.

The cave settled back into its usual rhythm.

Tim returned to his case files.

Damian picked up his sword again.

For a few minutes the only sound was the Batcomputer humming quietly in the background.

Then Bruce spoke.

“Remember, check in if anything unusual comes up tonight.”

The cave exploded into laughter.

Tim immediately dropped his head onto the desk.

Damian closed his eyes.

Steph looked ready to cry.

Jason nearly fell out of his chair.

Dick was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Even Alfred, who had appeared from absolutely nowhere carrying a tray of snacks, looked suspiciously amused.

Bruce stared at everyone. “What?”

Nobody answered.

Because that somehow made it funnier.

Tim finally lifted his head. Slowly. Painfully. With the exhausted resignation of a man who had suffered greatly.

Then he pointed toward Damian.

“I’m letting him explain.”

Bruce looked at Damian.

Damian looked back.

The younger boy considered the situation with complete seriousness.

“We have checked in approximately seventeen times today.”

The cave went silent.

Bruce blinked. “What?”

Damian gestured vaguely toward the room. “The family.”

Every head in the cave whipped toward him.

Steph dropped her phone.

Jason immediately looked away.

Cass looked far too innocent.

Dick was suddenly fascinated by a nearby wall.

Bruce slowly turned.

Very slowly.

Toward the rest of his children.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Tim started laughing.

Hard.

The sound echoed through the cave, bright and unrestrained and so genuine it drew everyone’s eyes without meaning to. It was the kind of laughter he hadn’t had nearly enough of. The kind that took over his whole face and made him duck forward like he couldn’t contain it.

Beside him, Damian looked entirely satisfied with himself.

And somewhere in the back of the cave, Jason quietly handed Cass twenty dollars.

Tim was still grinning as he pulled on his domino mask.

Beside him, Damian secured his cape around his shoulders with efficient, practiced movements.

The cave had settled into its normal chaos once again.

Jason was arguing with Steph.

Steph was winning.

Dick was somehow losing a conversation he wasn’t even involved in.

Bruce was pretending not to listen.

In other words, everything was normal.

Tim clipped his staff onto his back. “Ready?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You ask that every patrol.”

“And yet you never answer.”

“I am obviously ready.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only answer you require.”

Tim snorted. “See? This is why people think we’re attached.”

Damian looked horrified.

Tim laughed harder.

The younger boy muttered something in Arabic that was probably either a curse or a threat.

Possibly both.

Tim decided not to ask.

A few minutes later they launched from the Cave.

The cool Gotham air hit immediately.

For one brief, perfect moment they simply moved.

Roof to roof.

Leap after leap.

Cape and cloak cutting through the dark.

The city stretched endlessly beneath them, lights scattered like broken glass across black water. Traffic crawled far below. Neon bled over rain-dark streets. Somewhere a siren wailed, distant and thin.

For the first time in a long while, patrol felt... easy.

Not because Gotham was behaving.

Gotham never behaved.

But because neither of them was carrying the entire city alone.

Tim landed on a water tower.

Damian followed a second later, boots hitting metal with barely a sound.

The younger boy immediately crouched at the edge, scanning without pause, posture tightening into combat readiness before he had fully settled.

Habit.

“What are we looking at?” he asked.

Tim glanced at his wrist computer. “Three separate reports.”

Damian sighed. “Of course there are.”

“First is a mugging.”

“Simple.”

“Second is a break-in.”

“Also simple.”

Tim tilted the screen. “The third is someone claiming a man threw a vending machine through a bus stop.”

Damian paused.

Tim paused.

They looked at each other.

“The vending machine report is fake,” Damian said flatly.

“The vending machine report is absolutely real.”

“The man was probably intoxicated.”

Tim shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

The mugging took approximately forty seconds.

The criminal never even saw them coming.

One moment he was shouting at a terrified man pinned against an alley wall, knife out, voice high with adrenaline and desperation.

The next moment Tim dropped out of the darkness feet-first, slammed into the man’s shoulders, and drove him face-first into wet pavement with enough force to knock the knife skidding three feet away.

Before the criminal could even suck in a breath, Damian was there, hard pivot, sharp kick to the wrist, zip tie already out before the man processed he was no longer in control.

Clean.

Fast.

Efficient.

The victim stared at them in open shock.

Tim offered a quick, easy smile that looked effortless under the mask. “You should probably head home.”

The man nodded too quickly and fled.

Tim rolled his shoulder. “That might be a new record.”

“You are slowing down,” Damian said.

“Rude.”

The break-in wasn’t much better for the criminals.

Two idiots attempting to rob an electronics store.

Neither appeared prepared for Batman’s children to come through the skylight.

The first one looked up just in time to see Tim swinging down on his line, staff extending in one fluid snap before cracking across the man’s forearms. The gun he was holding clattered across the tile.

The second tried to run.

Damian intercepted him before he made it three steps.

It wasn’t even a fight.

More a demonstration.

A brutal, efficient lesson in why robbing stores in Gotham after dark was a bad life choice.

By the time the police arrived, both men were already hanging upside down from a streetlight outside, wrapped in enough cable and zip ties to make escape a theoretical concept at best.

Tim watched the patrol car pull up.

Then glanced at Damian.

“So.”

“So.”

“We’re checking the vending machine.”

“We are checking the vending machine.”

Unfortunately, the vending machine report had been real.

Or at least the damage had.

The bus stop looked like something had exploded.

Glass covered the sidewalk in glittering shards. Twisted metal supports leaned at impossible angles. A bench had been ripped half out of its bolts and folded like cheap tin. Twenty feet away, a vending machine sat embedded in a brick wall at an angle that suggested it had arrived there with a truly unreasonable amount of force.

Tim crouched beside the impact crater in the pavement.

“Okay,” he said.

Damian examined the damage, expression sharpening from annoyance to concern. “That should not be possible.”

“Agreed.”

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Then Tim’s communicator crackled.

“Red Robin.”

Tim pressed a finger to his ear. “Go ahead.”

Oracle’s voice answered, clipped and focused. “I found your vending machine guy.”

Tim stood immediately. “Please tell me that’s not a sentence you expected to say tonight.”

“It was not.”

“Good.”

A brief pause.

Then: “Several reports just came in from East End. Same suspect description.”

Tim’s amusement vanished.

“How many reports?”

Another pause.

“Five.”

Damian stood as well.

That wasn’t normal.

One random superhuman incident?

Possible.

Five?

Not coincidence.

Tim’s expression sharpened. “What are we looking at?”

Oracle was already typing. He could practically hear it over the comms. “Unknown male. Enhanced strength. Witnesses claim he lifted a car.”

Damian frowned. “A meta?”

“Maybe.”

The uncertainty bothered Tim.

Oracle rarely sounded uncertain.

Then her voice returned.

“There’s something else.”

Tim immediately knew he wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

“What?”

“A GCPD narcotics task force hit a warehouse about thirty minutes ago.”

Neither of them spoke.

Oracle continued.

“The warehouse was empty when they arrived.”

Tim felt his stomach sink. “Drug operation.”

“Looks that way.”

Damian crossed his arms. “And the connection?”

Another pause.

“The suspects at the warehouse reportedly fled after testing a new product.”

Tim and Damian exchanged a look.

The same conclusion forming instantly.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Damian agreed.

Oracle sounded grim. “The reports claim it temporarily enhances physical capabilities.”

Tim’s expression darkened. “How temporary?”

“We don’t know.”

“Side effects?”

“We don’t know.”

“Fantastic.”

“We also don’t know how many doses made it onto the streets.”

The silence that followed was far more concerning than any answer.

Because that number could be five.

It could be fifty.

It could be hundreds.

Tim rubbed a hand down his face. “Please tell me that’s the worst news.”

Oracle didn’t answer immediately.

Which was answer enough.

“Oracle.”

“The task force recovered security footage.”

