Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waking up in your 10 year old body is… jarring to say the least. 

Tim wasn’t thinking much when he set the machine back. He knew there could be consequences, knew he could end up pretty far in the past, but he didn’t expect to be thrown quite so far back. 

Once he calms down and gets his bearings though, he realizes the golden opportunity sitting before him. 

There’s no way back, Tim is stuck here now, for better or worse, and he has the ability to do so much good . He may only have the body of his 10 year old self, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He can’t do much physically , not yet anyway, but with his knowledge? He could fix things, not just-... that, but everything. 

He could fix everything. 

So he does.  

At first there isn’t much to do. Dick is on his last year as Robin and his and Bruce’s relationship is in a downward spiral. Tim’s not touching that with a 12 foot pole. He wants things to be better for his family but he can’t exactly interfere in their personal relationships. Jason won’t be taken in by Bruce for another year, so in the meantime Tim uses his ample free time to solve some cold cases. 

It’s a bit frustrating at times. Technology isn’t as advanced as Tim is used to, but he manages. Some of the cases are familiar, cases he’s solved years in the future. Others are brand new to him, likely cases Batman eventually got around to addressing before Tim became Robin. 

In the beginning, he sends the information he gathers to the GCPD in the form of anonymous tips, but he knows that will get suspicious over time. He starts building his own network, making it as tight and unbreakable as he can with current advancements. From then on, he sends his information straight to the GCPD through their private grid. With time, he builds his own tech, and switches it out with the old stuff until he’s sure not even Batman could break through his walls. 

He does his best to stay off Batman’s radar in the beginning, but with his coming plans he knows it's only a matter of time, so he tries to make a good impression on Gordon and the GCPD. It helps that the tips he gives them are always correct. Gordon comes to expect the messages and trusts him as much as he can trust a nameless, faceless person. 

The police take to calling him The Hacker within the precinct. Tim hates the name, it’s boring, derivative, but he doesn’t have anything better yet. 

Barbara finds out about him through her father and from then on Tim is meticulous . He still sends his information but he leaves nothing behind, not a trace of his presence to be found on GCPD tech, no way for the future Oracle to track him down. Barbara is still batgirl in this timeline and while extremely competent with tech, she has yet to reach the expertise she did after her accident. Tim uses the time it gives him to sharpen his skills to a point. He won’t be discovered, too much is at stake. 

He spends the next 2 years just like that, gaining more trust with every case he helps solve. 

In his civilian life, he makes quite a few alterations to the way he’s perceived. If everything goes to plan, and he eventually becomes some sort of vigilante presence in Gotham again, he doesn’t want there to be a hint of suspicion thrown his way. 

Before, Tim was known to be a quiet yet inquisitive child. His parents demanded nothing short of excellence from him and it pushed him to reach genius levels of intelligence before he was even a teenager. This time, he holds himself back a bit. His parents' demands are just as high, and he does meet them, but he’s careful not to exceed them, knowing full well his parents' perception of him won’t change either way. He ends up a year ahead in school instead of the 2 years he was ahead before. It places him just a year behind Jason at Gotham Academy. 

When they were in school before, Tim was careful to avoid Jason’s attention, not wanting him to draw any connections from the tiny kid in his grade to the kid with the camera he once saved from falling off a fire escape. 

Tim still keeps his distance, but he also curates a certain image for himself. Instead of a child genius, he’s an arrogant know-it-all. Instead of being humble and timid, he’s spoiled and snarky. He’s the epitome of the typical whiny rich kid, just another entitled brat of the upper class, exactly the type of person Jason abhors. It doesn’t help that Tim makes a point of making friends with Jason’s bullies. He never participates himself—he actually manipulates them into backing off when he can— but Jason doesn’t know that.

Though they rarely meet in person, Jason, and by extension the Wayne family, have a decidedly bad impression of the kid next door. And it suits Tim’s purposes perfectly. 

A year before Jason’s trip to Ethiopia, Tim finally inserts himself into Batman’s awareness. He’s sure Batman has at least heard about ‘ the hacker’ from Gordon, but it’s the first time he reaches out to the Bat directly. Hacking into the batcomputer and leaving a message on the desktop is perhaps not the best way to gain his confidence, but the needs must and all of that. 

Bruce is, and forever will be, a paranoid freak, so Tim has to gain at least some credibility with him before it truly matters. He starts small, giving him tips about events he shouldn't know about, threats that are in the midst of developing, ect. He’s sure it drives Bruce crazy, but when Tim is proven right time and time again, he can’t do much but accept it. 

Then Jason runs away to find his birth mother. 

Tim has had years to ponder the best way to address the event and stop Jason from dying. If he were so inclined, he could've stopped it all. He could have stopped Jason from looking for his birth mother at all, he could have made her disappear, made the Joker disappear. It would’ve become just another blip in time, passing by without notice. 

But he can’t do that.

Tim can’t play God, no matter how much he might want to. Everyone has the right to choose what they do with their life, and either bask or suffer in the consequences. Tim knows that better than anybody. He can’t take away Jason’s choice, nor can he take away the knowledge and the heartbreak that will come from the experience. 

But he can save his life. 

So Tim lets events unfold. It’s not like he could change the tension already brewing between Bruce and Jason anyway. Jason runs away, he’s sold out, and he’s captured by the Joker. 

Then and only then does Tim intervene, sending all the information he has to Batman, just another tip left on the display of the batcomputer. Batman knows enough about Tim’s tips to know he is rarely wrong.

Jason is tucked safely back into Wayne Manor that same night. 

Tim observes the fallout from afar. Jason doesn’t come out unscathed. He’s still injured, but not nearly as severely as Tim knows he could have been. Most of it is superficial and Jason will heal up in just under a month. Something about that night still shakes Jason though, changes him. He’s quiet at school in the weeks following, introspective. Tim knows what it's like to be betrayed by a parent and he can only hope what happened doesn't ruin Jason’s trust in Bruce. 

It doesn’t. 

If anything, it seems the betrayal of his birth mother only opens Jason’s eyes to everything Bruce has done for him. Jason had three different parents abandon him, fail him, but Bruce chose Jason. He showed Jason he has value beyond his rage, beyond just being a tool to be used. Bruce isn’t a perfect parent, but he tries to do right by his children and it seems like Jason sees that now. 

For Bruce’s part, almost losing Jason scares him. It makes him a bit more cautious, a bit more willing to seek help outside his limited perspective. He gets Jason into therapy with Dinah for a while, and from then on the Waynes are far more willing to address their sometimes (oftentimes) questionable mental health. 

Bruce makes a stronger effort to bridge the gap between him and Dick. It’s not an overnight process, but their relationship starts to heal, opening the door for Dick and Jason to mend their own hurts. In a relatively short amount of time, they become near inseparable, brothers in every way like they were always meant to be. It makes Tim both happier and more depressed than ever. 

The most unexpected outcome of the near tragedy, though, is Bruce’s response to Tim. He leaves a note on the batcomputer for Tim to find. 

Thank you. Should you need my assistance, you need only ask. 

~ Batman

It leaves Tim shocked and shaky. It’s the first time he’s been directly acknowledged by anyone for his “work”. Tim is careful to cut himself off from the people he “works” with. Whatever info he sends to the police or to Batman, he never gives them a way to respond, to speak with Tim in any way. Oh they’ve tried before, especially Barbara, but Tim always shuts them out. He likes being the invisible hand. It’s cleaner that way, better for him, better for everyone if he just… doesn’t exist. 

But Bruce’s response sparks something in him. 

Bruce leaves the message on the desktop of the batcomputer, for who knows how long, just waiting for when Tim would inevitably hack back into the network. Beyond the actual words, the note communicates a sort of acceptance. It’s more trust than Tim ever thought he’d ever get from the Bat. 

His response is simple, and for the first time ever, he gives a name. 

You're welcome. 

~ Cardinal

The years pass. Tim trains hard, gaining back his previous muscle mass. Though, for the most part, he leaves the field work in the capable hands of the Bats. 

Jason outgrows Robin, and transitions into his own hero, Bluejay. Steph endears herself to the family again, and takes up the Robin mantle for a time.

Through it all, Cardinal follows their every move from the shadows, never seen or heard from except through the occasional digital messages he sends. They never invite Cardinal into their investigations, but they don’t turn down the offered information either. 

Tim prevents every major tragedy that he can, but some things are out of his control. The more he changes the timeline of events, the less current his information is. He warns Batman that the Joker has plans to target Barbara Gordon (the commissioner's daughter, not Batgirl), but things have changed so much, he can’t predict when or where it will happen. 

And so despite his best efforts, Barbara is still injured. 

The injury is slightly less severe than it was the first time, but it still takes Batgirl out of the action. Within months Oracle is born once again. 

As a sort of welcome back gift, Cardinal sends her a note asking if she’d be interested in more open lines of communication. He always planned to be their ally in the shadows. Establishing a form of communication is only logical, right?

With Oracle’s approval, he remotely installs a chatbox of sorts into her network, a direct line from him to her so they can send messages back and forth. The program is heavily encrypted, and set to destroy itself the moment someone tries to hack their way in, along with the network it’s installed into. Oracle takes the threat in kind and doesn’t attempt to break the encryption. 

One of the first things Oracle asks him is why he’s setting up this system with her of all people? Why not the GCPD? Why not Batman? 

He simply responds that it’s the most practical. And it is, Oracle has eyes and ears everywhere in the city, she’s the guard at the watchtower, well Clocktower. 

Though, if Tim is being honest with himself, having any sort of communication with his past family is just too… painful. But he knows how important it is for them to have open lines with each other so neither party oversteps. Barbara is his compromise. 

Tim keeps track of his other would-be siblings. He finds Cass and Duke and makes sure they are safe. He helps them where he can, and keeps an eye on their path, carefully nudging them towards their inevitable adoption at the hands of one Bruce Wayne. 

And then there is Damian. 

Tim isn’t about to let Damian suffer in the hands of Ra’s and the league longer than he has to, though he’d rather avoid putting himself on Ra’s radar. When the time is right, (and Tim needs Bruce distracted) he tracks down Talia and leaves her a carefully timed physical note written in crimson ink, warning her of Ra’s future plans for Damian in the near future. He doesn’t know how she convinces Ra’s, but not a month later, Bruce Wayne announces the welcome of his youngest son to the public.

When Tim is 15, his parents are killed by raiders at their most recent dig sight. Tim mourns them all over again, mourns the fact that even in this timeline Tim wasn’t enough for them to stay. 

Tim finishes up school, graduates early, and has himself emancipated. He prevents the whole Timestream incident, then goes on a trip. He tells the press he’s “touring the world” for the next year. 

In reality, he goes hunting. 

He’s finally at a point physically where he can track down a few of his old mentors and even go after some of his old enemies personally. It’s the first time he dons his newly crafted Cardinal uniform. He meets and re-meets many people on his travels, making a name for himself in underground space between heroes and villains. No one ever sees his face or learns his true name.

Tim returns to Gotham just a few months shy of his 17th birthday with both new allies and enemies. 

Cardinal kept in contact with the Bats while abroad so as to not raise any suspicion,( it’s not like they ever knew where he was to begin with). They’re used to not hearing from him for weeks or months at a time. Upon returning though, Cardinal starts to go out on the streets. He’s rarely seen by anyone, person or camera, but whispers start traveling throughout the city of another shadow stalking the rooftops. 

He takes over his parents' company, still the ‘youngest CEO in history’, blah blah blah . From then on, he starts shifting his image again. He’s older now, no longer a child, and a prominent business owner. He refuses to be walked all over like he was when he was running Wayne Enterprises. 

He’s still a nepo baby, but he embraces the fact, throwing his name and wealth around when the situation calls for it. It’s public knowledge he’s smarter than the average teenager, having completed school so quickly. He uses it to his advantage, taking on the persona his mother was most known for, which was.. Well… a bit of a bitch. 

He’s the epitome of grace and good manners until challenged. He’s witty in conversations, well, more snarky than anything, but still likeable to some. When the inevitable doubt and condescension comes his way, questioning his age, experience and intelligence, he uses his tongue like it’s a weapon, tearing apart his victims without ever lifting a hand.  He’s been called a vindictive bastard more than once. 

Despite his age, the public quickly learns not to mess with him. He’s just another selfish, arrogant upper classer with no care for anybody but himself. It’s not the perfect cover, but he started his time as Cardinal so young that the few who know of his existence would never connect him with his alter ego. 

Before he knows it, Tim is 18 again, the same age he was when he first jumped back. 

Thus far, Tim has done everything he set out to do. Cass and Duke are officially Waynes again. His family is all together safer and happier than they ever were. Gotham is a better place, the world itself has suffered less for all that Tim sacrificed.

Another year passes and Tim convinces himself it’s enough. 

He fixed it. He fixed everything. 

Does Tim’s chest feel a little more hollow everyday? Sure. Does the pain of loneliness come for him every night? Obviously. But it’s all worth it. His family's safety is worth it. 

Never having to see his little brother’s lifeless body again is worth it.

Chapter Text

“Tt, this is useless, Richard,” Damian snaps. 

“I think I preferred it when you called me Grayson,” Dick chuckles from in front of Damian, trying in vain to get his stubborn hair to stay put. No matter what he does, there's this one spot that refuses to lie flat. 

“Stand aside, Dickwing,” Jason intervenes, pushing his older brother away. Jason takes hold of the comb and products. It takes a minute but when he steps away he’s managed to accomplish what Dick couldn’t. 

Dick clicks his tongue, “I still don’t know how you’re so good at that.”

“It’s called skill,” Jason snarks. Dick scoffs. 

“That remains to be seen,” Damian clips. “But thank you.” 

“Course, Babybat.” 

Damian glares at the name, “I still don’t understand why you are not required to go like the rest of us.”

Jason shrugs, “Cass is out of town with Steph. Someones gotta watch the city.”

“Yes, preferably me.”

Jason laughs, but not in a demeaning way, merely amused. “Take it up with the big man,” he says, giving his shoulder a gentle tap. “I’m off. Good luck tonight! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

“Little falls under that category,” Damian grumbles, watching his brother go. Damian cannot stand Galas. He hates the loligagging, the false attitudes of charity, the politics, the fakeness of it all. 

Richard chuckles, “C’mon little D. The sooner we get there the sooner we can leave.”

“If you say so.” 

Alfred drives Dick, Duke, Damian, and Bruce to city hall. Tonight’s gala is in commemoration of the mayor’s third year in office, just another useless waste of time with nothing of significance to Damian. He employs every tactic he knows to get out of it. 

“Father, I would simply rather do anything else-”

“You’re coming, Damian,” Bruce affirms.

“Why? I won’t be missed.”

“You haven’t been in the public eye for months.” Bruce says bluntly. “You know I don’t begrudge your privacy, but you need to make an appearance now and then. Otherwise, people start asking questions, gossiping, and then your life becomes that much more difficult.” 

Damian grinds his teeth, such is the price of being Bruce Wayne’s son. He wishes he were better at this side of the life, at civilian life. He’s not like Richard or Jason, he can’t put on a pleasant demeanor and a simpering smile. The best Damian can do is greet people as neutrally as possible, straining to hold back his distaste. What's worse is he knows he needs to improve. 

Damian will one day take control of Father’s company. Half of the business is making friends and business deals at exactly these sort of events. If he has any hope of being successful, he needs to develop those skills now. 

But it's just so tiresome. 

Nevertheless, Damian isn’t one to step away from a challenge, so he drops the argument for now, slumping back into his seat. 

Bruce sighs sympathetically. “When I was your age, I didn’t like these things either,” he admits. “But then I realized just how much there is to learn from them.” 

Damian cocks his head, “Like information?” 

“Partially,” Bruce agrees. “People give so much away by what they say, what they don’t say, body language,” he  waves a hand. “but you know all that. I’m talking about watching people's behavior.” 

“Behavior?” 

Bruce nods, “Becoming a socialite was not easy for me, it goes against my most basic nature. But I learned to observe, and replicate the behaviors of people with a reputation I was seeking.”

“So… you were eyeing up idiot rich frat boys?” Duke drawls with a smirk. 

Dick snorts. Bruce shakes his head fondly, ignoring them both.

Damian considers the words carefully, “It helped you blend into the crowds you wanted to be seen in?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Hmm,” Damian contemplates. “This is…interesting. I suppose I will try.” 

Dick smirks from the other seat, “Let us know how it goes, Dami.” 

Damian spends the first half of the Gala navigating himself through the conversations, and various social circles around the hall. Following his Fathers advice, he keeps an eye out for someone with a reputation he himself would like to cultivate. 

It’s a more challenging task than it should be. 

Most people in the upper class are old rich snobs that have never tried to be anything else. Sure, some might donate to charity from time to time, but their reputations as people leave much to be desired and most of his future business colleagues are just entitled and greedy. Why on earth would he want to be anything like that? 

There are a few among them who are semi respectable, but even so, most of them fall back on being overly smiley and talkative. He doubts he could ever muster that himself. 

After hours of observation, Damian just feels discouraged. 

He needs to start cultivating his own image, a persona that is both believable and respectable. He can’t be what his Father and siblings are. A playboy persona, like what Richard and Father do, is out of the question. Jason is all about smiles and generous giving, playing the big lovable idiot role. 

Steph is not publicly acknowledged as a Wayne, more of a family friend. Damian envies her with a passion. Cass didn't change much about herself for public perception. She’s seen as a quiet, somewhat shy girl who exudes nothing but class and elegance. Duke is still somewhat new to the world of socialites, but even so he is naturally charismatic, easily making friends wherever he goes. 

None of it is natural for Damian. He grew up in a world defined by battle and strategy. Social skills didn’t matter in the league, only one's ability to survive. 

How can he ever fulfill his Father’s legacy if he can’t even navigate the other half of his world? 

Damian swallows the lump growing in his throat along with his thought of inadequacy, making his way over to the refreshment table to get a drink. He takes his glass of water and plants himself by a wall on the outskirts of the socializing. He drinks slowly, staring out at the crowd forlornly. 

A minute or so later, he feels a presence approach him from the side. 

“Alright, Mr.Wayne?” Lucius Fox asks him. 

Damian relaxes slightly. 

Mr. Fox is a long time friend of Father’s and the Wayne family, one of the few to know their true identities. He is currently the acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises having taken up the position a few years ago when the demands of Batman, the Justice League, Brucie Wayne, and Fatherhood became too much for Bruce. 

“Of course, Mr. Fox,” Damian responds civilly. “Just.. observing.” 

Mr. Fox raises an eyebrow, following Damian's gaze towards the rich and powerful. “Hmm, and what are you looking for?”

Damian straightens, “Father suggested I make these events more productive by observing individuals who I’d like emulate.” 

“I see,” he nods, “How’s that going?”

“...Poorly.” 

Lucius chuckles. “I can’t imagine why,” he says sarcastically. 

Damian's lips twitch. 

This is why he likes Mr. Fox. He’s blunt, no-nonsense with a dash of humor that makes him more palatable to the upper class, but hilarious to anyone who knows how to read him. Mr. Fox is lucky. He’s a businessman first and foremost, he doesn’t have to play the games like the rich do. He’s an extension of Bruce in many ways, subject to how he wants to run his company. 

He’s been working with Damian occasionally, teaching him more about running Wayne Enterprises, but it’s difficult to find time in both of their busy schedules. Regardless, Damian knows he has an ally in Mr. Fox; he wants to see him succeed. 

“It’s a good idea in theory,” Lucius says, contemplative. “But more difficult in practice. You aren’t just trying to just blend in. When the time comes, you want to be taken seriously, yes?” 

Damian finally looks at him, nodding firmly. 

It goes against Father’s philosophy of complete misdirection, but Damian doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to be something that he isn’t. He isn’t a liar, it’s not in his nature, yet it’s an inherent part of the role he plays. He needs to divert public perception away from Robin. Yet, he doesn’t know how to be anything other than himself. 

“It may be difficult,” Mr. Fox says sympathetically. “But not impossible. If you’re looking for someone to mirror, I’d recommend Timothy Drake.” 

Damian frowns, mentally reviewing what he knows about Timothy Drake. He’s their closest neighbor on the east side of the estate. He is CEO of Drake Industries, an obvious ‘nepo’ baby and, from what his brothers have told him, just another pretentious rich boy like so many in this tax bracket. 

“I doubt there is anything someone like Drake could teach me,” Damian sneers. 

Mr. Fox shrugs, “You’d be surprised. His public image isn’t fantastic, but in the business world he’s fairly well received. He’s one of the youngest CEOs in the world, took over his parents company when he was 17 and has done great work with it. Despite his age, he’s carved out a place for himself. He demands respect, even from those who don’t like him or his company.” 

Damian narrows his eyes, Mr. Fox taking another sip of his own drink while he processes his words. 

He’s never factored how his age could potentially impact his reputation. He wants to jump into the business as soon as feasible, ideally by the time he’s 18. How would he be any different than Timothy Drake? He’ll be another product of nepotism. His father, the owner of a multi-billion dollar company, will practically be handing the role to his youngest child. Even if Damian means to work for it and be a leader deserving of respect, he’ll have always gotten his start due to his family. 

Yet, somehow, Timothy Drake overcame and is still overcoming those exact same hurdles. He even gained Mr. Fox’s respect who, even at events such as these, does not associate himself with idiots. 

“Hm,” Damian grunts softly. “How did he accomplish this?” 

Mr. Fox smirks, giving a small overly casual shrug. “You’d have to ask him.” 

Damian glowers at him, finally seeing where this was going. “I’m supposed to be observing.”

Mr. Fox chuckles. “You can do both. Trust me, this’ll be a good connection for you to make.”

He looks through the crowd and points out a young man across the hall. Damian recognizes him from various newspapers and magazines. 

