Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

              Tim didn’t doubt that the trip to medical supply closet was merely an excuse for Alfred and Dick to have a private conference. Like two parents trying to come to agreement about their unruly charges.

              Dick hadn’t said, “I’m disappointed in you.” In fact, he hadn’t said anything after he’d stopped them fighting in Crime Alley.

              Tim wondered if that was calculated. Bruce used to do that. Let you stew in your own guilt until he was good and ready to ream you out. Tim had experienced enough silent Batmobile rides to know how effective that was.

              Not this time. Tim had told Dick he’d make his own way to the penthouse (and Batcave 2.0), and Dick had nodded and ushered Damian to the car.

              One good thing about no longer being Robin, Tim supposed. Let Damian deal with the tense rides home. (Did that even affect the brat?)

              Well, it wasn’t as though Dick could ground him. Tim was legally an emancipated minor now. Wasn’t that what the whole unceremoniously kicking Tim out of the Robin’s nest had been about anyway? That Tim was his own man?

              Still, I’m lying if I pretend like Dick’s opinion no longer matters.

              “Thibs ibs your fault, Drake!” Damian hissed, holding a towel-wrapped ice pack against his bloody nose.

              “Yep. Can definitely see how you attacking me out of nowhere is all on me, gremlin.”

              Damian threw down the ice pack. “You put me on your hit list of villains!”

              My what? Had the Demon-child finally lost his— Wait. “What list, Damian?”

              “You know ‘what list’! Did you think I wasn’t smart enough to bypass your pitiful security codes?”

              Yes, as a matter of fact. Tim was almost impressed. Almost.        

              “You still refuse to see me as anything but a threat to be taken out!”

              “And cutting my line was supposed to prove that you weren’t a threat?”

              “WHAT?” Dick had just emerged from the supply closet, cowl pulled down—his face blank with horror. He turned to Damian. “You cut his line?”

              “Drake put me on his secret hit list!”

              “It’s not a hit list!” Tim insisted. Even though, yes, he had mentally been calling it exactly that. But it wasn’t like whatever Damian was thinking. “And he was never supposed to see it!”

              “He really cut your line? How are you okay? Are you okay?” Dick hands were already uselessly traversing Tim’s ribs, as if he could feel an injury through the Kevlar.

              Tim gently pried off Dick’s fingers and pulled down his cowl, so he could make eye contact with his older brother. “Dick, I’m fine, really. I was surprised, sure.” Shouldn’t have been. Damian trying to kill me is the new norm. “But I’ve been doing this for years. Damian’s the one who needs medical attention.” It took an effort to make sure that last sentence didn’t sound smug.

              When he glanced over at Damian, Alfred was patching up his nose.

              Alfred seemed to have become fond of the little princeling while Tim was away. (Which Tim found surprising given that A) Damian was as rude to Alfred as he was to anyone else and B) the first time Damian and Alfred met, Damian had stuffed the older man in a closet. But apparently, day was night now, and Damian had managed to worm his way into everyone’s good graces, without having any perceivable graces of his own.) So Tim was bracing for a stern frown or even the silent treatment.

              But when Alfred’s eyes caught his, Tim saw only worry. “Are you certain you do not require medical attention?”

              “I’m positive.” Tim couldn’t resist adding, with a causal roll of his shoulders, “It would take more than that to injure me.”

              “Pity,” Damian muttered under his breath.

              Now, Alfred did frown.

              “What? We were all thinking it!”

              “I assure you, we were not. If that is a joke, it is in very poor taste.” Alfred looked to Dick for backup, so Tim’s head automatically swiveled that direction too.

              If Dick were a computer, Tim would have said he was in the middle of reboot. He had his back to a wall, eyes closed, fingertips pressed into the bridge of his nose on either side.

*****

              Sibling rivalry. Extreme sibling rivalry, but still, that was how Dick mentally defined Tim and Damian’s relationship. Until tonight.

              Yes, Dick had known about the time Damian had tried to kill Tim. Before Bruce’s death. Before Damian had decided he wanted to give up the League, the al Ghuls, and everything they stood for. Before Damian had rescued Tim during Jason’s crazed attempt to be Batman.

              Dick was pretty used to working with reformed villains and allies who had once tried to kill him. All the Robins were. It was a weird life they’d volunteered for.

              But family was supposed to be the semi-normal part of their life. The safety net.

              Dick first coherent thought was Tim must feel like he has to be on guard at every second, even at home.

              And his second: He must hate me for this. And I can’t blame him.

*****

              “Why are you upset with me?” Damian jumped down from the gurney, gesturing wildly at Tim. “I’m not the one with a secret hit list! And Drake’s fine!”

              Dick’s head snapped up. “You don’t get to almost kill someone and then say it was fine because they didn’t die!”

              Tim hadn’t thought it was possible for Damian’s voice to get even screechier. “Drake was the one who—”

              “No.” Dick held up his hand.

              Even though they were yards apart, Damian stumbled back as though he had been shoved. “I—”

              “No.”

              Dick braced himself against the computer, his back to the room. Very, very quietly, he said, “I’m too angry to talk right now. Go upstairs. Leave the uniform here. You’re off patrol until I say otherwise.”

              “Grayson.” Damian’s tone almost pleading. Tim almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

******

              “Grayson. . . .”

              Grayson spun back around. Apparently, anger hadn’t taken all of his words. “If I find out that you have set a single toe outside this house without my permission, you will never see that uniform again, do you understand me?”

              Damian gaped at him.

              He’d heard of the infamous Dick Grayson temper—from Drake, from Gordon, even from Brown. But he hadn’t quite believed in it until now. Damian wondered if he had ever truly seen Grayson angry with him before. Oh sure, he had argued with the new Batman, earned his share of shouted frustration, glares, and the occasional, horrified “Damian!” (Only to himself could Damian admit that he had been working to decrease those.)

              They’d even had an argument so bad that Damian had ripped the Robin symbol off of his uniform and flung it at Grayson's feet before running off to fight on his own. But that had been early days. Before they trusted each other—when Damian hadn’t wanted to follow orders and Dick didn’t quite know how to give them yet. This was different.

              This was worse.

              Because before, Grayson hadn’t tricked him into watching all those stupid animated movies so that Damian “could understand American culture” yet. And they hadn’t learned to anticipate each other’s movements in the field yet—a dance that made Damian feel the way he imagined a single bird in a flying V must feel, free without being alone. And Damian hadn’t fallen asleep on the sofa after patrol yet—and then pretended to still be asleep when Dick tucked a blanket around him and hesitantly brushed back his hair. And Grayson hadn’t said “I’m proud of you” yet.

              “Do. You. Understand?”

              “Yes.” Damian could feel Tim’s eyes on him, but he stalked into the changing rooms without looking at the other boy. He wasn’t going to give Drake the satisfaction.

              When Alfred’s hand fell on his shoulder, Damian wanted to shrug it off. But he didn’t have the energy. A moment later, Damian welcomed its guidance—the room was becoming oddly blurred.

******

              Even the bats were quiet. From the changing area drifted the quiet murmur of Alfred’s voice and then the soft shunk of the elevator going upstairs.

              “I should—” Tim began.

              At the same time, Dick started, “Are you—”

              Tim waited.

              “Are you sure you’re all right?”

              Yes. No. Probably? “I’m sure.”

              This was fine. It was good even. Tim wasn’t injured. He and Dick were talking again. He was back in Gotham. They all knew Bruce wasn’t dead now. Just gone. Just missing in time.

