Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He sucks in a breath like he’s dying.

And the brain is still in fight mode, adapt to your surroundings, assess, place the dangers, find the shadows, palm the tech, and motherfucking move.

He’s a Red Robin that’s had a seriously bad stint of year; one that’s weary down to the bone. One that is scrawny and scrappy, more raw and ruthless than he ever was wearing the R. Sometimes you have to evolve to deal with things like Lex Luthor, dick bag aliens, and terrorist organizations bent on any assortment of world domination.

Magic users suck ass too.

Case in point:

Twenty-eight seconds ago he was in the middle of a fight in downtown Los Angeles against a magic-user; right now, he’s in Gotham. Really, he’d know the Wallstone anywhere.

“N, what the fuck was that?”

The Red Hood is literally Right. Fucking. There.

“Shit,” he snarls out, already kicking into yet another type of fight mode, but—

The voice.

The body difference.

One look at his hand and—finger stripes

Motherfucker.

“Dick?” Is Hood’s voice coming out low even with the synths, “what is it?”

Red (or N) holds up both hands in the universal I’m not that dangerous, don’t kick my ass kind of way, but he can already see Hood going for his sidearm, just, you know, very fucking familiar.

“Magic users are dick bags,” is the first thing he comes up with, and it just sounds wrong in N’s deeper baritone. “Don’t shoot me, Hood.”

“…fuck, Replacement?”

“I’d say good to see you, but well, I’ve already stated the obvious.”

“Hn. Dick bags, yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he takes a second to feel around for where N kept his cell now since the damn suit is just a second skin really because some people had no shame—

The iPhone is literally such an antiquated piece of shit that he almost drops it, just ick.

Before he gets the thing unlocked, “Addicted to You” cuts through the dark Gotham night, permeating soft lamp light.

Of anything he could have expected (shot, stabbed, a dance-off, a game of banter-fight, whatever really), the Red Hood to hold up a just a minute finger while bringing the cell up to the side of the helmet, is not one of the scenarios.

“Uh-hu,” Hood nods.

He subtly checks the Nightwing suit for weapons, grapple, pellets, well, something so he doesn’t get stabbed on top of everything else.

“Aw, Dickie, I’m hurt. Like I’d shoot the lil’ fucker er something.”

Red stays wisely silent, pellets palmed. You know, for just in case. Extra grapple line is still in the back of the waist, just like when they used to—

Hood is making a hurry it along, asshole hand and finally holds the thing out (and is an Android of relative control thank God), “here y’are.”

“Red Robin,” sounds stupid in N’s deeper baritone.

“The Titans say hi!” N yells enthusiastically, and his voice sounds so off with Dick Grayson behind it (and it takes effort to swallow down the bitter regrets, righteous anger, and old hurts anytime he has a break between catastrophes to wonder where it all went so wrong—)

“The fight?” And his (N’s) throat clicks slightly.

“Uh, well—I only got here half-way through and all, Baby Bird—“

Don’t fucking call me that.

“He got away.”

“Magic users. Am I right?” And his voice sounds too amused, too smug, and he just wants to punch himself in the face right about now, but there are plans in the works for what he could realistically do to Dick’s body without permanent damage.

“Put Superboy on,” is ground out between clenched teeth.

“Aw, c’mon, we can fix this, Tim. I’ll—“

“It happened on our side,” is clipped, precise, “I’m on it. Just put Kon on the phone.”

There’s a hesitation on the line and whooshing of the background, soft zaahs of movement (well, Bat-movement, that is), “Tim, I know we haven’t—we haven’t been okay in a while—“ and Dick in his body isn’t even winded while dodging something. The grunt following tells him it is indeed Kon.

“This isn’t happening,” he interrupts, “at all. Thank-you but fuck you, Dick. You give me a member of my team, I get this shit reversed, and we wave bye-bye from a safe distance of several continents.”

“Jesus Tim, I thought we were at least—“

“Apparently you thought wrong. Give me Kon or I’m hanging up and throwing you in front of a train.”

The audible click by his temple is just the Red Hood taking that for the threat it really is. “Do everyone a favor, and don’t try it, asshole.”

He turns very slowly, thinking how fucked up it is that he’s not shorter than Jason this time around, “my brain in Dick Grayson’s body,” is all he needs to say.

“You little shit—“

“Go die, Hood,” he sneers, pellets already between his fingers.

“All right, all right,” N shouts through the phone in his voice, “I’m giving the phone to Superboy, just…dammit, Jay, calm down. Please?”

Something unintelligible comes through the synths, and surprise, surprise! the Red Hood backs off, easing the trigger down. He points a finger at Red, tension in the lines of his stance, “you want I really put some effort into the dance, Red, try to make good on that shit.”

And he doesn’t know if his smirk is anywhere near N’s own evil expression, but he grins white in the night.

On the other end of the phone, Kon is apparently amused as hell (and oh yeah, he believes in karma—just all the way), “Hey Red! Or N…?”

“Fuck you,” Red snarls out, deeper with Dick’s vocal chords.

“Look at it this way,” Kon continues, “you can beat the hell out of his body instead of yours?”