Tim closed his eyes. “Of course they did.”

“And?”

“The people taking the drug weren’t metas.”

That got both their attention completely.

“What?”

Oracle’s voice lowered.

“They were normal.”

The words settled heavily.

Tim’s smile disappeared.

Beside him, Damian had gone completely still.

Because normal people didn’t throw vending machines.

Normal people didn’t lift cars.

Normal people didn’t tear apart bus stops with their bare hands.

Unless something had changed.

Unless someone had changed them.

Tim looked out over Gotham.

Thousands of lights.

Millions of people.

And somewhere among them was an unknown number of desperate, violent, chemically altered civilians carrying strength they weren’t built to survive and no idea what that kind of power would cost them.

His communicator crackled again.

“Red Robin?”

Tim’s grip tightened around his staff. “Yeah?”

“We traced the warehouse owners.”

Tim immediately knew what came next.

Because Gotham never let them have easy patrols.

“They’re moving product tonight.”

Damian’s expression sharpened.

Finally.

Something concrete.

Something they could stop.

Tim nodded once. “Send us the address.”

A moment later coordinates flashed across his wrist computer.

Several miles away.

Near the docks.

The location wasn’t familiar.

Which somehow made it worse.

Tim looked toward Damian.

Damian was already shifting his footing, already calculating routes, entry points, fallback positions.

Already ready.

The sight made something in Tim’s chest feel lighter.

A few weeks ago they would have tackled this separately.

Now neither even considered it.

Tim grinned despite the tension. “Race you there.”

Damian immediately launched off the rooftop.

“Cheater.”

Tim laughed and jumped after him.

Below them, Gotham continued to glow in the darkness.

And somewhere near the docks, a warehouse full of enhanced criminals was waiting for them.

The trip took less than ten minutes.

Neither spoke much on the way.

The joking mood from earlier had faded.

Not completely.

But enough.

Because possible superhuman drug tended to do that.

Tim landed on the rusted roof of a shipping container overlooking the target location.

Damian landed beside him a moment later, low and balanced and silent.

The warehouse sat near the edge of the docks, broad and weathered and ugly in the way old industrial buildings always were. Corrugated steel walls streaked with rust. Loading bays facing dark water. Security lights cast weak yellow circles over cracked concrete.

Several trucks sat parked outside.

More concerning were the guards.

Tim counted eight visible from their vantage point.

Armed.

Alert.

Nervous.

The kind of nervous that made shoulders tight and fingers twitch too close to triggers.

The kind people got when they knew they were carrying something valuable.

Or dangerous.

“Thoughts?” Tim asked quietly.

Damian observed the scene. “Too much security for ordinary narcotics.”

“Agreed.”

Neither liked that.

Tim zoomed in with his lenses.

Workers moved crates in hurried, jerky patterns. Others stood watch. One man kept wiping his palms down the front of his jacket every few seconds. Another kept checking the loading bay doors behind him like he expected something inside to come out.

Nothing immediately screamed supervillain operation.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because normal criminal operations rarely ended in airborne vending machines.

His communicator crackled softly.

“Anything?” Oracle asked.

“Warehouse,” Tim murmured. “Eight visible guards. Maybe more inside.”

A pause.

Then: “Thermal imaging is weird.”

Tim frowned. “Weird how?”

“I’m picking up fluctuations.”

Damian immediately turned toward him. “What kind of fluctuations?”

“Some individuals are showing elevated temperatures.”

Neither liked that answer.

At all.

Tim’s stomach sank.

The drug.

It had to be.

People weren’t supposed to spike and drop body temperature for no reason. Not healthy adults. Not without something catastrophic happening under the skin.

“Could be our enhanced suspects.”

“That’s my guess.”

Tim nodded. “All right.”

He looked toward Damian. “We do this quietly.”

Damian looked offended. “I am always quiet.”

Tim slowly pointed toward the nearest guard tower. “What happened in Blüdhaven?”

“That was one time.”

“You threw a man through a window.”

“He was being unreasonable.”

Tim laughed despite himself.

The tension eased.

Just enough.

Then both of them moved.

The first guard never saw them.

One moment he was watching the loading dock, rifle hanging lazy at his side.

The next Damian appeared behind him like the cave had decided to produce violence. A precise strike to the side of the neck. Another to the solar plexus. The man crumpled without a sound.

Tim caught him before he hit the ground and lowered him carefully behind a stack of shipping pallets.

The second guard went down just as easily.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

For a few minutes it felt like maybe they had gotten lucky.

Maybe they were going to stop the operation before it spiraled.

Maybe Gotham had finally decided to show mercy.

Then somebody shouted.

“INTRUDERS!”

Tim closed his eyes for half a second. “Of course.”

Damian looked equally unimpressed.

The warehouse exploded into motion.

Crates toppled.

Men shouted.

Weapons came up.

Someone fired.

The bullet ricocheted off a support beam with a sharp metallic scream.

Tim moved first.

He vaulted over a low crate, staff extending mid-motion with a violent snap, and drove the end into the first guard’s sternum hard enough to launch him backward into another man. Both went down in a heap.

Damian hit the ground running.

He moved like a blade given human shape, compact, brutal, exact. A sweep to one man’s knees. Elbow to another’s throat. Sheathed sword cracking across a wrist with enough force to send the gun spinning.

For several minutes, the fight felt normal.

Not easy.

Just familiar.

Then something changed.

Tim noticed it first.

One of the men took a direct hit to the stomach, the kind of hit that should have folded him.

Instead the man barely staggered.

Tim frowned.

That wasn’t right.

The criminal looked up, eyes blown wide and fever-bright, and grinned.

Then he reached behind him, wrapped one hand around a steel pipe bolted to the wall, and tore it free like it weighed nothing.

“Oh,” Tim said.

The man charged.

Tim barely got his staff up in time.

The impact jarred through his arms hard enough to numb his fingers. The pipe smashed into the staff, then the floor, cracking concrete in a spray of dust and fragments.

“That’s not normal,” Tim said through gritted teeth.

“No,” Damian agreed while driving his knee into another enhanced criminal’s ribs hard enough to dent a crate behind him. “It is not.”

The situation deteriorated rapidly after that.

Apparently somebody had decided handing super strength to criminals was a fantastic idea.

Tim mentally added them to the list of people he wanted to punch.

The list was getting unreasonably long.

Things got worse when reinforcements arrived.

A side door burst open.

Half a dozen more criminals poured into the warehouse.

Several carried vials.

One of them injected himself immediately.

Tim watched in disbelief. “Seriously?”

The man’s body reacted almost at once.

His back arched.

Muscles clenched under his skin in unnatural waves.

Veins darkened.

His pupils blew wide.

Then he smiled.

A very bad sign.

The criminal turned, grabbed a forklift by the frame, and with a raw animal sound of effort and adrenaline, threw it.

He threw it.

A fucking forklift.

Tim stared for one long, impossible second as his brain refused to process what his eyes were telling it.

Because forklifts were not supposed to fly.

Then instinct took over.

“ROBIN!”

Both of them dove in opposite directions.

The forklift hit the far wall like a missile.

Steel screamed.

Concrete burst outward.

The entire warehouse shook under the impact. Dust rained from the ceiling in a dirty gray cloud. Somewhere above them a support groaned.

Tim landed hard on his side.

Pain detonated through his shoulder and hip.

He rolled on instinct before a chunk of falling debris could crush his leg, came up into a crouch, and immediately regretted the movement when a flash of ache tore across his ribs.

He ignored it.

The mission came first.

It always did.

Unfortunately, Gotham had apparently decided that wasn’t enough suffering for one night.

Because the moment Tim regained his footing, something slammed into his side.

Hard.

A crowbar.

The impact stole the breath from his lungs.

Pain exploded through his ribs so violently his vision whited out.

He stumbled sideways, boots skidding over fractured concrete.