              Maybe Damian will get lucky and kill me before we figure out how to get Bruce back. Heck, maybe Jason will. How many step-brothers have to try to kill you before it’s a family trait?

              “I’m sorry.”

              “Damian’s not your fault.”

              Dick made a face. “He kind of is.”

              “I think we can blame Bruce for this one.”

              Dick didn’t even crack a smile. He looked exhausted.

              “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I think he was just acting on impulse. Right now, it’s not everyone else he’s trying to kill. Just me.”

              Dick groaned and covered his face with his hands. 

              “It’s okay if he hates me. I’d just like to be able to safely work with him.”

              Through his hands, Dick said, “You will be able to—otherwise, I can’t send him out any more.”

              That sounded . . . serious. Tim didn’t know if he felt vindicated or concerned.

              Dick rubbed his eyes and then slowly pulled his hands down his face. “And Damian doesn’t hate you.”

              Tim rolled his eyes.

              “He’s jealous of you, Tim.”

              “No shit, Sherlock!”

              It had just sort of tumbled out—the sort of thing Tim might have said to his older brother but never to Batman.

              There was a short, shocked pause. And then Dick barked out a laugh.

              “Sorry,” Tim grumbled. “I thought that was obvious.”

              Dick grinned. “And I thought it was obvious that jealousy isn’t the same thing as hatred, but I keep forgetting that you were an only child.”

              “Weren’t you an only child?”

              Dick shrugged. “Technically. But I’ve had a lot of time to get used to the idea of siblings.”      

              Tim didn’t think there was any real parallel between Dick’s relationship with him, or even Dick’s relationship with Jason, and Tim’s non-relationship with Bruce’s murderous demon offspring. But he couldn’t think of a good way to explain this. So instead, he leaned against one of the medical cabinets and said, “I finally understand how Jason felt.”

              “Hm?”

              “When he came back and found out that Bruce had given Robin to someone else.” Tim didn’t look at Dick. Not even when the silence stretched out for an uncomfortable length of time.

              Tim had not intended to revisit this conversation. None of the variations he had played out in his head ended better than the original confrontation. And that had involved Tim punching Damian and then going AWOL as he spiraled into grief and paranoia.

              During difficult stretches of his Robin career, sometimes “put up and shut up” had been the only way to deal with Bruce. Tim figured that losing Robin to Damian was now a “put up and shut up” case.

              But curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted to know if Dick would apologize. Or get angry. He wondered which one would feel worse.

              Finally, Tim saw Dick’s shoulder in his peripheral vision, leaning against the other side of the cabinet.

              “I did think about that,” Dick said. “And I thought about how hurt I had been when Bruce gave the role to Jason. And the only thing that helped me deal with the transition was creating my own role, building my own life away from Bruce. You did that pretty early on. You were a lot more independent as Robin than I was.”

              Yeah. ’Cause I was pissed at Bruce and didn’t know who to trust. Not because I wanted to be alone.

              “I know it wasn’t fair. It will never be fair, and I’m sorry. But I thought that at least the transition might be smoother for you. You’re already so much more mature than I was at your age.”

              “I know he seems young to be left for two months, but Tim’s so responsible for his age. He handles it like a champ.”

              “I’m sorry we had to miss your birthday, Tim. But I know you’re mature enough to understand.”

              “Tim doesn’t really need that kind of hand-holding. He’s very independent. Almost a little adult.”

              Tim had always been “mature for his age.” Too mature to, you know, need parents, or a family, or someone to care about what he wanted or just occasionally check up on him and make sure he wasn’t falling apart. . . .

              “Tim? Tim, are you okay?”

              “Yep. Yeah, I’m fine.”

              In all functional relationships, a certain respectful distant had to be maintained around people’s emotional masks. And usually, Dick wouldn’t push. He’d just the leave the possibility for honesty there—like a half-opened door. (Except Dick would push Bruce. And that always led to a big blow up. Bruce would never walk through that door. He wouldn’t even acknowledge its existence.)

              A younger Tim had imagined that this was the best version of having an older brother, someone to call when he needed advice, or just a nonjudgmental ear.

              Now Bruce was gone, and Tim couldn’t remember the last time he had unburdened himself to anyone, the last time it had felt safe and unselfish. Maybe it had never been unselfish, or safe, maybe Tim had just finally grown into that truth.

              Dick shifted so that they were eye-to-eye. “You’re not fine.”

              Tim shook himself and forced a more believable smile onto his face. “Sorry. I’m really okay. Just feeling a little sorry for myself. It’s not—it’s not. . . .” Crap. The smile was not holding. He’d overdone it. But he was okay. The problem was that Dick’s sympathetic expression was not helping Tim remind himself of his general okayness.

              “Tim, it’s me. You don’t have to pretend.”

              Ah, shit.

              Tim leaned forward so that his face was hidden in Dick’s shoulder.

              Dick wrapped his right arm around Tim’s shoulders and pulled him close. That had been such a Bruce way of hugging: a strong, tight grip that was literal as well as emotional support. A grip that, in those rare moments of physical affection, had told Tim, It’s okay to let go now; I’ll hold you up.

              And that’s when the tears really started.

              Dick did not try to hush him, just rocked slightly.

              Oh God. This was not going to stop any time soon, was it? Tim needed to stop. Why was he falling apart now? When things were actually better? (Minus Damian. But still, a heck of a lot better than they had been a month ago.)

              Tim pressed his forehead into the bone of Dick’s shoulder and tried to take a steadying breath. And failed.

              Where was all that breath-control training? Why couldn’t he call up any of his relaxation techniques?

              There was a small buzz near his ear, and Tim realized that Dick was humming, badly—a tune too faint for Tim’s ears to pick out. And Tim decided that he didn’t want to remember his tricks for pretending to be fine.

              “I miss—” Tim choked.

              “Hm?”

              “My dad—”

              Dick didn’t ask him which dad, and Tim was grateful because the grief of missing Jack was now all tangled up with the grief of missing Bruce.

              “I missed . . . seeing you. I missed—” And then Tim just fully gave in and sobbed a small lake into Dick’s shoulder.     

              “I missed that too,” Dick said, almost as quiet as the humming had been.

              For several minutes, the only sound was the soft breathiness of Tim’s sobs and the slight squeak of the metal shelving unit as Dick readjusted his shoulders so he could wrap his arms more securely around Tim.

              Finally, Tim pulled back. “Sorry.”

              Dick grimaced, his own face glistening in the Cave's dimmed lights. “Don’t you dare. If everyone in this family could stop acting like feelings were crimes, I think half our problems would be solved.”

              “Only half?” Tim joked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

              Dick kissed the top of his head. (Now, there was a Dick gesture of affection.) “If anyone’s going to apologize, it should be me.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I never—I mean, I wanted. . . . I should have let leaving Robin be your decision.”

              These were the words Tim’s soul had been waiting for.

              “I should have found something else for Damian.”

              But then Tim’s brain kicked in. Stupid logical brain. “Yeah. But it wouldn’t have worked.” Tim slumped against a cabinet. “I mean, yes, you should have let giving up Robin be my decision. You knew how much having Robin taken away hurts. But anything without the legacy of Robin won’t have meant much to Damian.”

              Dick spread his hands. “I know. But what should I have done?” Not a challenge, just a genuine question.

              Tim shrugged. “Talked to me first, I guess? I mean, I wasn’t going to be a fan of Damian becoming Robin—especially not at that point. I probably wasn’t ever going to hang around the house just so the kid could insult me.”        