Timothy Drake is dressed to perfection in a simple but well tailored black suit with subtle green accents. His hair is as dark as Damian’s or any of his siblings, slightly wavy, but still flawlessly held in place with likely an enormous amount of product. He manages to make his whole appearance look effortless, which Damian knows from experience it is anything but. 

“He’s not so bad. but I will warn you, he has a sharp tongue.” Mr. Fox turns to him seriously, “If you insult him, you will not like the consequences.”

“Then why bother?” Damian grumbles. 

“Why not? You’re trying to learn aren’t you? No better person here for you than Tim Drake.” 

Damian sighs, not happy about this but seeing his point nonetheless. “Fine.” 

Mr. Fox smiles slightly, looking far too amused. “Come on, I’ll introduce you,” he says, leaving his drink with a passing staff member, Damian doing the same. 

He follows Mr. Fox through the masses, nimbly weaving through Gotham’s most elite.

“He’ll be your business associate one day,” Mr. Fox reminds him as they approach. “Try to make a good impression.” 

“I will certainly try.”.

Drake is just finishing bidding his current conversation partners goodbye when they step up to him. 

“Mr. Drake,” Fox greets him, holding out his hand. 

Drake turns, instantly flashing Fox a smile. “Mr. Fox,” he replies, shaking the offered hand. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” 

“Change of plans, my flight to LA was postponed to Sunday.” Mr. Fox responds easily, completely accepting the fact Drake somehow knew of his plans. “I wanted to introduce you to somebody,” Fox says, gesturing towards Damian. “This is Mr. Damian Wayne.” 

Drake finally turns his attention to Damian. 

Damian takes him in critically, analyzing his demeanor and body language. He holds himself well, casual, but with the confidence expected from someone of his fame and fortune. Though, there's something about his gaze that slightly unnerves him, calculating and all too knowing. 

Their eyes meet, and for a split second, Damian catches a well of emotion there—completely out of context with the time and place. But as soon as he blinks, it vanishes, so suddenly that he's certain he must have imagined it.

“Ah yes, the youngest Wayne. Am I right?” Drake says, holding out his hand. “Damon, was it?” 

Damian narrows his eyes. It’s not the first time someone has purposefully mispronounced his name. It’s one of the subtle ways the people at these events try to demean him, get him to react. Some do it on purpose, others in ignorance. Both make his blood boil. 

He was raised a prince, he has noble blood from multiple lines of lineage. He was taught that he is owed respect.

Coming to Gotham was humbling on multiple levels, not least of which was his Fathers insistence that respect is earned, not owed. It’s something he continues to struggle with, especially from the elite who have yet to earn anything from Damian, least of all his respect. 

However, something about the way Drake asks the question makes him hold back a biting correction. Drake is very intelligent, Mr. Fox said so himself. He’s clearly a social master as his upbringing has taught him to be. He obviously heard Fox say his name correctly and even if he didn’t, he would already be well aware of the members of the most prominent family in Gotham. But his expression tells Damian he isn’t mocking him. Drake gazes at him almost curiously, yet with a hint of a challenge. 

A test, he realizes. 

Damian takes his hand cordially. “Damian actually,” he corrects calmly, politely, like it was a simple mistake. “Damian Wayne. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Drake. Mr. Fox has told me great things.” 

Timothy Drake's grip is firm but not forceful, exuding an effortless confidence that Damian cannot help but admire, even if begrudgingly. The corner of Drake’s mouth twitches, his eyes dancing with amusement and.. Approval? 

“My mistake,” he says with a slight bow of his head, his tone even and composed. He looks back over at Fox. “Great things, huh Lucius?” he mutters teasingly, almost cocky. “I certainly hope you haven't embellished too much."

Fox looks like he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "No need for embellishment. You've earned your reputation, the good and the bad."

Tim hums, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Fox places a brief hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Damian is just starting to learn the business. He’s gonna take over WE when I retire.”

“Is that so?” Drake raises an eyebrow towards Damian. 

“It is,” he confirms, keeping his voice carefully steady. “It's still a few years off but I’m looking forward to it.” 

“An ambitious goal,” Drake acknowledges. “You don’t want to do other things before taking over?” 

Damian’s never really considered that. His life’s mission is to fulfill his family’s legacy, what else is there?

“I’m invested in the company’s future,” he answers as diplomatically as he can.

Drake tilts his head curiously, reminding Damian a bit of a bird, “You’ll have big shoes to fill. There’s never been a better CEO for Wayne Enterprises than Lucius Fox.”  

Fox scrutinizes him skeptically, “Flattery, Timothy?”

Drake smirks, “I only speak the truth.”

Damian crosses his arms, doing his best to ignore the slight dig at this Father. He can’t help but level a challenging stare. "That may be, but I’m not one to be intimidated by difficulty."

Drake’s smile only sharpens slightly, as if pleased. "Good.”

Their conversation continues with light pleasantries, nothing of importance, yet Damian still finds himself thoroughly engaged. Everything Drake says and does is done with purpose, intentional. He does not offer patronizing praise, nor does he talk down to Damian—a rare thing, Damian has gotten used to being dismissed. Instead, Drake treats him like a potential equal, an opponent worth testing, and that is more intriguing than anything he’s seen the entire night.

After a few minutes, someone approaches to pull Drake into another discussion. 

Before he goes, he nods to Damian with a slight smile, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Likewise,” Damian responds, realizing he actually means it. He finds Drake… interesting…something almost familiar about him. 

Damian separates from Mr. Fox to check-in briefly with his father. Afterwhich, he spends the rest of the evening trying to remain within earshot of Drake, observing him from a distance. He watches as he navigates the room, never staying in one conversation too long, never allowing himself to be cornered or outmaneuvered.

Drake does not pander, nor does he feign interest in conversations that do not serve him. When faced with doubters or passive-aggressive snipes from older businessmen, he parries with ease—never overly-aggressive, but cold and biting when it calls for it. He’s never crass, but always sharp enough that his detractors either retreat or leave having lost metaphorical ground. It is a dance of words, strategy in its own right, and Damian finds himself fascinated by the effortless way Drake handles it.

There is intelligence there, experience, and a wit that intrigues him. Drake is young, yet as Mr. Fox said, he commands respect from those who would otherwise dismiss him. And he does it not by brute force or intimidation, but through sheer competence, knowledge, and the ability to outmaneuver those who think they can trap him.

As the night winds down, Mr. Fox steps up beside him again. “Well? What did you think of him?” 

"He’s… impressive. Efficient,” Damian admits. 

Fox chuckles, shaking his head. "Careful, that sounded like a compliment."

"I recognize when someone possesses a skill I lack,” Damian grumbles. 

“That’s good.” Fox says. “Timothy is an enigma, even to me at times. I think he’s even smarter than anyone gives him credit for.” 

Damian mulls that over silently. “Thank you for the introduction, Mr Fox.” He says sincerely. “Tonight was enlightening. You were right, I think given the chance, I could learn quite a bit from Drake.”

Fox cocks his head thoughtfully, his expression contemplative and his eyebrows drawn together.

“Mr. Fox?”

“Sorry, it’s just.. well…if you’re serious about that, I think I may have a job opportunity for you,” his eyes dance with something akin to mischief. “It could give you some good hands-on experience, but I’ll have to inquire and see if it’s even possible. You’re almost due for summer break, aren’t you?” 

Damian nods once, “Yes, I have 2 weeks left of this semester.” 

“Hmm, I’ll ask around and talk to your father. How about we sit down sometime next week and I’ll tell you more about it?” 

“...very well.” Damian agrees hesitatingly, not sure if he should be excited or sceptical.

“Don’t look so suspicious,” Fox smirks. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to but it would give you the chance to interact with Drake directly.” 

“I can hardly contain my suspicion when I don’t even know what it is you’re talking about,” he snips. 

Fox chuckles, starting to step away, “We’ll talk soon, Damian. Look into Drake Industries if you have the time this week.”

“Why would I-?” Damian starts, but Fox is already gone. 

Damian sighs, looking to the ceiling tiredly. He’ll just have to wait. 

He hates waiting. 

The event is practically over so Damian finds his Father and brothers in the crowd and once Alfred arrives, they climb back into the luxury vehicle and start to make their way home.

The others are exhausted from the evening so the ride back is quiet. Damian stares out the window as Gotham blurs past him, deep in thought.

Timothy Drake was not what he expected, not at all. His intelligence is obvious, but there's something else about him too, something nagging at Damian. 

It’s like he’s missing something.

It’s annoying, yet Damian hasn’t felt this intrigued in a long time. Whatever opportunity Fox has for him, he will take it. He’s not one to waste opportunities in the first place, but if he is to master this game, this world, he will need to learn from the best.

He’ll need to learn from Timothy Drake.

Chapter Text

Tim practically throws himself down onto his couch, heaving a heavy sigh. Tonight was… something.  

He wasn’t looking forward to the gala in the first place (he rarely does), but with so many of his- so many of the Waynes there, it was just that much more unbearable.

Tim does his utmost to avoid the Waynes at all costs. They’re often in the same spaces, but Tim is careful to maintain his distance. Even after all these years, seeing his family- his former family is like a dagger to the spleen. If anything, the pain of it seems to be getting worse with time. He just.. misses them. 

And then Lucius had to introduce him to his own brother—Damian, no less.

Tim smiles softly thinking about their interaction. Tim did everything he could to treat Damian as he would if Fox had introduced any other prominent child—with patience and a touch of provocation. Damian has never been particularly good at the whole grin and bear it for public perception thing. Tim was fully prepared to be on the bad side of one of Damians famous verbal lashings when he called him by the wrong name. 

But he didn’t. 

Damian held himself back, corrected Tim calmly and moved on, even though Tim is sure he knew he did it on purpose. 

Tim smirks, sitting up to start undoing his tie; he can’t help but be proud of him. 

They spoke for only a few minutes, hidden behind the guise of their images and reputations—Tim with the added mask of indifference and unfamiliarity. Yet, the conversation felt like a balm to his soul. 

For as much anxiety it gave him (which was a lot because what the hell Fox?), he got to spend a few minutes with his brother. 

He got to see him—actually see him in the flesh—not just through a camera or security footage (because Tim is just as much of a stalker now as he always was). He got to talk to Damian. Even with the mask he had to wear, Tim got to ask questions he genuinely wanted answers to.

Damian wants to go into the business. 

It isn’t surprising all things considered. Damian was always adamant about continuing Bruce’s legacy, both as Batman and as a Wayne. Before Tim jumped back, B had just started planning how he would teach him—he even asked Tim to help. Had things gone to plan, Tim and Damian would have been forced to spend a lot of time together as he walked Damian through the ropes. 

Back then, he had hoped that time would endear him to Damian a bit more—that maybe they could be better friends, better brothers.

Tim sighs. Life is a bitch like that. 

It makes sense that Fox would introduce them. Tim knows he’s tutoring Damian on the side but not as often as either would like. Tim is an easy connection for Damian to make, they’re of a similar age and situation. Plus, Lucius actually knows Tim pretty well, better than most people anyway. He knows that Tim would never purposefully humiliate Damian. 

Ever since Tim hired Tam Fox as his executive assistant, Lucius doesn’t believe what the media has to say about him. Tam tells her father enough for Fox to understand most of the image Tim presents is a false one. 

Tam doesn’t know much about him outside of work—he’s careful about that—but she knows his true personality and sees how much effort he puts into the company and into Gotham. It isn’t exactly something he can avoid, even if he’d like to. He needs Tam as much in this life as he did in the last, he has too much to juggle mentally to run an entire business by himself without help. But if a few people need to actually know him beneath it all, he’s glad Tam is one of them. 

The downside of it, though, is that Lucius doesn’t buy into Tim’s bullshit anymore. Tam has ranted enough about him to her father for him to see through the act. Having Lucius as an ally has its pros and cons. On one hand, having the CEO of WE trust him makes his life so much easier. They work together seamlessly and Tim doesn’t have to dance around his Timothy Drake act to actually accomplish something. 

On the other hand, Lucius thinks he can get away with a lot more than anyone else would ever try with him. He knows Tim can be vicious when the time calls for it, but only if it’s truly warnented or if Tim is trying to prove a point. Otherwise, well, Tim can be a bit of a pushover. 

Well, that isn’t entirely true. Tim stands his ground on most things, but when it comes to interacting with people from his old life, Fox included, he can’t help but want to please. When it comes to the people Tim cares about, he’s pretty malleable.  

Of course Fox doesn’t know that, but he doesn’t need to. 

Tim goes up to his room and gets undressed, trading his suit for a set of comfortable black pajamas. He can’t quite stand the cold feeling of the marble tiles on his bare feet, so he also dons a pair of slip-on house shoes that look a bit like boots but feel more like slippers.

He silently navigates back downstairs and into the Manor’s library. He pulls out 3 different books from the shelf to unlock the mechanism in the wall, and then swings the bookcase out to get into his safe room. 

His parents had this room installed years ago to hide away their more precious artifacts. After their deaths, Tim repurposed it for his needs. 

The far wall is completely dedicated to his computer and surveillance systems, packed with screens from edge to edge. Various weapons line the walls. He has a small medbay set up with everything he’d need to treat himself in an emergency. His Cardinal suit is hung up in another hidden cubby along with his casefiles, camera equipment, and photographs. 

He doesn’t go out much anymore to take photos of the bats, it’s too risky, but occasionally he needs the distraction. The photos are one of his few direct connections to the bats. He loves and hates it with equal measure for how much sentiment and pain they give him. 

Tim spends the next 3 hours working through a cold case. 

Things have changed so much through his intervention in the timeline that Tim doesn’t have the edge he used to in terms of information. Plus, he is over a year older now than he was when he first came back. That isn’t to say Tim isn’t up to date though; he is fastidious about keeping up with every player in the game. These days, he has a lot less to worry about with how many criminals he’s assisted putting away before they could complete their truly horrific crimes. 

When Tim solves a case or has a new lead, he usually sends the information off to either Oracle or Gordon. He doesn’t go out as Cardinal often, he doesn’t like to be seen and he knows the Bats would track him down if they could. They have a symbiotic relationship but Tim is under no delusions that they’d unmask him at the first opportunity. 

After solving the case (the mistress did it. really? so unoriginal), Tim shuts down his systems and makes his way back into the main house. 

He’s barely three steps out of the library when he senses someone else in the house, watching him. If it were just a common criminal or thief, Tim would let them be—he has a cover to maintain, after all. But this person is too quiet, their presence unnaturally still. That means League training.

Tim keeps his steps even and his breath steady, giving no inclination he’s aware of the intruder. The mansion is dark, but Tim navigates the twists and turns of the mausoleum with ease, nimbly plucking two hidden daggers out of a potted plant without missing a step. 

Tim heads to a mostly empty room, devoid of almost any furniture and just barely lit by the moonlight flooding through the large windows. As he feels the intruder closing in, Tim turns into the room and suddenly pivots to attack them head-on.

The intruder catches the incoming dagger as if they were expecting it. Tim yanks his arm out of their grasp, spinning to face them. They trade blows, neither gaining the upper hand, both moving quickly, dodging, and countering. But as they exchange strikes, Tim realizes he recognizes the form—the fluidity, the precision. 

The invader flips, using the momentum to place a well-timed kick to his mid-drift, catching Tim off guard and sending him stumbling backward. He recovers, but the force drives him down to one knee. His breath hisses between clenched teeth as he raises his head in slight shock. 

He knows that move. 

The intruder steps forward, ready to press the attack. But Tim’s instincts kick in. He ducks under their next swing, slipping behind them in a blur of motion. In one swift movement, he’s on the other side of the hall, flipping the lights on and flooding the room with light.

The figure is dressed in all black, a scarf draped over their face, but Tim would know those eyes anywhere. 

“Surprise.” He doesn’t even need to see her face to know Pru is smirking smugly. 

Tim lets out a breath, “Goddammit Pru.” 

Pru unravels her scarf, allowing it to drape over her shoulder. Yep, smug as hell. “Got to make sure you’re keeping your skills sharp, Red.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “My skills are fine,” he huffs, already leaving to hide his daggers back where they belong. He heads towards the kitchen without looking back, knowing Pru will follow.  

Pru tsks, “You could be better, you know? You don’t practice enough.” 

“Are you here for any other reason than to critique my abilities?” 

“Yes, actually.” Pru sits herself at one of the bar counter stools while Tim busies himself with getting them both something to drink. 

Meeting and befriending Pru again in this timeline was a happy accident. 

When he left on his year-long expedition, one of his last self assigned missions was taking out the Council of Spiders again. THe timing was almost identical to when he took it down the first time, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that the League of Assassins was already on the case. Tim planned to avoid them completely, but then the team got caught up in an explosion. Owen and Z still died, but Pru was alive, barely. 

Tim couldn’t just let her die

He saved Pru’s life and got her to safety. Her injuries weren’t too bad, but she had a bad concussion that took her out for a few days. When she awoke, Tim greeted her only as Cardinal, his face masked and his voice modulated. He told her of his plans to take out the Council and offered to allow her to join and complete her mission. Pru reluctantly agreed. 

The mission was as rough and difficult as it was the first time, but a bit easier since Tim was prepared for it.

By the time they dismantled the Council, Pru and Tim had saved each other many times over, and developed a certain level of trust.

Pru was still suspicious of him though, specifically of his uncanny ability to predict the sudden obstacles thrown their way. They parted ways amicably enough and Tim returned to Gotham. But within the month, Pru managed to track him down— the real him. 

Tim still has no idea how she found him, how she discovered his identity, and to this day, she refuses to share.

She showed up to Drake Manor, almost exactly as she did tonight, and cornered him, demanding to know who he was, what his intentions were, and how exactly he knew so much. Tim attempted to lie at first but Pru can always tell. The only way to convince her he wasn’t a threat was to be honest. 

He came clean, completely clean. He told her about the other timeline, his role in the other universe and the mission where they met. He told her of his new self imposed role as a protector to Gotham and, unofficially, to Batman and the other members of his former family. 

Seeing his honesty and vulnerability, Pru confided in him in turn. Although she is still technically a League member, she’s not loyal to Ra’s al Ghul, but to his daughter Talia—and to bringing the League into a new era.

Tim was surprised. He had no idea how his actions in this reality led to her making such a drastic change. Though when he thought about it, it wasn’t all that unpredictable. Pru was still the same person she had always been—the friend who had helped Tim at his lowest point, even turning on Ra’s al Ghul to do it. Whatever the catalyst, Pru would never have served him indefinitely. 

After completing their mission, Pru reported straight back to Talia, since Ra’s and the rest of the League still believed her dead. Being ‘dead’ made Pru invaluable to Talia; It allowed her to send Pru to Gotham with the most important of tasks. Protect Damian. 

Sending Damian away when Talia did was a risk. Although Talia convinced her father to let Damian complete his training at his father’s side, she holds no delusions that it will last. Ra’s will eventually come for Damian to instate him as his heir, or worse, possess his body forever. 

Pru watched over Damian from a distance for a time, but once she realized how adamant Tim was about protecting Damian and the others himself, she saw her presence in Gotham as superfluous. She returned to Talia and informed her that her son was already well and soundly watched over by Cardinal—the very same person who had warned Talia of the danger Damian was in to begin with.

Pru honored their trust and did not reveal Cardinal's true name, citing that she could maintain loyalty to both, as they were both seeking the same goal: the downfall of Ra’s and the safety of Damian. 

Talia was not happy, but accepted Cardinal’s protection of her son with a few conditions—one of which was that Damian would have direct access to Cardinal’s protection in an emergency. 

And so, Tim crafted an emergency beacon, similar to the Bat’s own distress signal, and instructed Pru to give it to Damian. Recognizing Pru as one of his mothers loyalists, Damian accepted the beacon and has carried it with him since. He doesn’t know who the beacon calls to, though he probably suspects Pru or one of his mother’s soldiers. But he knows that if all else fails, he can call for help.

Pru still visits a few times a year to check-in with both him and Damian, never informing the boy who his true protector is.  

Pru is the only one in this entire timeline who knows Tim’s true past. She’s the closest thing he has to a confidant, and more than that, she’s probably his closest friend. He’s told her countless times that she should call him Tim, but she just rolls her eyes and insists on calling him 'Red,' or 'Little Red,' affectionately. She reminds him a bit of Jason in a lot of ways.

Pru accepts a glass of water from Tim and sips it slowly, staring into its depths intently. 

“Well?” Tim probes when she doesn’t go on. 

“It’s Ra’s,” she sighs. “He’s on the move. Talia says he’s left Nanda Parbat but we don’t know where he’s gone or why.”

Tim hums. It could mean a lot of things both unimportant and paramount. Sometimes Ra’s likes to switch up his headquarters temporarily or even just check-in with his other bases, usually one’s housing a Lazarus Pit. If it was something so benign, however, there is no reason Talia wouldn’t have been informed. That means Ra’s is either hiding something, or going off the books, both potentially problematic. 

If he has uncovered Talia’s treachery, it could mean war—Ra’s loyalists versus Talia’s, a battle for the throne of the Demon. Both of the Al Ghuls don’t usually operate that way though. They specialize in working in the shadows. The true battle between them is one of wits, who will be able to outsmart the other. 

Talia has been working for years, slowly and surely gaining loyalty throughout the League. 

When she first accepted Cardinal as her son's protector, she insisted he prove he was truly opposed to Ra’s, that he would protect Damian from him at all costs. Tim had no issues with the request and actually proposed a plan he had intended to complete anyway. Reenacting the same plan he executed before, Cardinal and Pru went around the world to every recorded Lazarus Pit and set explosives at each. 

If Ra’s were to move against Talia unexpectedly, she could set them off in an instant. 

Unbeknownst to Talia, Tim still has access to the bombs. He has the power to shut down or initiate the sequence if he deems it necessary. He isn’t sure if or when he’ll go head to head with Ra’s again, but he knows better than to do so without leverage. 