For one sickening instant he thought he heard something crack.

Then the criminal swung again.

Instinct overrode pain.

Tim got his staff up in time, but the force of the blow nearly ripped it from his hands. The vibration raced up his arms into his shoulder, setting everything on fire.

Definitely enhanced.

Definitely.

The man grinned, face flushed and wild. “Thought you’d hit harder.”

Tim forced himself to straighten. Forced himself to breathe through a chest that suddenly felt too tight.

“Funny.”

The criminal charged.

Tim met him halfway.

The fight was harder than it should have been.

Every block sent pain slashing through his side.

Every twist pulled at ribs that were no longer moving the way they were supposed to.

The crowbar clipped his upper arm, then his shoulder, then glanced off his back hard enough to send sparks through his vision.

Nothing catastrophic.

Just enough.

Just enough to grind him down.

Eventually Tim caught the man’s ankle with the hooked end of the staff and yanked.

The criminal hit the ground shoulder-first.

Tim followed instantly.

Staff down across the throat.

Shift of grip.

Strike to the temple.

Another to the wrist.

A third to the sternum.

Finally the man stopped moving.

Tim leaned heavily on his staff, breathing harder than he should have been.

The pain in his ribs pulsed with every breath now.

Sharp.

Persistent.

Concerning.

He pressed a hand against the injured side just for a second. Quick assessment. Pressure. Heat. Instability.

Nothing felt fully broken.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Good enough.

Across the warehouse Damian was currently fighting three enhanced criminals at once.

Meaning he hadn’t seen any of it.

Tim immediately dropped his hand, straightened, and stepped forward.

Because if there was one thing Tim Drake excelled at, it was pretending he was fine even when he absolutely wasn’t.

The warehouse still echoed with shouting, gunfire, breaking wood, and the groan of overstressed metal.

The fight was far from over.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos, Damian was already making his way toward him.

“Robin, with me,” Tim called.

He vaulted over a collapsed crate.

The motion sent a fresh white-hot lance of pain through his ribs.

His body faltered in the air.

Only slightly.

But enough.

By the time he landed, Damian was already beside him.

Neither commented on the fact that Tim’s landing had been heavier than normal.

Neither commented on the extra breath he needed after.

The warehouse stretched deeper than expected.

Rows of crates vanished into darkness.

Some had already been opened. Others were still sealed.

Chemical hazard labels flashed under the low light. Several had been scratched off in haste.

Tim didn’t like that.

Not even a little.

“Oracle,” he said, voice tighter now. “Talk to me.”

A moment later her voice crackled through the comms.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Shocking.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Damian rolled his eyes, though the motion was sharp with tension.

Oracle continued. “The thermal readings aren’t matching.”

Tim frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means some of the heat signatures are disappearing.”

That made both of them stop.

Just briefly.

“Disappearing?” Tim repeated.

“Then reappearing somewhere else.”

Neither liked that answer.

At all.

Because that wasn’t super strength.

That wasn’t enhanced durability.

That wasn’t anything a normal drug should be doing.

Damian’s expression darkened. “The formula is mutating.”

“Looks that way.”

Tim cursed quietly.

Of course it was.

Because Gotham hated them.

The deeper they pushed into the warehouse, the worse the evidence became.

Walls smashed inward from the inside.

Steel support struts bent like soft wire.

Cracks split through the concrete floor in jagged lines.

At one point Tim stopped dead in front of what looked like a human handprint pressed several inches into the side of a shipping container.

Normal people didn’t do that.

Enhanced people shouldn’t have been able to do that.

Whatever these criminals had taken, it wasn’t stable.

It was escalating.

The next room answered several questions.

And created much worse ones.

The moment they stepped through the ruined doorway, both froze.

There were at least fifteen people inside.

Some lay unconscious on the floor.

Others paced in frantic, uneven circles.

Several were visibly shaking so hard it looked painful.

One man was clawing at a steel wall hard enough to leave gouges.

Another was holding a crate over his head with one hand, arm trembling as if he had forgotten how to put it down.

A woman in the far corner was crying silently, curled in on herself while the concrete beneath her fingers cracked in spiderweb patterns.

Tim’s stomach dropped.

“Those are not dealers.”

“No,” Damian said quietly.

His hand moved toward one of his swords.

“They are test subjects.”

The realization hit hard.

Because none of these people looked in control.

Most looked terrified.

A few looked confused.

One appeared barely conscious, eyes unfocused and skin flushed bright with fever.

Whatever they had taken wasn’t enhancing them.

It was breaking them.

Then somebody noticed them.

Everything immediately went to hell.

The nearest enhanced individual let out a raw, animal sound and charged.

The concrete under his feet cracked.

Tim had just enough time to think, Oh, that’s bad, before the man hit him.

Tim got the staff up, braced, turned into the impact.

It didn’t matter.

The force launched him backward.

He crashed through a stack of crates hard enough to explode wood around him in splinters and shattered nails.

Pain ripped through his ribs so sharply his body forgot how to breathe.

He hit the ground on his shoulder and rolled twice before skidding to a stop against a support post.

For one terrifying second, nothing worked.

No breath.

No thought.

No movement.

Then air came back in a ragged, broken gasp that felt like being stabbed from the inside.

Not now.

Not here.

Not in front of Damian.

Tim forced himself upright.

Across the room Damian was already engaged with another enhanced criminal.

The man towered over him, body swollen unnaturally, veins dark and raised against blotched skin. His movements were too fast for his size. Too strong. Too erratic.

Damian ducked beneath a swing.

The punch obliterated part of a support beam behind him. Wood burst outward in a rain of splinters.

The ceiling groaned ominously overhead.

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t working.

Every strike that should have ended it wasn’t enough.

Every opening closed too fast.

The man wasn’t fighting with training.

He was fighting like impact itself.

And somehow it was effective.

Damian slashed across the man’s arm with a short blade.

A shallow cut.

Nothing more.

The man barely noticed.

That was deeply concerning.

For the first time all night Damian found himself considering options he rarely allowed himself to entertain.

Because if this continued, if the drug had enhanced durability as much as strength.

Then lethality might become the only reliable way to stop them before someone died.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He hated it.

But he couldn’t ignore it.

Not while innocent people were trapped in the room.

Not while Drake was—

His attention snapped toward Tim on instinct.

Just one glance.

Just enough to confirm everything was fine.

Instead, Damian felt ice flood his veins.

Tim wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

Two enhanced criminals had forced him backward into a narrow gap between broken crates and a support column.

One had a machete.

The other looked broad enough to bench press a car even before the drug had apparently rewritten his body.

Tim’s movements were wrong.

Subtle.

Small.

But wrong.

Too stiff.

Too careful.

Too slow.

The realization hit instantly.

He’s hurt.

Somewhere during the earlier fighting.

Damian hadn’t seen it happen.

Hadn’t noticed.

And now Tim was paying for it.

The larger criminal swung.

Tim dodged.

Barely.

A fraction slower and he would have been flattened.

The second attacker capitalized instantly.

The machete flashed.

Tim twisted.

Not fast enough.

The blade tore across the chest armor just below his collarbone with a shower of sparks and a brutal screech of damaged plating. The strike bit through outer layers and scored across the flesh beneath, hard enough to spin him sideways.

Tim stumbled.

Then the larger criminal hit him.

A massive fist crashed into the side of his head.

The world seemed to stop.

Tim pitched forward.

His staff flew out of his hands and clattered across the floor.

His knees buckled.

He hit the ground hard enough that Damian heard it even over the noise.

For one horrifying second Tim did not get back up.

Damian stopped thinking.

The world narrowed to a single point.

A single objective.

Drake.

The enhanced criminal in front of him swung again.

Damian met the attack head-on.

No hesitation.

No restraint.

No patience.