*****

              Damian’s presence was unwelcoming. You didn’t need detective skills to know that. But Dick had been hoping, now that Tim was back in Gotham, that he would spend more time at the penthouse, that his current absences were just because he was still busy setting up his own life, tackling his own cases. Tim had always been self-reliant (Dick remembered how long it had taken him to move in with Bruce after Jack died). Hearing that Damian was the reason Tim wasn’t around just twisted the knife of guilt that had been lodged in Dick’s gut ever since Bruce’s death.

              Another apology was on Dick’s lips, but then the elevator doors opened, and there was Alfred, setting up a late night/early morning snacking station.

              “Oatmeal?” Dick said in mock disappointment. “I mean, I’ll never turn my nose up at your cookies, Alf. But why go through all the trouble of baking for oatmeal?”

              “Blasphemy,” Tim mumbled through crumbs, half a cookie already gone. “Alfred’s oatmeal cookies are a work of art. They are the only perfect thing in this universe.”

              Dick slid Alfred a grateful smile.

              Alfred gave him half a smile in response before returning to a more apprehensive expression. “Master Damian is in bed, per your instructions. But he is not yet asleep.” That he would not sleep until Dick talked to him was unspoken but loud.

              “Thanks.” Dick sighed. It had been a long night, and the hardest part was still ahead of him. “Why don’t you turn in, Al? Someone in this house should sleep.”

              Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have forgotten who used to send whom to bed in this house, Master Dick.”

              “That was years ago!” And it hadn’t even been this house. But the elevator doors had already shut, and Tim was snickering.

              While they ate, Tim walked Dick through his “hit list,” and Dick began to understand why Damian had been so upset. To the new Robin, everything was personal. There was just one more thing he needed to know before he talked to Damian.

              “Just ask already.” Tim reached for another cookie. “At this point, I’m so exhausted, I’d probably tell you anything.”

              “If I hadn’t walked in on your argument with Damian, would I have ever found out that he cut your line?”

              “From me? No.”

              “Tim! Why not?”

              Tim shrugged and took a bite. “I didn’t think it would matter? It’s not like he’s currently that kind of danger to anyone who isn’t me. And I can handle it.”

              “You didn’t think it would matter, as in, ‘You didn’t think it would matter to me?’”

              Tim took a gulp of milk. Stalling.

              Dick leaned forward on his elbows, so that his eyes were level with Tim’s. “Of course, it matters to me. Though I guess I can see why you wouldn’t feel like you could trust me anymore.”

              Tim quickly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I trust you!”

              Dick gestured at the computer monitor. “You trust me not to turn evil or you trust me to take your concerns seriously?”

              Tim blinked tiredly. “I—okay, look, it hurt when you took Robin away and then you wouldn’t believe me about Bruce being alive.” He held up a hand to stave off Dick’s explanation. “I know I sounded like a crazy person. But it still hurt. And it hurt because I trusted you. Because if you didn’t believe me then maybe I really was crazy?”

              Dick groaned and ran a hand down his face. “You and Bruce,” he said.

              “What?”

              “You both think that people worrying about you is the same as people not trusting you. And that being factually correct is somehow the same as being mentally stable.”

              “No, I—” Tim paused. “Huh.” He leaned back in his chair and squinted at Dick. “Okay, I’m packing that one away to examine later.”

              Dick’s lip twitched. “And that’s where you and Bruce diverge.” Bruce would have just stalked off dramatically. Or changed the subject to something he felt he could prove.

              “Despite your attempts to casually dismantle my psyche, Dr. Grayson, I still trust you. I’m just used to solving my own problems, you know?”

              “I get that. But Damian is my problem. And he could have killed you tonight. I worry—” Dick stared at the ceiling, searching for words. “I never want you to think that I’d choose Damian over you. Yes, I feel more responsible for him. And we’re long past the days when I could teach you anything. But I’ll always come running if you need me.”

              “I know,” said Tim, so simply that Dick believed him.

              After a few moments of companionable crunching, Dick asked, “You gonna to be around tomorrow?” He tried not to sound like he was begging.

              “I don’t think Damian will be too pleased to see me at breakfast.”

              “Damian will learn to deal.”

              Tim eyed him for a moment, before grabbing a final cookie and turning toward the elevator. “Get some sleep, Dick.”      

              Instead, Alfred found Dick, some time later, sitting with his head in his hands.

Chapter Text

              For a few minutes, Alfred said nothing, moving plates and glasses to a small trolley brought down for just that purpose. But finally, the butler observed, mildly: “I’ve never known you to put off doing what you knew needed to be done, Master Dick.”

              “Alf, I can’t—I really thought he was getting better. And I thought I had handled things with Tim and the Robin suit okay—not great, or even good, but at least okay-ish. But it’s not just Batman I’m messing up.” Dick spoke into his hands.    

              “There’s nothing currently ‘messed up’ that can’t still be ‘unmessed.’” Alfred slapped a disinfectant-soaked towel onto the table. “But sitting down here brooding in the dark isn’t going to solve anything.”

              Dick jerked his elbows out of the towel’s path. “I’m not brooding! That was Bruce’s thing. I’m. . . .”

              “Mm?”

              “Okay. I’m brooding.”

*****

              “Drake?”

              Tim took a deep breath before changing course down the hallway. “What do you want, Damian?”

              Damian stood in the shadow of his doorway, his face mostly obscured. “I knew you would catch yourself.” He shifted his weight. “That’s not an excuse. I behaved impulsively. I just—I never would have cut your line if I had doubted your capabilities.”

              “Thank you?” Tim tried.

              “I’m not actually evil.” Damian huffed.

              “You’ve killed people,” Tim said flatly. And brought me a decapitated head. “Surely, you can see why I might have concerns?”

              Damian said nothing. His face was too covered in shadow for Tim to read his expression.

              Finally, quietly, the boy said, “I wish make amends.”

              Tim started. “Do you mean to me—or in general?” He held his breath, afraid that even suggesting that Damian owed him an apology would result in another attack.

              “Yes.”

              In the silence that followed, Damian added, “I have been attempting to do the latter, but. . . .” The boy clenched his hands and then released them.

              “But what?” Tim had never used a tone this soft with Damian before; he had no idea where he was pulling it from.

              “But obviously, nothing I do is ever enough,” Damian said stiffly. 

              It had been a long night; all Tim wanted to do was fall into bed. Instead, he said, “I think that’s a common feeling, among Robins.” He gestured toward his room down the hall. “Do you want to talk? Like, somewhere that isn’t a hallway?”

              Damian hesitated in the doorway. “I don’t think I am meant to leave my room.”

              Ah. Tim had forgotten that part. Or had assumed that Damian wouldn’t take it so seriously.

              “In that case, can I come in?”

              Silently, Damian stepped back into his room. Tim followed, all of his senses heightening as if he was sneaking into a gun runner’s hideout. He was careful to stay near the exit.

              Tim had never been in Damian’s room before. He had never considered entering it (except possibly for reconnaissance). What struck him first was a sense of embarrassment over how sloppy his own living spaces were. This wasn’t just neat, it was ascetic. The only thing “out of place” was a book that Damian had obviously been in the middle of reading. Tim caught a glimpse of Arabic lettering before Damian hastily stuffed it into a bedside table. 

              A single bedside lamp was lit. It was not much brighter in Damian’s room than it had been in the hallway, but now Tim could see the boy’s face, and Damian’s eyes looked red.

              “Dick won’t stay mad,” Tim blurted. “That’s not his style.”

              Damian looked away. “Usually, that is true, yes.” Then he looked back at Tim with an expression Tim couldn’t quite interpret. “Grayson is not like you or I.”