And Red just walks right over that comment with, “I’m going to my Perch here and start on the usual list of magic users to get this crap reversed. Drop him off at the Manor, try following the Mystic if he left any kind of trail.”

“Well, someone pissed in your cornflakes fearless leader.” And yes, that’s his best friend right there, the epic douche bag. Bart probably already has a list of shit he intends to say.

“Not amused,” he replies and hangs up the phone without a good-bye, tossing it in Hood’s general direction, and throws the line, takes the appropriate swing in the direction of his Perch, reverently hoping for something to kick the shit out of on the way.

**

Five hours later, Dick Grayson (in his temporarily shorter body) is scowling like mad, taking the steps down to the Cave with rough, jerky movements. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror adjacent to his old room; it had been a rough twenty minutes of cataloguing the mass of new scars marring Tim Drake’s back, the new ones on his front (one right across his abdomen, too clean for the usual array of sharp, pointy things). He’s on his way down to the Cave for some computer time, start looking into what Timmy had been up to in the last few years since he’d been the Red Robin.

He lifts a small hand in greeting to Dami, fresh out of the Cave showers after a long patrol, and barely gets a word.

“Drake,” and all the venom is there, hitting Dick right in the chest. “Haven’t you learned you no longer have a place here?”

Dick almost chokes, staring down at Little D, his mini-bro, his partner, his Robin, hurt and almost betrayed before he remembers he’s not wearing his own face.

And Dami hesitates, narrowing his eyes when he isn’t met with the usual scathing retorts he’s come to expect. The utterly crushed look on the former Robin’s face is not one he can ever remember seeing before now.

“It’s Dick,” he admits, numb, “Dami…do you really say that kind of thing to Tim?”

But the youngest Robin’s brain is switching gears, “Grayson? Grayson? How—?”

“The Titans were facing magic users,” and his face firms, crossing Tim’s arms over his chest while he stares his little brother down.

“Tt, useless. Drake allowed himself to get hit and take your body from you?”

“Little D—answer the question. You really don’t try to keep Tim from coming home, his home, do you?”

Now the smallest gives Dick an impatient look, “honestly, how is it that you have managed to live this long will forever remain a mystery.”

“Dami—“

“You are well aware,” the youngest rolls right over him, “the Robin legacy is mine by blood. He had no rights to it. He has no place here once I took over the mantle.”

“How could you do that to him?! God, Dami, he was Robin in his own right. He’s part of the family whether it’s by blood or not—“

“We have argued this before,” Damian just raises a hand, “and we will never agree on it, Grayson. I believed that is why we stopped having the Drake discussion in the first place, I believed you finally began to see reason.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” B interjects, scaring the shit out of both of them (because, you know, the night).

Dami goes stiff immediately, face carefully neutral, “Father, I—“

“The role of Robin has nothing to do with blood,” the Batman admonishes shortly, striding right past his son, cape swirling around him.

Dick just turns Tim’s back and follows B to the computer, leaving Damian to his own churning thoughts while he climbs the stairs to retire in the Manor for the rest of the night.

“I need to do some research,” he fills the boss in, automatically throwing a hip against the chair, and almost falling on his ass because, well, height difference and such.

B hums while the system comes to life, his way to indicate yes, hyperactive child, I’m listening.

Instead, he steps to B’s peripheral and raises the shirt off Tim Drake’s abdomen, then waits for it.

The cowl comes off, blue eyes narrow on the incision scar, the calculating gaze going up to Dick’s (Tim’s, who he hasn’t seen in too long without a mask—usually when the criminal world shit has hit the fan and either the Bats or JLA need Red’s brand of talent). Dick just turns and raises the shirt up to the mass of white scars marring Red Robin’s back.

“So, yes, I need some intel,” on what the fuck he’s apparently missed.

But B’s mouth gets that crazy little moue when he’s already got theories and evidence to back him up.

Dick points an accusing finger, “you already know.”

Well, World’s Greatest Detective.

“I’ve been keeping track,” B fills in shortly.

Dick catches himself this time and can lean on the console to give B all the attention in the world.

**

The security system shows him his own face standing outside the penthouse perch, and Tim sighs, considers the benefits of staying in lockdown to work the spell from Zatanna (who had likewise laughed like an asshole, really, superheroes are just a community of gossipmongers that enjoy the shit out of it when he actually gets screwed over for once), and hoping Dick goes back to the Manor.

He interprets the expression on his own face to the one he’s currently wearing, and yup, that’s the former Batman’s got your number look.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I’ll have it in another few hours,” he says when he cracks open the door enough to show his taller, more flexible self, “and I haven’t done anything to your body.”

“That’s what worries me, Timmers,” is Dick’s hard tone from his own mouth when the smaller of the two pushes himself inside and flicks the who knows what pellets back into hiding.

“How did you find me?” Is what he asks instead, crossing the arms over the chest broader than his own.

“I’m also this thing called a detective,” Dick deadpans and…it works, really.

Tim nods for the touché, giving Dick a mental point, “all right, I think we’ve already covered all the basis, so there’s no need for you to—“

“Be here, Tim?” And his smaller body gets right up into his bubble. So, regardless of what body he’s in, Dick’s understanding of personal space is non-existent as usual. “I don’t have to acknowledge you? To deal with you? Is that what you were going to say?”