He drove low, ducking under the man’s guard, and hammered the edge of his sheathed sword into the side of the knee with every ounce of force he had. The joint buckled with a sickening crack. Before the man could fall, Damian pivoted and drove an elbow into his throat. The criminal choked, staggered, and Damian followed with a spinning strike to the temple hard enough to finally drop him.

He was already moving before the body hit the floor.

“RED ROBIN!”

Tim looked up.

Dazed.

Blood running from a split near his hairline, dark against the edge of the domino.

Still trying to stand.

Still trying to fight.

Still pretending he was fine.

Damian wanted to strangle him.

Later.

After he made sure he survived.

The larger enhanced criminal raised another fist.

Damian intercepted him.

Steel bracer met flesh.

The impact slammed all the way up Damian’s arm and into his shoulder. Something in the joint shifted wrong with a nauseating jolt. Pain exploded down his collarbone and into his back.

He ignored it.

The same way Drake always ignored his injuries.

The hypocrisy was not lost on him.

“Robin–-”

“Shut up.”

Tim blinked.

Apparently startled.

Good.

Damian preferred startled over unconscious.

The two criminals turned toward him.

Damian welcomed it.

Because now they were looking at him.

Not Tim.

Exactly where he wanted their attention.

Even if it meant taking on both of them himself.

Even if it meant the odds had just worsened dramatically.

Because one thing had become painfully clear.

Drake should never have still been fighting.

And if Damian had to drag him out of this warehouse personally, then so be it.

Unfortunately, Tim had other ideas.

The moment Damian engaged the larger criminal, Tim forced himself upright.

Pain detonated through his ribs so sharply that black edged his vision.

His head throbbed.

Something warm slid down the side of his face from the cut in his hair.

Every instinct screamed at him to stay down.

Tim ignored every single one.

As usual.

“Red, stay down,” Damian snapped.

Tim grabbed his fallen staff. “No.”

Damian nearly growled.

The larger criminal swung.

Damian ducked and drove a hard strike into the man’s ribs with his sheathed blade.

The impact should have cracked bone.

It barely slowed him.

“Your head was just introduced to the floor,” Damian said.

“I’m aware.”

“You were unconscious.”

“I don’t think I was.”

“You absolutely were.”

The criminal roared.

Damian sidestepped another swing.

“Three seconds.”

“That barely counts.”

“It absolutely counts.”

Tim pushed himself into motion.

The warehouse tilted.

He hated that.

The dizziness was manageable.

The ribs were manageable.

The growing nausea was manageable.

The pulse of pain with every breath was manageable.

Together?

Less so.

Still.

Manageable enough.

One of the enhanced criminals lunged toward Damian’s blind side.

Tim moved before thinking.

His staff snapped out low and vicious.

The strike connected with the back of the man’s knee.

The joint buckled.

Tim followed immediately despite his body’s loud and justified objections.

One strike to the wrist.

Two to the throat.

Three to the base of the skull.

The man collapsed hard.

Damian spared exactly half a second to glance over.

Relief flashed across his face.

Immediately followed by fury.

“You idiot.”

“A thank you would’ve been nice.”

“You are actively concussed.”

“Allegedly.”

“You are bleeding.”

Tim touched the side of his head.

His glove came away red.

He stared at it.

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

Damian made a sound that suggested homicide.

Not at the criminals.

At Tim.

The distinction mattered.

The remaining enhanced criminal looked between them.

Confused.

Reasonable, really.

Most people were not accustomed to siblings arguing in the middle of combat.

The hesitation lasted long enough for Damian to capitalize.

He stepped inside the man’s guard and brought the sheathed sword down across the wrist with a brutal crack.

Something snapped.

The criminal screamed.

Tim moved with him, staff slamming into the solar plexus, then the jaw.

The man reeled.

Damian swept his legs.

He crashed onto his back hard enough to shake the floor.

Tim brought the staff down one final time.

The fight ended.

Everything went still.

For a moment there was only the ringing in Tim’s ears and the sound of both of them breathing too hard.

Then Damian spoke.

“You absolute moron.”

Tim bent slightly, one arm wrapping unconsciously around his ribs. “I helped.”

“You should be unconscious.”

“Probably.”

“You should be receiving medical attention.”

“Probably.”

“You should not be standing.”

“Also probably.”

Damian stared.

Tim smiled.

It was weak and crooked and pale around the edges.

Damian looked seconds away from violence.

Again.

The distinction mattered.

They spent the next twenty minutes securing the warehouse.

Most of the enhanced individuals had finally begun to crash.

Several were unconscious.

Others were disoriented.

One man had broken two fingers by gripping a steel beam too hard.

A woman was sobbing and vomiting at the same time, entire body shaking so violently Cass would later describe it as seizure-adjacent.

Another victim’s pulse was dangerously erratic.

The drug had clearly done far more than simply increase strength.

Tim quietly documented everything.

The vials.

The shattered restraints hidden in one side room.

The notebooks.

The dosing charts.

The chemical labels.

The shipping manifests.

The crates marked for distribution.

Every single piece of evidence they could preserve.

By the end of it, they had enough to bury the operation and everyone attached to it.

Damian personally destroyed the remaining product.

Every vial.

Every sealed container.

Every last trace.

He did it methodically and with visible satisfaction.

The resulting small detonations rolled through the warehouse in bursts of heat and chemical stink.

Tim watched one shelf collapse inward. “That looked expensive.”

“It was,” Damian said.

“Good.”

For once they completely agreed.

Nearly an hour later, they finally stopped moving.

The warehouse was secured.

The police had been anonymously tipped off.

The evidence had been uploaded.

Paramedics were already being routed toward the victims.

Mission accomplished.

Tim leaned against a crate.

Very casually.

Entirely because he wanted to.

Not because standing had started to feel more theoretical than practical.

Definitely not.

Damian watched him.

Unimpressed.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Drake.”

“No.”

“You are injured.”

“I have been injured before.”

“You have blood in your hair.”

“It adds character.”

“It adds infection.”

Tim laughed and immediately regretted it.

The motion pulled at the slash across his chest, his bruised side, and whatever fresh hell had happened to his ribs. Pain twisted across his face before he could hide it.

Damian noticed.

Of course he did.

Before Damian could continue the lecture, Tim’s communicator crackled.

Both boys froze.

Because they recognized the voice instantly.

“Red Robin. Robin.”

Tim closed his eyes. “Oh no.”

Damian sighed. “Father.”

Bruce was not supposed to be on this channel.

The entire point of the private channel was that it was private.

Apparently Bruce had disagreed.

“Status report.”

Tim looked at Damian.

Damian looked at Tim.

Both silently agreed they were never telling Bruce how to access this frequency again.

Tim tapped the comm. “We’re fine.”

A pause.

Then:

“Define fine.”

Tim and Damian groaned at exactly the same time.

Bruce continued. “Red Robin.”

Tim rubbed his face. “The warehouse is secured.”

“Your injuries.”

Tim froze.

Damian narrowed his eyes.

Traitor.

Somewhere, somehow, Bruce already knew.

Tim decided he hated being related to detectives.

“Few,” Tim said.

Another pause.

“Red Robin.”

Tim sighed dramatically. “Few and non-life-threatening.”

Damian snorted.

Bruce was silent for several seconds.

Long enough that both of them knew exactly what was happening.

He was worried.

Again.

Finally:

“Medical evaluation when you return.”

Tim immediately opened his mouth. “No.”

“That was not a suggestion.”

Tim looked offended.

Damian looked delighted, which should have been illegal.

“Robin.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Make sure he gets checked.”

Damian’s grin turned downright vicious. “It would be my pleasure.”

Tim stared at the ceiling.

Betrayed.

Completely and utterly betrayed.

Bruce disconnected.

The channel went silent.

For exactly three seconds.

Then Damian spoke.

“You heard him.”

Tim groaned. “I liked you better when you were trying to stab me.”