              Tim didn’t know how he felt about being lumped in with the Demon-brat, so he focused on a different part of the statement. “I probably won’t stay mad either.” Tim wasn’t sure if he even felt anger anymore, or if everything was just a different shade of exhaustion.

              Damian cleared his throat. “Is there a way I could assist in this?”

              “In what?”

              “In a possible future where you do not stay mad at me.”

              “Damian, are you trying to . . . apologize?”

              “I am attempting to make amends, yes.”

              It took all of Tim’s strength not to laugh (nothing went over worse with Damian than anything that could be interpreted as mockery). “You might try the words ‘I’m sorry.’”

              Damian scowled.

              “Look, if you’re not sorry, then don’t say it. But you said you’ve been trying to ‘make amends’—”

              “How do mere words amend anything?”

              Now Tim did laugh—he couldn’t help it. “Sorry,” he said, holding up a hand before Damian could respond. “It’s just that Dick was right—you are a lot like Bruce. He wasn’t much of a word-person either.”

              “Is that somehow wrong? Isn’t action preferable to empty speech?”

              “Most people like a combo—words and actions. How do people know what your intentions are unless you tell them?”

              Damian shrugged. There was something grumpy and childish in the gesture. Tim thought that was all he was going to get, but after a moment, the boy straightened. “I apologize, Drake. I should not have cut your line.”

              Holy Mother of Dragons. Tim hadn’t actually believed he was going to get a verbal apology.

              And on the one hand, that annoyed Tim—the bar for behavior was so low that a simple apology for what was basically attempted murder could be considered growth. Tim had trained so hard, been held to such high standards (his own and Bruce’s) for so long. And then this violent brat shows up, just barely manages to not kill people every night, and somehow he’s worthy of being Robin.

              But on the other hand, Damian was looking at him with barely concealed terror, like just saying I’m sorry had stripped him of all his skills and strength. He looked like a child. He was a child. A weird, violent messed-up child.

              “Thanks.”

              And then Tim and Damian just stood there. Theoretically, this was the moment where Tim would apologize for breaking Damian’s nose. Except he wasn’t sorry. And he wasn’t sure that bringing up how he had bested the boy would help foster this tentative peace.

              So he tried a joke, even though Damian had never appreciated his sense of humor in the past (or any humor, ever). “If you want to make amends, you could start by calling me ‘Tim.’”

              Damian wrinkled his nose. “That’s so . . . informal. Anyway, Grayson would be jealous.”

              “What is it with you and last names, anyway? Do you actually want people to call you ‘al Ghul’?”

              Immediately, Damian tensed, and Tim thought he had destroyed whatever fragile rapport they had been building. But after a moment, Damian just said, “No. That is not the surname I would prefer.”

              The lightbulb clicked on in Tim’s head. “You . . . you want people to call you Wayne?”

              “Why is that funny?”

              Wayne’s World.

              Only Bruce could pull off being called “Wayne” without losing some gravitas.

              “It’s just . . . unexpected. Why don’t you call me ‘Drake-Wayne’ then? That’s actually my surname.” Tim already knew why. He just wondered if Damian would say it.

              “There’s nothing in the Drake lineage to be ashamed of."

              And while Tim knew that wasn’t the entire truth, it was enough for tonight.

              “Maybe that’s why we use first names. We don’t have to be our legacies or families or whatever. We can just be what we decide to be.”

              Damian shook his head. “Once you have a lineage, people don’t forget it. They won’t let you forget it either. It doesn’t matter what you do.”

              Ouch. Okay.  

              Tim pinched the bridge of nose. “Hey. I’m going to tell you two things, and the first one you’re not going to like very much, but just let me finish, okay? Because the second one, you might like better.”

              “That sounds remarkably unpromising.” Damian sat down on the bed. “But continue.”

              “I know you’re upset about the list you found. And I can sort of understand why—” (Damian made a noise of protest) “—you were going to let me finish, remember? But it’s not personal. I know Bruce had files on how to take down every single member of the Justice League, and these were his friends, people he trusted with his life and his secret identity.

              “I’m sure if Superman broke into Bruce’s computer and saw his file, he’d probably be upset, but he’d also understand. In our line of work, we can’t afford to leave anything up to chance.”

              “Father would have had better security.”

              “I guess I thought I could trust you not to break into my encrypted files! Apparently, I was wrong.” That came out more biting than Tim had intended.

              Damian glowered. “You had a second point to make? One that’s not about insulting me?”

              Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Here’s the thing: Dick is always telling me about how much you’ve grown and changed, and I know you won’t believe this, but I really do want to trust you.”

              Damian folded his arms. “Then why don’t you?”

              Tim stared at him.

              Damian stared back. Finally, he threw up his arms. “I know! You look at me and you see my grandfather!”

              Tim grit his teeth. “You cannot honestly be this stupid. One of my best friends is Lex Luthor’s clone.” Damian looked like he wanted to ask a question, but Tim barreled on, “I struggle to trust you because you’ve tried to kill me three times, at least. You did that! Not Talia. Not Ra’s. You! How on earth am I supposed to trust you?”

              Damian was watching him from over the top of his folded up knees. An oddly innocent position for someone with a body count. “Once,” Damian muttered.

              “What?”

              “I was only really trying one of those times.”

              For a moment, Tim tried to parse out which one of those times it had been. Probably the grenade in the Spook’s decapitated head. Then he shook himself. “Shouldn’t once be more than enough?”

              Damian closed his eyes. “Yes.” And after a moment: “I apologize for that as well.”    

              Tim didn’t know what else to say.

              Damian opened one eye. “See, Drake, I told you apologies were useless.”

              It was almost a joke. Tim tried to match the tone: “Yeah, well, maybe you could avoid fighting me to the death in the future—whether or not you’re actually trying.”

              “I will.” Not a joke. Unnervingly not a like joke.

              “Good. ” Tim turned toward the door; that was probably the right note to end on. “I should get some sleep.”

              Damian’s arms were still wrapped around his knees. Just before he closed the door, Tim felt compelled to throw out: “You know that if I actually thought of you as a villain, there’s no way I would have trusted you alone with Dick and Alfred for all this time. But I did.”

              As he was headed down the hall, Tim half expected Damian to attempt to attack him from behind, but he reached his room without any trouble.

              That’s the longest conversation we’ve ever had—and no one’s bleeding.

*****

              “Are you still up?”

              Once, Damian might have made a biting reply about the sort of detective Dick was supposed to be. Damian’s light was still on, obviously he was awake. But after spending so much time with Dick, Damian could now recognize this as one of Grayson’s quirks—asking questions not because he didn’t know the answer, but simply to give the other person an opportunity to speak.

              “Yes,” he said quietly, standing up.

              Dick pushed the door open and stepped into the room. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he closed it behind him.

              Damian stiffened. Closed doors were bad. Being shamed in front of others burned Damian to his core. But closed doors suggested punishments too horrifying to be witnessed. Public punishments were for those who needed to be made an example of. Closed doors were for traitors whose shame had to be secretly, and viciously, eradicated.

              But then Dick sat down at the foot of the bed. Such a dumb, nonthreatening gesture that Damian remembered where he was—and who he was with.

              “Look at me, please.” Serious but no longer furious.

              Damian obeyed. Dick’s solemn eyes made Damian wish abruptly for the armor the Robin suit provided.

              “Do you understand why I’m upset?”