Tim favors Talia over Ra's anyday, but he knows Talia’s character. She’s just as power hungry and cunning as Ra’s is and that level of determination is not to be taken lightly. Tim is prepared if her ambition proves a detriment to Gotham or the Bats. 

He’s been lucky to avoid Ra’s attention altogether this time around. There are whispers in the underground about Cardinal. Tim isn’t naive enough to think he’s gone completely unnoticed, but he’s confident his identity is secure. 

If Talia can take out that creepy bastard without Tim ever having to go up against him again, he is all for it. But for that to be possible, they need to know his doings to determine what he knows.  

“Talia is sending you underground, isn’t she?” Tim states more than asks. “You’re going to track him down.”

Pru shrugs, “I’m one of the few who can and he won’t expect me. We’re sitting on the edge of a knife here. We can’t be taken by surprise, we must be ready if he makes a move.” 

Tim nods slowly. He doesn’t like it, but he understands it. 

It’s dangerous though. Those who stand up to Ra’s rarely survive the ordeal. If Pru is caught…

Tim mentally shakes himself. It’s not in his control. “What do you need from me?” 

“Nothing more than usual, really. Keep a vigilant eye on the Prince. The Demon may think now is the time to take him and if so, I doubt he would tell Talia, whether or not he knew of her betrayal.” 

Talia has been able to pacify her father over the years, but Ra’s has never taken his eye off Damian. He agreed to Talia’s terms only until Damian was fully trained, a deadline that may soon be approaching depending on Ra's observations. 

“You know how Ra’s operates, Red,” Pru continues. “You may know better than anyone other than Talia herself. He won’t come for him unless he’s sure Damian is ready.”

Tim nods, but internally he knows that isn’t entirely true. If Ra’s had an inkling of Damian’s true loyalties, Tim isn’t sure he would be so patient. 

Pru rolls out her shoulders, stretching out a kink in her neck. “If we’re lucky, this whole thing is just a big misunderstanding and Ra’s just wanted a vacation,” she mutters blithely. 

Tim raises an eyebrow, “When are we ever lucky?”

Pru snorts, finishing her glass and rising to her feet. She rounds around the kitchen island and stands before Tim, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. 

“Be careful, Little Red,” she says softly. “If something does happen, I’ll be out of reach. You won’t be able to contact me.”

Tim frowns, “What about Talia?”

Pru shakes her head, her gaze low. “I’m not sure.”

So Tim is on his own if shit hits the fan. Wonderful.

Pru smirks, almost like she’s reading his thoughts. “You’ll be fine. And you can always ask the Bats for help if you need it.” 

Tim outright scoffs at that, “Yah, right.”

Pru huffs, “Fair enough.” Her face sombers as she checks the time. “I need to go.” Pru takes her scarf and wraps it around her bald head again, covering everything but the slits of her eyes. “Look out for yourself, Red.”

Tim nods once, masking the trepidation he feels rising in his gut. “You too.”

She turns and meets Tim’s eye, giving him one final stern glance, “Protect him.”

The next second, Pru is lost to the depths of the shadows. 

Tim stays where he is long after she’s gone, letting out a deep sigh that echoes through the empty halls.

“Always,” he whispers to the dark.

Chapter Text

The next morning finds the Wayne family sitting together in the dining room for breakfast—brunch to anyone else—but when you’re a family of nocturnal vigilantes, you tend not to keep a regular schedule.

Cass and Stephanie are still notably absent, away on a mission. 

Though Stephanie doesn’t always stay at the manor, it’s common for her to be here over the weekends. The table feels oddly quiet without her dynamism. No one’s aggressively stealing food off Jason’s plate, and there are no ill-advised bets about who could fit the most pancakes in their mouth at once. The silence feels almost eerie in comparison.

With the girls gone, it’s just Bruce and the Wayne brothers present. Bruce sits at the head of the table with Dick to his right and Damian to his left. Jason sits next to Dick and across from him is Duke. 

The family makes light conversation together, Jason more notably withdrawn, probably still exhausted from his full patrol last night. 

Damian too is uncharacteristically quiet, deep in thought.

Bruce picks up on it almost immediately. 

“So Damian,” he starts. “I forgot to ask you about the gala last night. How did it go?” 

Jason scoffs, “What kind of question is that? Do any of us ever enjoy those things?”

“Bruce wanted him to be more observant of the people around him,” Dick fills in. “You know, the whole ‘find people you want to replicate’ spiel.”

Realization dawns on Jason. “Ah,” he nods. “Yah I remember when B had me do that. Wasn't all for nothing I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Duke deadpans. 

Jason shrugs. “I learned a few things but probably not as much as he wanted me to.” 

“It’s just an exercise,” Bruce says, turning to Damian, “There isn’t anything specific I’m looking for, I just wanted to encourage you to look around yourself and try to identify your peers. How did you find it?”

Damian holds in a sigh, “Tedious,” he says honestly. “Observing more carefully just reinforced my perception of the upper class of Gotham. Most are just as greedy and selfish as the criminals we face. There are some good people, of course, but hardly anyone I could ever picture myself emulating.” 

“Hardly any?” Dick prods, as unnervingly knowing as ever. Damian already regrets speaking.

Damian looks down at his plate, pushing around the pieces of uneaten fruit. “Mr. Fox had some recommendations,” he mumbles as quietly as he can.

Bruce hears him anyway and nods, “Fox is a hell of a good judge of character. He generally knows what he’s talking about.” 

Damian hesitates. 

He’s fairly confident he already knows what his family's opinions are on Timothy Drake. Timothy doesn’t actually make many public appearances outside the more upscale events, so while none of them know him personally, the media coverage on him has never been particularly flattering. He’s intelligent to be sure, not so far above average to deserve a plethora of praise, but he’s often described as arrogant and entitled. 

Damian knows Drake attended the same school as Jason, but despite being neighbors and close in age, they almost never interacted. In fact, Damian recalls Jason saying Drake avoided him at all cost, equating it to his background as a “street kid.” Drake never outright bullied Jason like others at their school did, but he certainly wasn’t kind either.

Damian would prefer to keep his conversation with Drake—and the potentially controversial conclusions he drew—to himself.

But. If this opportunity Mr. Fox alluded to pans out, Bruce at the very least will have to know and Damian isn’t stupid enough to think the rest of the family wouldn’t find out about it eventually. May as well get the initial shock over with. 

“Well.” Damian starts. “He suggested perhaps I could learn a thing or two from Timothy Drake.”

Jason laughs as if Damian is kidding but frowns when he doesn’t join in, “Drake? That self-centered prick?” 

“Jason,” Bruce murmurs reprovingly. 

“Oh come on, everybody knows he’s a spoiled little rich kid,” he rolls his eyes.

“Who is this?” Duke squints, not as familiar with the rotating elite. 

“Technically, this is our neighbor,” Bruce fills him in. “He lives about a mile east of the Manor. Not the richest of Gotham, but the Drakes have always held a large influence.” 

“And he’s a dic- sorry, douchebag.” 

Bruce sighs, “He’s never done anything to you, Jason.”

“No,” Jason allows, “But his whole holier than thou attitude, ass clenched, nose in the air, drives me crazy.” 

“He does have a reputation,” Dick agrees with a pointed bemused expression towards Damian, probably wondering how ​​he, of all people, could potentially find something worthwhile in Timothy Drake.

“Okay, so typical rich guy,” Duke sums up. “And Mr. Fox told you what exactly?” he goes back to the original subject. 

Damian shrugs, “Just that he faced many of the same obstacles I’ll face when I step up into WE, being such a young and well connected CEO.”

“He’s a CEO?” Duke blinks. “How old is this guy?”

Bruce takes a sip of his coffee, “He owns and runs Drake Industries—and yes, he’s one of the youngest CEOs in history. I believe he took over when he was…17? Drake Industries has flourished since then, though some speculate that has more to do with the board’s decisions than with any direct influence from Timothy.”

“I spoke with him last night,” Damian tells them. 

Dick raises his eyebrows, “Did you?” 

“Mr. Fox introduced us,” he explains. “It was brief, but I think.. Perhaps Mr. Fox was right about him.” 

“...In what way?” Jason drawls. 

“That I could learn from him.” 

Damian is met with no less than 3 skeptical stares. 

“Learn from him?” Bruce repeats. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Damian admits. “Fox said he might have an opportunity for me to gain experience first hand.”

“Like, he’d tutor you or something?” Duke asks. Damian shrugs. 

Jason sighs, “Babybat, I don’t think you want anything to do with this guy. You’d want to kill him in less than 5 minutes. He’d drive you insane.” 

Damian just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, “Considering my tolerance for you, I don’t think it should be a problem.”

Dick chokes on his juice while Duke throws his head back and laughs boisterously. Jason narrows his eyes, glaring at both of them as he stabs at his eggs vaguely threatening. 

Duke gives him a look, leaning back in his chair. “Wow, okay. You’re bitter” he says towards Jason. “What’d the guy do to you?”

Jason scoffs, chewing a mouthful. “More like what he didn’t do. When we were in school, he'd act like I didn’t exist—wouldn’t even look at me.”

“That’s it? He ignored you?”

Jason glares. “Oh, I’m sorry—are we not doing basic human decency anymore?”

Duke holds up his hands. “I mean, I get it. But compared to everything else we deal with on a daily basis, the cold shoulder isn't exactly a war crime.”

Jason huffs, slouching further into his chair. “We had one class together—some business elective. Group project. He was in my group and straight-up pretended I wasn’t there. Looked right past me, didn’t text, didn’t email, nothing. But the other two in our group? The fellow rich kids? Oh he worked with them fine.”

Duke grimaces sympathetically. 

“Right?” Jason gestures, vindicated. “So yah, it left a bit of a bitter taste in my mouth.”

Duke hums thoughtfully, “Did he treat everyone that way?” 

Jason scoffs. “Oh, he was definitely a classist little shit. Yah, he ignored anyone outside his rich kid circle.”

Duke frowns into his food, looking contemplative.

Jason narrows his eyes. “What?”

Duke shrugs, “I mean he definitely sounds like a piece of shit-”

“Language at the table,” Alfred admonishes as he fills Bruce’s coffee cup. 

Duke winces, “Sorry. He doesn’t sound very nice,” he amends. “But the guy’s running a company now. I don’t know, maybe he’s matured.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, “Oh, please. ”

Duke leans back, looking towards Damian. “I’m just saying, Damian isn’t exactly known for being particularly tolerant of that kind of behavior. Maybe the guy was a self-important tool, but now he’s… I don’t know, different. Seems more likely than Damian misjudging him so badly.”

Damian, watching the exchange with interest, gives a slow nod. “Precisely.”

Jason groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great. Just great. Now two of you are buying into this nonsense.”

Duke shrugs. “I'm not buying into anything. I just won't write the guy off before I meet him. Don't you always say never judge a book by it's cover?”

Jason grumbles, reaching for his coffee. Bruce, who has been quietly listening, lets out a small hum of approval. “It’s good to consider all perspectives.”

“But it's a pretty ugly looking cover,” Jason mutters into his mug.

Damian straightens, “Look, I understand your skepticism but Drake hasn’t done me any wrong and from my observations last night…”

Damian trails off. 

“What?” Dick prompts. 

Damian scours his mind for the right words to describe it. Nothing in their interaction was particularly noteworthy, but… there was something there, something that still isn’t adding up in Damians head.

“He seemed more… complex,” he decides. 

“Complex?” Jason deadpans, unimpressed.  

Damian grits his teeth, “If he’s what you say then I won’t bother. But until I’ve confirmed that, I’ll do as I see fit.” 

Jason raises his hand in mock surrender and goes back to his food, but Damian can read his expression well enough, the unspoken ‘ It’s your funeral’ blatantly obvious.

Bruce shakes his head at Jason good-naturedly and glances at Damian with something akin to pride in his eyes, “Alright Damian. I’ll speak with Fox, see what he’s thinking. I think it's good you’re not taking the things you’ve heard at face value. Find out for yourself one way or another.” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Hello darling,” Lucius smiles at his daughter on the other side of the video call. 

“Hi Dad,” Tam says pleasantly, looking a bit distracted typing something out on her laptop. 

“Is this a bad time?” 

“No! Not at all,” she insists, “I’m just trying to get this email out as soon as possible. It was supposed to be sent yesterday but R & D dropped the ball.” Her fingers move quickly over the keyboard, her expression sharp with concentration. She finishes with a final click, then leans back, rolling her shoulders as she turns her full attention onto her father.

“Okay, I’m fully present. What can I do for you?” 

It isn’t very often Lucius will bother his daughter during her work day, unless what he has to say has something to do with work. Tim and Lucius work very well with each other but occasionally he needs a bit of insider advice on how to handle certain situations, more so back when he still didn’t know or understand Tim very well. 

Lucius isn’t manipulative, but he always wants to put his best foot forward. He knows Tamara has Tim’s best interests at heart and would never say or do anything at his detriment. 

Which is why Lucius may need to be particularly persuasive right now. 

“Well, I was wondering whether or not you’ve found your summer replacement yet?” 

Tamara has worked as Tim Drake’s executive assistant for 2 years now, just shortly after he first took up the position. Lucius is sure the company, and Tim Drake himself, would not be doing nearly as well as they are without his daughter, and he couldn’t be more proud. 

Tamara is going on a 2-month leave of absence to tour Europe. She hasn’t had a proper vacation since taking the job, and she and Tim both agreed it was long overdue. As a big thank you, Tim paid for the trip completely for both Tam and 2 of her closest friends. The only missing piece is Tam’s replacement. 

“I have some options I’m sorting through,” Tam tells him. “But nobody who’s really stood out. Why?” 

Fox braces himself. “I think I may have someone.”

Tam gazes back dubiously, “Why do you say that so ominously?”

“I’m not being ominous.” he protests. 

“You really are,” she smirks. 

Well, nobody ever hired Lucius for his acting skills. 

“He isn’t exactly… conventional,” he admits. “But he’s a hard worker and I think he would do the job very well.”

Tam’s job isn’t hard necessarily, but it takes a certain tenacity and dedication to do it right, most of which is just keeping up with the boss and making sure said boss doesn’t drive himself into an early grave. 

“Who is it?” Tam asks directly, reading through her Father’s flowery words. 

Lucius hesitates. “Damian Wayne.” 

“Damian… Wayne?” Tam repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

Tam narrows her eyes. “Isn’t he like 10?” 

“You know he isn’t,” Fox sighs. 

“Twelve isn’t much better.”

“He’s 15,” he corrects. “Which I know is still young, but he’s not one to shy away from hard work. His hours may have to be adjusted, DI can’t have a 15 year-old working full time, but I’m confident he could make it work.”

“Where is this coming from?” she asks. “I know you’ve said you started teaching him about Wayne Enterprises, but why have him work here?”

“Damian has ambitious goals and a lot to learn quickly,” Lucius explains. “He’s still in school and busy with other… extracurriculars. Throwing him into the thick of it like this for a summer while he has the time might be the most beneficial thing for him. Drake Industries is similar enough and we work together regularly.” 

Tam hums, shifting slightly in her chair. “You do realize my job isn’t just answering emails and managing schedules, right?”

“I am very aware.”

She taps her fingers lightly against her desk. “He’ll have to be up close and personal with Tim, who is not known for his good working habits. He’s sporadic, dad, he needs someone to keep him grounded. Do you really think Damian could do that?”

“Yes, I do,” he says emphatically. “Damian has always been honest. He says what he thinks, what he believes, regardless of the reception it’ll receive. Given some time, he won’t hesitate to call Tim out when necessary.” 

“You’re really adamant about this, aren’t you?” Tamara observes. 

Lucius hums. “I think it would be good for both of them,” he admits. “They have the potential to complement each other. With how much WE and DI collaborate, it wouldn’t be amiss to encourage their friendship.” 

​​Tam crosses her arms, considering that. Tim is, at his core, a problem solver—he picks apart obstacles and finds ways to work around them. But he struggles with stability, especially when it comes to his own well-being. From what Tam understands, for all his sharp edges, Damian thrives on discipline. He wouldn’t be afraid to push back, to challenge Tim when needed. It could work… or it could be a complete disaster.

“It can be a demanding job, Dad.” She reminds him. “You sure they won’t end up despising each other by the end of it?” 

“It might not be perfect,” Lucius agrees. “But… Tamara, I think I’m right about this.” 

Tam thinks that over a moment, being letting out a quiet sigh. “...then I’ll trust your judgment.”

He blinks, “That easy, huh?”

Tam shrugs, “Tim gave me complete control over who gets the job. He doesn’t have a say. If you think it’s a good idea, I believe you. Though, we may have to come up with a better reason for why a 15-year old would suddenly get this position.” 

“What did you have in mind?”

“A summer internship perhaps? That’d make it easy to adjust his hours and responsibilities.” 

“Hmmm,” Lucius considers that. “That’s actually an intriguing idea all around. We could treat it like an interbusiness internship of sorts, another way for WE and DI to partner.”

Tamara nods along, “I like it. I’ll have to get Tim’s approval before we can really move forward with it.” 

“And I'll have to convince Damian’s father,” Lucius agrees. 

Tam shrugs, turning away a bit to make some notes. “Shouldn’t be too hard, he’s pretty easy going, isn’t he?” 

Lucius smirks slightly. Sometimes Lucius forgets Tam doesn’t know anything about Bruce other than his Brucie Wayne persona. He supposes Timothy and Bruce are similar in that way, both cursed to be seen one way when they are exactly the opposite. 

It’s amazing how both he and Tamara, father and daughter, ended up working for such people, both of them easily seeing through the act. 

Foxes are clever like that. 

“At times he can be…” Lucius allows. “But when it comes to his kids? Well.”

Tamara chuckles, “Good luck then. Keep me updated, let me know if he doesn’t follow through.”

“I will.”

Lucious brings it up at their next meeting. Bruce and he have a standing appointment to meet and discuss the company every 2 weeks. The location varies, but today Bruce came into Wayne Enterprises himself. 

Bruce sits on the other side of Lucius’ desk, staring back at him critically as he explains his idea. 

“...you want Damian to intern as Timothy Drake’s executive assistant for the summer?” Bruce asks, monotone. 

“With some modifications to the position, of course, but in essence, yes.” 

Bruce leans back in his chair, brow furrowed, hands folded. His jaw tightens slightly, a sign Lucius recognizes as deep consideration—or irritation. Perhaps both. 

“You know I trust and respect you, Lucius, but this? I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” 

“Why not?” he challenges. 

“Damian doesn’t work well with others,” Bruce says matter of fact. “He’s gotten better over the years, but forcing him to work for a Drake? Damian has a temper and if it were to get the better of him, what kind of damage would that due to both their working relationship and Damian’s reputation?” 

“First of all, I won’t force Damian to do anything. If he wants the job, it’ll be up to him to accept it. I’ve talked with Tamara and she has other candidates to fill the position if Damian refuses, or even if he decides to quit.”

“Hm.” Bruce grunts in acknowledgment. 

“Secondly, Damian has come a long way, further than I think you've realized, and it’s about time you gave him the opportunity to prove that.”

Bruce sighs, rubbing at his forehead, “It’s still a risk, Lucius. If he has one bad day, what will Timothy think? The Drakes were always able to wield their influence like a dagger and their son has proven no different. We have no idea how that could play into Damian’s future.”

Lucius refrains from sighing, pulling on his well of patience. “Timothy Drake is a good businessman and yes, at times, one cold hearted son of a bitch. But he’s also someone I’ve come to know and respect. He is not needlessly cruel, Bruce. Damian is still young, Timothy will see that. If it really isn’t working out, at worst he’ll let Damian go and get another assistant, but that would be the extent of it.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Bruce insists. 

Lucius raises an eyebrow, but nods. “I can have legal input an NDA clause in the contract if you wish.”

Bruce lets out another grunt of agreement, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed. “I still don’t know, Lucius. What would Damian have to benefit from working there? We could easily set him up with an internship at Wayne Enterprises. It would be a lot safer.”

“Perspective is important,” Fox insists. “Having him so narrowly focused on his family’s company isn’t productive to encouraging a well rounded, open minded leader.”

Bruce bobs his head slowly in agreement. “Damian needs that,” he admits. “He needs to see the world outside his own purview, see the power WE truly has and the responsibility to wield that well.” 

“Mmmhhh,” Lucius smirks. “And, you know as well as I do, Drake Industries has done more for supporting WE’s causes than anybody else these last few years. If Damian and Timothy can build some sort of rapport, when Damian takes over, they could do a lot of good together.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully. “Damian seemed… intrigued by Timothy from their conversation at the gala.”

Fox nods easily. “They seemed to get on well enough,” he attests. 

Bruce is silent for a moment. “You’ll check-in with him regularly?” 

Fox holds back a smile, knowing the question means he’s won him over. “Of course, weekly at the very least.”

“And Damian can stop at any point if he doesn’t like it?” 

“Anytime,” he confirms. 

Bruce exhales, slow and measured. “Then fine,” Bruce finally relents. “But it’s his decision. I won’t intervene.” 

Lucius stands, buttoning his suit jacket. “I’ll speak with him tomorrow, then.”

Chapter Text

The time between Damian’s conversation with Fox at the gala to their actual scheduled appointment seems to drag on indefinitely. 

He’s at the end of his semester, meaning all his free time has been dedicated to revising for exams and completing the details on his final projects. At this point, he just has a few more tests to take and then sit through the final useless days of the semester before he can finally be free of school for a while. 

Ninth grade, overall, wasn’t too terrible—much improved from last year anyway. With a bit more freedom to choose his classes, he immediately signed up for art. Despite his prior experience though, the school requires everyone to start in the same introductory course: Art 1. Many students only take the class to fulfill a graduation requirement, so his class was filled with kids from different grades, most of whom had very little real interest in the actual subject.