And what Dick is pissed about goes right over his head, but he’s on the defensive by tone and body language alone.

“Maybe I’m missing something here,” he starts slowly in a voice that used to mean something, “but whatever crawled up your ass and died—“

“You don’t have a spleen,” shuts him right the hell up.

“So? I can still do my fucking job, Dick. I lead my team, it doesn’t affect—“

“You told me,” Dick jabs a finger right into his sternum, “you told me, Tim, I was still your big brother and you knew I’d always catch you. I believed it.”

Tim makes the face he’s wearing go neutral, blank.

“And Dami…I just learned to let 75% of the crap he says go in one ear and out the other, but he’s part of the reason you’ve stayed gone? Dammit, Tim. You should have told me what it was doing to you. You’ve always been able to come to me,” and Dick’s voice is picking up, anger making it well up and spew out, “I’ve always tried not to let you down, no matter what. You’re my brother, and yes, you asshole, I love you, and—“

“You thought I was crazy,” he admits, low and completely empty, “you took Robin with some bullshit about being equals and you tried to get me into Arkham.”

Dick eases down, staring up into his own face intently, the expression looking as though it actually belongs on the face.

“After I brought B back, when I didn’t come to Gotham, I figured it was a done deal. You made your choice, and your choice told me I didn’t have a place there, that I was never really a Robin anyway. Him saying it? Just like you saying it, Dick, so I stayed the fuck out until some catastrophe or one of you needed tech support or some shit.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but Tim doesn’t back down.

“You want to know what it did to me, Dick?  It made me realize what my place really was, so it’s fine, I get it. You’ve got the real thing, the right Robin, so spare me this big brother act.”

He shoves past his own body, back to his system, to his comfort pot of coffee ready to be devoured, and the pressure in his chest is completely inconsequential because he’s had time to come to grips, to accept the unavoidable truths.

“Now, like I said, I still need a few hours, and you obviously know where the door is.”

But, the body standing shock still hasn’t moved, has barely breathed, his own eyes taking in everything possible for the detective in Dick’s hindbrain while his fucking heart gives a lurch.

“I made good choices,” Dick finally admits, “I didn’t carry them out like I should have. I didn’t… I didn’t take care of you like I should have so you’d never doubt your place, so you’d always know you’re a Bat. No matter what happens, Tim, no matter what Damian might have said to you, you’ll always be one of us.”

Sitting at his system with Dick’s longer legs stretched out and the translation finally ready, the laugh that comes from his chest is one that makes the older vigilante flinch.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” and he soothes away the utter bullshit vibe, not looking up when the door opens and closes.

**

Getting his body back means peace, I’m out.

Because, well, the Manor and such. At least he’d left Dick’s body in a complex system of Gotham’s sewers, conveniently without a cell phone or comm.

Oops.

Well, whatever. Croc is in Blackgate for the moment, just taking a vacay.

So, he has the time to get back to the Perch, get a quick shower, and take a ride to Titan’s Tower, get back on his usual crazy ass workload and conveniently forget he ever got stuck in some terrible trope.

He goes down the back staircase, hitting an alternative vent leading down into the back side of the Cave where he can just hop a Ducati without running in to any other Bats that might be writing down notes from the night’s activities, fixing random vehicles, making more tech, running the gambit of analysis, or feeding the odd gathering of animals.

Once he hits freedom without any snags, he can take in a full breath again, riding out into the familiar countryside paths back into Gotham proper.

The hidden entrance to his underground garage opens up to the sub-basement where he parks the bike, and takes the stairs two a time to get to the penthouse. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of whatever Dick might have done to his body, he rips the borrowed Gotham Knights t-shirt off, hand already moving up his abdomen before he gets the door closed and faces the mirror—

And winces.

Black sharpie with Dick’s careful block printing is all over his chest, upper arms, and abdomen, each scar recorded with a date, time, place, weapon of choice, and injury statistics. With a slow turn, he glances over his marked shoulder to the scrawling chicken scratch of the Red Hood on his back.

Dick took his time mapping out the last couple of years—on Tim’s own body.

His eyes trace the pathways, read the commentary, look at that neat printing with things like could have died again, and maybe…maybe some part of him wants to step back, give Dick an inch, even though he’s just fucking tired of being the last one standing.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from getting in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw and red with harsh soap usually for abrasions. It’s not a big enough part to stop him from suiting up and riding out to the Batwing twenty minutes before Bruce Wayne shows up at the door to his Gotham penthouse. It’s not a big enough part to answer his phone when it’s Damian’s number ringing through.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from leaving.

Chapter Text

A few days after the little incident, he’s settled back into his usual routine: check with his team, track any nefarious activity, do any necessary tech refreshes, and dip out to track any number of leads.

He’s on the dip out part, already suiting up and packing some supplies for an extensive trip out to start up with infiltrating an underground fighting ring he thinks might be a cover for something a hell of a lot worse when the Tower’s systems tell him someone with a passcode not Titan specific has touched-down on the roof.