“You are remembering our childhood incorrectly.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Tim pushed himself away from the crate.

Immediately swayed.

Just slightly.

Barely noticeable.

Except Damian noticed.

Because of course he did.

The younger boy stepped closer without comment.

Close enough to catch him if needed.

Not close enough to make a spectacle of it.

Tim pretended not to notice.

Damian pretended he wasn’t doing it.

Together, they made their way out of the ruined warehouse.

Victorious.

Exhausted.

And already dreading the medical lecture waiting for them back at the Manor.

The trip back was miserable.

Not because of the weather.

Not because Gotham’s streets were especially crowded.

Not even because both of them looked like they had lost a fight with a collapsing building.

No.

The problem was Damian.

Specifically, Damian’s refusal to let Tim grapple.

For the first five minutes Tim argued.

For the next ten he complained.

For the remaining thirty he accepted that he was losing.

“This is ridiculous.”

“You have a concussion.”

“I have had worse.”

“You are not helping your case.”

Tim scowled.

Damian ignored him.

Again.

It was becoming a deeply disturbing trend.

The truth was uglier than Tim wanted to admit.

He couldn’t trust his depth perception right now.

Every rooftop edge looked half a beat farther away than it should have.

Every landing rattled through his ribs, his chest, and the bruised flesh that makes up his back.

His right side had stiffened enough that twisting too quickly made his breath hitch.

There was a throbbing pressure at the base of his skull that got worse every time a headlight flashed across his vision.

Damian wasn’t just being annoying.

He was right.

Which made it unbearable.

Damian wasn’t in great shape himself.

The earlier impact to his shoulder had settled into something deep and wrong. He’d stopped using the arm fully halfway through the return trip, compensating with the stubborn grace of someone who would rather bleed than limp. A bruise had begun to spread darkly up the side of his jaw. There was a split across one eyebrow, dried blood cutting down toward the edge of his mask. One of his knees was stiff. His breathing had gone slightly shallow whenever he thought Tim wasn’t looking.

Tim noticed.

Of course he did.

Neither said anything.

Eventually they reached where their bikes had been hidden.

From there, the trip was faster.

Not nearly fast enough for Tim’s liking.

By the time they entered the Batcave, they were the last people to arrive.

Everyone else was already waiting.

Bruce.

Dick.

Jason.

Steph.

Cass.

The moment Tim and Damian stepped off the platform, the room fell silent.

Every conversation stopped.

Every eye turned toward them.

Tim immediately regretted coming home.

Damian looked equally thrilled.

Which was to say not at all.

The silence lasted three seconds.

Then everyone started talking at once.

“What happened?”

“You look terrible.”

“Why is there blood in your hair?”

“Is that your blood?”

“Please tell me that’s your blood.”

“That is somehow worse.”

Tim immediately turned around. “Nope.”

“Tim.”

“Nope.”

“Timothy.”

“Absolutely not.”

Unfortunately for him, Alfred was already approaching.

Medical kit in hand.

The look on his face suggested escape was no longer an option.

“Master Timothy.”

“Alfred.”

“Medical examination.”

Tim sighed dramatically.

Damian looked entirely too pleased about it.

Then Tim did something unexpected.

He stepped aside.

And pointed directly at Damian.

“Him first.”

Damian blinked. “What?”

“Him first.”

“Drake.”

“Him.”

Damian frowned. “My injuries are nowhere near as severe as yours.”

The glare Tim leveled at him could have shattered concrete.

It was not large.

Not dramatic.

Just the expression of someone who had spent years weaponizing stubbornness into an art form.

Damian recognized it immediately.

Because it was the same look he used himself.

The realization seemed to hit both of them at the same time.

Neither acknowledged it.

“Robin,” Tim said.

“No.”

“Robin.”

“You have a concussion.”

“And you have a shoulder.”

Damian froze.

Tim’s expression didn’t change.

Neither did his tone.

“You are getting checked first.”

The younger boy opened his mouth.

Tim raised an eyebrow.

Damian immediately closed it again.

Jason nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Steph outright failed.

Cass looked amused.

Dick was staring between them like he had somehow missed several years of development.

Bruce looked concerned.

Alfred looked victorious.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said.

Damian sighed. Defeated. “Fine.”

Tim nodded once, satisfied.

Then immediately leaned against the nearest railing.

Entirely because he wanted to.

Not because standing was becoming steadily more difficult.

Definitely not.

Alfred guided Damian toward one of the medical stations.

The examination began almost immediately.

The family crowded nearby, trying and failing to appear casual.

Damian looked deeply offended by the entire process.

Alfred ignored him.

Years of experience.

The first issue became obvious almost immediately.

“Your shoulder, Master Damian.”

The room went still.

Damian’s expression darkened.

Tim groaned. “Oh, come on.”

“It is merely dislocated,” Damian said.

Tim stared. “Merely.”

“Correct.”

Alfred carefully tested the range of motion.

The damage list started growing from there.

The shoulder was not only dislocated but badly strained, with surrounding muscle torn enough to leave the entire upper arm trembling whenever Damian moved it wrong. There was bruising along the collarbone where the impact had traveled, spreading in thick dark bands beneath the skin.

One rib on his left side was cracked.

Another deeply bruised.

His right knee had taken a hard lateral hit and was already swelling beneath the suit.

There were two ugly bruises along his spine from being thrown into stacked crates, one of which made Alfred’s mouth flatten in clear disapproval.

A cut ran along his flank where a blade had gotten past the armor, shallow but long.

His hands were a mess of split knuckles and rising bruises.

Several deep impacts had left his abdomen tender enough that when Alfred pressed there Damian’s entire jaw locked.

Then Alfred reset the shoulder.

A sharp pop echoed through the cave.

Several people winced.

Damian didn’t make a sound.

Though the way his fingers dug into the edge of the table spoke volumes.

“There we are,” Alfred murmured.

By the time Alfred finished, Damian’s injuries were still solidly in the category of bad night, but survivable.

Painful.

Exhausting.

Enough that no one should have expected him to keep fighting as long as he had.

Jason crossed his arms. “What exactly were you two fighting?”

“Drug dealers,” Tim said.

The room stared.

Tim shrugged. “Technically.”

Steph narrowed her eyes. “Technically?”

Damian looked toward them. “Individuals enhanced through an experimental narcotic.”

Silence.

Dick frowned. “What kind of enhancement?”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “The kind where normal people become stronger than most metas.”

The silence somehow deepened.

Jason blinked. “What?”

Bruce’s expression sharpened instantly. “Explain.”

Tim sighed, already regretting speaking. “The drug wasn’t stable.”

“That is an understatement,” Damian muttered.

Tim nodded. “It enhanced strength, durability, speed—”

“Pain tolerance,” Damian added.

“Probably aggression.”

“Definitely aggression.”

Tim grimaced. “There was also evidence of mutation.”

That got everyone’s attention immediately.

Dick looked horrified.

Steph looked concerned.

Bruce looked one step away from personally raiding every connected address in Gotham.

“How many were there?” he asked.

Tim considered.

Then immediately regretted counting.

“A lot.”

“Define a lot.”

Tim glanced at Damian.

Damian answered first. “Too many.”

No one looked reassured.

Bruce especially.

His gaze flickered between the two of them, taking in every bruise, every cut, every sign of fatigue, every sign that the mission had gone significantly worse than either of them had admitted over comms.

And slowly.

Very slowly.

His eyes settled on Tim.

Who was still leaning against the railing.

Still too quiet.

Still suspiciously still.

Still pretending every breath didn’t hurt.

Alfred followed Bruce’s gaze.

The room seemed to realize the same thing all at once.

Because suddenly everyone’s attention shifted toward the one examination that still hadn’t happened.

Tim immediately knew he was in trouble.

Alfred smiled politely.