At first, Damian steadfastly kept to himself, completing his assignments without a word to the people around him. Eventually though, he made friends with the girl who sat next to him, Leena. She’s a better artist then most of the class, though Damian is sure with more practice she could be truly fantastic. 

Next year, they’ll be taking Art 2 together. Their teacher has assured them that the class will be more rigorous and with more passionate students.

Damian thinks he might actually miss his friend in the interim of the summer, but he’s eager to be productive, especially with whatever Fox has for him. Damian is becoming more and more aware that he only has 3 years left until he graduates high school and he feels…unequipped. 

Damian would usually spend his summer drawing, painting, and volunteering at animal shelters, while also increasing his training and duties as Robin. This summer, however, he intends to increase his understanding of Wayne Enterprises and companies like it as much as possible. He refuses to be unprepared and if that means sacrificing most of his summer, so be it. He’s hopeful about this option from Fox, but whether or not it works out, Damian intends to use his time to the fullest. 

Alfred picks Damian and Duke up from school and shuttles them back to the manor. Damian is glad he seems to be in good spirits. The end of this semester marks the end of his brother’s Junior year, meaning they’ll only get one more year together in school. 

Damian didn’t expect to enjoy going to school with Duke as much as he has. It’s nice to have someone who gets it, someone about his age who understands the strain of balancing school and teenage vigilantism. Obviously the others also lived that life at one point, but with Duke it’s nice to know they’re going through it together . Damian would never tell him that, obviously, but he thinks on some level, Duke knows. 

“Today’s the day then?” Duke smirks at him from the other side of the car. 

“My meeting with Mr. Fox is scheduled for this afternoon, yes,” Damian agrees as neutral as he can, careful not to give away his excitement or his trepidation. 

“Bruce still won’t tell you what it is?” 

“Father insists that Mr. Fox will explain it best.” Damian responds, gaze fixed outside the window. “...I get the impression he isn’t very pleased with the idea, but he will allow me to decide for myself.” 

Duke hums, “Is that why you’re anxious?” 

“I’m not-!” 

Duke just gives him a look and Damian sighs. 

“...amongst other things,” he admits. “I simply… want to do well.” 

Duke smiles kindly, “Take it easy on yourself, little D. You still got a few more years of school. You don’t have to have everything figured out right now.” 

“On the contrary,” Damian corrects. “I know exactly what my goals are, the only question is what steps I need to take to achieve them.” 

Alfred smiles from the driver seat, “Well you'd certainly be the first of the family in that regard. You know your Father wanted to be a doctor when he first graduated?” 

“...I’m aware. But that will not be true in my case. My path is set.” 

Alfred doesn’t respond for a moment, but eventually nods once. “As you say sir.” 

Once they get home, Damian goes up to his room and sets up his laptop for his meeting with Fox. He’s ready and sat at his desk a good 5 minutes before the agreed upon time, nervous excitement making him a bit restless. Damian huffs impatiently and resigns himself to the Zoom Waiting Room. 

Soon enough, Fox’s face fills his screen. 

“Ah, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius says with a warm smile. “How have you been?” 

Damian responds to the pleasantries as swiftly and curtly as possible, trying to get the pleasantries over with as soon as possible.  Lucius’s smile shifts into something like a smirk, clearly picking up on Damian’s impatience.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles. “I won’t keep you in suspense. I’ve asked around and found a position for you in Drake Industries for the summer—an internship of sorts if you want it.” 

Damian leans forward intrigued, “Internship?”

“Paid internship,” Fox clarifies. “Not that you need it, but all Wayne Enterprises sponsored internships are paid.”

Damian frowns, “I thought you said this position was for Drake Industries.” 

“It is. Wayne Enterprises would essentially be loaning you out to Drake Industries. We provide the employment and pay, while DI offers the training and real-world experience to prepare future WE hires.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “I’ve never heard of this program.”

“We are actually in the middle of developing it,” Fox admits. “You’d be our first trial run to see how it goes.”

Damian takes a moment to consider that. Since following Mr. Fox’s recommendation to review DI’s recent projects, he’s been impressed. Their partnership with Wayne Enterprises has proven extremely beneficial for Gotham—focusing on medical advancements, accessibility, and cost differential. A rare combination of innovation and ethical execution.

“Very well,” Damian agrees. “What exactly would I be doing in this internship?” 

“Well,” Lucius begins with a smile that Damian doesn’t entirely trust. “You’d be filling in for Timothy Drake’s executive assistant.”

Damian blinks. 

“His current assistant is taking the summer off,” Fox explains smoothly. “You’d essentially be managing Mr. Drake's meetings, calls, and schedule, as well as assisting him with anything he may need your help with.” 

Damian’s face screws up in displeasure. “A secretary?” 

“It may feel that way at first,” Fox allows. “But an executive assistant is an important job, they’re vital to a CEOs work. You may be handling sensitive information, or conducting research if Mr. Drake asks it of you. Your tasks will depend on how much confidence Mr. Drake has in you. You’ll have to earn his trust.” 

“But this isn’t what I wanted,” Damian protests, his tone sharpening. “You said this would be an opportunity to learn from Drake.” 

“And it is,” Lucius insists. “You may not be operating as a CEO, but you’ll be in the room. You’ll get to see the day in and day out responsibilities and demands of the job. You’ll see what he sees, hear how he makes decisions, and, when the moment’s right, ask questions. You’ll gain insights—not just into the company, but into Timothy himself.”

Damian leans back, considering it.

A year or two ago, he probably would’ve outright refused such a position. His mother taught him that he was above such menial tasks, that his rightful place was above others, never under them.  

But his Fathers teachings have truly cemented. He knows now that all people are deserving of respect, that the positions he once thought inferior are actually paramount to the running of society. He sees Mr. Fox’s point. Such a position would put him within close proximity to Drake, a perfect place to watch and learn. 

Lucius allows Damian a minute to think, then interjects, “For the sake of full transparency, you should know that I was aware of the opening because it is usually filled by my daughter, Tamara.” 

Damian glances up, surprised. He knows of course that Mr. Fox has children, but he’s never known more than that. 

“She’ll be gone for 2 months— almost exactly the length of your summer break. She’ll get you started and give you a few days of training before she leaves.”

“I see,” Damian responds blandly, still weighing the pros and cons in his head. 

Fox gives him another moment before leaning closer to the camera, somehow becoming less formal and more personable.

 “I don’t want you to feel like this is something you have to do Damian. I’ve talked to your father about it and we agree, it’s your choice. If you decide you don’t want the job, Tam has other candidates who could fill the position. Even if you start and realize you don’t like it, that’s okay too.”

Damian bristles slightly. He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be coddled. 

Though… It is a big step forward. Damian would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit nervous at the prospect. What if he is fundamentally bad at it? What if Drake doesn’t like him and fires him outright? What if he makes a mistake and throws off the entire company? 

Well, he recognizes that’s a bit dramatic. But still. 

“I’d be checking in with you regularly,” Fox adds gently. “You won’t be alone.”

Meaning he’ll have a support system— Lucius Fox himself.  

Clarity suddenly strikes Damian. Why is he even hesitating? He has the CEO of one of the most prominent and important companies in the world in his corner. He has the opportunity to gain experience and knowledge from a young yet well respected figure, a potential business partner and ally. 

He’d be a moron to turn this down. 

It may be pretty far out of his comfort zone, but Damian has never shied away from hard things. He’s been worried about not learning fast enough. What better way to figure things out than by throwing him into a company so similar to Wayne Enterprises in purpose, run by a CEO of a similar situation to Damian? 

It’s a perfect situation. 

“I can give you some time to think about i-”

“Yes,” Damian states firmly. “Yes, I’ll do it.” 

Mr. Fox grins. “I’m glad,” he says. “I’ll send you and your father the details and your contract. Your training will start the first Monday after your semester finishes.”

Damian nods, feeling more excited now than nervous, “Very well.” 

“Give this a real chance, Damian,” Fox advises before he goes. “I think you’ll find you and Timothy have more in common than you think.” 

The screen goes dark, the meeting ended. Damian just sits and stares for a few seconds, processing. This is good, he finally decides. This is great.  

Damian stands, suddenly unable to hold still at all. He still has almost 7 hours until he needs to get ready for patrol, but maybe he can convince Duke to spare with him before he leaves for the afternoon-shift. 

Tim leans his head heavily to his shoulder, trying in vain to stretch out the tension building between his shoulder blades. That’s what he gets for pulling a 15 hour workday in the office. 

With Tam getting ready to go on her vacation, the two of them have been putting in the work to get most of the major decisions and deadlines for the quarter out of the way. It’s not that Tim couldn’t do it without Tam, but he feels a lot better having her go over things with a fine-tooth comb. 

Even so, having Tam gone will be like losing a limb. For as smart as Tim knows he is, it’s difficult at times for him to keep track of everything by himself. Tam fills that gap. He already knows he will miss her fiercely—both as his assistant and his friend. 

She’s more than earned a break, though. Tim's life is, and has always been, dedicated to work. He doesn’t have the same urge everyone else seems to have to take a quality break now and then; it never even crosses his mind. Tam has been keeping pace with Tim for years now, and he never even realized how exhausting that must be until Tam requested some time off. As soon as she did, Tim felt like a complete asshole. 

Of course Tam has the legal PTO days that Drake Industries affords all its employees, but she’s never taken them. She said she felt too much responsibility toward the company and toward Tim himself to just up and leave. 

When Tam did finally come to him, he made sure she would have everything she wanted and more, a bonus of sorts for all her dedicated hard work. He also made it clear that, from now on, Tam is required to take her leave. Tim is more than capable of handling things himself, even if he has grown accustomed to her meticulous precision. 

Tim glances up from his stretching at the sound of his office door opening. 

“Just a few more things for you to sign tonight,” Tam says as she approaches his desk, laying the mentioned documents on his right side. 

“Thank you.” Tim picks the pile up, briefly flipping through the pages. 

“You have two charity submissions to approve, one vendor contract, and the contract for my replacement,” Tam narrates. 

Tim nods, skimming each document before signing on the dotted line.

“This is the last thing for the day, then you’ll go home,” Tam informs him. 

Tim smirks, “Says who? Maybe I have something else I want to work on.” 

“You don’t,” she says matter of factly. “And even if you did, it’s been like 15 hours. That’s where I draw the line.” 

Tim shakes his head fondly, still looking down towards the documents he’s reviewing; if only she knew. 

“What am I gonna do without you?” he mumbles.

“Suffer.” 

Tim huffs, and Tam goes back to her desk to pack up for the day. Tim finishes with the vendor contract, signing it and moving onto the last indenture, the contract of employment for his new assistant/intern. 

Tim gave Tam full authority to pick her replacement, trusting her enough to find someone competent. He was pleasantly surprised when she came back to him with an idea she and her father put together; a Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries Internship Program. If it goes well, Tam’s substitute will be the first of many such interns and perhaps eventually they will reverse the roles and send their own employees to WE to train. 

All in all, it’s a good deal and Tim is actually excited to meet the first trainee—his assistant for the next two months. The program will be designed to specifically encourage promising young people to apply, both teenagers and college students. Tim much rather work with a young person ready and eager to learn than someone who thinks they know better than him just because they happen to be older (another reason why Tam is the perfect executive assistant). 

Tam and Lucius have already gotten the bones of the program underway, all that's left is to see how the experiment goes. 

Tim skims over the contract, seeing everything is in order. He notices WE’s legal team added an NDA clause, basically meaning neither Tim, nor his assistant, will be able to slander the other in the press or to competing businesses. A bit overkill, perhaps, but it’s not like Tim minds, especially since it looks like this kid is under 18. 

The contract is already filled in and signed by the other parties; Fox, the intern themself, and their parent, an acknowledgment of their child’s responsibilities. 

His eyes drift to the bottom of the page, and he places his pen down ready to sign. 

His brain suddenly clicks back into gear after going on fumes for so long, his mind replaying back to him what he just saw. 

Wait. 

He looks back over to the printed names and signatures next to them, and there, unmistakably, inexplicably, is Bruce Wayne’s signature next to his son’s. 

Damian. 

Damian Wayne. 

Tim whips his head up towards the still open door so fast, his already sore neck seizes.

“Taaam!” he calls, shaking off the tension as best he can. 

Tam rushes back in, hearing the odd urgency in his voice. 

“What? What is it?” 

Tim holds up the contract, “ Damian Wayne??”

“Yes…?” Tam drawls.

Tim wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes are literally bulging out of his skull. 

“You just forgot to mention this?” 

“I did mention it,” she responds calmly. 

Tim balks, “You absolutely did not.” 

Tam gets a look on her face Tim knows means she’s activating her self-restraint. 

“I told you about the program last week,” she recounts with the patience of a saint. “After you approved the idea, WE drafted the stipulations. Yesterday morning, I told you Wayne had agreed to the arrangement and that his son would be our first hire.”

Tim scours his mind, searching for any memory of that conversation. Yesterday he was coming off an all-nighter case session and hadn’t had his morning coffee before he got into the office. He would’ve been pretty useless at that point, but surely he would've picked up on this. 

Although, Tim has worked hard to train his mind to compartmentalize stray thoughts about his former family to avoid distraction. In his addled state, he wouldn’t be shocked if he did so again subconsciously. 

“It’s not a good idea,” Tim states with a shake of his head. 

“Why? You liked the idea before. Why does Damian Wayne change anything?” 

“It literally changes everything.” 

Tim feels a bit like he’s going crazy. He wants to all out laugh but, without context, he’s pretty sure he’d look like a literal maniac. 

“What’s wrong with Damian?” Tam frowns. “You met him, didn’t you? From what my dad says he’s a hard working kid.”

“Nothing is wrong with him.” 

“Then what's the problem?” 

Tim can’t answer that. He can’t tell her that this is his little brother , a brother and family he misses with such fierceness in his heart, he can’t take it sometimes. He can’t tell her that he literally practices putting the thought of him out of his mind to not suffer the pain and shame of his failures. Can’t tell her that this might very well destroy him and the life he’s tried so hard to build for everyone . 

“It’s not a good idea,” he repeats, his anxiety building.

“Why?” 

“It just isn’t,” he insists. 

“That’s not a reason.” 

“Tamara!”

Tam takes a half step back, completely taken aback. Tim has never done that, never snapped at her like that. 

“I’m sorry.” he says almost instantly, trying to reign in his panic. “I’m sorry that wasn’t- I didn't mean-”

Tim leans his head onto one of his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Tam slowly steps closer, stopping just in front of Tim’s desk. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Tim, but you need to get over it,” she says softly, but firmly. “We’re too far into the process. For you to pull out now after everyone has already agreed, especially just because of who he is… it would be bad.” 

“But-” Tim cuts himself off so as to not allow his voice to break…so as to not allow himself to fall apart.

Tam shakes her head, “No buts. If the press finds out you shut this whole thing down just because you didn’t want to work with Damian Wayne specifically… you understand how that would look, don’t you?” 

Tim’s brain is still firing slower than usual so it takes a second for him to comprehend what she’s implying. When he does, Tim physically recoils. 

“That’s not- no, I would never- !”

“ I know that, obviously.” Tam smirks, then sombers again. “But that’s how it will look. And at the very least, I really don’t think you want to piss the Waynes off like that.” 

She has no idea how right she is about that. If Bruce or any of his children thought for a second Timothy Drake denied Damian a job because of discrimination , they'd unleash swift, ruthless revenge on both him and his company; Tim would expect nothing less. He really doesn't want to deal with that on top of all the other repercussions. 

“You’re right, I just..” Tim searches his mind, trying with all his might to come up with some sort of reasoning for such an emotional, out of character response. “I don’t have the greatest rapport with the Wayne’s,” he decides. “In fact, I’m pretty sure most of them despise me. I have no idea why Damian would want to work with me in the first place.”

Tam gazes at him critically, like she knows he’s holding back, but evidently she decides to let it slide. “My father said Damian looks at you like some sort of example.”

“An example? ” Tim scoffs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been described as such by a Wayne before.”

That, at least, is more than true in both timelines.

“Regardless of the reasoning, it’s happening, Tim. You need to accept that.”

Tim sighs. “Yah, okay,” he picks up his pen again, only hesitating for another second before signing the contract. Tam nods, takes the documents from him, and leaves without another word, closing the door on her way out. 

Tim practically collapses in on himself. 

Two months. He'll be working with Damian for two months. If he can manage to pull this off without literally having a mental breakdown, it will be the miracle of all miracles, and he’s a goddamn time traveler. 

No. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. He just has to spend day in and day out with his not-brother—who’s completely forgotten about him and will likely despise him, if he doesn’t already. For the whole summer.

It’s just another shitty situation. Tim deals with shitty situations for a living; it’s practically the story of his life at this point.

He’ll get over it.

He always does. 

Once Tim has his breathing under control again, he heads home, carefully not even looking towards Wayne Manor as he drives past. 

For as tired as he is, he knows he won’t be able to sleep until he literally drops with the anxiety thrumming through his veins. It’s a Friday, so he can afford to let himself sleep for 12 hours once he eventually does. 

Tim grabs a protein bar and some water and heads to the Library. He doesn’t have any current cases to work on, unfortunately, so he resigns himself to doing some research while he listens in on the Bat’s comms. The sound is so familiar it acts a bit like white noise as he works and lets him keep up with their current activities. 

It’s a good thing he does, cause a few hours later, Bluejay and Robin have the unfortunate pleasure of facing off against the Riddler. 

In the original timeline, the Riddler was always considered Red Robin ’s rogue. Edward Nygma genuinely just enjoys his puzzles and mind games, and he longs for someone who can keep up with him. But with Cardinal so rarely on the streets—and no one else able to match his intellect—Riddler is growing increasingly frustrated.

That isn’t to say the other Bats are inept, they’ve been able to keep up with him for years, but Riddler naturally ups his game everytime someone beats him. At this point, it’s a struggle for any of them to keep up, even Batman at times. 

Tim wonders what it says about him mentally that he so easily follows the thought process of a supervillain. 

Robin and Bluejay manage to hold their own for a while but then Riddler throws his final test at them—their ability to answer will decide the fate of the hostages. 

“I leave no home, yet I claim a rest

in the arms of strangers, whom I know best

A master of time, my call you’ll know,

Yet where I belong, few can show.”

Tim leans back in chair and lets out the manic, bitter laugh he held in before at the office, the only remnants still left in his fractured mind of JJ. 

Jason and Damian only have 30 seconds to solve the riddle and they’re clearly struggling. Tim quickly pulls up the chat box between Cardinal and Oracle, knowing she’s watching the encounter too and doing her best to assist them.

With a bitter shake of his head, Tim types out the answer and sends it her way. 

Oracle has long since stopped questioning how and why Cardinal knows so much—how he keeps up with them so effortlessly. They have enough trust between them to know the other is on their side. So when Barbara gets his message, she doesn’t hesitate to pass it on. 

“Cuckoo,” she tells Bluejay and Robin over comms almost instantly. “The answer is a Cuckoo bird.”

Chapter Text

The first three days on the job are strictly training. Monday to Wednesday, Damian comes into Drake Industries for about 4 hours and Tamara, Fox’s daughter, walks him through the various duties he’ll be expected to do. It’s new at first but definitely doable. Mostly it’s just… boring. 

Tamara’s training is about 50% actually teaching and 50% observation. She gets Damian an extra chair at her desk and he just sits and takes notes every once in a while. He watches how Tamara takes calls, her kind yet no nonsense demeanor. He watches that kindness dissipate with people who are especially incompetent, but she always remains dignified—even if she’s subtly poking at their intelligence. It’s Damian's own preferred method of insult, though he isn’t nearly as subtle about it.

He finds her particular brand of scathing grace fascinating, really.

Honestly, watching Tam deal with idiots is probably the most entertaining thing yet. 

Tamara’s desk is just outside the door of Drake’s office. Yet, despite seeing him multiple times since he started, he has yet to say a word to Damian. He doesn’t completely ignore him, he’ll give Damian a polite nod when he arrives or when he needs something from Tam, but after 3 days he still has yet to properly greet him. It makes something ugly and irritated bubble up inside Damian, an indignation he had thought he was over and done with. 

It’s the last day of Damian’s training and for the first time, he’s starting to think maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

Tamara’s flight leaves tomorrow and starting then, Damian will be Timothy Drake’s full-time executive assistant. 

How can Damian possibly do this job without Drake even talking to him? 

Fox had said the position would be more than just the job itself, that he’d have a chance to learn. How can that be possible when he’s yet to even see the inside of his office? 

…Maybe his brothers were right about this—about Drake.  

He’s on the last hour of his shift, trying to push away the feelings of discouragement and inadequacy, when Tamara suddenly stands. She walks right up to Drake’s door and pushes her way in without so much as a knock, closing the door firmly behind her. 

At first, their conversation is quiet, but within a few minutes, the sound of blatant arguing makes itself known. The office has some degree of soundproofing, so while Damian can’t discern the actual words, the tone and volume are abundantly clear. 

Damian’s eyes widen.

Tamara and Drake have known each other for sometime and as such, in the few interactions Damian has been privy to, are clearly comfortable with one another. Even so, in everyone of those interactions, there was always a high level of professionalism between them. 

Now, however, well. Tamara is clearly not above calling out anybody’s bullshit, including her boss. 

Damian respects that. 

A few minutes later, the arguing dies down and Tam peaks her head out of the office. 

“Come on,” she gestures him in. “Grab your laptop.” 

Damian obeys, bringing the company laptop assigned to him when he started. It’a top of the line Wayne Enterprises model, synced up to the monitor sitting on Tamara’s, soon to be his, desk. 