The systems pops up a screen so he can watch the Javelin ease down, effectively blocking his own plane from being able to take off.

Behind the whiteouts, his eyes narrow, but he’s moving to the communal floor, giving the executive override to the elevator sliding slowly to his Perch. The re-direct is going to be better for however this little convo is going to go.

He double-checks his utility belt absently as the doors slide open.

“Titans are out,” he starts, “you’ll have to pull the JL roster instead.”

Nightwing stops dead at the lack of humor or empathy. It’s just business as fucking usual--natch. And Big Wing pauses with it, calculating the last time before the body swap incident that he’d actually seen the face, the eyes, under the mask before he was staring at it in the mirror. (Why didn’t he realize it before?)

Soft click and a whirl when central air kicks in, blowing cold on his neck and shoulders, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. From behind the whiteouts, he’s staring, eyes moving over Red’s abdomen, seeing the roadmap of scars, seeing the new scores against the good guys, seeing a whole lot of vigilante without any of the kid he used to see.

That’s the only good thing about the swap now, isn’t it?

It was impossible for Tim to duck and hide if he wasn’t even in his own body.

“I really hate the sewers under the east side, Timmy,” he comes back easily, forcing it to be Tim and Dick, not N and Red. He doesn’t feel any kind of bad, “But you knew that. You’ve known that since your were in the Robin tunic, so that was a nice way to get back at me.” Now he’s moving forward, eyes for every twitch, every breath, every aborted attempt at a pocket in the utility belt, the slight twitch of the head to indicate the eyes moving for some other escape.

But, that isn’t going to happen.

Because now he sees how things have progressed. He can pick out the shadows and old pain in the slight scar on Tim’s cheekbone and the familiar furrow of his forehead--one he’d always associated with the baddies, Tim’s planning to break shit furrow (and well, who’s getting a load of that now?)

Even if Tim’s playing leader of the Titans, playing at keeping himself above the petty fucking emotions that leave him open and vulnerable, Dick, for the first time in too long sees right past the facade.

And his lip curls up in a sneer, slow boiling anger that’s been simmering for days, one that started the moment he let himself out of Tim’s Perch in a body that was fucked with new scars and lack of crucial viscera. Once he realized Tim had been lying to him the whole time--had just been playing some sort of fucked-up role-- the slow, churning betrayal turned into anger just that quick.

Tim had let himself step back and away, hadn’t trusted him enough to open his damn mouth with the Real. Fucking. Deets.

(Why did you stop talking to me?! Why didn’t you tell me it was all too much? Why did you let yourself slip through my grip? Dammit, Tim. Goddammit.)

And. It. Hurts. Hurt to know Tim pulled the deflection card on him. On. Him. (The guy that apparently lies to whoever the hell Batman is at the time).The devices they used against criminals and murderers, against megalomaniacs and psychopaths, the weapons they used to hide the meaty humanity under the capes so the baddies couldn’t break them open with it--

Their tools to stop the bad guys.

And Tim used it on him.

So when Nightwing resumes his stalk, to come face-to-face with his little bro-- the leader of the Titans (and just how fucked is it that he’s pretty sure Tim doesn’t want to be called that now, well too damn bad), his hips roll in a smooth, seamless motion anyone that knew him knew meant time to get real. Just like he suspects, like he half-hoped wouldn’t happen, Tim’s fingers flicker, probably activating the gauntlets to spit something out in his palm (he’s already re-programmed himself to be on the offensive, not to fight with but to fight against).

“I think having Hood write all over my fucking back kind of makes us even,” Red Robin comes back, neutral and empty. “Besides, Croc was still in Arkham. You’re welcome.” The asshole doesn’t necessarily have to be said to be understood.

“Even?” And it’s low, dangerous. Nightwing’s movements are precise and even as he raises the whiteouts so those electric blue eyes can hyperfocus, to give complete attention. “You think we’re even, Tim?” And Dick leans down just enough to put the two of them close, “because I sure as hell don’t think so.”

And the furrow in that forehead gets deeper, sharper, almost the time to fight furrow. “I served my fucking time as Robin, I did what I set out to do, and your protege gets what he wants. It’s fine, right? The day gets saved. So what the hell is your problem?”

Oh no. Oh no he didn’t.

Dick’s upper lips curls in a sneer, “did what you set out to do? Is that how it went? You never wanted to be part of the family in the first place? You just wanted to get being Robin done and over with because it just some obligation?”

The furrow falls away from Red’s brow because what now?

“Your mom and dad were always away, so training, fighting, taking up my name was what to you? Something to keep you busy?  Were we just a damn hobby or something, Tim? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” The warm edge is bleeding through, but finally, he seems to get somewhere.

Because Tim draws back insanely fast and gives absolutely no shits about punching him right in the face.

“Fuck. You!” And it’s Tim that’s yelling back at him, it’s Tim. Not Red, not the mask, not the cold shoulder.

Dick doesn’t fight it, doesn’t counter it, doesn’t come back even though he’s fairly pissed right the hell off, but he works his jaw a little (because that? Was a nice one) and straightens up to the clenched fists and bared teeth.

