Chapter Text
“Following a presumed hostage situation at the former Luthorcorp Tower in Downtown Gotham, Timothy Wayne, the son of renowned billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne was admitted to Gotham General in critical condition. Two of the leading suspects of the Tower’s explosion: the Arkham Knight and the Batwoman, have been taken into custody, while the third, going by the name ‘Red X’, is presumed dead, all three due in part to the efforts of the Titans, and their newest member, Superboy.
Thanks to the relentless efforts of famed surgeon Dr. Tommy Elliot, Wayne has since been discharged, starting work this morning at the Gotham Gazette as a lead detective, working directly with the GCPD. From me, Vicki Vale, and everyone else here at GCN, we hope nothing but the best for the young Wayne. More at 10.”
Tim hadn’t actually wanted to kill himself, but he got pretty damn close to it. A ‘baptism by fire’, Deathstroke had called it, once. He’d meant only to metaphorically kill the Red X persona- not literally. Maybe that was X’s final trick, his final bow- a hail Mary. He was lucky that the only lasting physical damage was an injured eye.
Tim had to go through a hell of a lot of therapy after that stunt. He was fortunate that the Waynes had an in-house psychologist, who he could be fully honest to, being that she was one of the few people that had shared a similar experience.
Dr. Harleen Quinzel had her arm looped with Tim’s the moment that they stepped out of their escort vehicle, half as a security precaution, and half as a reassurance. It’d been some time since Tim last saw Harley outside of her role as Batgirl, much less in professional dress.
The woman’s platinum-blonde bob was tied into a sleek bun, cleverly hiding her last delving with red hair-dye. Her makeup was done in such a way to make her moon-pale skin resemble its original, blood-infused color, though Harley would never dare to sacrifice her beloved red lip.
Her outfit was as corporate as one could get, while retaining at least a fragment of her personality- a burgundy blazer and knee-length pencil skirt set, with matching black kitten heels. Half-rim glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, her ice-blue eyes drawn to a feline stare- a psych trick, she’d once explained- to make her seem both more reputable, and more confident. A trick that Tim wouldn’t ever have to employ.
A small camera crew had gathered at the entrance of the Gotham Gazette, throwing questions that neither of them could be bothered to answer.
“Mr. Wayne! What happened to your eye? Is the patch going to become part of the ‘Red Robin’ brand, now?”
“Mr. Wayne! Is the buzzcut just a new look, or a result of Tommy Elliot’s procedure?”
“Dr. Quinzel! In helping Timothy Wayne, do you hope to clear your past as a genu-ine villain? Or, are you assuming that the people have forgotten that fact?”
Harley was stone-faced all the way into the lobby of the Gazette, where the press wouldn’t follow- whether or not she’d learned that trick from psych school or from the Batman was uncertain. Only then did she let go of Tim and lowered her head, even to his eye level.
She hushed her voice to a sort of whisper. “Timmy, I hope you don’t take B-man’s words too harshly- it don’t mean nothing about your worth, kiddo. You just go be ‘Red Robin’ for a bit, do that detective shit you’re real good at. Boss won’t be takin’ that away from you, s’long as me and Babs got a say in it.”
Tim recalled the brutal ‘conversation’ that Bruce had with him the second that he was conscious enough to hold one, following his surgery. Tim had asked if he’d finally earned the right to become Robin, and Bruce nearly lost his mind.
‘You nearly killed yourself- WOULD have killed yourself, if Tommy hadn’t saved your goddamn life. You think a stunt like that does anything but prove my point? You’re way too desperate, way too unprepared. You went way too far, Tim.’
‘I put Jason and Kate behind bars, Bruce! Toppled the Arkham Militia from the inside- with no casualties but my own. Exactly how you would have done it.’
‘My answer is no, Tim. Your expertise is always going to be ten times more valuable far away from Batman- I know you think that you’re just an alibi for the rest of us, but there’s a reason I chose YOU to be the future face of the Wayne name. Not Dick, not Jason, not Barbara, not Harley, not Tiffany, not Damian. You. Nothing you do is going to change my answer. Nothing you say is going to make your life worth risking, for the sake of a ‘mission’.’
Needless to say, Tim made full use of Harley’s mandated therapy sessions.