Damian slips by Tamara and enters Drake’s office for the first time. 

The office is large, though not as large as the CEO’s office at WE or even his father’s office. It has a grand sort of appeal, yet sparse in way that makes Damian think its occupant doesn’t care much to make the space more his own, in fact Damian can’t spot a single personal item. 

Drake’s desk is backdropped by a solid wall of glass, giving an impressive view of Gotham below. Damian hopes that glass is bulletproof, an assassination attempt by window would be all too easy. 

On the other side of the room is a living room sort of area with a sofa and 2 lounge chairs, assumedly for longer or more casual business meetings. There’s also a door across the way, likely a personal bathroom. Tamara heads straight towards the two chairs placed directly in front of the desk. 

It’s only as Damian puts his focus back onto Drake himself, sitting behind his desk, that he realizes he’s being watched. Drake’s gaze falls over him like it isn’t even there, empty and blank. It’s rare for Damian to see such deliberate neutrality anymore, not a hint of feeling to be found…it reminds him a bit too much of his grandfather. 

Tamara takes one of the chairs and gestures for Damian to take the other. 

“Once a day, Mr. Drake and I will sit down and discuss the current happenings of the company,” Tam begins without preamble.  “This is where he’ll give you specific tasks such as memos that need to go out, people that need to be contacted, appointments to be made, stuff like that.” 

Damian nods along, his attention rapt. 

“The time and place of these check-ins will vary from day to day, but it’s important that they happen and that the two of you are on the same page.” Tamara gives Drake specifically a hard look which he looks away from quickly. 

She shakes her head a bit and continues to Damian, “We’re gonna go through this meeting like we normally would. I want you to follow along on your laptop, making notes and scheduling things out as you would when I’m gone. We’ll review it together afterwards and any questions you may have.” 

“Understood,” Damian says, opening up the appropriate programs, and the meeting is underway. 

Tamara has a prepared list, probably from their last meeting, of tasks she’s done and if applicable their outcome. Drake responds in kind, giving updates from his side of things. Damian takes note of all of it, alongside Tamara. She’s introduced Damian to most of the major players and companies they work with often, so Damian is able to follow along with the conversation fairly easily.

The two of them work like a well oiled machine, though Damian can’t help but notice Drake looks decidedly tense the entire time. He really hopes that whatever is causing him to be so uncomfortable wears off soon because, quite frankly, Damian is already sick of it. Regardless of whatever judgement Drake has evidently already made about him, Damian is here to do a job. 

By the end of the meeting, Damian is feeling much more confident about his abilities to handle everything. Drake communicates clearly and the tasks are all within the range of the training Tamara has given Damian. This part of the job, at least, he’s sure he can handle. 

Drake gives him a small nod of acknowledgment. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr.Wayne,” he says in a monotone voice. 

Damian narrows his eyes, seeing through the lie instantly. From the corner of his eye he spots Tamara blatantly rolling her eyes, at least he isn’t the only one. He doesn’t comment on it though, just gives him a nod back in return. 

Tamara takes him back out to their desk and together they compare and contrast their notes, making sure Damian didn’t miss anything. He doesn’t. 

“Well, I think that about covers everything,” Tamara says with a relieved sigh. All that’s left for her now is to pack and go on her well deserved break.

“Thank you for your help,” Damian says genuinely. “Watching you work has been… informative.” 

Tamara smiles kindly, “I’m glad. It may take a few days to settle in but I’m confident you’ll have everything well in hand.” 

“I will.” 

A contemplative look falls over her face, “Walk with me, will you?” 

Tamara stands, walking away from the desk towards the elevator. Damian follows. They get in the lift and go up about 3 more levels, the doors opening to an empty looking floor. Tam leads the way towards a break room of sorts, complete with a fridge, microwave and comfortable looking couch. 

“This floor was never finished,” she explains, reaching into the fridge and grabbing two bottles of water. “If we expand next year like we plan, it’ll become a fully functioning floor, but for now, I like to come here sometimes to get some quiet. You’re welcome to do so as well.” 

Damian nods gratefully, accepting the water and sitting with her on the couch. 

“Before I go…” she starts. “I just wanted to- well. I know Tim’s been kinda…cold towards you these past few days. But I’ve had a word with him and I think with time he’ll adjust. If not, well… that’s his problem, not yours. Okay?” 

Damian nods once. He definitely hopes it’ll get better. Despite his father’s insistence that he can leave the job at any time, Damian is set on seeing this through to the end no matter what.

“There's… also a few more things you should know,” she says haltingly. “I say this as his assistant… but also his friend.”

Damian gazes back at her blankly. 

Tamara sighs, almost frustrated, but Damian doesn't think it’s with him. 

“Look.” she says firmly. “Tim isn’t always the easiest person to work with. He’s stubborn and he gets fixated on things like no other. He doesn’t notice time passing sometimes and he’ll get stuck until whatever he’s working on is done. He is a phenomenal CEO and he always tries to do right by people, especially his employees, but he doesn’t always do right by himself.”

Damian listens intently, but silently, unsure how he should respond to the new information. 

“He works himself to the bone. He’s exhausted constantly, and has an unhealthy addiction to caffeine,” she shakes her head fondly. “If you need to speak up, shock him out of whatever trance he has himself locked into, don’t be afraid to do so, even if it’s a bit outside of what is considered professional. Call him out when he’s being a dumbass, he responds well to blunt honesty. Hopefully you won’t need to but...” She shrugs, “You probably will.”

Damian frowns. That almost sounds like the fits his father goes through at times, completely obsessive over something until he is satisfied it is either no longer a threat or adequately prepared for, contingencies and all. Although Damian doubts Drake’s habits can be that bad, he isn’t a stranger to knocking some literal sense into his family when they’re being obstinate, only in this case…

“Won’t Mr. Drake find that… unbecoming?” he asks. “I intend to fill this position until you get back, I’d rather not be dismissed.” 

Tamara smirks, “He won’t fire you, especially for that. If anything, you guys might get along better.”

Damian doesn’t understand what that means. “I will... keep that in consideration.” 

She huffs, “Good. And Damian? I know you’re here to learn. Don’t be afraid to ask Tim questions, or for advice, or even to sit in on his meetings. He’s doing a piss poor job at showing it, but he does want you to succeed.” 

Damian kinda doubts that at this point, but Tamara does know Drake better than he does. 

“Lastly,” Tam gets out a pen and a scrap of paper. “If there’s some kind of emergency or…if need my help specifically, you can contact me here.” She slips him the paper with a number scrawled on it. 

“I appreciate it, Ms. Fox,” Damian says, taking it. 

Tamara stands and offers Damian a handshake which he takes. “You’re gonna do great, Damian,” she says. “I know it.” 

Tim is not doing well. 

Having Damian around is… a lot. 

Tim is good at compartmentalization; he’s the king of it actually. When he doesn’t or can’t deal with certain realities—his parents' indifference/neglect, Bruce’s tolerance, his family’s apathy, Jason and Damian’s outright hatred, or even being forgotten entirely— he puts his feelings aside in nice neat little boxes within his mind to be dealt with later. Sure, sometimes ‘later’ ends up being never but he’s busy . 

So yah, coming to work everyday to see his former little brother there with Tam has been difficult. So Tim executes his tried and true solution for situations he doesn’t want to deal with—he ignores it. 

Tam lets him get away with it while she’s training Damian, but on her last day, she lets him have it, laying out exactly how inappropriate and discouraging his behavior towards Damian has been. And yes, Tim probably deserved it but damn that woman is terrifying when she wants to be. 

The three days of feigned ignorance did help him acclimate to the new situation though. Damian is gonna be here for the next 2 months whether he likes it or not. Still, accepting that reality and dealing with it are two different things. How is he supposed to talk to him? How is he supposed to work with him? He still doesn’t know. 

Tam is officially gone now— safely landed in Germany—but thankfully the rest of the week goes by uneventfully. It’s actually pretty slow, which Tim is grateful for because it means Damian can settle into the job properly and Tim can keep to himself. He doesn't all out ignore Damian like he was before, but he doesn't interact with him more than necessary. 

They go through their daily check-ins but it’s purely business, Tim trying with all his might to give nothing away. It’s far easier for him to show no feeling at all than risk Damian spotting his disingenuity. Damian is completely respectful the whole time—which makes Tim so much more uncomfortable. He briefly wonders if Damian is some sort of clone, but dismisses the thought quickly enough. 

Damian is putting in effort, he’s trying . 

By Friday though, Tim can see how the monotony and boredom are starting to get to him. 

Tim checks the camera’s every now and then, ever the stalker, to ensure Damian is where he should be and not causing any trouble. He never is, he’s always at his desk, attentive as ever but so very listless. 

Tim sighs. 

He could see how excited Damian was on his first day. Now, he’s sullen, almost disappointed. 

That’s Tim’s fault, of course. He could be giving Damian more work, he could handle it and it would certainly help Tim get things done faster. But he just. He still doesn’t know how to talk to him. The little demon is clever, he has Bat honed detective skills. If they interact more regularly, and Tim acts more authentically, Damian is gonna know something is up. 

But what’s the alternative? Letting Damian waste away all summer? If this was somebody else, Tim would just keep it up until the person finally quit. But Tim knows Damian enough, even with how much has changed, to know he quite literally never quits. 

Tim rubs his eyes tiredly. 

As much as he wants to do nothing, he can’t let Damian throw 2 months of his life away for an opportunity he was truly looking forward to. The fact Damian ever agreed to any sort of assistantship position shows just how much he’s grown, just how badly he wants to learn and earn the things coming to him. 

And Tim can help him with that. But first, that means actually talking to him, building some kind of understanding. 

And besides, what's the worst that could happen? Even if Damian was suspicious, there is literally no possible way he could figure out the real reason without Tim explicitly telling him. 

And that’s something he will never do. 

Mind made up, Tim grabs his phone and places an order from a nearby Greek place that he’s particularly partial to and has a wide variety of vegetarian options. Then he stands and makes his way out towards Damian's desk. 

The desk faces away from the door, so Damian doesn’t immediately see his approach. As Tim gets closer though, he sees Damian’s attention is fixed on a spare piece of paper in front of him. The drawing is still coming together, but Tim easily recognizes the shapes of the plants and couches seen around the office. Tim can’t help but smile at the sight. 

“That’s very good,” he says without thinking. 

Damian doesn’t jump but it’s a near thing—his entire body goes tense instantly. Tim curses himself internally. Tamara knows he’s eerily quiet at times, but Damian is a trained assassin turned vigilante, practically nobody should be able to sneak up on him. Tim should be able to get away with it just this once, but…

It’s just another thing to be careful about. 

“...uh..” Damian’s eyes are a bit wide, his expression uncertain—like he doesn’t quite know how to talk to Tim either. Which is fair. “Thank you… sir.” 

Tim’s face screws up in displeasure. Coming from Damian, that is properly unnatural. “You don’t have to call me that… ever, if you please.”

Damian seems to relax a bit at that. “Oh, good,” he mutters, as if it would have been some great hardship on his part. It makes Tim want to roll his eyes and smile at the same time. Damian has always had problems with authority, the only people he remotely listens to are his mother, father, and— at least in the old timeline— Dick. 

It’s good to know that deep down, he’s still a little shit. 

“Umm..” Tim starts trepidatiously, still trying to figure out how to navigate this as he goes. “I ordered lunch.. for both of us… if you like.” 

Damian stares at him blankly before responding, “I see…that would be…agreeable.”

Tim nods once, “Ok, cool. The delivery should be here soon, just.. come on in when it gets here,” he finishes. 

Tim slips back inside without another word. Shit. Why the hell is this so hard for him? He can literally put a mask on around anyone, carefully altering his behavior just so to fit each interaction. But now? God, Damian probably thinks he’s an idiot. 

Well, he’s always thought that.

Tim busies himself as best he can in the 15 minutes it takes for the food to arrive. When it does, Damian gives the door one firm knock of warning before entering with the take-away bag in hand. He comes up to Tim’s desk briskly, almost like he’s planning on just dropping it off to him, but Tim gestures him towards the more comfortable couch, 2 lounge chairs, and coffee table instead. 

Tim takes the bag and places it on the table, narrowing his mind onto the simple task of retrieving the necessary plates and utensils. Damian sits on the couch across from Tim as he hands him his food. Tim relaxes back into his chair with his own, focusing on taking a few bites and allowing the silence to linger. It isn’t exactly awkward but it’s not comfortable either. 

After about a minute, Tim glances back up to find Damian staring between his unopened take-away container and Tim’s in his hand, looking perplexed. Tim frowns, the meals are identical— just a simple chickpea mediterranean salad. 

He has never known Damian to be particularly picky with his food, but he does care about quality. 

He swallows, “Is it alright?” Tim asks. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I took a guess. I enjoy most of their options…” 

Tim’s words seem to shock him out of whatever trance he’s in. 

“No, it’s just...” Damian picks up his fork and opens the container quickly, taking a bite and nodding. “This is very good. Thank you.” 

Tim nods.

They continue to eat in silence for a while, the atmosphere a bit lighter, and Tim mentally gears himself up. 

“So, Mr. Wayne, you’re a week in. How have you been liking things so far?” Tim asks. He knows the real answer, probably something along the lines of dull and frivolous, but he’s curious how Damian will react to the question. 

Damian thinks about it for a moment, “It is… not what I expected.” 

“In what way?” Tim presses, leaning back into the chair, attempting to show Damian this is a casual conversation, that he doesn’t need to mince his words too heavily. 

“I thought this position would be more… involved.” 

“You’re bored,” he surmises. Damian tenses slightly, but Tim doesn’t give him the time to overthink it. “That’s mostly my fault,” he admits, infusing his voice with a fair degree of sheepishness. “Tam has been my assistant for over 2 years now and well, I guess I’m a bit resistant to change.” 

Damian's face remains carefully neutral, but his gaze is piercing. Tim honestly can’t tell what Damian is reading off his expression and body language. He can only hope he’s being convincing. 

Tim continues, “From what I understand, you’re capable of handling whatever I have for you, so I’ll be sure to give you more to do next week.” 

“I would appreciate that,” Damian responds lowly. 

“And if there is anything you’re unsure about or if you have any questions about my work specifically, please feel free to ask. I want to be a resource for you as much I’m sure you will be to me.”

“...Thank you, Mr Drake.” 

Tim holds back another cringe but Damian sees it anyway. He cocks his head questioningly.

“Uhh, you don’t need to call me that either,” Tim says. “At least, in the office. Unless we’re in front of shareholders or other prominent people.”

Damian frowns, real confusion smattering his expression. “Why? It is respectful, isn’t it?” 

Tim wants to smile at the subtle way Damian relaxes enough to ask a question he genuinely doesn’t understand. At this point, Bruce would’ve had Damian carefully studying western mannerisms so as to not accidentally offend the upper class. If he is to insult someone, Damian likes to be very intentional about it. 

Calling your superiors—or in this case, your boss—"sir/ma’am" or "Mr./Ms./Mx." is generally considered good manners, and Damian obviously is trying very hard to put his best foot forward. 

“It is,” Tim confirms. “I just don't particularly like it.” He shrugs, a bit surprised by his own honesty. He probably could’ve come up with a better reason, but he really just can’t stand that title coming out of Damian’s mouth of all people.

“You’re only a few years younger than me,” Tim attempts to explain. “It doesn’t really feel… natural, you know?”

Damian continues to frown, as if to say ‘no, I really don’t,’ but he doesn’t protest. “What should I call you instead?” 

Oh. Well, Tim should have thought of that. Tam always just calls him ‘Tim’ unless speaking about him to somebody else, but that would be just as unnatural as having Damian calling him Mr. Drake. He could potentially call him Timoth-

Tim shuts that thought down as soon as it enters his mind, forcing down the accompanying shiver that always comes with his traumatic memories. No, he won’t be able to deal with that either. 

“Just Drake is fine,” he decides quickly. 

Damian hesitates, likely seeing something in his demeanor shift slightly. Tim tries to relax further into the furniture, taking another bite of food to distract himself. 

“Very well, Drake.” Damian answers. “And you may call me Damian.” 

Tim smiles softly, knowing that when Damian says “he may,” he really means Tim had better—if he knows what’s good for him. “Fair enough.” 

With that, whatever tension was left between them eases. They’re both still being careful about what they say and do, but Tim would expect nothing less and overall the conversation is pleasant. They continue their lunch just like that, alternating between comfortable silences and discussing the work ahead of them. 

By the end of the day, Tim leaves the office feeling hopeful for once. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. 

Alfred comes and picks Damian up from Drake Industries when he’s done for the day.

“How was it, Master Damian?” he asks. 

“Better,” Damian replies honestly as he buckles himself in. “I think Drake and I were able to reach an understanding.”

Alfred glances at him through the rearview mirror with a soft expression, “Happy to hear it, sir.”

Damian goes quiet for the rest of the drive home, replaying the day in his mind. Drake seems to have gotten over whatever hold ups he had with Damian, or at least he wants Damian to think so. Their whole conversation during lunch was.. Fine. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but Damian could sense it wasn’t wholly genuine either. It’s like Drake is… repressing something. 

Once they return to the Manor, Damian goes upstairs to shower and change into more comfortable clothes. By the time he’s done, Alfred has dinner ready.

Only Damian and Duke live full time at the Manor these days, but it’s rare for them to be the only ones home. His other siblings come and go as they please depending on their personal, professional, and nightlife schedules. Usually though, everyone who is available comes to the Manor late afternoon/early Friday evenings for family dinner.

After weeks, Steph and Cass are finally home again, though only for a few days. Their current mission requires them to travel a lot as they hunt down the locations of various human trafficking locations scattered around the US. 

He’d never say it, but Damian is glad to see them. 

Barbara Gordon is also present. It's rare for her to come to dinner seeing as she has her own family and her own team to lead, but at her core, she’s still one of the Bats.

Damian is one of the last to arrive at the table. As he seats himself, he looks around fondly at almost the entirety of the Batclan; Richard, Jason, Cass, Steph, Duke, Barbara, Bruce, Alfred, and Damian himself. They’re only missing…Damian frowns, doing a mental recount. No, they aren’t missing anybody, everyone is here. Odd. Damian could have sworn-

Steph suddenly comes up behind Damian and ruffles his hair. Damian ducks, knocking her hand away. She just laughs, “Good to see you, little man.”

“The feeling is not mutual,” he grumbles with little heat.

Steph rolls her eyes and sits back down next to Cass. “We hear you got yourself a summer gig, huh?” 

“Indeed,” he agrees, not elaborating any further, focusing entirely on his plate.

“Damian is working at Drake Industries,” Richard supplies instead.

“The way I heard it, he’s working for Timothy Drake,” Barbara says, raising an inquisitive eyebrow towards Damian.

“I’m his executive assistant for the summer,” Damian confirms with as bland a voice as possible. 

“Damian…is an assistant?” Cass asks quizzically. 

Duke laughs, “Believe me, we were as surprised as you are.”

“It is a good opportunity,” Damian defends himself. “I don’t know why you’re all so surprised, I’m more than capable.”

Cas shakes her head, “Not surprised about that, you do everything to your best ability. But being an assistant does require some… humility.” 

“He had to have some character growth at some point,” Jason smirks, gaining a few chuckles. 

“We are very proud of Damian,” Bruce interjects. “He’s taking his first steps into a larger world.” 

“I mean sure, but Timothy Drake?” Steph asks skeptically. 

“He’s not entirely terrible,” Damian says. 

“That’s high praise,” Duke comments sarcastically.

Damian shrugs. 

Jason narrows his eyes. “He hasn’t been a total prick, then?”  he asks, his mouth still full. 

Damian considers how to answer that. Drake has never been outright rude to him, just distant. 

“I don’t think he liked me replacing his current assistant,” he says simply. 

“How so?” Richard asks, a touch of protective edge creeping into his tone. 

“He didn’t speak to me for almost the whole week. He seemed… high strung, stressed.” 

Bruce nods along thoughtfully, “It can be a stressful transition, especially if he’s had the same assistant for a while.” 

“Yah, but that doesn’t mean he can all out ignore their replacement,” Barbara points out. Bruce nods once as if to concede the point. 

“We talked more today,” Damian continues. “We had lunch together. He admitted he was resistant to the change. He apologized and implied things would be different going forwards.” 

Duke hums, “I guess that is something.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “The bar is literally on the floor,” he gripes. 

Damian ignores him, mind still replaying the interaction over and over, trying to understand why his brain won’t leave it alone. He looks up, sensing his fathers eyes analyzing him. 

“Was there something else, Damian?” Bruce asks, perceptive as ever. 

Damian hesitates, trying to put his observation into words. “When we talked today, he was perfectly polite, respectful even, but…”

“But?”

“He seemed almost…sad.” 

 Richard frowns, “Sad?”

“Like, about his assistant leaving?” Steph questions.

Damian shakes his head, “No, not that. He doesn’t act sad. It’s like… it's always there in his eyes…it just took me a while to notice.” He snaps his mouth shut as soon as the words are out, aware of how ridiculous that probably sounds. “But- it's probably nothing,” he mumbles, going back to his food.  

He expects his siblings to react mockingly, but the table is oddly contemplative at his admission, Father especially in deep thought. 

“I doubt your observations are incorrect, Damian.” His father says quietly. “It’s only been, what, 3 years since his parents died?” he directs the questions towards Alfred behind him, who nods. 

“4 years, sir,” he corrects. 

Damian’s brow creases, unaware of the fact.

Jason too looks at them sharply, “His parents are dead?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, “You didn’t know?” 

“I-” Jason shakes his head no. “We had a lot going on back then. I wasn’t exactly keeping up with the news.” 

“That’s true,” Bruce nods. “Well, for your information, the Drakes were pretty prominent in the archaeological spheres. They were at a dig site in Egypt when they were ambushed by raiders. There weren’t any survivors.”