“You could have said that a long time ago,” Dick comes back because, no Tim, we’re not just letting it go, “that we were only some way to pass the time, not that you ever wanted us, just the fucking name. All you wanted was the R all that time? Would have been nice if you’d just said so, then I wouldn’t have gotten so invested in you--”

And he’s calculating, wondering how much more Tim can take before he breaks, before he finally spills out his weakness (reads as: the truth).

“I-I fucking bled for that cape, you asshole. I almost died time and fucking time again for that cape. My dad, my fucking dad, Dick,” and the hitch is still there, the utter agony, “...all-all because I was Robin. I kept Bruce on the straight and narrow as much as he let me. And what the fuck did it all mean?! What the fuck did it get me?! Thrown out on my ass? Told I was crazy? That I just had to accept it when Bruce was “dead?” How many superheroes get another chance? Like Jason-Mother-Fucking-Todd?! How farfetched is it really?”

And Dick lets him spit it out, the warming anger burning away the icy calm of Red (reads as the other Robin) to reveal slivers of Tim Drake--the teenager in pain.

That’s the face he wants to see again, his partner and friend, Timmy. Because Dick gets the vigilante now, after mapping the journey from losing the cape until now, tracking the baddies, tracking the trail to find Batman, seeing what kind of things “Robin couldn’t do,” all of it justified who and what Red Robin is. But Tim? The young, damaged kid under the mask is the one Dick needs to help, needs to see, needs to understand. And, no, he isn’t leaving until they hash this out. So, tough, Timmy. I’ve got you now.

“You couldn’t even look me in the face,” is almost screamed at him, Tim refusing to back the hell down, his hands shaking with the poison pouring out, all the mistakes and misunderstandings, all the strain and stress, the hard decisions and unavoidable repercussions. He fully intends to give back in spades. “You threw some bullshit about being equals and gave another kid my name. It wasn’t yours then. I made it mine. It’s all I had left, the only thing I had left of Bruce, and you gave it the fuck away like I meant nothing. Like I was garbage. I had nothing else left.”

But Dick moves, gripping his biceps in an unforgiving hold and already ducking a hand under Tim’s defenses to rip off the domino, to look at him, not the whiteouts.

Snarling and ferocious, wet eyes and bared teeth, seeing what happened, what those tough choices did to him, to them makes Dick’s jaw clench down and his chest fucking ache.

“You idiot. You had me. Dammit, Tim, you’ve always had me. I thought you knew that. I thought after everything, everything we’d been through, in the five years we bled together, you’d always know I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what. No matter what happens, or how far you go, you always have me.”

The younger vigilante in his hold, the one fighting against his grip like a bleeding, dying animal is snarling and growling in such fucking pain (and he’d missed it, missed how much he hurt Tim, how much damage they’ve done to one another without really trying).

He grips harder, not letting Tim pull away this time, not letting him hide behind Red.

“Robin is just a fake name, Tim. Dammit, Robin isn’t, was never, who you are. Didn’t you figure that out in the damn desert?” And he bares his teeth as well, shaking the younger vigilante just so he doesn’t give him nuclear noogies and months of endless cuddles. Just how could Tim be such a dumb ass not to have known? Not to have called? Not to have just said something?

Was the trust between them broken that badly? Why the hell had Dick even believed him when he said he knew Dick would always catch him? Why hadn’t he seen through the bullshit back then?

Tim’s nose is turning red, his watery eyes narrowed, every muscle tensed up for the fight or flight instinct to kick in. Dick doesn’t give him the chance. Even if he is still supremely pissed, he pulls Tim hard into his chest, wraps both arms around him tight, trapping him at the waist and shoulders, a hand on his neck, waiting for the right time to slide into his hair. It’s how Tim used to need it after a hard night, a bad run of it, and Dick is shameless in using it to his every advantage. He puts his cheek down on the top the crown of too-long hair and breathes against Tim’s ear, “You have it wrong. I didn’t think you were crazy. You weren’t talking to anyone long before Bruce disappeared. You were pulling back, pulling away, and I couldn’t help you. You wouldn’t let me help you, Timmy. You had a gun, and I know you had it in your hand the night I happened to call and check on you. I always knew.”

And the body he can’t let go of is shuddering harder in his arms at the reveal, that Dick had always known what the third Robin was ready to do, how far gone he had almost been. If Dick Grayson hadn’t called him that night, forced him to keep talking, pretty much kicked the door in to the shitty apartment in the ‘Haven with the phone still up to his ear. If Dick had just hung up the phone.

Well, they wouldn’t be here now, would they?

“I didn’t know what else to do. Dammit, being Robin was killing you and you couldn’t even see it.”

Frozen for long moments, Tim blinks rapidly against his watery vision at the plain cream wall over Dick’s shoulder because well, that changes things just a little, doesn’t it?

(Was it? Was the tunic really killing him back then? He made bad calls after Dad, after everyone-- but-but...the .45 auto was the most solid thing he’d held for a while).