“Well, lookie here, kid!” Harley butted, tossing Tim from his memory. “Your assistant’s here, which means your Aunt Harl’s gotta skedaddle. Tim, meet Ms. Brown. Ms. Brown, meet Tim,” she introduced.
The teen girl that had just exited the lobby’s elevator held herself confidently, a clipboard in one hand, adjusting her large-rim glasses with the other. When she locked eyes with Tim, it took both of them just a single second to recognize the other.
“Tim. As in, Tim Drake. From Brentwood. Been a while, hasn't it?"
Stephanie Brown had changed considerably from the last time the two had last seen each other, what… five whole years ago? Back then, a fifteen-year-old Steph was constantly burnt-out, determined to achieve her place as Valedictorian by any means necessary. She was out of place, placed at Brantwood Academy on academic scholarship, her hair always thrown into a quick ponytail, and teeth always biting the end of a pen.
Now, the girl wore her faded blonde hair in loose ringlets, half up, half down, silver hoops hanging from her earlobes. Her outfit was far from the corporate cog that Harley’s was, sporting a loose lavender sweater and a black paisley bandana, tied like a headband. A clip-on ID badge hung from the pocket of her flared jeans, vandalized with around a dozen silver question marks, drawn in marker (or, what Tim hoped was marker).
Tim should have kept up with Stephanie after the two’s paths diverged, knowing how close the two were. But, they’d lost touch, with Steph graduating two years before Tim, ever the overachiever that Tim juxtaposed.
Harley looked between them, as if trying to read her ward’s mind. “You two… know each other.”
Knowing each other was an understatement.
“We dated, Sophomore year,” Stephanie answered, clearly unburdened by the fact. “Puppy love, closer to friends than boyfriend-girlfriend.” It sounded like an answer that you’d give your parents, embarrassed about genuine romantic feelings, but the irony was that that was exactly how Tim recalled their time together.
Library dates, makeup lessons, escape rooms, sudoku championships, touring plays, the two did practically everything together for an entire year, but neither of them really had the ‘spark’ that they were looking for- at least, according to Steph.
She was everything a guy could want in a girl- funny, smart, pretty, a nice laugh-, hell, she had to reject nearly every guy in the school, until she seemed to land on Tim, sleeping at the back of the class, as her alibi.
Tim didn’t want to call what they had ‘Sibling-like’, but it certainly wasn’t ‘Romantic’ in any typical sense of the word. A younger Tim had easily imagined a life with her, but never as her husband- more a partner in crime, a roommate, a best friend.
‘Puppy love’, as Steph had called it, seemed the nearest definition.
“It’s… uh, Wayne, now, by the way, Steph,” Tim eventually dropped, though he still had an ache in his heart for the events that led up to his introduction to the Wayne family.
Stephanie seemed to understand immediately. “God, I’m…” she stopped herself before she could give Tim the same sob that he’d heard a billion times before, from a billion different people.
“Ok, err, Mr. Wayne, then,” Steph corrected, clicking her pen to her temple, as she tended to do when ‘logging’ information. In a second, she moved her glasses, swapping instantaneously into a typical ‘office intern’ persona. “Later this week, I’ll be your personal assistant, a co-partner in all of your assignments, but today, I’ll be your tour guide. If you would please follow me…” she monologued, pressing a button to call the elevator back to the lobby.
Before Tim could join his old friend, however, Harley caught his arm, once more. “Remember, Timmy, no more ‘mask’ bullshit,” she hushed, though her tone was reassuring. “You ain’t the kid in Bruce’s shadow anymore, ain’t Red X, neither. Just. Be. Tim.”
The words left unspoken lingered in his mind. You know the shit that goes down when you try to be anybody else. With that, the off-duty Batgirl, well, skedaddled.
---
“And this, Mr. Wayne, is your office, Detective,” Steph at last said, leading Tim to a space enclosed by glass, at the end of the investigative wing. On the open door, he noticed that rather than his legal name, the glass had been decaled with the words ‘Red Robin’: the name the press had given him, after the titular bird landed on his hospital window, mere moments before he woke up from surgery.
Tim felt a small sort of victory at the name- he was sure Bruce had writhed in his seat when he saw the Gazette publish that story. On the outside, it’d seem like nothing more than the frequent monikers given to important Gotham figures, like the District Attorney “Apollo”, or former mafia patriarch “the Roman”. But, for Bruce, the irony would be practically torturous.