Silence falls over the table.

Bruce sighs, “Losing someone so important at such a young age… Well, I don’t need to tell you all, but it takes a toll. I’m sure it still affects Timothy.” 

Barbara tilts her head in thought, “Does he still live in the Drake Manor?”

Bruce nods, “As far as I know. He’s just down the road.”

Barbara’s brow furrows, eyes gazing directly out the window of the dining room towards where the Drake residency would be just a mile or 2 away. Cass follows her gaze, her expression going distant and sad. 

“So what?” Jason shrugs, looking between them both. 

“It’s a big house,” Cass explains softly. “Too big.”

The words hang in the air, but no one has anything else to say about it. They continue their meal in silence for another minute or so before Dick strikes up another conversation, the mood slowly becoming lighter again.

Damian listens to his family’s words, but remains contemplative the rest of the night. He didn’t know about Drake’s parents, he had no idea. When he started to do his research on Drake Industries, he focused only on events relevant to the company. Jack and Janet Drake were owners basically in name only. They had a CEO working under their direction, but the man was steadily leading the company into bankruptcy before Timothy stepped in. 

Damian assumed Drake took over proactively to save the business from his parents' failings. He never considered Drake might have done it out of necessity, because he was the only Drake left to do anything at all. 

Timothy Drake fills his thoughts for the rest of the evening, even stretching into his patrol. He knew he was missing something about the man, and the revelation about his parents seems to fit that hole perfectly, but Damian has not survived this long by simply being content with what is given to him. He trusts his instincts, and until they stop yelling at him, Damian will continue to ruminate. 

It takes Damian far too long to fall asleep that night, and even when he does, he sleeps fitfully. 

He dreams of an unfamiliar boy in an unfamiliar Robin suit. At first glance, Damian instinctively understands that he hates this boy, that the suit belongs to him, not this pretender. He devises various methods to get rid of him. He tosses the boy a live grenade, pushes him off the dinosaur in the Batcave to the depths below, and cuts his grapple line mid jump, all to no effect. 

Despite his best efforts, the boy lives.

Damian awakes the next morning with a vague memory of jealousy, the desire to hurt and frustration at his failure to do so.

But also with a distinct feeling of relief, happy he failed in whatever blood thirsty quest his subconscious was seeking.

Chapter Text

Barbara sinks back into her chair, propping her head up with one hand as she studies the CCTV footage.

Since dinner the other night, Barbara’s been curious about Bruce’s neighbor/ Damian's new boss: Timothy Jackson Drake. She doesn’t mean to invade his privacy, but she’s a Bat and the most invasive one of them all at that. Privacy is basically just a suggestion. 

The security system around Drake Manor is fairly good, though not nearly good enough to make Barbara even pause. She’s been going through the footage the last few days, studying Drake and his habits, though there really isn’t much to see. 

Drake manor isn’t quite as large as Wayne Manor, but it's still vast. The gardens and pathways that line the mansion are meticulously kept up by the gardeners. Cleaners come in at least once a week to keep everything spick-and-span. The amount of expensive and intriguing artifacts within the mansion outclass even the Wayne collection. 

But besides the crews that come and go to keep the manor in peak condition, the house only holds one occupant.If Barbara’s learned one thing from her curiosity-fueled snooping, it’s that Timothy Drake lives more isolated than anyone she’s ever met.

The security system only stores a week of footage before archiving, but from what she can tell, Timothy leaves for work early, comes home late, spends his evenings reading or buried in his laptop—likely still working—and then goes to bed.

That’s it. 

Besides the employees that maintain the place, nobody else comes or goes. Timothy spends his free time entirely alone. 

The fact bothers her more than it has any reason to. She doesn’t know Timothy. It’s possible they’ve spoken in the past, but nothing of true note. There is no reason she should care other than just basic empathy. 

When she first started snooping, she told herself it was just due diligence—making sure Damian wouldn’t be working under someone untrustworthy. But for all the unflattering rumors surrounding him, Timothy Drake is spotless. No shady dealings, no backdoor politics, none of the embezzlement schemes that seem to come standard with Gotham’s elite. He’s as clean as can be. 

From everything Barbara’s managed to dig up, Timothy Drake is an exceptionally intelligent man born into privilege and using that privilege to help others as effectively as he can.  It would be admirable if it weren’t so… disconcerting. 

It doesn’t make sense for such a handsome, wealthy, intelligent guy to live in such an isolated environment. Barbara might’ve chalked it up to reclusive tendencies—if she hadn’t seen him at galas and in interviews, holding his own with practiced charm. He’s perfectly sociable with others, though he does have a reputation for being a bit of an asshole at times—but even assholes have friends. 

So why doesn't he?

A soft chime goes off, instantly pulling her attention away.

Barbara closes down the CCTV footage, archiving her research on Drake to look over again another time. Once she has her screen cleared, she clicks on the little red diamond icon permanently fixed on her dashboard—the access to her personal chat box with Cardinal. 

Ever since she first became Oracle, Cardinal has been a constant in her work. She heard rumors about them for years from both her father and Batman before the famed bird made direct contact with her. To this day Barbara isn’t sure why they trusted her so easily and explicitly, but she’s grateful. 

Barbara’s eyes sweep over the message quickly—another case closed. Whoever Cardinal is, they’ve got detective skills that rival Batman himself. With how stretched Bruce has become over the years, Cardinal’s been picking up the slack unprompted, particularly when it comes to especially challenging cases. There’s yet to be a single mystery they couldn’t solve.

The message gives a brief summary of the case itself and its conclusion. As per usual, attached are copies of the evidence, complete with little explanations in the margins. 

All of Batman’s protégés are trained to keep their reports meticulously organized. Cardinal’s work is always just as neat and precise as any Bat. It sure makes archiving their cases in the Batcomputer and sending the info off to the GCPD that much easier. 

Working with Cardinal has become so commonplace, Barbara barely thinks about it anymore. She used to be near obsessive about uncovering their identity, but as they continued with subtle partnership, she realized she doesn’t need to know. She trusts Cardinal to do what's best for Gotham and they’ve never done anything to betray the faith she’s learned to put in them. 

Of course, that isn’t everyone’s opinion. 

Barbara checks her watch, Batman should be on his patrol by now. She double taps her comm, “Batman, you read me?”

“Copy, Oracle.” Batman grunts. 

Along with the case report, Cardinal’s message includes a lead on a drug shipment arriving at West Harbor. A new gang has been smuggling in product using randomized commercial containers, making it difficult to track. They're still piecing together a pattern, but Cardinal has some sort of underground network feeding them information, usually getting the intel to the Bats by the night of the actual unloading. It’s not much time to act, but it’s better than letting the drugs hit the streets.

“I’ve got a new lead for you,” Oracle tells him. “West Harbor, south 53rd, Dock 9. That’s the location of the next shipment, scheduled to be happening…” she double checks the message, “In an hour.”

Batman grunts in acknowledgement. “Headcount?” 

Barbara squints, “Upwards of 45 armed goons.” 

“Hm. Bluejay, Spoiler, Robin.” 

“Copy.” 

“Got it, Old man.” 

“Aye, aye.” 

Barbara pulls up the footage of the surrounding areas, getting her eyes on each active Bat as they start converging towards the same spot. 

“Where did the lead come from?” Bluejay asks conversationally, the quiet *thwip* of his grappling hook firing off in the background.

Barbara smirks, “Where do you think?”

Bluejay hums, swinging from one rooftop to another. “One of these days we're gonna find that guy, sit ‘im down and not let him up until he agrees to be our friend. Enough with secrecy, ya know? It’s been years.” 

“Who says it's a guy?” Spoiler challenges. 

Debating the details of Cardinal’s true identity has become a favorite game of the Bats. They love to speculate, throwing out wild theories—each more outlandish than the last. Cardinal mainly works in the shadows, much like Oracle does, making their secretive ways all that more intriguing to a band of detectives. 

They only know a few facts for sure. 

The first record of Cardinal’s name came from the bird themself when they saved Jason’s life from the Joker all those years ago (Jason has been one of their most vocal defenders ever since), but they’ve been active for at least 9 years total. Given their advanced skill sets as a hacker and a detective, they estimate Cardinal to be in their mid to late twenties at the youngest, more likely in their 30s. 

That’s it. That’s all they know. As for everything else—gender, ethnicity, motivations, civilian job/hobbies—they’re completely in the dark.

Despite inquiring multiple times, Cardinal hasn’t given them anything else to work with. 

“Because male cardinals are more cool!” Jason continues to rave. “When someone says ‘picture a Cardinal’, it’s the bright red ones that always come to mind.” 

“Since when are you an expert in ornithology?” Damian joins the debate. 

“You don’t need to be an expert to see that female Cardinals don’t look like that, they’re just sorta plain.”

“And? What's wrong with that?” 

“Yah, and what about Cardinal screams flashy to you?” Spoiler adds. “Their whole schtick is that they never come out to play.” 

While Cardinal rarely takes to the field, there have been a few confirmed sightings over the years and even more rumors, but no real clear picture. The few Oracle has managed to scrounge up are grainy at best, barely distinguishable, but consistent: a dark cape, a heavy hood, and shadows thick enough to obscure any defining features of their face or uniform.

Although Cardinal has shown they have some combat training (as seen by the various criminals they’ve personally dealt with), the Bats unanimously agree it’s unlikely anywhere near their own level. Which is fine—fighting has never been Cardinal’s strength. They trade in information and foresight, aways solving problems before the rest of them even know one exists. 

Cardinal is just another example that one doesn’t need to fight physically to make a difference. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” Bluejay insists. “But I get the feeling they’re trying to distinguish themselves from us, ya know? Why pick one of the most identifiable birds if you don’t want its associated imagery?”

Damian tsks , “I think you’re overthinking it.”

“I think you’re underthinking it.”

“Cut the chatter,” Batman orders. “Speculation is not useful to us.” 

“Oh come on, it's been a while since we’ve heard from Cardi,” Jason ignores him.

“They helped us with the Riddler last week,” Barbara corrects. Cardinal communicates with Oracle fairly consistently, with occasional breaks here and there, but usually at least once a week—if not more.

“They did? How?”

“The Riddler's final riddle,” she explains. “The one I gave you the answer to, it came from Cardinal.”

“Cardinal helped you with that?” Batman gravels. “That wasn’t in any report.”

“Don’t blame me! I didn’t even know,” Bluejay immediately defends himself. 

“Nor did I,” Robin agrees. 

Barbara sighs, “Sorry. I forgot to mention it.”

“Forgot?” Batman deadpans, clearly unimpressed by the answer. 

Batman’s distrust isn’t personal; he distrusts everyone on some level, even his closest friends. Is distrust the right word? Paranoia, perhaps? 

Over the years, Barbara has come to understand Bruce in a way few else do. On the base level of his consciousness, Bruce believes no one is infallible, and for that reason, he remains determined to find Cardinal’s true name—even if he’s inclined to believe they mean well (saving your son’s life tends to do that).

Barbara understands this, she does. That doesn’t make it less irritating though. 

Barbara huffs, a touch defensive. “Batman, working with them is like second nature at this point, alright?”

“I understand,” he says lowly. “But we shouldn’t let our guard down with this person. We have no idea who they are or what their true intentions are.”

“Pretty sure their intention is to help,” Bluejay murmurs. 

Now, let it be said that Batman is not unreasonable. Ever since Cardinal saved Jason, Bruce—like Barbara—believes that Cardinal does what they do to help people. Barbara doubts Bruce would do anything against the vigilante beyond bringing them closer into the fold to keep an eye on them. 

Still, the unknown makes Bruce uneasy, so Barbara always keeps her ear to the ground in case anything about their identity surfaces. She doesn’t actively search, but if the opportunity to uncover who they are ever arose, she’d take it.

Bruce sighs. “Stay vigilante,” he orders them all. “Cardinal may seem like an ally, but a true ally would make themselves known to us. They’re hiding something.”

“A vigilante we know nothing about hiding something? Shocking,” Jason snarks. 

“I’m serious,” Batman growls. “If any of you come upon them, your orders are to pursue, capture and call me for backup. Am I clear?” 

The vigilantes grumble out various affirmative noises, knowing better than to argue when Batman is truly serious about something. 

Truth be told, Barbara doesn’t know for certain what she would do if she found Cardinal’s identity. It would probably depend on what she found. If Batman is right and they do pose some sort of threat to them, then of course she wouldn’t hesitate to share the information. But in any other case? 

…Barbara honestly doesn’t know what she’d do. 

And she hopes she won’t have to find out. 

What they have going now is good. It would take something big to shake up the current status quo—and frankly, Barbara doesn’t want to deal with that.

A few unknowns won’t hurt anyone.

Tim lets out an anxious sigh as he watches Oracle snoop through his security system.

He should’ve expected Oracle’s curiosity with Damian’s new position in his company. It makes sense that the Bats would want to suss out every aspect of Tim’s public life to ensure Damian’s safety; he‘d expect nothing less. 

Tim has never been so grateful for the paranoia Batman instilled into him so young.

In case of this exact scenario, Tim has a failsafe installed in his security systems for anybody that comes snooping. At first glance, his security is functional but not very advanced, especially when faced with a pro like Oracle. In reality, that system is just a cover for the software Tim truly has in place. 

The cameras both within and without the manor function perfectly, but only Tim has access to what they’re seeing in real time. The second someone else tries to view the feed, it's rerouted to whatever he wants them to see. 

The programming is synced up to his personal schedule. So, if he's slated to be out and about at an event, the house will appear empty. If it’s a casual night, when Tim is supposed to be relaxing at home, the feed will show just that. 

Over the years, Tim has gone out of his way to be seen by his own security cameras doing completely banal innocent things. During a quiet night in? Tim reads and goes to bed at a decent hour. He watches shows he otherwise would never bother with. He picks up new hobbies to add dimension and complexity to his persona. 

Tim does all of this to have a backlog of footage for his program to pull from. So if Tim has actually been holed up in his safe room for days on end working on a case—or out and about as Cardinal—anyone spying on him would never know.

Oracle, however, is perhaps the best and most astute systems analyst in the world. The only reason Tim has been able to stay under her radar as both Tim and Cardinal is because he knows how she thinks and operates. He designed the network around her strengths and weaknesses, building logical pathways for her to follow while burying the flaws where she’s least likely to look.

It isn’t foolproof, but Oracle has no reason to look beyond the system Tim has crafted for her, and on the vigilante side of things, she respects the boundaries Cardinal has set (i.e. the threat of her own systems) to not cross that line. 

As long as Oracle doesn’t blatantly suspect foul play, Tim is reasonably sure he’s safe.  But still, knowing Oracle is looking at all puts him on edge in a way he hasn’t been since the previous timeline. 

Oracle is, without a doubt, the person most likely to unravel the intricate web he’s woven around himself. 

Tim sighs, slumping back into his chair, unseen by anyone within the walls of his safe room. He can’t dawdle much longer. He has work to do. And besides, the best way to divert Oracle’s attention is to give her something else to look at. 

Tim gets up and prepares himself for the rest of his evening. 

He dons his stealth suit, an all black getup consisting of jeans, a black hoodie, and a balaclava to cover the bottom half of his face. The outfit is easily street wearable, able to blend in with both the shadows and the Gotham natives. Once he’s dressed, he tucks a few weapons onto his person—nothing too extreme, just enough to defend himself in case he runs into the odd mugger. And at the last second, Tim impulsively grabs his camera bag too.

He heads down to the mansion’s underground garage and starts his nondescript, nearly silent motorcycle. He takes off into the night, weaving through Bristol’s back roads to avoid being seen. 

Once he gets into the city, he’s just another Gothamite. 

When he’s gotten where he needs to go, Tim hides his bike away in a safe spot and begins to dart in and out of the alleyways on foot, making his rounds to those that he knows live there. 

Gothamites are complicated people. They don’t trust easily, but once they do, they’re loyal to a fault. Outsiders might not believe it, but a Gothamite is one of the best allies you could ask for—more reliable than any one would understand.

For the last few years, Tim has painstakingly worked to be seen as an ally to these people, steadily building up a network of street kids, homeless people, working girls, and others. He can’t just throw food and supplies at them and expect to be any kind of help—Gotham has learned to distrust that kind of behavior—but he does assist where he can. They’re people he considers more than acquaintances but less than friends. 

Tim checks in with each of them as consistently as he can—making sure they’re fed, doing well overall, while also gathering valuable intel in the process. They don’t know who he really is, but they don’t need to. Their trust goes beyond something as petty as the sight of one's face.

With a new drug ring trying to force its way onto the streets, Tim’s been especially busy lately trying to keep up with the influx of information. Based on what he’s hearing, a new shipment is coming in tonight. 

Tim ducks under a rusted fire escape, boots barely making a sound on the wet concrete. He’s been out for over an hour now, but with any luck this’ll be his last stop. A scrawny figure steps out of the shadows, hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a ratty jacket.

“Get outta here or I’ll break your kneecaps,” the kid mutters perfunctorily, no real bite behind it. 

Tim gives a dry chuckle. “But I brought snacks,” he says, pulling a wrapped protein bar from his bag and tossing it. The kid catches it with barely a glance.

“That all you brought?”

Tim pulls out the rest of the box, then raises an eyebrow. “I need something first.”

The kid hesitates, leaning against the wall and unwrapping the first bar with his teeth. “West Harbor. Dock 9. Midnight.”

Tim nods, filing the info away. “You sure it’s Dock 9 this time?”

He nods, chewing. “Whole thing’s crawling with their guys already.”

“Give me a number.” 

He shrugs, “Least 40, probably more. Armed. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“You know I never do," Tim tosses him the box. 

The kid catches it and gives him a lazy salute with the half-eaten bar. “See you next time, Goodie Bag.”

Tim’s smirks, “Stay warm, Malcom.”

Tim hops over a few more alleys until he finds an empty one. He crouches down in the shadows behind a dumpster and pulls out one of his phones. This one is fully encrypted and synced up to his Cardinal servers. 

He attaches the newly gathered info to a previously drafted message with his most recent case work and sends it off to Oracle. The Bats will have plenty of time to handle the shipment.  

He could technically go back home now, he’s done his job for the night, but then he remembers the weight of his camera bag on his shoulder. …He has time, and it has been a while. In between this last week with Damian and Oracle poking around, he’s got too much pent up nervous energy. He won’t be getting much done if he goes home anyway. 

Tim isn’t fully conscious that he’s made a decision until he’s a block from the west harbor. 

He still has a while until the shipment time and the Bats probably won’t be here for another 10 minutes, so Tim carefully folds himself into a nook between two chimneys, silent and unseen, just a few rooftops away from where the Bats are most likely to stake themselves out.

Tim pulls out his phone again and checks on Robin's location. 

The beacon he had Pru give to Damian on his behalf acts as both a tracker and a distress signal, allowing Tim to keep track of the demon brat whenever he needs to. 

Although Tim could hack into the Bat’s servers to track all of them individually, he’s made a point since working directly with Oracle to give her and the Bats the same privacy he requests for himself. He doesn’t invade their systems anymore and even if he did, Oracle would know about it.

The only reason Tim can get into their comms so easily is because he knows the frequency/channels they use. They must know Cardinal listens in from time to time but they’ve yet to actually do anything about it, so Tim takes it as a win.

The beacon he made for Damian, however, is of his own design. It might be a breach of privacy that Damian isn’t aware of, but Tim figures he’s used to it with Batman as a father. Besides, if all else fails, the beacon could literally be his lifeline, a fact Damian seems to understand, given that he takes it with him wherever he goes.

Once he’s settled, Tim gets his camera out and double checks the settings, carefully adjusting the focal length of the lens. Then he waits. 

Sure enough, not 5 minutes later, the Bats arrive— Batman, Bluejay, Spoiler, and Robin. 

The Bats hide themselves well, but so does Tim, blending into the shadows as easily as if he were one himself. He may not have been born in the dark but he was certainly raised there. 

Tim taps on the piece in his ear, instantly tuning into their comms. 

He passes the time listening to their conversation, holding himself back from laughing as Bluejay and Spoiler argue over which Star Wars trilogy is best. 

Tim’s never been particularly passionate about science fiction, seeing how his life practically is a sci-fi story, but he has to agree with Steph’s argument all around. He likes the originals as much as the next guy, but the prequels have proper plot . 

The banter cuts down as they get closer to the time of the shipment. Tim can’t quite see where the Bats are hidden, but he knows where they are. He aims his camera towards Robin’s hiding spot, adjusting the focus just so, and waits, his face shoved into the viewfinder, his finger hovering over the shutter button. 

“On my mark, Robin and I will engage in a frontal assault,” Batman growls through the comm. “Bluejay, Spoiler. Outflank them. Clear?”

“Yep.”

“Yessir.”

“Crystal.” 

“Three, two, one.”

Exactly on time, Robin shoots out from his hiding spot up onto the ledge of the rooftop, fires his grappling gun, and swings down towards the wooden dock where he meets Batman. Together, the two of them charge straight into the fight. 

Tim snaps as many pictures as he can in the few seconds of clarity he has. They won’t all be perfect, but he’ll probably get at least one good one in there. 

The fight’s a little too far off and fast-paced for Tim to get any clear shots of the action, but he still snaps a few. Watching so many Bats move in tandem never gets old—even if it makes his chest ache a little more than usual.

He tries especially hard to get a good shot of Bluejay in motion. Seeing Jason in his Bluejay uniform is a novelty that has yet to wear off, even if he took up the name years ago now. 

The suit covers Jason in a blue kevlar so dark, it’s nearly black. A royal blue bat emblem rests on his chest, with accents in the same blue and various shades of grey dispersed across the whole ensemble. 