“Dr. Erin O’Malley is a therapist known in our circles. How do you think Roy kicked the habit? And who Ollie saw when he came back from his soul-searching thing? Barry told her about his mom, for heaven’s sake, Timmy! She knows J’onn isn’t from around here, and Kara has big brother issues with Clark. After Blockbuster and-and Tarantula, she helped me too. Hell, the majority of her clientele are superheroes, and that’s why I called her. I was getting desperate for you to talk to someone, anyone before you did something.” And the fear might be old and dusty, but Dick’s tone gets thin with it anyway, the ‘he’s going to kill himself’ vibe crawling down his spine, that made him chase after Tim right after he left the Cave, ready to leave Gotham behind to go on his quest to find Bruce.

He feels Tim’s chest stutter against his, feels how hard Tim is biting down on his lower lip to keep the half-sob in.  The harness is digging into the thin Kevlar lining of the Nightwing suit, and he makes an irritated noise, pulling one arm away just long enough to deactivate the thing and toss it on one of the couches without really letting Tim escape.

“The not telling you about Dami taking up the mantle was wrong, and I am such an asshole for it. I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so sorry.”

He feels the tremble go through Tim’s whole body at the admission. He feels how the younger vigilante tries to ruthlessly squash what he believes is an obvious weakness by trying to pull back again, shoving his palms against Dick’s chest to get leverage. Dick just sweeps his arms by his sides and wraps himself around Tim like a blanket, walking them backwards a few feet to press Tim against the wall so he’s less likely to escape.

“I am sorry how it all happened, but I don’t regret making you move on. Someone had to break you out of the spiral before it killed you, and as much as it sucks and I hated it, it still worked. The stuff with Ra’s? We are eventually going to talk about because you, you should have called me dammit. How fast do you think I would have torn the Cradle apart looking for you? Faster than Clark when Lois is in some kind of peril. Honestly, when have I ever left you when you called? Especially when you magically lose a spleen?!”

And all the facts, all the digging, all the new information makes him clench his jaw with how much he didn’t even know, the muscle jumping against Tim’s temple and his arms unconsciously tighten even more, absorbing the progressive tremble of limbs and chest, of forced, slow breathing, and the attempt to keep control.

“I’m so pissed off right now, Tim. So. Pissed, but I’m not letting you go. Hell. No. Not this time, do you understand me?”

“Go to hell,” but the tone is thick and wet, the struggle renews with vigour, “like you have any reason to be pissed? You had no problem when that little asshole made sure I knew I was just a fucking stand-in.”

“Dami was an asshole to everyone--” he starts to placate, but pauses when he remembers the acidic tone, the honesty in Dami’s tone when he was the one wearing Tim’s face.

Maybe he’d underestimated how much Dami had an impact back then--

Obviously he has since Tim find the weakness in his hold, grips his wrist, turns on his heel fast, and throws him in a familiar move.

But since Dick was Robin, was Batman, is Nightwing, he rebounds off the wall and comes back for it, missing Tim by a miniscule margin when the younger folds his knees at just the right second.

Dick lands it on the Communal Floor’s kitchen, landing crouched on top the island without even a wobble, and stares Tim down with a frown marring his features.

“I didn’t know it was that bad, Tim. I didn’t know--”

“Of course you didn’t,” with scathing heat behind it. “It’s not like you’d want to hear anything against your fucking Robin now would you?” And all that tightly wound anger, all that pent-up pain is so obvious in the way Tim refuses to advance, refuses to let his voice raise again.

“Tim, I swear, at the time--”

“But you got what you wanted, didn’t you, Dick?” Is all dangerous now, low and pitched, the flash of Tim’s teeth in the overhead lights, “you got the Robin you wanted, the Robin that was fucking blood. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d paid enough to attention to know he cut my fucking zip line, or he’s the one that took me out of the Cave’s mainframe like I was a stain on the tunic. Even if you knew all of that at the time, what would it have really mattered? I was just the stand-in from the first time you wore the cowl, and I get it now.”

“No,” Dick snarls, leaping off the island in a smooth flow of muscle and power, countering Tim’s duck and dodge, forcing the leader of the Titans back against the wall again, “that isn’t true. That was never true,” and his voice has gone deep, dark, eyes narrowed outlined by the domino, “you were always my partner, just as much as Bruce was, so were you.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me now–” Tim comes back, his voice half-hoarse from yelling, screaming, his whole body clenched tight, “if I would have know that truth, it would have been easier from the start. Bruce didn’t hide it from me, Dick. You did!”

And that little bomb drop? Oh Bruce is going to hear about this.

Later when there would be audio and vid. Then the Batman could have his own time to address this obviously gross oversight.

For now, though, he’s going to make a hell of a lot of things very clear.

“In the beginning, I didn’t want a twelve-year old getting involved. You’re right about that. I didn’t want you to take up the tunic and neither did Bruce, so you are one hundred percent right. In the beginning, Tim, we didn’t want you.”

And just the facial ticks, the tightening of a gloved fist, the tells Tim had apparently tried so hard to train out of himself since he’d been Red, give Dick so much more than he had before-- realizing how long this had been something at the back of Tim’s brain pan.

“It would be too easy for your to get hurt, for you to die. You had a dad who would mourn you, Tim. You still had family. You still had things to lose Bruce and Jason and I never did, so no, we didn’t want you risking your life for our Mission.”