There was just a smidge of concern in Tim if the nickname might expose the truth behind his family, but that sort of thing was far beyond his control, as Harley had said.
“So, they revoke my name privileges, or what?” Tim quipped, an awkwardness still lingering between him and his former girlfriend.
Steph shrugged. “Some guy came in earlier to talk with the Reno crew, requested that they leave it off. Didn’t want your new chapter to be marked by the Wayne name, if I overhead correctly.”
Bruce. Even after exiling him to the Gazette, he still tried puppeteering everything about his son’s life. Except, if it were him, he’d expect Stephanie Brown to be more than familiar with such a figure- she wouldn’t have described him as just ‘some guy’.
Steph could see the cogs moving in Tim’s brain. She always could. “Tall, muscular, terrible at hiding his probable unsavory line of work- just between you and me, Mr. ‘Red Robin’, I’ve got an inkling that he’s one of those… merc types. And not one the good ones like Beacon or Wonder Woman. No clue why you’d be pals with him, but I can’t be one to say much.”
Beacon. That was a name that Tim hadn’t heard in a while.
The golden vigilante, who defended the streets of Gotham without casualty, by code. It made sense for such a figure to despise the Batman, as he’d made abundantly clear, a thorn in Bruce’s side for the last decade or so.
Tim hadn’t heard much about the guy as of the last few years, which could have meant that Beacon had retired, at last, or had simply gotten much better at his job.
Stephanie led Tim into his office, serving as a human doorstop for the time being. The space was everything that you might expect from a position so highly regarded- dark oak bookshelves to one wall, a small guest chair, potted fern, and storage cabinets to another wall, and a wide, sun-lit window behind the central, well-crafted desk.
The item placed on the desk, however, was 10x more peculiar to Tim than any of the predictable office furniture.
A katana, black iron detailed with red crosswork, laid plainly on the varnished wood, just beside its matching case. Tim’s heart dropped, knowing exactly who sent the ‘gift’ even before reading the note secured just beneath it. He only hoped that by some grace of luck, Stephanie hadn’t seen it, or at least, hadn’t paid it too much mind.
Tim knew better.
‘Red,’ the letter began, written in nearly impossibly perfect lettering.
‘For a group of teenagers so involved with the politics of Gotham, you’d really think that they would turn to the news channels more often. Your little fake-out at Luthorcorp seems to have your friends convinced- for now.
But, you and I both know that this ‘new direction’ that your father has taken you won’t last long. You know all too well that your potential is being wasted, rotting away as his puppet, shoved into a corner until he needs you next. Won’t be long until the truth gets out, and everything you’ve built for yourself will be ruined once more.
Come find me when you’ve come to your senses. In the meantime, I hope you’ll see this blade as a token of good will between us. I’m sure it will come into use, someday. You always were my best student.’
No signature, untraceable handwriting- exactly the kind of powerplay that Deathstroke was privy to. Tim took the note and stashed it into his pocket before his irritation overwhelmed him. He needed a distraction.
“Steph, what’ve you been up to? Why work for a newspaper?”
She seemed a bit surprised at the inquiry, but answered all the same. “Needed the money. Couldn’t keep leeching off of my Uncle Ed, y’know?” A half-lie, but Tim didn’t press further. “If I had known I’d be working for you of all people, maybe I wouldn’t have taken the job, though,” she admitted, faking a light laugh.
It did seem unfair- Steph was always much more accomplished than Tim, always reached higher than he could hope to dream of. She was downplaying herself, even now. Even with Tim’s genuine gift for detective work, it just felt… not right, Steph working for him.
By the end of that week, Tim had convinced the higher-ups to promote Steph to a proper ‘Lead Detective’ role, alongside his own. As it turned out, nepotism really had its perks- especially when your father owns the company.
---
The two would continue as a proper dynamic duo for the next few months, taking cases from the GCPD and Gazette, alike. Tim was reminded very quickly that while he had a knack for big-picture investigations, Stephanie was like a walking computer, finding the answers to serial criminal’s hints almost instantaneously.
Tim and Stephanie would spend their days at the Gotham Gazette, occasionally making pit-stops to the GCPD precinct, with Tim returning to Wayne Manor to spend his nights. Aptly, he’d been completely banned from setting foot in the Batcave, isolated from his father’s alter ego even further, especially while Tim’s former boss (Bruce still refused to call the Knight anything resembling a ‘son’) remained a long-term captive.