A smile that somehow felt far more threatening than any villain Gotham had ever produced.

“Now then, Master Timothy.”

Tim considered running.

Unfortunately, his ribs informed him that this was no longer a realistic option.

The moment Alfred spoke, Tim knew he had lost.

Not that he intended to admit it.

Ever.

“Alfred, I think we’re all overreacting a little.”

The entire cave stared at him.

Tim stared back.

Nobody looked convinced.

Not even remotely.

“Master Timothy.”

Alfred’s tone carried the kind of warning that had made hardened criminals reconsider their life choices.

Tim sighed. “Dramatic.”

“Sit.”

Tim sat.

Mostly because standing had become increasingly unpleasant over the last hour.

Partially because every inhale felt like his ribs were attempting to stage a prison riot.

The metal examination table was cold beneath him.

Across the cave, Damian immediately abandoned any pretense of being done with his own treatment and moved closer.

The rest of the family followed.

Tim considered this deeply unfair.

“What happened to personal space?”

“You lost that privilege when you described a concussion as ‘non-life-threatening,’” Jason informed him.

“Technically accurate.”

“No.”

“Technically accurate.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose.

Bruce looked like he was developing a headache.

Steph looked ready to start a betting pool on how many injuries Tim was hiding.

Cass looked entirely unsurprised.

Alfred opened his medical kit.

“Shirt.”

Tim froze. “No.”

“Master Timothy.”

“No.”

“Shirt.”

Tim glanced around for support.

He found none.

Traitors.

Every single one of them.

With the dramatic resignation of a man being led to his execution, Tim pulled off his cape.

Then the armor.

Then the undershirt.

The cave fell silent.

Completely silent.

Tim immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

Because the damage looked worse than it had felt.

The machete strike had carved a long, ugly slash across the upper portion of his torso, starting near the edge of his right shoulder and tracking diagonally across his chest. It wasn’t deep enough to be immediately catastrophic, but it was far deeper than anyone wanted, and the bruising beneath it had already turned violent colors, purple, blue, black, blooming under the skin like a storm.

And that was only the beginning.

His right side was a wreck.

Bruising spread from just beneath his arm all the way around toward his back in dense, dark layers where the crowbar had hit and where he had later been thrown through the crates. One section over the lower ribs had begun to swell visibly, the skin stretched tight and angry.

There were impacts across his abdomen, old yellowed ones beneath newer purple-black blooms, and the overlap made the pattern worse somehow.

A fresh line of bruising climbed over one hip.

His shoulder had a deep bruise already spreading downward.

Scrapes, cuts, and shallow tears crossed his arms and sides in enough places that it was immediately obvious he had taken far more damage than he had admitted.

Nobody spoke.

Tim suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

Alfred looked at the injuries.

Then at Tim.

Then back again.

“Master Timothy.”

“Yes?”

“When were you planning on mentioning any of this?”

Tim considered his options. “Eventually?”

Damian snorted.

The sound was not kind.

“That means never,” he said.

Tim pointed. “I don’t appreciate being understood this well.”

“Good.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to say several things at once and none of them were pleasant.

Before he could speak, Alfred stepped forward.

Gentle fingers examined the slash across Tim’s chest.

Tim hissed before he could stop himself.

The entire family noticed.

Because Tim rarely reacted to pain.

Which meant that hurt.

A lot.

The realization did not improve anyone’s mood.

“Not deep enough to require surgery,” Alfred said at last.

Relief moved through the room.

Then he continued.

“But deep enough that it will require extensive stitches.”

The relief vanished.

Tim groaned.

The head wound came next.

And somehow it was worse.

Alfred carefully parted Tim’s hair.

The cave collectively winced.

The cut hidden beneath was ugly, split against the scalp and deeper than anyone had expected, with dried blood matted through enough hair to show how freely it had bled earlier. The skin around it was already swelling. A bruise had started to form behind one ear.

Deep enough that it should have been treated immediately.

Deep enough that continuing to fight afterward had been a spectacularly bad idea.

Deep enough that Tim was now watching Bruce avoid looking angry because anger was easier than fear and fear was easier than guilt.

Alfred’s expression somehow became even less impressed.

A remarkable achievement.

“Master Timothy.”

Tim immediately knew that tone.

It was the tone Alfred used before a lecture.

A long lecture.

“Yes?”

“You sustained a head injury.”

“Yes.”

“You continued fighting.”

Tim looked at Damian.

Damian looked back.

Neither said anything.

The silence itself was apparently incriminating.

“Master Timothy.”

“…Yes?”

“You continued fighting.”

Tim pointed weakly at Damian. “He was getting ganged up on.”

Damian stared at him.

The family stared at him.

Bruce closed his eyes.

Dick looked physically pained.

Steph buried her face in her hands.

“That is not a defense,” Damian said.

“I feel like it is.”

“It is not.”

The concussion evaluation was worse.

Much worse.

Because Alfred knew exactly what he was doing.

And Tim deeply resented that fact.

Questions followed.

Lights.

Memory checks.

Tracking tests.

Reaction tests.

Balance.

Orientation.

The longer it went, the more the family’s concern deepened.

Tim answered everything.

Mostly.

Some of it.

Enough of it.

The headache pounding behind his eyes wasn’t helping.

Neither was the nausea.

Or the dizziness.

Or the pressure building every time the cave lights felt too bright.

Finally Alfred stepped back.

His expression was grim.

“Severe concussion.”

Silence.

Tim immediately looked away.

Bruce spoke first.

“Severe?”

Alfred nodded.

Tim hated that word.

Especially when applied to him.

The room somehow became even quieter.

The ribs came next.

Unfortunately.

Because Tim had been hoping everyone would forget about them.

A foolish hope.

One that lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Alfred pressed lightly against one spot on Tim’s side.

Tim immediately sucked in a sharp breath.

The entire family noticed.

Of course they did.

Another spot.

Another sharp inhale.

A third.

A fourth.

By the time Alfred finished, Tim was gripping the edge of the table hard enough for his knuckles to go white.

Alfred stepped back.

“Several ribs are badly bruised.”

Nobody looked happy.

“Three are cracked.”

Bruce’s expression darkened.

“And two are broken.”

The cave exploded.

“What?!”

“Tim!”

“Drake!”

“Are you kidding me?!”

Tim considered lying.

Unfortunately Damian got there first.

“I told him he should not have been fighting.”

Tim pointed accusingly. “Snitch.”

“You had broken ribs.”

“Allegedly.”

Alfred looked at him.

Tim wisely stopped talking.

The rest of the damage kept coming.

A deep muscle bruise across his back where he had hit the support post hard enough to leave him stiff and uneven in movement.

A partially torn shoulder from catching that first impossible blow wrong.

A badly bruised hip.

Two fingers on his left hand jammed hard enough that movement made him flinch.

A long abrasion across his back where he had skidded through splintered debris.

An ugly line of swelling along one knee from impact with the floor.

The cuts and bruises started to feel less like separate injuries and more like a tally of everything that had gotten through.

Then Alfred paused.

His gaze lowered.

Tim immediately knew he was doomed.

“Oh no,” Tim said.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Tim considered several escape routes.

All of them were terrible.

Alfred slowly lifted the torn fabric near Tim’s leg.

The cave fell silent again.

Because beneath the damaged suit was a long, angry wound stretching across the outside of Tim’s thigh.

The bullet had only grazed him.

But it had done so with enough force to carve a deep trench through flesh before passing on.

The blood had slowed, but not stopped.

Bruising had already begun to spread around the wound in dark, ugly arcs.

Jason blinked.

Dick blinked.

Steph blinked.

Bruce looked like he had momentarily forgotten how breathing worked.

Damian stared.

Then slowly turned toward Tim.

“You were shot.”

Tim immediately pointed. “Technically grazed.”

“You were shot.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“You were shot.”

“It barely counts.”