              Damian straightened but his gaze hovered at Grayson's chin. “I acted recklessly and in a way unbecoming to Robin by cutting Drake’s line and potentially injuring him. I should have confronted him directly and not in a time or place where the mission might be compromised.” He paused. “I should not have dishonored the place of my grandparents’ death with our fighting.” Damian glanced back up at Dick's face.

              In the League of Assassins, apologies were the final words of failures, murmured at feet of the al Ghuls. To apologize was to give up and accept your death. “I regret my actions. I did not immediately realize where we were.”

              “I appreciate your apology.” Dick patted the comforter, and after a moment of uncertainty, Damian decided he was meant to sit down. “But you know Tim’s the one you need to apologize to.”

              “I have already—before he retired.”

              Dick looked surprised.

              “Do I—will I be sent back?” Damian blinked, furious with himself for stumbling over the words.

              “What?”

              “If Drake is Robin again, will I be returned to Mother?” How would he survive that? During their last conversation Mother had made it painfully clear that he was unwelcome. 

              Dick looked the way he did when Batman and Robin were too late to help someone. Even when Dick was wearing the cowl, Damian could recognize those sorrowful lines around his mouth.

              Without the barrier of Batman, those lines were too much and Damian looked away.

              “Damian.” When Damian looked back, Grayson was opening his arms.

              Normally, he rebuffed Grayson’s maudlin need for physical affection. But now Damian felt nothing but relief as Dick’s arms wrapped around him. And if he squeezed back, well, obviously Grayson needed it.

              “Never,” Dick promised, running a hand over Damian’s hair. “Unless you want to, you never have to go back, no matter what happens, understand?”

              Damian nodded into Dick’s shirt.

              “And Tim has moved on to his own work. So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

              “But Robin can be taken away.”

              Damian could feel the way Dick’s breathing changed. Finally, Dick pulled back a little, his hands on Damian’s shoulders, so that he could look Damian in the eye. “Yes,” he admitted. “Family is forever. But Robin has never been a permanent role. People grow out of it—”

              “Or fail and get fired.”

              “Or die,” Dick added quietly.

              “Same thing.” Damian waved his hand.

              Dick frowned and Damian expected another lecture on how Todd somehow was not a failure as Robin.

              But instead Dick gripped his shoulders. “It absolutely is not. It would destroy me to take Robin away from you, but I’d do it fifty times over if I thought you were a risk to yourself—or to others.”

              Damian felt his eyes smart, even though Grayson’s grip wasn’t that tight.

              “I’m not, I promise,” he whispered. “Tonight was—was a misjudgment. I never thought I was putting Drake in real danger.”

              Dick shook his shoulders. “But you were. He trusted you to help him and you cut his line. You let your anger override everything.”

              “Yes.” Damian blinked rapidly. Why was this worse than any torturous training he had endured with the League?

              “Be honest with me, Damian. I will help you, no matter your answer, but you have to tell me the truth. All joking and griping aside, do you intend—in any part of yourself—to hurt Tim?”

              “No!”

              “You cannot do this again. There is no second time.”

              “I know.” Damian swallowed.

              “I know you know. You’ve had more than enough training, both here and in the League, to know the importance of reining in your emotions in the field. So that means either your training isn’t adequate or that you chose to ignore it when you attacked Tim. So which was it?” Dick’s eyes seemed to be drilling holes into Damian’s head, as though they might bore through his skull and pull the answer directly from his brain.

              Damian didn’t know how to answer. He had definitely made a deliberate choice to follow Tim and confront the other boy where he was vulnerable. Damian had used his League training to get even with Red Robin for treating him like a villain. But it wasn’t League training to sabotage missions for personal vendettas. And it certainly wasn’t part of Batman’s training.

              Dick was always telling him that he reacted out of anger too often in the field, but Damian hadn’t cared, except maybe to please Grayson, because he still got the job done. And if the criminal element was even more afraid of them, well, all the better. But this hadn’t been better, and Drake wasn’t the criminal element. What would he have told Grayson if Drake had been injured? Or somehow died? Which would have been worse, trying to lie to Grayson, or standing over Drake’s broken corpse and taking in every bit of contempt and horror and grief that flitted across Grayson’s face as he learned the truth?

              “Answer me, please.”

              “I don’t know.”

              “You don’t know whether or not you chose to ignore your training and go after Tim?” Damian didn’t have to look at Dick’s face. He could hear the skepticism.

              “I don’t know . . .” Damian bend forward and mumbled into his knees.

              “I didn’t catch that.”

              “I don’t know what’s . . . wrong. I was trained to turn off every emotion and focus at the drop of a pin. And I can! But sometimes. . . .” Sometimes, he was so angry it overtook everything. And he didn't even know why. And he could never tell Grayson, but it terrified him—being so out of control.

              He heard Dick shift beside him.

              Damian closed his eyes and squeezed his fists against his knees. “I am not a liability! I can conquer this! I can conquer anything!”

              Something like a sigh escaped Dick.

              “I’m trying.” It came out as more of a wail than Damian had intended. “I’m trying. . . .”

              “Oh, kiddo. I know. Believe me, I know.”

******

              Hugging Damian once was a risk—even though Dick had made sure to move slowly and obviously. Hugging him twice in one night seemed like a suicide mission. But how could he look at that face and not just want to squeeze the boy until everything was better?

              How was it possible to be so angry at what Damian had done and yet so proud of everything he trying to do? How on earth was he supposed to balance crucial chastisement against Damian’s deep and unacknowledged insecurities?

              Without clear, logical direction, Dick Grayson did what he knew best—he relied on instinct and leapt. He pulled the boy onto his lap.

              Damian let out an undignified squawk but didn’t fight, instead glancing at the closed door and then settling back against his brother.

              Dick rested his chin on the dark head. “I’m proud of all the ways you are changing and trying to figure out what is right—how to be the best person you know how to be. Even if I’m mad at you, I want you to know that I’m still proud of you.”

              “That sounds like a contradiction, Grayson.”

              Dick snorted. “It’s not. I’m angry because I know you can do better.”

              Damian was quiet, considering this. “Drake does not share your views. Most people do not.”

              “Tim doesn’t know you very well. And you haven’t exactly made it easy for him.”

              “He hasn’t made it easy for me! After all this time, after everything I’ve given up. . . . It-it’s not fair.”

              Bruce probably would have said something about life not being fair. Something about earning respect before you demanded it. And Bruce would have been right.

              But Damian sounded so much like a child now. A child who just felt hurt and confused. And it was late. The time for rational arguments and scolding was past.

              “No,” Dick agreed, rocking a little, trying to avoid squishing the small bandaged nose. Damian wasn't crying, but Dick could feel him shake slightly.

              “Am I—do I . . . what happens now?”

              Dick answered the unfinished question first. “Not right away. And definitely with caveats. But yes. We’ll discuss your grounding, and other things, in the morning.” Dick kissed the boy’s forehead.

              Damian took a shuddering breath and pulled away. And even though his own eyes were suspiciously puffy, he gaped at Dick. “Have you been crying?”

              Dick gave a hiccupping laugh and wiped his face. “Indulge me. It’s been . . . a night.” He didn’t say that they were tears of relief. He didn’t say that he’d been terrified that his attempts to punish the boy would only destroy the sense of safety it had taken him and Alfred so long to build. He didn't say that he had been afraid that Damian wouldn't be sorry at all, or even understand why he should be.

              “Batman isn’t supposed to cry.”

              Dick collapsed onto the comforter and clutched his stomach, laughing.

              “You’re a mess, Grayson.”

              Dick didn’t even try to deny it. “And whose fault is that?” he teased, poking at Damian socked foot.