But, for what it was worth, Tim began to enjoy his life as a salaried detective.
Case after case, story after story, the two began to work almost completely in sync, rekindling a kinship that Tim had once thought abandoned.
A string of bank heists, quickly linked by traces of clay left on the vault doors.
A collection of seemingly random building fires, triangulated to the arrest of a pyromaniac.
A wave of ruined roads around Arkham Island, tied to the recent incarceration of a plant-loving criminal.
As he was sure that Bruce was thrilled about, Tim and Steph would never be the ones to confront the perps- only relay the solution to the Gazette, and, as needed, the GCPD.
Some days, Tim might see his brother’s team of heroes blitz past his office window, off to fight one of the more meaningful battles of the city. It seemed like a taunt, a cruel joke that the universe was playing on him. Practically dangling everything he could ever want, right in front of his face, but just out of reach.
The Gazette’s windows were tinted, so he didn’t have to worry about his former friends catching a dead man’s gaze. Stephanie, on the inside, however, was no fool to the way that Tim’s eyes lingered on the window, especially after one particular hero flew past, oblivious to the boy detective just beyond the glass.
Conner Danvers really did seem back to his original self, grins and fingerguns, now that he didn’t have Tim to corrupt him anymore.
“Superboy, huh?” Steph proposed during one of their slower days. “I always thought you were more into blondes.”
Tim could feel his face grow hot at the mention of the hero’s name, but he managed to return his attention to the room’s clueboard before his guilt began to eat him alive again. “You wouldn’t get it,” he mumbled.
Steph scribbled down a few notes on the board, though neither of them were quite as focused on the case as they should’ve been. “Is that because I don’t get crushes, or, riddle me this,” she proposed, raising a finger to her lips, “It’s connected to the sword hanging above the filing cabinets, isn’t it? Oh, oh! And the Luthorcorp explosion that both Superboy and you just happened to be in the headlines for.”
Tim scoffed to deny, even though his partner was absolutely right. Realistically, she probably wouldn’t care much if he told her about his past as the Red X, if she hadn’t figured it out already. But, he really did doubt that she’d understand his negative feelings surrounding Superboy, namely why he felt the need to distance himself from the hero, even after his fantasy had become reality.
Steph wouldn’t understand why Tim felt the need to fake his own death, nor why he wished for nothing more than for Conner Danvers to forget about the kindling between them. She wouldn’t understand why Tim had killed a part of himself for the sake of a childish romance, how he knew in his heart of hearts that there could be nothing worse than Superboy being tied down to a facade of a person he thought he knew.
She wouldn’t understand that the entire Titans team were better off believing that Nightwing’s nosy little brother was dead.
“Whatever, Robin,” Steph dragged. “You need more friends, Tim. It looks pretty odd if your only pal is your ex-girlfriend, you know?”
“I have… other friends,” Tim retorted. Had other friends, before he decided to start the ‘safer’ chapter of his life. “Rachel Raj, uhm… Tiffany… Floyd…” Steph didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “You’re friends with a supermodel? Really? Call her, right now. Call Rachel Raj.”
Rachel Raj, better known heroically and personally by her actual name, Raven, would have thought Tim dead. “...no, ” he jived, to which Steph seemed properly satisfied. “I have friends, for the record- ones that I think you’d take a liking to,” she finally suggested. “They’re part of a cover band, Cass, and Duke. Called the Outsiders- they’ve got a gig coming up later tonight- which you should totally come to- S’long as you’re fine mingling with the common rabble.”
It’s not that Tim was surprised that she had a life outside of work, unlike him. But, the idea that Stephanie Brown of all people, who Tim had known in High School to be much more interested in the latest Agathe Christie translation, was this enthusiastic about a garage band, well- she sure had changed in the last few years.
Or, maybe Tim never really knew her that well in the first place.
“Y’know what? Sure. I could use a night out,” he eventually agreed.
“Who knows~” Steph teased, putting her finishing touches on the clueboard for today. “Maybe your friend Rachel Raj will be there.”
---
If Tim had known that ‘going to a music gig’ would entail being locked in Steph’s apartment until she finished his ‘punk-rock’ makeover, he never would have agreed to it. In a way, it was like old times. In another, it was humiliating.