“It absolutely counts.”

The younger boy looked one sentence away from committing a felony.

Possibly several.

Tim wisely looked elsewhere.

For several long moments, nobody spoke.

The reality of it finally settling over the cave.

Broken ribs.

Cracked ribs.

A severe concussion.

A deep scalp wound.

A long slash across his chest.

A gunshot graze.

A strained shoulder.

Bruises everywhere.

And somehow, somehow, he had described all of that as:

Few and non-life-threatening.

Bruce finally sat down.

Slowly.

Like his legs had briefly forgotten their function.

Dick looked horrified.

Steph looked furious.

Jason looked torn between yelling and strangling someone.

Cass had moved closer without anyone noticing.

Damian stood beside the examination table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

But his eyes never left Tim.

Not once.

As if he was making sure Tim was still there.

Still conscious.

Still breathing.

Alfred finally broke the silence.

“Master Timothy.”

Tim immediately knew he wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “Yes?”

“You are not leaving this cave tonight.”

Tim opened his mouth.

“No,” came from six different voices at once.

Tim looked around.

Betrayed.

Again.

The worst part?

Damian was nodding.

And somehow that felt like the biggest betrayal of all.

The medical area gradually emptied.

Not all at once.

One person at a time.

Bruce left first after Alfred practically ordered him to start reviewing the evidence from the warehouse.

Dick followed shortly after.

Steph and Cass disappeared toward the computers.

Jason lingered the longest, looking like he wanted to say something before ultimately deciding against it.

Alfred stepped away to gather fresh dressings, medication, and enough supplies to outfit a field hospital.

Eventually the noise faded.

The cave settled into its usual low mechanical hum.

Tim remained seated on the examination table.

Nobody seemed to notice.

Or perhaps they assumed he would follow eventually.

Either way, no one stopped.

No one except Damian.

Tim didn’t move.

Didn’t stand.

Didn’t look toward the exits.

He simply stared at a point beyond the opposite wall, unfocused and distant.

The adrenaline was gone now.

The mission was over.

The injuries had names.

The danger had passed.

And unfortunately that left him alone with his thoughts.

The worst place to be.

His hand drifted toward his arm.

Absent.

Automatic.

The bandages around his ribs pressed tightly with every shallow inhale.

The white wrappings across his chest and scalp felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

And beneath the physical pain, something older had started to crack open.

Why now?

His gaze lowered.

Why this time?

There had been nights he could barely walk.

Nights he had stitched himself up in bathroom mirrors with hands too numb to be steady.

Nights he had fallen asleep on rooftops because getting home required more strength than he had left.

Nights he had wondered, with a calm that frightened him now to remember, whether anyone would notice if he didn’t come back.

Yet somehow tonight was the night everyone had looked horrified.

Tonight was the night people had stared at him like he mattered enough to break them too.

His throat tightened.

Stop.

The thought didn’t listen.

Why now?

Memory rose fast and cruel.

His mother telling him to stop crying.

His father slamming a door hard enough to shake the frame.

The bright empty silence of a house too large for a child to rattle inside.

Teachers overlooking things it would have been easier not to see.

Bruce missing signs.

All of them missing signs.

One memory bled into another.

Then another.

Then another.

Until they stopped feeling like moments and started feeling like evidence.

Proof that care always came late.

Proof that people only noticed once the damage became visible enough to inconvenience them.

Proof that maybe nothing had really changed.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

His breathing shortened.

The cave suddenly felt too large.

Too bright.

Too loud.

His chest hurt.

His head hurt.

Everything hurt.

And none of it felt entirely real.

His fingers dug into his arm.

Hard.

Harder.

His nails bit skin.

The sting cut through the noise for half a second.

Then the thoughts came rushing back.

His hand moved again.

Dragging downward.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The skin burned.

Thin red lines appeared immediately.

Tim barely noticed.

Maybe they only care because Damian was there.

Maybe if he’d been alone—

Maybe if Damian hadn’t said anything—

Maybe if he disappeared tomorrow—

His nails dug in again.

Hard enough to break skin.

A narrow line of red welled beneath them.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t seem to notice.

The pain grounded him for a heartbeat, then vanished.

His hand moved again.

Automatic.

Compulsive.

Scratching.

Digging.

Dragging.

The marks multiplied.

Fresh red lines crossing older faded ones.

Some shallow.

Some deeper.

His breathing hitched.

Then his fingers curled tighter.

As if pain could drown out thought.

As if he could claw himself back into his own body.

He didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t notice the examination table dip slightly beside him.

For several long moments, there was only silence.

Then:

“Drake.”

No response.

Damian’s stomach dropped.

He had seen this look before.

Not often.

But enough.

That thousand-yard stare.

The complete absence of awareness.

The way Tim’s eyes fixed on something that wasn’t there.

Something only he could see.

Damian followed his gaze.

Nothing.

Then he looked down.

And his breath caught.

Fresh scratches.

Far more than there should have been.

Angry red marks climbed the length of Tim’s exposed forearm, crossing over older healed lines Damian was not sure he was supposed to have noticed. Some were shallow. Others had broken open. Tiny beads of blood welled along several of them.

And worst of all, Tim was still doing it.

Slowly.

Mindlessly.

Dragging his nails across already damaged skin as though he couldn’t feel it.

As though he wasn’t even aware he was moving.

Something cold and awful settled in Damian’s chest.

Because those marks had not been there minutes ago.

“Drake.”

Still nothing.

Damian sat fully beside him.

Close enough for their shoulders to touch.

Not forcing.

Not crowding.

Just there.

Present.

A reminder.

Tim’s hand moved again.

Damian caught his wrist immediately.

Firm this time.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

Just enough to stop the motion completely.

Tim resisted for half a second.

Not intentionally.

Pure reflex.

Still trying to reach his arm.

Damian’s stomach twisted.

The resistance finally earned a reaction.

Tim blinked.

Slowly.

As though surfacing from underwater.

His eyes focused.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“…Damian?”

“There you are.”

The words came out quieter than Damian intended.

Tim stared at him.

Confused.

Disoriented.

Like he couldn’t quite remember how he had gotten there.

Damian hated that look.

More than he hated the injuries.

More than the concussion.

More than the warehouse.

Because cuts healed.

Bruises faded.

This was different.

This was deeper.

His grip stayed around Tim’s wrist.

Not to trap.

Just to stop.

Tim finally looked down.

Saw the scratches.

Saw the blood.

Saw Damian holding his arm.

Something flickered across his face.

Shock.

Then realization.

Then shame.

Damian immediately hated that too.

“You were gone,” Damian said.

Tim swallowed, gaze fixed on the damage. “I know.”

“No.”

Damian shook his head. “You were gone.”

This time Tim understood.

His shoulders sagged.

The exhaustion showed through every fracture in his carefully maintained control.

For a long moment neither of them spoke.

The cave hummed around them.

Distant voices carried from somewhere across the platforms.

None of it felt important.

Because Damian had reached one very clear conclusion.

Tim should not be alone tonight.

Not for five minutes.

Not for one.

Not after that look.

Not after the scratches.

Not after the blood.

Not after watching him vanish so completely into his own head that he had not noticed he was hurting himself.

Damian shifted slightly closer.

Not enough to make a show of it.

Enough to say something without words.

I’m staying.

Tim glanced toward him.

Then toward their shoulders.

Then back again.

Understanding dawned slowly.

Neither mentioned it.

Neither had to.

For once, words weren’t necessary.

And for the first time since the warehouse, some of the tension slowly left Tim’s shoulders.

Not all of it.

Not even most of it.

But enough.

Enough for Damian to believe he had gotten there in time.

Footsteps echoed through the medical bay.

Neither boy looked up immediately.

The familiar sounds drew closer.

Alfred.

Bruce.

The scent of tea and something warm.

Only then did Tim lift his head.

Bruce froze.