              Damian evaded the next jab and seemed appeased by a muffled squeal when he dug his toe into Dick’s ribs. “Who can say? You were this way when I found you.”

*****

              Tim speared a pancake. “Did you even sleep last night?”

              “I was thinking. . . .”

              “Instead of sleeping?”

              Dick waved his hand. “I did some of that too.”

              “Not enough, by the looks of it.”

              Dick squinted at him. “Why does this feel like a horrible reversal of roles? Aren’t I supposed to be telling you that coffee isn’t a replacement for sleep? While you glower at me and pour orange juice into your cereal?”

              “Maybe orange juice and Cinnamon Toast Crunch are just the ideal breakfast combination. Don’t knock it till you try it.” Tim pointed at his brother with a piece of bacon.

              “Are you unusually witty this morning, or am I just that tired?”

              “I actually slept last night,” Tim admitted.

              “I want to be happy for you, but. . . .” Dick got up and poured himself some coffee.

              “But you were thinking. . . .”

              Dick closed his eyes and breathed in the caffeine. “I was thinking that if Damian was any other child, with any other background, he could get help. But there’s no way Damian would accept me dragging him to Metropolis twice a week.” It took Tim a moment to realize that Dick was referring to the therapist he’d tried, and failed, to get Tim to see. “And keeping his past or his ‘nighttime activities’ a secret—don’t giggle, Tim; he’s ten—is hard enough already—”

              “Never mind trying to find someone in Gotham who has a degree in psychology and isn’t a super villain.” 

              Dick rolled his eyes.

              “I’m guessing that all those psychological profiling lessons from Bruce don’t apply here?”

              “Yeah, no. It’s the difference between Batman and . . . well, an actual clinical psychiatrist. Can you imagine Batman as a therapist?”

              Tim snorted into his coffee. “Dangling someone off a building until they acknowledge their fear of heights?”

              Dick ran a finger around the rim of his cup and looked pensive. “To be fair to Bruce, I actually found a lot of other sorts of psychology books in his personal library last night.”

              “Yeah? What kinds of books?”

              “A couple textbooks on counseling. Some collections of clinical studies. Some . . . books for parents dealing with traumatized children.” Dick poured the last of the coffee into his cup, and without looking at Tim, added, “There were actually whole boxes of parenting books.”

              “Oh.” Tim crunched through another bacon strip before asking, “How old were they?”

              Dick smiled, tiredly. “You mean, ‘Which of his neurotic children was he trying to deal with at the time?’ I don’t know. I didn’t have time to run carbon dating.”

              “Or check the pub. dates, detective?”

              “Hey! They could have been classics that he purchased at a later date.”

              “So you did check the dates! And they were old.” Tim took a triumphant swig from his mug. “I knew I wasn’t the problem child.”

              “I distinctly remember Master Bruce buying parenting books when each of you arrived at Wayne Manor.” Alfred set a new pot of coffee on the table. “I believe you each presented a unique set of challenges.”

              Dick rested his forehead on the edge of the table. “I know this is just the exhaustion talking, but why does it feel like Damian is Bruce’s revenge? I just looked at all those books last night, and I was like, ‘Dang, Bruce. I didn’t know you went through so much trouble.’”

              “Do you think he read them all?”

              “Yes. I can tell you for fact that he didn’t follow them all. But he read them. He wrote notes.”

              Tim shifted a little in his chair. “What do they say?” Do I want to know?

              “‘Tim is definitely anal-retentive,’” Dick intoned. “Ow!”

              Alfred made a disapproving noise, as the pancake slid off Dick’s head and landed with a sad plop! on the tile floor.

              “Thanks. Just what my hair needed: maple syrup.”

              “Sorry,” Tim said, sweetly, not looking the least bit sorry. As soon as Alfred left the room, Tim added, in a stage whisper, “It’s my impulse control issues.”

              Dick laughed. And then he grimaced.

              Tim didn’t have to ask what the phrase “impulse control issues” had reminded him of. “Did Bruce’s collection help you decide what you’re going to do about Damian?” Tim tried to sound causal. But he half expected Dick to tell him it was none of his business.

              “I was going to ground him for three months.”

              “Three months! Dick, that’s a fourth of a year.”

              “Yes. I, too, can read calendars, boy genius.” Dick pressed his mug against his forehead and closed his eyes. Headache, Tim thought. “But he almost killed you, Tim. What am I supposed to do?”

              To himself, Tim had to admit, that, yes, he had been wondering how bad “trying to kill Tim” actually was in Dick’s eyes. Particularly since the most discipline he’d ever seen Dick dish out to the new Robin was an exasperated “Damian. . . .” But now the practicality of the situation hit Tim. And he was concerned.

              “Okay, sure. But he didn’t actually. And he probably will kill you if you try to keep him off of patrol for that long.”

              “I know.” Dick was staring down the table like he could already see the months of moodiness and temper tantrums ahead of him. He looked haunted. “I thought that maybe Alfred and I could work with him on some of the therapy exercises from some of Bruce’s books, and his ability to go on patrol might eventually be contingent on that, but—shoot! I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this; please, Tim, don’t mention this to him—as soon I use the word therapy, Damian’s going to—”

              “So don’t use it.”

              “What?”

              “Call it anything else. At least for now. ‘Training.’ ‘Family bonding.’ The word doesn’t matter.”

              Dick blinked at him.

              Tim leaned across the table and patted his hand. “You really do need to get some sleep.”

              Dick muttered into his cup, “I want to ignore your brilliant suggestion because you’re so patronizing, but it’s brilliant.”

              “Of course, it is. Also, three months is way too long. Give yourself a break.”

              Dick stared at him, an exhausted hopefulness starting to dawn in his eyes.

              With a start, Tim realized that this was part of why Dick hadn’t wanted him to be Robin anymore. Sure, it had been for Damian. But Dick had said that he viewed Tim as “an equal” and would feel weird giving him orders. At the time, Tim had thought that was a poor attempt to soften the blow. Tim had always been comfortable following orders when he needed to (and ignoring them when he didn’t). On their team-ups, he’d rarely chaffed under Dick’s leadership.  

              He hadn’t considered that Dick needed an equal. Damian couldn’t be it. And Alfred wasn’t in the field. So there were whole swathes of decisions Dick had been trying to make on his own. As Batman. As Damian’s de facto guardian and big brother.

              Tim leaned forward on his elbows. “Listen, without serious injuries or illness in the mix, I don’t think any Robin has made it longer than two weeks of suspension without sneaking back into the field. Batman needs a Robin.”

              “And Robin needs a Batman,” Dick murmured.

              Tim wasn’t sure which Robin or which Batman Dick was referring to. Himself and Bruce? All Robins and all Batmen? (The platonic ideal of Robin and the platonic ideal of Batman?) Shaking that off, Tim forged ahead: “Damian draws, right?” Tim had seen some sketchbooks that were stuffed away as soon as he entered the room. “Maybe some kind of art therapy is an option? And Bruce was always making us do different kinds of meditation, maybe you could work some of that into training?”

              Dick looked thoughtful. He also looked weary in a way that Tim knew wasn’t related to one night’s lack of sleep.

              “Why are you up so early anyway? I thought you’d let yourself sleep in a little.”

              “I was afraid you’d leave before I could catch you.”

              The implication that Tim might have made himself scarce after last night was only embarrassing because it was true. “I can stick around till this evening. I’ve got some research I could do ‘downstairs.’” Tim wasn’t exactly sure what he was sticking around for. But Dick looked relieved. “Not to take over Alfred’s job, but why don’t you go back to bed?”