She’d let him borrow a few of her clothes, since, as she put it, doubted that he had ‘anything that wasn’t from Brioni’ in his closet (He had a few Tom Ford suits, too, but Steph had made her point). She gave him a red, boat-cut top and black-washed jeans- both exactly his size, surprisingly, until Steph explained how she’d accidentally bought the men’s sizes, and was too lazy to return them.
It would be a convincing lie, had a fifteen-year-old Tim not permanently seared the absence of his favorite outfit into his psyche. One more mystery solved, at least.
Tim had no issue with changing into the new outfit in front of Steph- they’d gone swimming together a few times in the past; his barren back was nothing that Steph would care about. He hadn’t accounted for the fact that Tim Drake’s back had considerably less scarring.
Tim didn’t see his misstep until Steph was spiking his hair, which had just grown long enough to style like ‘baby Billy Idol’- whatever that meant. “Guessing the hack n’ slash marks the size of my arm are part of the ‘You wouldn’t get it’ thing, right?” Steph eventually dropped.
Tim managed to remain completely calm- and not just because Stephanie was actively pointing a liner pencil to his lower eyelid. “Correct,” he put simply. She ended the conversation there.
A minute or two later, Steph stepped back to admire her work, plopping onto her lavender explosion of a bed, posing her hand to her cheek. Her eyes narrowed, which made Tim’s gut drop in fear. “It’s missing something…” her sights landed on Tim’s bad eye, squinting against the harsh light of her bedroom fan. “Eyepatch! I know I have one around here, somewhere…”
Tim had learned to stop asking stupid questions about Stephanie Brown, such as ‘Why the hell do you have a spare medical-grade eye bandage?’. Instead, he simply accepted the gift, thankful that it matched his skin tone well enough.
By the time that the two showed up at the doors of ‘O’Malley’s’- the bar that Steph’s friends were supposedly playing their gig at, Steph was wearing an all-black cropped jacket set, save for the silver question mark pendant hanging from her neck.
When she opened the door, Tim had by no means expected an actual crowd gathered to watch a bunch of college kids cover a bizarre mishmash of Blondie, Nirvana, and Michael Jackson. The crowd seemed to be there, as Tim very quickly found out, was because ‘The Outsiders’ actually sounded good. Like…actually good.
Steph took Tim’s hand, leading him closer to the stage, guiding him through the dimmed swarm of people. Five people occupied the stage, each of whom Steph pointed out, raising her voice just enough for Tim to hear.
“That’s Tatsu Yamashiro,” She said, pointing to the stone-faced bass player.
“Tara, and her brother, Brion,” - on the keyboard, and drumkit, respectively.
“Then, Cassandra Khuon and Duke Thomas,” - the lead guitarist, wearing the darkest outfit known to man kind, and the main vocalist, who was the first person that Tim had seen in a while that wore his Jheri curl as a mullet.
Something about a few of those names didn’t sit right with Tim, like he’d heard them far before. But, with completely banned access to Bruce’s massive civilian profile list, he couldn’t exactly prove his suspicions.
Tim wouldn’t have minded staying for the entire set- maybe he could get the chance to meet Steph’s friends, and actually regain some semblance of a normal, civilian life.
Steph led him to the bar counter after about a minute or so, for respite from the ever more claustrophobic crowd of gig-goers. She bought two cans of cola, handing one to Tim, even without him asking. “Normally, I’d order tea, but today’s a special occasion,” she cheesed. Tim couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but frankly, he didn’t care much.
For now, he could live in the moment- even if that meant drinking Pepsi at a place known for their gin and tonic. He was friends with Stephanie Brown, working a job that actually made use of his innate talents, and, as of today, had a life outside of his workplace.
By the end of the night, Tim might have actual friends- real friends, like Stephanie. Not ones granted to him from his Wayne name, nor from his place as the Red X, nor hand-me-downs from Nightwing.
Maybe, just maybe, the universe didn’t hate him.
But, the universe seemed to enjoy cruel jokes.
There was a mirror spanning the back of the prep station, reflecting the bar’s patrons and music-goers alike. In it, he almost swore he could see one particular, terrifyingly familiar teenager making his way to the front of the crowd, dressed with a leather jacket that Tim was far too acquainted with.