Clenching jaw, eyes getting wet again, but Dick watches Tim flutter his eyes to hold back. Not there yet, not there yet.

“But in the first year, you proved how smart and capable you are. You didn’t back down, you didn’t give in or give up. You wore that tunic like it was the only thing that mattered. You gave the role of Robin more than I did at that age or Jason did. You made Robin a force to be reckoned with, and you made us, me and Bruce, so fucking proud. So proud you stood by us and just kept on fighting. You became our family, Tim, my brother and Bruce’s son. Blood didn’t matter, it never mattered. Not then and not now. Despite all of it, you’re still and always will be my little brother and nothing, nothing is going to change that.” A little fact: he is going to pound into Dami’s skull because some little birds need to realize, the first Robin was never blood either. The ‘true son’ is going to get one hell of a lesson when he gets back to Gotham.

But for right now, for right now, Tim’s eyes are wet and blown wide in surprise, his hands and arms half-poised, frozen in shock but for the small, almost imperceptible trembling (Oh, God, Tim, how long have you felt like this? How long have you believed--?). When Tim drags in a breath, lets out a broken, choked, noise, Dick is right up in his space, gripping and holding hard by the time his eyes spill over.

It a horrible and wonderful thing at the same time, when Tim’s shaky hands come up under his arms, around his back, and grips his shoulders tight enough that the bruises are going to be epic. When Tim’s face is hidden in the side of his neck, and he can feel the tears sliding down his skin to the suit, knows the younger vigilante is still trying to fight it instead of just letting go.

Dick turns his face enough to bury his nose in the too-long hair and close his own hot eyes tight because he missed this. Missed this too much to bear.

His tone is gruff and wobbly, his hold inescapable when he finally comes out with it, “we… We may not have wanted you in the beginning, Tim but we sure as hell did in no time at all. Geeze, you’re an idiot. I mean, who wouldn’t want you? Even immortal megalomaniacs want a piece of that.”

Half-laughing and half-sobbing, Tim’s muscles try to contract, try to make himself smaller in such a familiar move that Dick blinks fast but still manages to get a few wet drips in Tim’s hair. He gives absolutely zero shits about it and manages to reach down and get an arm under Tim’s knees to lift him up high against Dick’s chest, takes them both to one of the couches on the communal floor where he can sit with Tim in his lap and hold on for as long as he can.

Chapter Text

It’s crazy how he expected things to go back to the way they were. How he expected to fade back into obscurity, coming to Gotham when the call went out, using his crime fighting merit badge to stop the baddies, and fuck off back to San Fran when it was all over and done with.

What he didn’t expect, however, is N to be right up in his grill, grabbing an arm, clucking his tongue to look at the wicked gash and shake his head with narrowed lenses.

What he didn’t expect was to wake up in Dick’s apartment with his injuries usually wrapped and the smell of coffee just about right on.

What he didn’t expect is B showing up at the Tower with his whole doom and gloom to scare the shit out of his people just to deliver a packed dinner straight from Alfred Pennyworth’s kitchen.

What he didn’t expect is Robin to be slightly insane when he pulled the youngest out of a burning building, throwing himself in without thinking, pulling on the hand he can see until the kid comes out from under flaming debris. He’s hacking around the smoke in his lungs, checking Robin’s neck for his pulse when those eyes open, and a gloved hand moves fast to grip his, for the kid’s eyes to get strangely wet, and the youngest vigilante to turn on his side, his spine bowing, to curve his body around Red’s hand and shake.

What he didn’t expect is the Red Hood to show up in Monaco and break into his safe house, thumb his eyelid down with a gloved hand and tell him he’s going to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep the easy way or the hard way.

What he didn’t expect is Cass to be sitting on his fire escape when he manages to hide out in Gotham for a whole day to attend a board meeting, cancelling his plans to get the fuck out ASAP because she demands he stays in with her tonight to play board games (the underlying or else is enough to make his head spin because what the great fuck are they all doing? Now, they’ve got Cass in on it?).

What he doesn’t expect is Nightwing to trap him on a rooftop when he’s balls deep in playing detective, the older vigilante pinning him, mouth drawn down when the I don’t need a babysitter, stop this shit comes to the fore again, and he fights because at this juncture, that’s all he can reasonably do anymore. When N raises the lenses on his dom, raises the lenses on his own, and leans down to shut him up in the craziest way imaginable, he thinks he really might have died this time–

Because the good things, the right things, the rewards, the good job tonights and we’ve got your backs have been gone so long that this? Couldn’t be anything other than trying to keep tabs on him, make sure he stays where the Bats can find him if they need him. That, at least, keeps him prepared for the inevitable downfall.

**

A few months down the line, and he’s brought to a crux in his theories while standing in the same echoy shadows, pulling a uniform from his old locker, and starting up the rituals like he used to back when he was, you know, that Robin.

Hands and wrists get six wraps each, work out the sharp muscle, make ‘em burn before it’s time to fly, maybe take a few minutes on the mat to warm it up, have a little Tool, a little 311 if it’s easy, have a little In This Moment if it’s not.