Alfred’s expression softened instantly.

The older men took in the scene in one glance.

Damian sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Tim.

Tim looking beyond exhausted.

Damian still holding his wrist.

Not tightly.

Not possessively.

Just enough to remind him someone was there.

Alfred silently set down a tray.

Sandwich.

Crackers.

Fresh lemonade.

Medication.

The sort of things that appeared whenever Alfred decided someone was no longer capable of taking care of themselves.

Tim opened his mouth.

Alfred gave him a look.

Tim closed it again.

Wisely.

Without a word, Alfred knelt beside them.

His movements were gentle.

Practiced.

The motions of someone who had cared for hurt children for far longer than any of them liked to think about.

No lecture.

No disappointment.

Just careful hands cleaning blood from fresh scratches as though Tim had not done anything shameful at all.

As though this too was just an injury.

As though it deserved care instead of punishment.

Tim watched in silence.

Something in his face shifted.

Not relief exactly.

Something more fragile than that.

Bruce remained standing a few feet away.

Watching.

And then his gaze settled on Tim’s arm.

On the scratches.

On the fresh lines crossing older faded marks.

Something in Bruce’s expression broke.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just a small, terrible collapse around the eyes.

He looked suddenly older.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like someone had reached inside him and pressed on every regret he had spent years trying to outrun.

There was grief in it.

Not abstract sorrow.

Not general concern.

Grief.

Raw and aching and immediate.

As if he were looking at proof of pain he should have seen long ago and still hadn’t protected Tim from.

His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know if he had earned the right.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

“Tim…”

That was all.

Just his name.

And somehow it sounded more devastated than any lecture would have.

Tim looked away immediately.

Because that was harder to bear than anger.

Bruce’s mouth tightened.

His eyes stayed on the scratches for another second too long, as if memorizing them was a punishment he owed himself.

Alfred finished bandaging Tim’s arm with the same quiet thoroughness he had used for the rest of him.

Only once the wraps were secure did Bruce step forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he was approaching something hurt enough that the wrong movement might send it bolting.

Tim stiffened instinctively.

Damian noticed.

Of course he did.

Bruce noticed that Damian noticed.

That realization visibly hurt.

For a moment Bruce simply looked at them.

His sons.

Bruised.

Exhausted.

Trying much too hard to hold themselves together.

Then he crouched so he was eye level with them.

“I owe both of you an apology.”

Neither boy responded.

Bruce continued anyway.

“I know I haven’t always gotten this right.”

That might have been the understatement of the century.

Nobody said it.

Mostly because Alfred was present and because Bruce already looked like he knew.

“I know there were times I should have paid more attention.”

His voice cracked slightly.

Just enough to be noticeable.

“I know there were times you needed me and I wasn’t there.”

Tim looked away.

Damian’s expression tightened.

Bruce swallowed.

“I can’t change those things.”

The words sounded painful.

“I wish I could.”

For a second he looked as exhausted as they felt.

“But I want to do better.”

The admission seemed to cost him something.

“I want to be better.”

His gaze moved between them.

“And I know that isn’t something I can do by myself.”

Tim’s throat tightened.

Bruce Wayne asked for many things.

Help was rarely one of them.

“I need your help,” Bruce said quietly.

Neither boy had expected that.

“I need you to tell me when I get things wrong.”

A small, humorless laugh escaped him.

“I know that probably sounds dangerous.”

Damian snorted.

The first sound either of them had made in several minutes.

Bruce smiled faintly.

“Probably is.”

The smile vanished quickly.

His gaze settled on Tim.

Not accusing.

Not demanding.

Just honest.

“When things get bad, I need you to let someone in.”

Tim immediately looked away.

Bruce’s expression softened even further.

“I know that’s hard.”

An understatement.

“I know you learned a long time ago that handling things alone felt safer.”

The words landed harder than Tim wanted them to.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Silence followed.

Long.

Heavy.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

Eventually Alfred cleared his throat with the perfect timing of a man who had raised this family for decades.

“Master Timothy.”

Tim looked up.

“Yes?”

“You are going to eat.”

It was not a question.

Tim sighed. “Defeated by soup and emotional honesty. Brutal.”

Alfred looked pleased.

Damian looked pleased.

Bruce looked relieved.

Everyone was apparently conspiring against him.

As usual.

A little while later, after medication, food, fresh dressings, and several increasingly firm reminders that Tim was not allowed to disappear upstairs by himself, the question of sleeping arrangements arose.

“Tim will stay in the cave tonight,” Bruce said.

“Obviously not,” Damian said immediately.

The room turned.

Damian crossed his arms.

“He should stay in his room.”

The room went quiet.

Tim blinked.

Bruce blinked.

Alfred looked suspiciously unsurprised.

Damian pressed on before anyone could interrupt.

“I have been staying there more often recently.”

Tim opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because that was true.

It had started almost by accident.

One bad night.

Then another.

Then a pattern neither of them had named.

Damian continuing to show up in Tim’s room under the thinnest excuses imaginable, patrol reports, a book he had supposedly forgotten, a conversation that did not need to happen at two in the morning, until eventually no one bothered pretending it was incidental anymore.

“It is familiar,” Damian said, more quietly.

Another brief pause.

“It is easier.”

The words landed harder than Tim expected.

Damian looked toward Alfred.

Not demanding.

Not stubborn.

Worried.

“He should not be alone.”

The room became very quiet.

Alfred’s expression softened.

Bruce’s did too.

After a moment Alfred nodded.

“I believe that would be acceptable.”

The relief that crossed Damian’s face vanished almost immediately.

But everyone saw it.

Tim especially.

An hour later, they were finally upstairs.

The manor was quiet.

Dark.

Peaceful in the strange, fragile way only very old houses ever managed.

Neither of them had much energy left for conversation.

Tim was exhausted.

The concussion wasn’t helping.

Neither were the broken ribs.

Or the stitches.

Or the emotional wreckage of the evening.

By the time they reached Tim’s room, he was barely keeping his eyes open.

Damian noticed.

Naturally.

“You look terrible.”

Tim yawned. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

The room itself had changed in recent weeks in small ways that would have gone unnoticed by almost anyone else.

An extra blanket folded over the chair by the window.

One of Damian’s books left on Tim’s desk.

A spare charger on the nightstand that did not belong to Tim.

A second pillow that had migrated to the bed and never migrated back.

Evidence.

Quiet, ordinary evidence.

They settled into the now-familiar routine with surprising ease.

No awkwardness.

No embarrassment.

Just two brothers who had become used to the shape of each other’s presence.

Tim lowered himself onto the bed with an expression that suggested every single injury had filed a complaint at once.

Damian pretended not to notice how carefully he moved.

Tim lasted less than two minutes before the pain medication and exhaustion began to win.

One moment he was still trying to mutter something sarcastic.

The next his eyes had drifted shut.

His breathing slowed.

Sleep took him quickly and without argument.

Damian sat nearby for a long moment, watching.

Making sure he was actually asleep.

Making sure he was breathing evenly.

Making sure the bad night had, at least for now, released its grip.

Eventually he relaxed.

Just a little.

The room was dark.

Silent.

Safe.

And for the first time all day, neither of them was fighting anything.

Not criminals.

Not memories.

Not themselves.

Damian looked toward his sleeping brother.

Then quietly muttered, “I wish you would let us help you.”

Tim didn’t stir.

“I wish you would stop trying to carry everything by yourself.”

Still nothing.

Just the soft, steady rhythm of sleep.

Damian felt something tighten in his chest.

Then slowly ease.

Because for tonight, at least, Tim was here.

That would have to be enough.

He adjusted the extra blanket over the foot of the bed, turned off the last lamp, and settled in without going far.

“Goodnight, Drake,” he said softly.

A few minutes later, sleep finally claimed him too.

And for the first time in a long while, neither of them slept alone.