The boy caught sight of the mirror, for just a moment, and Tim saw the unmistakable reflective iridescent sheen of Superboy’s eyes when the light caught them at just the right angle. For a moment, Tim let himself believe that the incognito hero hadn’t noticed him. Then, he saw Conner freeze, his smile dropping.
Dammit. Not here. Not now.
Tim grabbed Steph’s wrist, his heart rate already rising. “We need to go. Now.”
She didn’t ask any questions, nodding her head just once in confirmation.
Tim thought that if they could just make it to the street, out into the open night air, he’d be safe.
He needed to stop expecting such luxuries.
A figure hovered down from the skies- slowly, torturously, like a vulture descending on a dying deer. Cloaked in shadows, the only thing light on the entire figure was the thin red ring around Superboy’s pupils.
He looked nearly identical to Kal-el. To the villain that killed Tim’s parents, and razed half of the country from a single tantrum.
“When the fuck were you going to tell me that you were alive, X?” Superboy snarled, unmoving, frozen a few feet into the sky, his glare nothing but pure, unbridled hatred.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The teen hero was supposed to forget about Tim, live his life as it was supposed to be, never to be manipulated by Tim’s selfish endeavours again.
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t keep his heart from beating nearly outside of his chest. He’d forgotten about Stephanie’s presence until she squeezed his hand in affirmation.
Steph wouldn’t understand the sheer, primal fear coursing through Tim’s body, avoiding any and all eye contact with the grim, hovering reminder of his worst mistake. She wouldn’t understand how he wanted nothing more than to be a part of Conner Danvers’ life once more, resume things as if they’d never been shattered, nor why such a decision would be the worst choice that TIm could ever possibly make.
Maybe Steph wouldn’t understand, but Tim really should’ve stopped underestimating just how much Stephanie Brown really knew.
“Ewwwww, no wonder he faked his death, you are one bittccchhhh of an ex-boyfriend,” she jeered, completely unfazed by any of Superboy’s intimidations. Tim kept his gaze on the sidewalk, halfway hoping he’d wake up from this nightmare. He could hear Conner’s boots land on the asphalt of the vacant street, see his shadow walk ever closer. The hero ignored Stephanie’s taunt, as if she were nothing but a statue.
“X,” Superboy repeated, now only a foot or two away from Tim. “When were you going to tell me that you were alive?”
He was so close. Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the bitter cold of the Kryptonian’s breath rising from his lungs. Way too close.
Harley’s words echoed like hell in Tim’s memory. ‘No more ‘mask’ bullshit. You ain’t Red X anymore.’
“I’m not him,” Tim admitted, though the lie ripped straight through his ribs. “He’s dead. Move on. Please.”
Superboy fell deathly silent for a moment. He raised a hand to Tim’s cheek- a gentle gesture, but Tim flinched, stepping backwards, closer to Stephanie. He could tell that the hero was struggling against the rage burning inside of him, knowing full well that if he really wanted to, Tim could be dead in a single blink. “I can smell the chems in your blood, still, Tim. Do not pull that shit with me.”
“Please, just leave,” Tim tried again, though his voice began failing more and more.
Superboy wouldn’t budge. “We should talk. Alone,” the hero suggested, softening his voice as much as he could. “Lose the girl, Tim.”
Steph looked Tim in the eyes, not a shred of fear. An understanding passed between them. “I said, lose the girl,” Superboy demanded once more. “Don’t make me force you. I just want to talk.” Tim shook his head, remaining by Steph’s side. Such a coward. Such a coward, afraid of his own shadow. Scared to deal with the consequences of his own actions. A scared little rich boy, who’s nothing without his mask.
He could hear Conner anxiously tapping his fingers, wrestling with the choices in front of him. “Fine, have it your way, asshole” he eventually hissed, grabbing the back of Tim’s shirt, before rocketing into the sky, ripping him from Stephanie’s assurance.
Clearly Superboy hadn’t taken a basic physics class in a while, because within a few seconds, between the unbalanced forces of the rapid acceleration and Tim’s already worn out shirt fibres, Superboy was soon holding a scrap of fabric, while Tim rapidly plummeted back towards the concrete ground.