It is similar in many ways to his getup as Red Hood, mostly comprised of practical body armor with less emphasis on anything super ornate. 

His mask is the same dark blue color as the kevlar with steaks of grey that look a bit like claw marks. It’s similar to the half-mask he’d sometimes use as the hood, covering from his eyes down over the lower half of his face and chin, leaving his forehead the only part of his face uncovered. The uniform also includes a sort of half cape that drapes over his left shoulder down to about mid-thigh, an element he mostly uses for distraction if he deems to wear it at all. 

The other most obvious difference between this Jason and the Jason from before is his choice of weapon. Before, Jason relied heavily on his guns whether he was using real bullets or rubber ones to appease B. He was trained in many forms of combat, but guns were always his favorite. 

This time, Jason never gravitated towards them. In his last year as Robin, B started training him with a pair of nunchucks that quickly became his primary weapon. Tim has never been particularly fond of them himself, but he can’t deny the easy grace and strength Jason uses them with. 

It’s as fun for Tim to watch as it is disorienting, even now.  

The fight wraps up quickly enough. The goons get tied up, the drugs secured and the police called. The whole thing is over in about 20 minutes from the moment of engagement. 

Tim stays still, watching from afar as per usual. One by one, the Bats take their leave to finish patrolling their individual territories until it’s only Batman and Robin left, the duo abnormally quiet. 

“Something on your mind, Robin?” Batman asks in his signature growl. 

Robin shakes his head. “Not particularly,” he says as they grapple back onto the rooftops, still within Tim’s line of sight. “It’s just…” 

Batman stows away his grappling gun on his belt and faces Robin, standing still, patiently waiting for Damian to find his words. 

“What you said earlier…Do you truly consider Cardinal a threat?”

Tim tenses, stilling himself even further then he was before. 

“Hn,” Batman grunts, turning his head towards the skyline of the city. “Anyone is dangerous when pushed too far,” he says eventually. 

Robin takes a moment to digest that statement, nodding slowly. “That is why we prepare, why we have contingencies.”

Batman nods once, “I believe my colleagues on the Justice League are good people doing good things. They might be surprised to learn it, but I don’t actually like planning how to incapacitate them. But I must. It’s part of the responsibility we carry.”

“To be prepared for the worst?” 

“To put the needs of others above our own personal desires.”

Tim swallows, ignoring the lump growing in his throat.

“Cardinal saved Jason’s life and has saved many lives. If they ever asked me for help, I’d give it…but I refuse to be caught unaware if they decided to turn on us.” 

Robin gazes down at his feet, his brow furrowed. “I understand,” he says. “...but I think you forget how loudly actions speak. We may not know their name, but do we not know their character?”

Batman’s lip twitches, “Perhaps.”

Batman turns on his heel, stalking to the other side of the rooftop and causally jumping the gap to the next one over. Robin follows, getting farther and farther away from Tim’s location, but he remains entirely still.

“I’ve never known you to be so… optimistic,” Batman remarks, Tim listening solely through the still active comms now. He can practically feel Damian’s answering glare at such an accusation. 

“I’m not naive,” he gripes. 

“No,” Batman agrees. “But you are less cynical than you used to be.” 

“Don’t insult me, Father.” 

Batman chuckles in a way only Batman ever does, low, soft, and barely distinguishable. You’d only hear it if you were right next to him or on comms. It’s a sound Tim only ever heard before Jason died, when Tim was still untrained and stalking the Bats on rooftops. By the time he became Robin himself, such simple expressions of happiness were gone. 

It’s ironic. 

Tim fixed things. He made it so Bruce never had to harden himself. It’s because of Tim that Batman can be so open with his Robin—can laugh with him in a way he never did with Tim.

And here Tim is, still hiding on rooftops. 

In either timeline, that sound will never be meant for his ears, only something he steals away into the hidden corners of his heart, hoping despite himself. 

Tim taps his ear, disconnecting from the comms. Batman and Robin are long gone but Tim can’t get himself to move yet, coming in and out of his dissociation. 

When suddenly movement catches his eye. 

It’s barely there, just a flickering shadow… but something. 

Tim squints, narrowing in on the motion and sees… 

An assassin. A League of Assassins ninja. 

The ninja is barely distinguishable, but to someone who knows what they're looking for, their movements are as clear as day. They nimbly climb a fire escape and onto the same rooftop Batman and Robin occupied just minutes before, carefully following their trail. Tim can tell the assassin isn’t actively hunting the duo, merely observing them from a distance.

Unfortunately, it’s not a wholly unusual occurrence. Tim is all too aware of Ra’s tendency towards stalking—he dealt with it enough himself in the original timeline. He catches sight of ninjas trailing the Bats every couple of months, keeping tabs on the heir's progress…but the last time he saw one in Gotham was only a few weeks ago. 

Meaning Ra’s is upping his observations. 

Tim waits until the ninja is far away, long out of sight, before he finally slumps back, letting his head bang against the brick behind him.

First Pru’s warning, now this? It does not bode well. 

Normally, Tim would immediately reach out to Pru who would in turn warn Talia, but Pru’s underground. He can’t contact her and he has no way of finding Talia. He might be able to get her a message but it’s a stretch, Talia hides herself too well these days. 

Technically the assassin could mean nothing. Ra’s would sometimes increase his observations on Tim but that didn't necessarily mean he would act. 

What worries Tim is what sort of information assassin’s will be reporting. Damian has come a long way both in skill and in character since coming to Gotham. The extra time he’s had in Gotham as compared to before has been good for him; Damian is a better and more well rounded individual. 

Which to Ra’s…is not a good thing. 

Talia has led Ra’s to believe Damian is still loyal to him. If he believes for a moment that Damian has turned against him, Ra’s will cut his losses and take Damian by force. 

Tim has to be prepared for that and every other possible outcome. 

At the very least, he has the perfect cover to keep a close eye on Damian. 

Barbara watches in horror as a little boy with green hair and pale skin laughs and laughs and laughs, but there’s no humor in his eye, no joy. She sees behind the sickening sound to the pure pain in his eyes, the panic. 

There’s a body nearby, steadily losing blood but she couldn’t care less if the monster is dead or alive. 

Slowly the boy's laughs evolve into barely audible sobs, silent but for the hitching breaths he can’t quite hide. Barabra rushes towards him and cradles him to her chest, wishing for all the world he could’ve been spared from this. 

Barbara’s eyes fly open, the pain and guilt of the dream still clinging to her. 

She sits up in bed and turns on the light in an instant, grabbing her laptop and beginning her usual routine for when the nightmares come for her. She scours her security systems and finds no breaches. She meticulously checks on every Bird of Prey and Bat she can get a location on, double checking their vitals. As the minutes pass and no problems arise, her heart rate slows and her mind quiets. 

The city is calm now, creeping into the early hours of the morning. 

All is well.

Barbara breathes a sigh of relief, growing tired again as the adrenaline fades and her conscious mind remembers where she is. 

She slumps back into bed, hoping to get a bit more sleep before the responsibilities come calling again. 

Barbara has become accustomed to the bad dreams, reliving her injury and the sound of evil laughter. But this…wasn’t like that. In fact, she can’t quite recall what the nightmare was even about anymore.

…though as she drifts off, Barbara can still hear the faint sound of quiet sobbing.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks are hectic. 

Tim purposely handled his most strenuous work with Tam before she left, so her replacement wouldn’t feel overwhelmed or have to deal with him at his most frazzled. It was a good plan that ultimately went straight into the garbage when one of their major suppliers suddenly went bankrupt. 

Drake Industries is primarily a medical supplies and research company. One of their most important duties is in the manufacturing and distribution of essential medical equipment. So while a supplier going bankrupt isn’t the end of the world by any stretch, it does mean Tim’s workload has skyrocketed while they try to fill the gaps in the meantime. 

And he needs the support of his assistant now more than ever. 

Damian steps up. 

He takes to the uptick in responsibilities with the grace of any Robin, trained to adapt quickly and efficiently. As the days pass, Tim realizes he can truly let go of the burden of keeping track of his schedule as he would with Tam because Damian is already on top of it. Tim can go into an hours long hyperfixation confident that Damian will pull him out if he needs to. 

When Tim arrives at the office, Damian is usually already there before him, an agenda for the day already on his desk while he sorts through the first round of emails. Damian doesn’t hover or make a production out of his preparedness—he simply works.

It’s a Wednesday when Tim hears Damian’s voice float through the cracked office door—measured, clear, and laced with that particular brand of firm courtesy that sounds suspiciously like a threat.

“Yes, Mr. McFarlane, I’m aware the shipment says 250 units. But our purchase order was for 500, and your team confirmed that last week.”

A pause. The voice on the other end rises slightly—defensive, maybe flustered.

“No, I won’t transfer you to Mr. Drake. He has enough to deal with without your disruption, and frankly, he'd be most displeased if I wasted his time on a matter you've already been given ample opportunity to resolve.”

There’s a fumbling response on the other end—an awkward mix of backpedaling and half-hearted excuses.

Damian’s tone remains cool. “You’ll resend the correct shipment today, with overnight delivery. Email me the updated confirmation and tracking number within the hour. If not, I’ll have Procurement draft a formal complaint and begin looking into alternate suppliers.”

There's a few moments of silence as Damian types something up. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he finally says shortly. 

Click.

The door swings open. Damian steps inside, tablet in hand, perfectly composed. “MPSC apologized and confirmed they’ll overnight the remaining 250 units by morning. I had them send the tracking number while we were still on the call.”

Tim stares at him for a beat, “You… strong-armed McFarlane into overnight shipping?”

Damian shrugs. “He was trying to pass off a half-fulfilled contract as a miscommunication. I simply clarified the stakes and gave him a choice,” Damian replies evenly.

Tim blinks. “Well done,” he compliments honestly, “but be aware you can’t always threaten people into compliance .”

“It’s effective enough, isn’t it?” Damian shrugs, already turning to go.

Tim watches him leave, momentarily speechless—then lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. For as much as Damian is different, he’s also so very much the same. 

Yah, that’s Damian Al Ghul Wayne alright. 

All together, it’s a relief that Tim has somebody he can count on. Tim’s grateful, he truly is, but the more time they spend together, the harder it is to maintain a consistent facade. 

Tim is good at what he does, all of what he does. He’s a capable fighter, an incredible hacker, and a goddamn fantastic CEO. He’s good at only showing people what he wants them to see, crafting the perceptions of those he interacts with. Tim has many talents and many abilities he’s able to perform with perfection… but doing multiple simultaneously? Less so. 

He can’t help but slip up when he’s been up for over 24 hours—going from late-night case work straight into handling fires at DI. One hour it’s a tense meeting with shady insurance brokers, the next it’s charming a potential investor, putting his contrary demeanor into stark relief. 

Take Tuesday afternoon. 

He and Damian are in the middle of their daily check in when Tim gets a call from Norman Saxton, a particularly irksome member of the board who owns a few too many shares for Timothy to get rid of. He’s condescending at best on a good day, but unlike others within the company, he’s under the impression Tim is of the same avaricious mindset he is. 

If Saxton had more than two brain cells to rub together, his greed would be a much bigger issue. As it stands, he has no idea just how lucrative DI has become over the years. Norman is an idiot, though, so it’s easy to manipulate him into believing certain business decisions are more profitable than they actually are. He takes what he gets, ignorantly content to reap the benefits of their growth—completely unaware that Tim could be lining his pockets even more if he were willing to screw over the people DI serves.

So when Tim answers the phone, he instantly switches into his Timothy Drake voice without a thought, personable yet aloof, cocky yet grounded. 

"Norman," Tim drawls, leaning back against his chair, his body language naturally falling into character too. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Why exactly is Drake Industries getting involved in another community outreach initiative," Norman says, the sneer audible through the line. "Free clinics? Job placement services? Drake Industries is not a charity. Was this Fox’s idea again?"

Tim smirks, letting just enough arrogance bleed into his voice to soothe Norman’s ego. "Come on, Norman. You know better than anyone it’s all about optics. Public goodwill means market trust, and market trust means long-term investors willing to throw even more money at us. People like stability. We give them the illusion of a conscience, they give us their savings."

There's a beat of silence, and Tim can almost hear the words echoing through Norman’s empty head.

"And the money we lose on these... projects?" he asks, wary but greedy enough to overlook it.

Tim keeps his tone light, careless. "Minimal. Practically pocket change compared to the new contracts we’ll pull in once the quarterly reports hit. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could spin this into a new tax shelter down the line. Win-win."

It’s not even a lie. They rarely do charity work alone. Other companies usually sponsor the initiatives, so any effect it has on their prophet is minimal. They get their supplies, research and technology out there, helping people, and it only improves their revenue, allowing them to do more. 

It’s business how business should be done. 

Yet, Tim has to appeal to some of the worst kinds of people to make it happen. 

Norman lets out a low, approving chuckle. "You always were a smart kid. Knew how to play the system."

Tim hums noncommittally, twirling a pen between his fingers. If only he knew how good he really is at it. 

 "Just doing my part for the bottom line," Tim says breezily. "You know how it is. Gotta think long-term, Norman. Empire-building, not penny-pinching."

"Hmph. Fine. I’ll back the initiative at the next board meeting. But you owe me a real update soon. I want numbers."

"You’ll have them," Tim promises smoothly, already planning exactly which exaggerated projections he’ll let slip into Norman’s inbox. "Talk soon, Norman."

Tim hangs up before the man can think to say anything else, scrubbing a hand down his face once the line goes dead. 

It’s only then he remembers Damian, sitting across from him, a complicated look on his face. He’s trying to be blank, but Tim can still spot some disdain there, maybe uncertainty? Certainly distrust. 

It’s not unwarranted. Tim’s a good actor, a fact Damian has seen enough of in the last few weeks to understand. But that raises questions Tim has long skillfully diverted.

This really is not going the way he wanted. He had a plan where Damian was concerned, a shotty plan sure, but at least concepts of a plan. He wanted to maintain professional distance while still giving Damian advice and guidance, wanting Damian to walk away from the experience having learned something.  

But with the new influx of work, Tim has to be completely focused for the sake of his company. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to be on his guard with Damian all the time, even if that means something as simple as maintaining his personality. The nature of how Tim works means he’s fluid, easily shifting from one face to another. 

Tim’s trust in Tam over the years has allowed him the luxury of being entirely and unequivocally dedicated to his work while at the office—whatever that entailed. (What a concept, right?) But it’s for this exact reason that that mentality is potentially dangerous. It reveals too much about him, raises questions about who he really is and what his true motivations truly are. Which of his many faces is his real one? 

It’s far too risky of him to reveal so much, but unfortunately, habits are hard to break. He can't just change the way he operates a business for 2 months at the drop of a hat. 

This would be so much easier if he wasn’t dealing with Damian specifically. Tim is fully aware of how his workself contradicts his public image. To anyone else, that fact would be curious but not groundbreaking. But to a Bat? It’s like presenting a scent to a bloodhound.

He needs to be consistent, but at this rate, he fears that ship has sailed. 

“Who is this…Norman?” Damian finally breaks the suffocating silence. 

Tim rolls a shoulder slightly, deciding to stay in his Timothy Drake demeanor. Another sudden switch would only be more suspicious. 

“Board member,” he clips. “He can be tiresome, but he’s got the company’s best interest in mind.” 

“The company’s interest?” Damian repeats, disbelieving. “It didn’t seem like it was the company he was concerned about.” 

“He is one of my most budget conscious board members,” Tim replies diplomatically as he starts to type out a few reminders for himself on his laptop, trying to ignore how uncomfortable it is to be under Damian’s scrutiny. 

“That certainly is one way to put it,” Damian mutters, going back to his own scheduling. 

A minute or so passes in the same uneasy silence before Damian looks up again. “I thought as primary shareholder, you approve the appointment of all the board members?” 

Tim’s hands freeze above the keyboard, his eyes flicking back to the teenager.

“I do.” 

It isn’t exactly as simple as that, especially with members who were instated before his time, though he has no intention of telling Damian as such. Keeping the board and shareholders happy is as much a game of chess as any other aspect of the business. 

Damian’s frown deepens, “So you.. approve of his behavior? His approach towards the company? His mentality ?”

Tim considers the question, internally debating. 

He and Damian have been getting on fairly well these last weeks, better than Tim ever expected. They aren’t exactly friends, but… it’s possible they could be one day. Despite his obvious confusion regarding Tim’s behavior, flickering hot and cold towards him depending, Damian hasn’t been openly hostile like Tim had grown so used to before.

It’s been…nice. 

Too nice. 

And it’s probably best for both of them that Tim doesn’t get used to that feeling. 

So Tim holds his eye and lets his expression go cold, as if revealing his true face. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

Damian’s eyes narrow, but Tim looks away before he can see the revulsion that’s bound to be there. 

Let Damian make his judgements. He always has. 

The next few days are tense. 

He expects to see a shift from Damian in his interactions with Tim. One of Damian’s most defining characteristics is his willingness to speak , to call things out as they are however unflatering or insulting that might come across. So Tim fully anticipates an uptick in passive aggression, but if anything Damian is just more…cautious. 

Suspicious.

That should be a glaring red flag to Tim, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can’t win in any version of this scenario with Damian as his assistant. Besides, whatever conclusions Damian comes to can’t possibly be anywhere near the full truth, so what does it matter?

Tim has too much on his plate to be worried about how Damian will interpret his personality quirks. 

Outside of work, Tim has been keeping a sharp eye on the Bats at all times, looking for any sign of more stalking ninjas or any other interference from Ra’s. Which means he’s been maintaining a Bat schedule while still keeping up with his casework— to preserve Cardinal’s routine— and his civilian responsibilities.

He barely has a moment to himself. Between monitoring the streets, coordinating intel drops, running Drake Industries, and upholding his network of contacts across Gotham, Tim is stretched thinner than he cares to admit.

At this rate, he’s only getting sleep in small bursts, too anxious about Ra’s making a move to wind down for any longer stretch of time. 

His sleep deprivation just makes him more sloppy, aggravating the whole situation with Damian. 

Tim really wishes he could just get lucky for once—that Damian would just let it go. 

Tim is never lucky. 

It all comes to a head at the end of the week. 

It isn’t even Tim’s fault! Well it is. But how was he supposed to know Damian would be so damn nosy? (He did know, but what Damian choses to be nosy about is anybody’s guess.)

Tim has a meeting with Lucius. 

With how often Tim and Fox work together, the two CEOs typically rotate between each other’s offices. This time, Fox comes to DI, and since he knows Damian so well, neither he nor Tim have any issue with Damian sitting in on the meeting—both to take notes for his job and to build his general knowledge.

At the end of their meeting, Lucius and Tim both stand, still speaking as Tim escorts him towards the door, Damian trailing behind them. 

“It seems like you’re always anticipating our needs,” Mr. Fox is saying. “Speaking of, I saw Drake Industries still donated to Gotham Central last month. I’m glad you did, I didn’t want to back out so last minute but our budget had to be diverted. Where did you get the extra funding?” 

“You’re asking me about last month? Lucius, I can barely remember this week, it’s been such a whirlwind,” Tim tries to joke while simultaneously diverting the question.

Lucius gives him an unimpressed look, always seeing through his pretence. “It was good work, I’m sure they appreciated it.”

Tim smiles slightly. “Thanks Lucius. And good luck on your trip, your presence will be missed.” 

Fox will be in China for the next 2 weeks or so while he negotiates vendor contracts. Fox smirks cheekily, “I’m sure.” 

They shake hands in farewell, Fox doing the same to Damian with a word that he can check in with him over the phone if he needs to while he’s gone. 

And that’s that, or at least it should be.  

Tim really should’ve known better. 

Damian comes storming into his office without preamble not 2 hours later, shoving his tablet in front of Tim and demanding, “What is this?”

Tim raises an eyebrow at the brazenness, part of him glad Damian is dropping the quiet formalities he’s taken to the last few days and another part of him wary of what that means. 

Tim picks up the tablet and looks over the document quickly, keeping his face completely neutral. “Looks like a supply record,” he says ignorantly, sliding the tablet back over to Damian. 

It is, in fact, the exact donation Lucius had mentioned before. 

The core of Drake Industries’ work lies in medical research and supply manufacturing. They work with Wayne Enterprises so often because WE is in the market of advancing technologies and charitable giving, both meant to increase the quality of life of its consumers. In this case, WE and DI had planned a joint effort to get Gotham Central Hospital equipped with more advanced emergency medical equipment for their smaller clinics posted around the city. This is Gotham, after all, and it’s important to be prepared for whatever disaster might strike next. 

The kind of supplies we’re talking about though is expensive: Automated External Defibrillators, Oxygen Tanks & Regulators, EKG/ECG Machines, Portable Ultrasound Machines, Defibrillators with ECG Functionality, ect. 

The usual arrangement between Tim and Fox is that WE covers 85%-95% of the expenses, handling the majority of the charitable donations. DI covers the remaining portion while also benefiting from the ability to distribute their products and gain free marketing through the initiative. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Only in this case, WE had a sudden budget diversion for the quarter and had to pull out of the deal. 

The community was counting on those supplies though and Tim wasn’t willing to let them go without. So he donated it anyway. Drake Industries could more than afford the cost but it wasn’t exactly the norm for them. 

Tam was able to write up the paperwork in such a way that it made it look like it was a smaller loss than it actually was. They didn’t lie–anyone adamantly looking would see the transaction for what it was– but they weren’t forthcoming about it either. 

Damian pushes the tablet back over to him, “There was no funding to cover the cost. DI took a fair loss on this,” he says, showing Tim exactly where the document lays it out. 

“Did we?” Tim hums nonchalantly. “Must have been an oversight,” He shrugs, going back to his work. He can feel Damian gaze boring into his skull. 

Damian takes the tablet again, scrolls down to the bottom and shoves it back towards Tim. “You signed off on it specifically.”