It has been since he, uh, came back (let Dick lure him, the asshole) to crash at the Manor, sleeping off some run-of-the-mill owfuck being absurdly glad things like fiery infernos don’t scratch the surface of his usual Monday anymore. Really, just a weekend thing for shits and giggles.

Finding out he still has a locker, a spot in the garage, a fucking room, a mug and coffee just for him—

There was too much Welcome Home underlying all the usual back-and-forth and casual crime fighting.

Sometimes Jason picks up what he’s laying down and needs a little warm up, too. It might be Dami when the night before was fruitless and he needed to work out aggression, the moves fast and furious, to bring his vicious side out before he could balance the good still riding on the ridges of his cape. B only when it was time to talk and needed some time to warm up to the subject before he could realistically pin his third Robin and put down the truth in his usual Q&A. You know, World’s Greatest Detective.

When it’s Dick though, well, that’s a completely different level of fight.

And he should have known better than to trust that smile when Dick finally cajoled him into staying a night, “just one night,” in the Manor to do some detecting early in the am because of office hours and such. He should have known better because it became more than just one night. Randomly waking the fuck up in his room there, drinking coffee while he showers, uses the mats, and—

Dick must have planned to have him alone in the Cave when the first sparring session turned into tooclosegetcloser, when the moves stopped being taps of a good shot, and throws only happened with the both of them on the ground (Dick grinding up against his ass on purpose).

It was low assurances the cameras were looped and you smell good, Timmy, feel perfect like this.

It’s a different kind of fight when he’s moaning into Dick’s mouth and running his hands under the silly t-shirt so he can have skin, and of all places to be their first? This...is not really what he envisioned. At. All. (But at the time...he hadn’t been complaining. Nope..

Once they cleaned up and managed to stagger back upstairs and through the abandoned main floor of the Manor to shower in Dick’s room (and...well, place number two not nearly as awkward, though the amount of positions Dick can get into while in a shower is nothing less than awe-inspiring.), his chest is loose as his muscles, falling asleep way, way too easily to the familiar creaks and groans, half laying on Dick’s chest and feeling warm for the first time in...well, he’ll leave it at that.

But like some random portal into the multiverse (sigh, again), the whole lot of effort became routine and comfortable, became part of his nature again, sucked him in, and welp, here he is now.

After patrol tonight, he’s going back to his Perch and get ready for the inevitable trip back to San Fran, doing the team thing for the week. If he isn’t back in Gotham for Friday night, a phone call would ensue. If everyone was feeling pissy, then it would be Alfred on the other end of the line.

(Just, why do that to him? He can only ride the Pennyworth Guilt Train for so long before he has to get off and do whatever necessary to make it stop).

The long and the short of it is—at some point in the last few months, he’d made it back to the Bats, and the crazy-crime-fighting-slash-family-meals-and-noogies thing is becoming something familiar and expected.

You know, trap.

At this juncture, when they’re laying down the routes and their separate investigations, when connections to the Bowery might lead to Dixon Docks and down along the riverfront where some of Match’s people got an ear to the ground could intersect with the gangbangers toting tainted opioids for cheap, leaving the buyers DOA.  

And it’s a crazy thing how the Red Hood gives him a bro fist and plans to meet up for roof tacos before the second half of the night hits, how Robin gives no shits about shoving one of Pennyworth’s sandwiches pretty much in his face because no, fool, you may not leave before you eat, how B ruffles his hair before the zoom tubes take him out of Gotham and into that realm of kick-ass crime fighting.

It’s a crazy thing (how Nightwing pulls him in tight, grips him with both hands, breathes against his neck, whispers stupid, pointless shit in his ear to make him laugh before it’s time to fly) how it makes something in his chest that used to be fucking broken as shit, that used to be heavy, that used to weigh him right the fuck down, how it makes all those scattered, fractured pieces start to come back together again.

This...wasn’t in the plan.

Because along the way, the original plans had to change, to adapt to a new reality

Where do you see yourself in twenty years, Timothy?

Dead. That makes the most sense

But the plans have shifted again, the reality altered with the inclusion of these self-sacrificing ass hats. It’s grown out of the team, the JL, the general populace, it’s grown right back to his fucking roots, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He’s already too deep to raise the other foot and be gone out of Gotham.

Instead, he’s got plans for Hood when the Pit starts to eat at him, for Dami when the old recriminations and the fight to be who he wanted instead of what they tried to make him, for Dick when he pushes himself so far past the limit of his endurance even he can’t see it’s time to stop, for B when reliving the old horror stories, the old failures instead of the victories, over and over, fighting harder and harder to get rid of the demons on his cape.

He takes the post-patrol hug without a fight (is completely onboard with the hand groping his ass), helps Jay find his other spare clip, and lays a hand on Dami’s shoulder before those two hit the big car and take off into the night. He and Jay follow behind on Ducatis, already feeling the slow burn of the oncoming night and what surprises might be in store for a couple of free vigilantes down for a little mayhem.

He’s grinning when the Batmobile’s brake lights tap twice in a happy hunting before he veers off to head to his part of town and get on with some investigating. The night is ready, settling on his shoulders and back, and the distinct moment, the epiphanic realization settles with it:

Welcome Home

Yeah...it really is, isn’t it?