Conner would catch him, of course, a look of utter horror overcoming him for a mere second before he finally resigned himself to carrying his hostage the proper (but much more humiliating way), one arm under his knees, the other on his back. He didn’t say anything until they were in the depths of the clouds, just like their first meeting, the very night that Tim had resigned himself to this damnation. He knew that his safest option, right now, was to be entirely still, and not look down. Struggling against Superboy’s hold would only make everything worse.
They at last came to a stop, hidden far above the threat of spies, where the night air was stillest. “I’ll ask one more time, when were you going to tell me that you were alive, Tim?”
Be honest. He’ll know if you aren’t. “I wasn’t going to.” Silence. He could hear Superboy biting down on his jaw. “Why?” Tim kept his eyes closed. His reasoning sounded even more stupid when he said it aloud. “Because you’re better off without me. There. Happy? Because I saw first hand that when you don’t have some cynical bastard in your corner, you actually act like Superboy.”
He could hear a hissing sound from behind Superboy’s teeth. “So it’s my fault?” He snarled. “You faked your death for the sake of me?” Tim nodded. “Do you know how pretentious that sounds? What, you thought I was too angry? Too unpredictable? Not perfect enough for you? That I was so in need of a saviour that you made me think you were dead?”
“I just wanted you to actually be like you were before the Titans, that was when you were perfect! When you never left an interview without a terrible joke, when you winked at passing cameras, when you seemed like you couldn’t care about anything in the world- When you were you!” He was spiraling deeper and deeper into the lie he kept telling himself, and Superboy was having exactly none of it. “We mourned you, goddamit. I mourned you! How full of yourself do you have to be to possibly think that you’re some sort of martyr?”
“Conner, please-” “Stop lying, Tim. I can hear your heartbeat, don’t think you can fool me. For one goddamn second, stop lying, and tell me the truth.”
He thought he was telling the truth. His heart was beating fast because he was being actively threatened by a thousand-foot-drop, chest-to-chest with the one person that he wanted to blame all of his problems on.
He recalled Deathstroke’s note. ‘Come find me when you’ve come to your senses.’ How tempted that offer was to him, to apprentice once more under the only person on the planet that could give less of a shit about who he was, only how much he was paying, and how well he could wield a blade. He recalled how he kept Deathstroke’s gifted katana hanging in his office, not as a warning, but a promise.
“Becuase I was scared of what I might become,” he finally confessed. “Because I was scared that I was actively enjoying being him- being the Red X, listening to every impulse without consequence, making my own choices for once, being something more than just Bruce Wayne’s son. Because I actually felt like I was doing something with my miserable life. Because it was supposed to be fake, but I felt euphoric and that terrified me.”
He knew all too well that the Xenothium that powered X’s suit had corroded his mind, made him addicted to using it, corrupting his psyche past the point of no return. Whispering affirmations into his ear, blocking out any moral code. Tim had to kill that part of himself, not for the sake of his friends, not for Conner, but for the sake of him. “Because I’m selfish. Because I don’t know who the hell I am.”
Conner didn’t speak for a long time. Tim kept his eyes sealed shut, hiding behind his fear of heights, afraid to look Conner in the face. “Is that the truth enough for you, Kon-el?” Tim broke.
He could feel Superboy begin to descend once more, ever so carefully. “I thought about you, every single day after the Luthorcorp tower exploded. I blamed myself for your death, even knowing there was nothing I could’ve done to stop it.
I just want you to be happy, Tim. If that means playing the villain, and never seeing my face again, then so be it- but you can’t keep lying to yourself.”
‘You can’t keep lying to yourself.’
Conner, at last, landed back on the ground, setting Tim to his feet once more. He finally opened his eyes to one Stephanie Brown, holding a piece of scrap pipe like a lacrosse stick, ready to knock the hero unconscious at the first sign of hostility. She squinted at the two for a moment, before lowering her weapon, only slightly.
Tim paused for a moment, before turning back to Conner. The hero tilted his head for just a moment, reading Tim’s expression, and exactly what his impulses were telling him to do. “I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as I need to, Tim. I promise.”
Superboy left before Tim could say goodbye.
---
Back at Tim’s office, he had a choice to make. If you asked Bruce, he’d picked the worst one. Which is why Tim wouldn’t tell anyone. Not this time.
He lowered the katana from its display case, pressing down on the hilt’s cap gently, exposing a small slip of paper, inked with a string of coordinates.
‘Come find me when you’ve come to your senses.’