              As if summoned, Alfred appeared with more pancakes. “It’s a role I will happily concede if you are more successful than I, Master Tim.”

              Dick shook his head. “Damian’s going to be up soon.”

              “We’ll be fine,” Tim said.

              Dick looked at Alfred. A silent question.

              “I will be running errands today. But he was quite . . . subdued last I saw him,” Alfred responded. “I’m not expecting any trouble, unless. . . .”

              Dick stood up from the table, not staggering, but lacking his usual grace. “No. He was the same when I talked to him.”

*****

              It was hours before Tim saw Damian. Alfred had left, after reminding Tim, twice, that there was lunch in the fridge and to “please stop and eat something that isn’t caffeinated.” Tim had promised and headed downstairs to work.

              Then it is was 3 p.m., and Tim realized that strange noise was not the backup hard-drive kicking in but his stomach.

              While Tim was staring into the fridge wondering how many sandwiches he could eat without spoiling his appetite for dinner, he sensed someone hesitating in the doorway. “I don’t bite.”

              “Then you are not making full use of your tactical advantages, Drake.”

              Tim had no idea whether or not he was serious. “Do you want a sandwich?”

              “Not if your grubby fingers have handled them all.”

              Tim just stared at the kid. He’d thought that they’d reached some kind of understanding last night. Obviously not.

              Tim slammed the fridge door, momentarily forgetting that he hadn’t eaten yet either. “Fine. Get it yourself then.”

Chapter Text

              Damian told himself that he was not “hiding” in his room. He was regrouping. He was reassessing the situation and preparing his next move.

              He was, he finally had to admit, hungry. This was Pennyworth’s errand day, and Damian had slept through breakfast. The only route to sustenance was through the kitchen. In the hall, he stopped by Grayson’s door. It was closed and an ear pressed against the wood told Damian that the man was still asleep. He was relieved.

              Drake’s door was also shut, but it was always shut. Damian did not feel like pressing his ear against it.

              Drake was probably already gone for the day to some meeting at Father’s company. As if Damian couldn’t have handled that. As if he needed Drake’s help with Father’s legacy.

              Father’s legacy. It was a relief not to be walking down the Manor halls—the walls of the penthouse had fewer eyes. Damian didn’t want to be seen by anyone today, portrait or otherwise.

              Drake was in the kitchen. Because of course he was. Drake had a talent for being wherever Damian didn’t want him.

              “I don’t bite.” Damian was familiar with this idiom. Grayson had used it before.  

              “Then you are not making full use of your tactical advantages, Drake,” Damian answered dryly.

              Grayson would have laughed (but Grayson laughed at everything), and Pennyworth would have cracked a smile. But Drake merely blinked at him. Obviously, Damian’s humor was too subtle for his dull American sensibilities.

              “Do you want a sandwich?” Casually, as if Damian were merely a guest in his own house. As if Drake pitied him. As if last night had proved that Damian deserved only pity.

              “Not if your grubby fingers have handled them all,” Damian snapped. He’d starve before he let Drake treat him like a pathetic interloper—

              Tim was staring at him. Surprised. He had expected a different response.

              “Fine. Get it yourself then.”

*****

              Damian stared back at him for a long silent moment. Tim felt every muscle in his back tense. Alfred was going to be pissed if they ended up trashing the kitchen.

              “Why is it so impossible to be nice to you?” Tim growled.

              “Yes.”

              “What?!”

              “Yes, I would like a sandwich after all. I will get the plates.” Damian pulled a chair over to the cabinet by the sink.

              It took Tim a moment to process that one of the deadliest people he knew needed a chair to reach the plates. It took him another moment to process that Damian had pulled down two plates—one for Tim.

              “Bring the platter to the table.”

              Wordlessly, Tim obeyed.

              “Do you desire a beverage?”

              “What?”

              “Hydration, Drake.” Damian set two glasses on the counter. “Or do you intend to keep poisoning your system with excessive amounts of caffeine?”

              “You sound like Alfred,” Tim complained, as he filled his glass with water.

              “‘Heaven forbid, Master Tim.’”

              The imitation was so spot-on that even though Tim had watched Damian’s lips move, he still spun around, expecting to see Alfred in the doorway.

              When he turned back, Damian smirked at him. Abruptly, the boy’s eyes widened and the smirk vanished.

              Tim remembered the last time he’d seen Damian display this talent. Damian had faked Tim’s voice. And then tried to murder him.

*****

              Idiot!

              Damian had intended to “lighten the mood,” as Grayson would say. But Damian had forgotten—unlike Grayson, none of his skills were innocent ones.

              Now Drake would think Damian was threatening him, deliberately bringing up a past Damian was actually desperate to bury.

              He wondered if Drake would try to break his nose again. He wondered, after last night, if he should allow it.

              Tim made no move to come closer. Instead, he tapped his lip with a finger, a devious light in his eyes. “I dare you to do that while Alfred’s in the room. Seriously. I will pay any amount of money to see the look on his face.”        

*****

              They ate one and a half sandwiches in mutual silence, before Damian turned to Tim and said, “I wish to ask you something that I have been . . . uncertain about addressing with Grayson.”

              Oh, shoot. It’s something about Bruce. Something sensitive. Something about Dick’s relationship with Bruce? Something about Jason’s death? No, something he’s afraid to ask Alfred. Something worse than that. “No promises that I’ll know the answer, or be able to give it to you, but go ahead.”

              “The first Robin uniform. . . .”

              Okay, not where I was expecting this to go.

              Damian flushed. “Grayson is . . . sensible in many other regards, but—” He threw up his hands. “Why are there NO PANTS?!”

              Do not laugh. Damian is serious about this. Do not laugh. Donotlaughdonotlaugh.

              “Drake! Drake, stop giggling like an imbecile. It is indecent,” Damian hissed. “How could Father have allowed such a thing?”

              Indecent? Has Damian even noticed Talia’s outfits? But Tim could also sympathize. There was a reason he had immediately added pants to his version of Robin.

              “I think Bruce let Dick do whatever he wanted with his uniform design. It’s sort of a homage to his parents and their acrobatic costumes.”

              Damian scrunched up his face. “I understand that Grayson is sentimental, but couldn’t he have honored his parents without freezing?”

              “If it makes you feel better, Bruce later made him a version of the uniform with skin-colored thermal tights.”

              “It would have made me feel better if Father had insisted on proper clothing to begin with. It sounds as if he was rather lax with Grayson’s upbringing.”

              Tim bit his tongue. Tim had sometimes gotten the impression that tiny orphaned Dick Grayson had Bruce wrapped around his little finger. But Damian suggesting that anyone else had been spoiled as a child. . . . “Dick probably wouldn’t have minded if you asked him about his Robin design.”

              “I did not wish to embarrass him by bringing up the foolish choices of his youth.”

              Tim smothered a smile. “Listen, I’m with you on the pants thing. That was first thing I added when I became Robin.” Damian looked surprised, and Tim wondered idly if he could have gotten more respect from the boy by bringing this up sooner. “Every Robin has to make the uniform their own. But there’s no one right way to be Robin.”

              “But there’s a best Robin,” said Damian with conviction.

              Tim wished Dick were here to see the colossal effort he made when he merely responded, “Maybe. But there’s no objective way to measure that. Too many variables.”

              “But surely if one accounts for skill and number of criminals stopped and—”

              Tim shook his head. “Why does it matter so much to you anyway? Even if we could actually agree on parameters—which I promise we won’t—what would it prove if somehow” (by some miracle) “you were the best Robin?”

              Damian smacked the table. “I’d be the best, Drake! Obviously, that is the goal!”

              “Is it? I thought Robin was supposed to be about helping people.”

              “Yes, well. . . .” Damian straightened in his seat. “The best Robin will be able to help more people, more efficiently.”

              “Or will he waste time he could spend helping people trying to prove himself in a non-existent contest?”

              In a blink, Damian scooted away from the table, red in the face. “It is you who are a waste of my time! You are always trying to sabotage me at every turn—you don’t want to me to be the best! You don’t want me here—” Damian cut himself off, breathing hard.

              Tim was already standing, back to the wall, considering how many things in the room could be used as weapons.

              But Damian hadn’t pulled a weapon, yet. His small fists were empty, clenched and shaking.

              Scared. It was Cass’s voice in his head. And Cass, even when she was a figment of his imagination, was smarter than Tim was about body language, so Tim listened.

              Of what?

              Imaginary Cass tapped Tim’s chest. Same thing.

              Same thing? What was Tim scared of that Damian would also fear? Being killed by a former Robin?

              Imaginary Cass flicked his temple. No! All Robins—same fear. You two, the worst.

              What did all Robins fear? What had Tim feared when he first became Robin? Failing Batman.

              Damian glanced up at the ceiling, and Tim realized he was wondering if he had woken Dick. Now that Tim was looking for fear, it was all he saw.

              “I have not attempted to injure you. Grayson will see that.”

              “I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be happy about you screaming him awake,” Tim observed.

              Damian glared. But he also looked very, very pale.

              “He’s not going to fire you, you know.” The words came out involuntarily. Probably he should have left that for Dick to explain, if he hadn’t already.

              Damian took another gulp of air but didn’t respond.

              “Dick likes you.” (For some reason.) “You don’t have to be the greatest Robin of all time to stay here.”

              “So Grayson said.”

              You don’t have anything to prove to me. It was Bruce’s voice in his head now. Not a figment, but a memory.

              Tim wondered how many times Bruce had said some variation of that to him.       

              Tim wondered if there had ever been a time that he actually believed it.

              “Listen, I don’t know if I believe there’s a such a thing as a best Robin.” (If there is, it’s Dick.) “But I do know that you’re the best Robin for this Batman. And Batman needs a Robin.”

              Damian cocked his head.

              “That’s what I told Bruce, after Jason. . . .” Nope. Retreat. Too personal!

              But Damian was pulling his chair back to the table. “And Father was so easily convinced?”

              Tim laughed. “No. Hell, no. But I was right. And Dick and Alfred knew it. And deep down, I think Bruce knew it too. I was the right Robin for the time.”

              Damian considered this. “How did you know? That you were the right one?”

              “I didn’t. Not right away. I tried to convince Dick to take the role back. He didn’t want it.”

              Damian scoffed.

              “I know. Who wouldn’t want to be Robin?”

*****

              Dick’s first instinct was to fumble in his pocket for the phone that wasn’t there. Probably for the best. They’d notice and get all awkward if he actually took a photo, and then the moment would be over.

              “Wanna sandwich?”

              “He won’t if you keep spewing your germs across them! Chew before speaking, Drake.”

              Tim rolled his eyes but swallowed. “Finally sleep?”

              “Yeah.” Dick eyed the clock. “Alfred’s gonna be ticked. He thought he’d actually get to serve a normal dinner at a normal time tonight.”

*****

              “I assure you, my expectations for normalcy are quite low by now.” Alfred set two grocery sacks on the counter. “Seeing you all eat at the same table feels like cause enough for rejoicing.” He eyed Tim. “Seeing some of you eat is cause enough.”

              “I eat!” Tim insisted. “Just not here.”

              “Hm,” Alfred said. As though if he couldn’t see Tim eating, the calories didn’t count.

              Dick grabbed the back of a chair with one hand and opened a cabinet with the other. In one fluid movement, he was sitting at the table and juggling a plate, a glass, and a sandwich. It was too common an occurrence for anyone in the room to be impressed. But Tim was pleased to see him looking a little more relaxed.

              “So you two. . . ?” Dick sounded hopeful and hesitant at the same time.

              “We’re . . .” Tim looked over at Damian, trying to find the right words. “Okay. We’re okay.” Damian nodded in agreement. Not good, not healed, but okay.

              “We’ve come to an understanding,” Damian said. “About what it means to be Robin.” Then he looked down abruptly, as though remembering that currently he wasn’t allowed to be Robin.

              Dick looked relieved and then pained.

              As much for Dick’s sake as Damian’s, Tim said, “Whatever our differences, Robins have to stick together.”

              “Family has to the stick together,” Dick corrected, smiling.

              Tim thought that might be pushing it, but Damian didn’t protest the word choice, and Dick was finally smiling again, so Tim let it go.  

              Tim looked at Dick and tilted his head toward the suspended Robin. Well, go on then.

              Dick cleared his throat. “Damian, I’ve given some thought to our discussion last night. And Tim, put in a good word for you—”

              Damian looked surprised. Although, under his breath, he scoffed, “As if I needed your help, Drake.”

              “You one hundred percent did,” Dick said flatly.

              Damian sank down in his chair.

              “For a month, no patrolling of any kind.” Dick paused, but there was no protest, so he continued, “During that month, we’re going to try some new things in training. You may not enjoy all of them, but if you want to go on patrol again, you will take them seriously.”

              Damian nodded, once, sharply.

              “After a month, we will reassess.”

              “I will be ready,” Damian vowed.

              Dick reached out and (Tim wasn’t sure how he did it without losing a hand) ruffled Damian’s hair. “Good. It gets lonely out there by myself.”

              Damian patted his hair back in place with a long-suffering look.

              After a quiet moment in which Dick chewed and Tim tried not to feel like a third wheel, Damian asked, “When do we start this new training?”

              “Tomorrow. Don’t worry about it until then. It will be easier to show you than to explain it.”

              There was another pause.

              Then Dick said, very quietly, “Whatever you’re thinking about, Dames, it’s not going to be like that.”

              Damian flushed. “I’m not worried. If I can survive the Shadow’s Greeting. . . .”

              Tim jerked upright in his chair. He knew enough about the League to have heard of this particular ritual. It was rare, and rarer to survive.

              You are blindfolded and placed in the middle of a three-foot diameter circle. You are given a two-foot stick. Your "greeters" are given swords. They may not enter your circle, but that is their only rule—they can attack you all at once, they can take turns, throw their voices, throw swords, anything except step inside your circle. For an hour, a dozen assassins strike at you. If you do not die, cry out, or leave your circle, you become part of a special order of assassins. If you fail—well, Damian’s presence at the table was proof that he had not failed. 

              Tim caught Alfred shooting a questioning look at Dick. Dick shook his head—he didn’t seem surprised, just sad. To Damian, he said, “Nobody is going to injure you. In any way. I promise.”

              Damian just stared down at his empty plate. Tim kept trying to picture him in the middle of the Shadow’s Greeting, somehow even younger and smaller than this.

              Their childhoods were radically different, but Tim tried to imagine what he would have wanted to hear at Damian’s age.

              Your parents remember you exist? No, that wasn’t helpful.

              Tim scrolled forward a little in his memory. When Bruce had offered to adopt Tim, the second time, he had been nervous, afraid to overstep. And a nervous Bruce was more formal Bruce. He had used the word security instead of love, and team instead of family.

              But Tim had understood unequivocally the words behind Bruce’s words.

              “Hey,” Tim said.

              He waited until Damian looked up.

              “This is your home. You’re safe here.”