Tim finally looks at it properly and then back up at Damian, his neutrality slipping into a slight glare. 

“I sign off on a lot of things. I don’t always keep track,” he says monotone, masking his growing irritation. It seems Damian still hasn’t learned to leave things alone . 

“No, that's your assistant's job,” Damian snarks. “Are you implying Tam is incompetent?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you signed off on it purposefully?”

Tim grits his teeth, “Yah, I guess I did. So what? They needed the supplies.”

“I agree with you,” Damian responds in a forcibly calm tone. Tim knows that tone—can see him trying to keep his temper in check. “I just don’t understand why you won’t admit it, why you’re pretending like you don’t care.”

“Because I don’t.”

“You’re lying!” Damian snarls, his resolve finally snapping. 

“I think that's enough for today, Mr. Wayne,” Tim says, his tone sharp and dismissive. “I’ll see you next week.” He turns away coldly, the stiffness in his posture final and unyielding.

Damian stands frozen for a few seconds before he takes up his tablet again and storms out of the office without another word, slamming the door behind him.

Tim sighs, rubbing at his eyes. 

That certainly could’ve gone better. 

Damian gets his things and marches out of the office without even a glance back. He is known for his temper, but it hasn’t raged this hard in a long time. 

Damian is furious. 

He reaches street level before he realizes he has no way home. Damian isn’t scheduled to be done for another few hours, Alfred doesn’t know to come for him. He could call, but he’d rather not wait around when he’s this agitated. Instead he hails a cab. He has more than enough money to get himself home. 

Damian climbs into the cab, barking out Wayne Manor’s address, and slumps back into his seat, trying in vain to calm down . 

Working with Drake these last few weeks has been fine for the most part. Drake is competent at his job and Damian has already been learning a lot just from being exposed to the day-to-day of the company. 

What’s been steadily aggravating Damian is Drake himself, not his work, more his… personality, or lack thereof. 

Damian’s perception of the man from his original impression, to the time they spoke to at the gala, to his first week on the job, to now, has evolved 10 times over in only a few weeks time.

As work at DI has been picking up, Drake has gradually been letting his guard down around Damian, (though he doubts he’s allowing it intentionally). Tam was right to warn Damian about Drake’s habits. For as much as he’s clearly extremely intelligent, Drake is a proper disaster. 

He comes in everyday with dark circles under his eyes, barely coherent until he gets at least 2 cups of coffee in his system (though he’s never instructed Damian to fetch him coffee, for which he is extremely grateful). His time management skills are non-existent. If Drake didn’t have an assistant, Damian is sure he wouldn’t show up to at least half his meetings.

Though, when he is allowed to sit in on said meetings, Damian is constantly shocked by the strict professionalism and easy charisma Drake practically exudes—especially when, just five minutes before, he could barely string together more than two sentences.

It doesn’t take long for Damian to realize that Drake is a phenomenal actor, putting on subtly different faces depending on who he’s speaking to and what about. He’s so convincing, Damian is constantly questioning his own judgment, especially when Drake acts so completely contrary to who Damian is starting to realize he truly is. 

The only time Damian can observe Drake’s behavior with any real consistency is when he’s knee deep in his work. 

Which is baffling. 

Damian understands enough about the world, especially the elite and powerful, to know that people are rarely who they say they are. He knows that better than anyone in a family of vigilantes with a Father who masquerades as an idiot playboy. But although his family displays themselves as less than they are for the sake of their cover, everyone else in the world does the opposite.  

For the rich and powerful, it’s all about good manners, proper upbringing and having the appearance of someone who gives a damn about people beneath them, when in reality they couldn’t care less. The elite are constantly putting on masks to make the public believe they are better people than they truly are. Lucius calls it ‘good PR’. 

Granted, there are a few who are legitimate and do good simply because it’s right. Before working at DI, Damian didn’t think Drake was one of them. 

But he was wrong. 

Drake truly gives himself to his company and to initiatives that do good. He works well with WE and Mr. Fox because at their core, they have the same mission, to improve the lives of Gotham citizens and beyond. What baffles (infuriates) Damian is why Drake pretends like he doesn’t. 

If Damian didn’t know better, if he hadn’t seen for himself first hand the type of person Drake is, he would assume he was like any other elitist. 

When Drake speaks to investors about doing good for the community, he sounds performative because Drake wants to sound performative. He purposefully damages his image, allowing the public and media to label him as greedy, arrogant, selfish, and entitled, just like his brothers warned him he would be. 

But he isn’t.  

Drake is a good person— a disaster, sure, but good. 

Which begs the question, why the act? Sure, Damian understands the need to appear put together when Drake is constantly one second from self-imploding, but it’s more than that. 

Everything Drake presents himself as is a lie. 

He’s a liar and just as stubborn and obstinate as Tam implied before she left. Damian is sure she’s seen the same things he has. Drake is good at what he does, molding public perception to suit his needs—whatever those may be—but up close and personal, it isn’t hard to see through. Damian expects Lucius is aware too, if their meeting was any indication. Drake didn’t put on as much of a face for Fox, but he still tried. 

And he tries it with Damian too, as if he thinks he’s some sort of idiot. 

Usually, after long hours when Drake is so absorbed in a project, he forgets to put up his facade. Damian will say something, and suddenly Drake remembers where he is and who he’s talking to, and he fucking tries to pretend to be this whole other person. It’s aggravating and demeaning, as if Drake thinks Damian will be so easily manipulated.

The call with Norman did make him waver for a moment, but it was practically forgotten by the next day when Drake insisted Marketing lower the cost of some product to make it more affordable to the lower class. 

Damian’s been biding his time, focusing hard on strictly observing him, looking for opportunities to call him on it—just like Tam said to do. He’s been searching through every resource he is privy to find some sort of tangible evidence that Drake is, in fact, full of shit. 

In his own life, Damian has been able to deal with the chaotic reality that is his existence because for every unlikely situation, there was always a logical explanation for it, some sort of reasoning.

Damian is a Wayne through and through, by birth and by right, and there has never been mystery a Wayne could leave well enough alone.

Drake is a good person masquerading as an asshole and all Damian wants for some peace of mind is a reason. Is that so much to ask? 

Apparently. 

After today's meeting and Lucius mentioning the Gotham Central project, Damian thought he finally found a smoking gun. After gathering the evidence of the situation, indelible facts with paperwork showing Timothy Drake did in fact donate at the expense of his own company, he thought he could finally corner Drake into explaining himself. 

Maybe he came on too strong, too aggressive. He knows his passion can be a lot. He could have worded it better, certainly—less accusatory and more curious—but even so, he didn’t think he was asking for much.

One thing Damian was not prepared for, was Drake’s complete and utter dismissal of both the facts and Damian himself—literally. 

It makes Damian’s blood boil because he knows he’s right, has the proof to show it, and still he is ignored and disregarded.  

The cab arrives at the Manor and Damian pays the cabby. He sneaks into the house as quietly as possible, not in the mood or right headspace for any sort of conversation. He sends a text to Alfred, letting him know he came home early and with a request for privacy. He knows he’ll have to talk about it eventually, probably tonight at dinner, but for now Damian burrows himself into his bed, covering his head with his pillow and just breathes. 

Hours go by, and Damian is blessedly left alone for once. By the time dinner is ready, Damian feels more balanced but still dreads going down. He doesn’t feel like rehashing today's events only to stir up his emotions again. But there’s nothing for it. Not going down will mean an even more vexing conversation later. 

With a sigh, Damian goes down. 

By the time he gets to the dining room, dinner has already begun but just barely. Not everyone is present this time—Cass and Steph are back on the move, and Barbara is already at the Clocktower. That leaves just his brothers: Richard, Jason, and Duke, along with his father and Alfred. 

Damian takes his seat silently, not interrupting the current conversation, but he can feel every eye on him. By now, he’s sure they’re all aware he came home early and has been isolating since. Damian only completely isolates anymore when he knows he will say or do something hurtful— meaning something got to him. 

Whatever discussion they were having quickly fizzles out into silence, each of his brothers throwing expectant glances at Damian. He meets each of their gazes with a defiant glare of his own, viciously stabbing at his pasta. 

Bats really don’t know how to leave things alone, do they?

“Boys,” Bruce admonishes. “At least give him a moment to eat.” 

They all groan dramatically but drop the subject for the moment, moving on to talk about a case Dick is currently working on.

Damian is grateful for the temporary peace. For all that they annoy him, he knows his family means well and genuinely cares about his well-being. He takes this time, however brief, as the gift it is—focusing on eating and centering himself—preparing for the inevitable questions. By the time their plates are clear, Damian feels like he can get through it without absolutely raging.

Alfred takes their plates away, yet nobody moves to go, everyone pretending like they aren’t curious as hell.

Damian sighs, “Fine.”

He starts from the beginning, re-counting his initial impressions of Drake and how his perspective has evolved. Bruce glares Jason into silence when he tries to protest Damian’s insistence that Drake is a good person. 

Damian starts to list specifics; Drake's dedication to the company, to his employees, the strides the company has made these past years in making their products as affordable as possible. He tells them about Drake's personal work with each and every insurance company to ensure that claims will be met and fulfilled, his dedication in solving the current supply crisis himself instead of hoisting it onto his employees, an option completely in his right. He tells them of the many interactions he’s seen between Drake and various employees, each treated with patience and respect. 

Then he tells them of his other observations, Drake’s personal and calculated ability to become an entirely different creature on command, his choice to be seen as a conceited egotist. Damian describes just how purposeful it is. Drake doesn’t make himself out to be the scum of the earth or the worst of Gotham’s elite. He presents an image that people expect of him and others like him, allowing him to blend in.

Finally, he recounts today’s events, calling his bluff and trying to get an explanation but failing to even ask a proper question before his temper arose and he was sent away. 

Silence reigns as Damian finishes his story, his family's faces ranging from contemplative to suspicious.

Damian has learned a lot since coming to live at the manor, not least of which that he will always be loved and welcomed even if he falls short. Still, something deep and ugly within him squirms as he waits to hear their reactions to his failure. 

“Well, the kid still sounds like a piece of work to me,” Jason says, leaning back into his chair and folding his arms. 

Bruce gives him a look that clearly communicates, ‘not helpful’. 

“Why would he do that?” Duke wonders aloud. “Why go through the effort? What's the point?”

“My questions exactly,” Damian agrees. “Every hour of the day, I never know which version of him I’m going to get. It’s infuriating.” 

Dick hums, “It does explain some things though.” 

Jason frowns at him, “LIke what?” 

Dick hesitates, his eyes going distant. “When I was still in the circus…I met him once.” 

Bruce faces him, his brow creased, “You did? When was this?” 

“The night my parents died,” Richard says softly. “He was a sweet kid. He seemed so desperate for affection that I gave him a hug and he just… clung to me, like it was a rare thing to be touched. I even promised to do a trick for him.” 

“He was there that night?” 

Dick nods, “With his parents. I think I would’ve completely forgotten about it if I didn’t see him at a gala a few months later. I would try to talk to him every once in a while, but he’d kinda freeze up every time. And then one day he was just…unrecognizable, like a completely different kid. He wasn’t sweet anymore, just a total brat.”

“Are you trying to say he’s been putting on this act since he was a kid?” Jason asks sceptically. 

Dick shrugs. “I don’t know, but I doubt that such a stark personality change is a coincidence.” 

“To what end?” Damian grumbles. “There is no conceivable reason for it. If he was up to nefarious activities, he wouldn’t present himself badly in public only to be kind and compassionate behind closed doors.”

“Maybe he’s got some sort of personality disorder,” Duke suggests. 

Damian considers it but ultimately shakes his head, “I don’t think so. He is very intentional about it. I can see it in his eyes, he knows what he’s doing.” 

Bruce rests his head on his fist, expression deeply contemplative. 

“Damian,” he starts. “Why do I do what I do?” 

Damian frowns, “...Father?” 

“When I go out in public, I put on a face, as does Dick and Jason. We all do it to some extent. Why?” 

Damian shrugs, “We have to maintain our covers. Your persona keeps people off your trail.”

Bruce nods. “So what does that tell you about Drake?”

Damian’s face clears, realization dawning on him. “...he’s hiding something. Something…important.”

Duke leans closer, his elbows resting on the table. “But what would he have to hide?” he asks. 

“Barbara did a full sweep on him, he’s clean,” Dick agrees.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce admits, looking towards Damian. “But people who behave this way seldom do so without a reason. Drake may seem benign enough but from what I hear, he’s a shark in the business world, a child prodigy from the get-go. We would be foolish to underestimate someone like that.”

Damian nods, “Despite his best attempts to hide the fact from me, he is definitely near genius intellect.” 

“Then you’ll have to be patient, keep your cool. With time, you may be able to gain his trust. Drake is powerful and a WE partner too. If he’s hiding something, we should be aware of it, whatever that may be.” 

“...yes, Father.”

Jason sighs loudly, looking seriously disgruntled. “...I have gala duty tomorrow. I’m sure Drake will be there. I can keep an eye on him and let you know if I see anything suspicious.”

Damian raises a nonplussed eyebrow. 

Damian was originally planning on going to the gala himself to observe Drake’s social prowess at a closer distance. Now however, he thinks they both need a few days to cool off. 

He’s surprised Jason would offer at all, given how much he dislikes Drake.

Jason rolls his eyes, “To be clear, I still think this guy is an asshole. Whatever he’s up to, I doubt it comes from the goodness of heart.” 

“Regardless, I would appreciate it.” Damian says, honestly grateful. 

“Yah, yah,” Jason stands. “If I do find something incriminating, you owe me Baby Bat.” 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Damian reminds him. 

“Yah? Well, you got it.” With that Jason excuses himself. 

Duke stands next. “I’ll go with him tomorrow, make sure he’s not exaggerating anything,” he smirks. 

“Thank you,” Damian murmurs genuinely.

Duke nods once in acknowledgment, then leaves as well, letting Damian, Dick, and Bruce sit in silence to ruminate.

Dick stares unseeingly at his glass of water, ideally circling its rim—still clearly perturbed. 

“You alright?” Bruce asks him after a while. 

He nods once, “Yah. It’s just…the Timothy Drake I met was so… good. Shy and awkward, sure, but genuine. And I just…” He lifts his head towards Bruce. “What could make a kid like that change so drastically?” 

Damian shakes his head. He doesn’t know. 

But he intends to find out. 

Damian feels bitterness and jealousy writhing in him, pushing him to his limits. His breath comes fast and shallow, each exhale seething with the need to succeed. 

It’s just a spare, or at least it should be. To Damian it’s more than that. It’s a test, a chance to finally prove himself, prove to his Father he can be just as good, just as useful, just as indispensable.

The world around him feels hazy and too bright, the sparring mat stretching infinitely in all directions like a void with no edges. 

He lunges.

He feints left, dodges right, ducks low—using every move drilled into him since he was old enough to walk. But his opponent reads him like a book, anticipating every motion with infuriating ease. They don’t attack out of aggression, only precision—fluid, controlled.

Damian growls, grabbing onto their yellow harness and pulling with all his might, trying to get them off balance. 

But his adversary just flows with the momentum, transitioning into an effortless cartwheel, simultaneously freeing themselves and pushing Damian to the ground. The motion ends with Damian flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him by the impact.

A shadow falls over him.

Damian is pinned. 

“Patience,” a familiar voice chides.

Damian wakes with a sharp inhale, eyes snapping open to the ceiling of his room, the shadows still long and gray with pre-dawn light. His heart hammers in his chest like he’s just run a sprint, but his body lies perfectly still beneath the sheets. The dream clings to him, vivid and persistent—more concrete than the last few times.

He was… fighting someone. The motions are still fresh in his memory—blocks, counters, the shock of impact when he hit the floor. It felt serious—intense—but not threatening. He wasn’t in any real danger. And yet, it mattered. Deeply.

The voice echoes in his mind, low and clear. Familiar, frustratingly so. 

But the more he tries to pin it down, the more the entire memory slips away like water through his fingers. In minutes, he can scarcely recall the dream at all. He clenches his fists in his sheets, jaw tight and frustrated.

What is this?

Why does he keep having these dreams?

They’re not just dreams anymore, not random flickers of subconscious noise. They’re growing more vivid, more tactile—like memories of something he’s never lived. Yet the more he sees, the less he understands. 

He sits up slowly, palms pressed to his eyes.

What’s happening to him?

Chapter Text

“God, I hate this,” Jason gripes, a smile still pleasantly plastered across his face as he snags a glass of champagne off a passing tray. 

Duke rolls his eyes with a smirk, “What? Is the exhibition not to your tastes?” 

“The exhibit is fine, I’d just like to see it without all these people blocking the paintings.” 

Duke chuckles. 

Duke hasn’t attended as many of these events as his siblings, but as far as public functions go, this one isn’t so bad. They’re at the Gotham Museum of Art for the opening of a new exhibition—a collection of various works spanning from the Baroque period to contemporary works.

At its core, the show explores patriotism: the act of giving oneself for the sake of your home.

Whoever curated the collection clearly knows what they’re doing. The pieces don’t suggest blind obedience or subservience to a nation or government. Instead, they evoke a deeper, more personal love—an innate connection to a place, to a home worth protecting.

It’s about the courage to rebel or resist those who seek to corrupt that home. To fight against those that would see it twisted…even when its own citizens would be complicit. 

The subject is timely, given how many heroes across the globe are engaged in just such battles. Still, the exhibition was ultimately placed in Gotham. Apparently, the consensus was that Batman and Gotham’s heroes embody the idea best.

Overall, Duke has been enjoying himself even if he and Jason have been keeping an eye on Timothy Drake from a distance the whole time. 

So far, nothing of note has happened. Drake flits through the crowd with the confidence of someone who was born and raised in these sorts of environments, his smile practiced, his small talk effortless. He blends in seamlessly—polished, and poised. 

Duke wishes it came to him that easily. 

He can hold his own, sure. He’s well-spoken, sharp, and capable of charm when he needs to be. But while Duke can get by, it doesn’t come as naturally to him as his siblings might think. There’s always a tension beneath his skin—a fear that he’ll say something wrong, or worse, embarrass his family. Not that Bruce would really care, but still, he wants to put his best foot forward, to prove that he, and others like him, belong in these spaces as much as those bred for it.

It isn't always easy, especially when he catches whispered snide comments about himself or his siblings. 

Duke is a fighter, always has been. The family has labeled him as the calm one, the tame one. It’s a lie, Duke just has better emotional regulation, but he’s as mad as the rest of them (You have to be in the Wayne household). But still, it’s not in his nature to just do nothing when people actively insult his friends and family, but he can’t exactly go out swinging in the middle of a gala. There are consequences the whole family has to bear when one of them steps out of line. 

It’s frustrating. Duke and his siblingings are able to fight injustice on the streets every night but not here where, debatably, it matters most. It’s a feeling he knows Jason has struggled with for years; he’s had to navigate the same minefield since his adoption. All of the siblings have their own issues that come with being adopted by billionaire Bruce Wayne, but Duke and Jason probably understand each other the best out of everyone in the family, one street kid to another. 

“He do anything incriminating yet?” Jason asks, his back currently turned to Drake. 

Duke shrugs, “Not exactly. Just more of the same.” 

The two brothers have been keeping their distance but try to stay within hearing range of Drake for the most part.

At first, Duke thought Damian was reading too much into the situation. Drake is exactly the kind of person you'd expect to find here—arrogant and obnoxious. He clearly holds himself in high regard, just like every other socialite in the room, and shows little interest in the real problems people face. 

Duke and Jason have exchanged eye rolls more than once in commiseration throughout the night. 

But the longer they watch, the more Duke sees Damian’s point. Timothy is definitely not being wholly authentic. Duke sees it in the same wan smile, controlled body language, and deceptively vacant gaze that he sees when Bruce and his siblings perform—too controlled and intentional to be real. 

And sure, while everyone in here has some sort of public presence, the question remains. What would Timothy Drake need to hide that makes him want to seem worse than he actually is?

Timothy flashes a perfect smile as he talks to a businesswoman. “Oh, I’m just so pleased to be here tonight. This event really brings out the best of Gotham culture,” he says, his voice smooth, though the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

Later, a laugh escapes him as he speaks to an older man, but it's just a little too forced, a little too poised, “Gotham’s real charm is in its unpredictability, don’t you think? Always something new to surprise us.” His words are as empty as his eyes, fluffy but with little to no substance. For all the talking he’s doing, he isn’t saying anything at all. 

Duke glances over at Jason, who’s gone more quiet as the night progresses—probably seeing the same things Duke is. Jay catches him looking and shrugs. “Just because he’s putting on a face doesn’t prove anything.”

Duke concedes as much, “But it is a bit suspicious.” 

“Everyone in this room is suspicious,” Jason sighs, looking around him. “I need to pee. You’ll be okay for a few minutes?” 

Duke rolls his eyes, “Of course.”

Jason smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender as he steps away, “Just making sure, Narrows.” 

Duke shakes his head good-naturedly. For as much as he pretends otherwise, Jason can be one overprotective son of a bitch. Duke thinks that's why he offered to help in the first place. As much as he dislikes Drake and doesn’t buy into Damian’s claims, sketchy behavior like Damian is noting rarely means anything good. This is the guy Damian is working with day in and day out. If something about him is amiss, Jason will make it his personal mission to find out what. 

And Duke is right there with him. 

He doesn’t have the same preconceived notions about Drake the rest of the family do. More than anything, he’s curious. If who Drake is presenting himself as isn’t who he is, then who is he? 

Duke looks around himself and realizes he’s lost track of Drake so he starts weaving through the crowd to find him again. 

Once he spots him, Duke subtly manipulates the shadows cast by the nearby columns as he moves, pulling himself deeper into their cover. With the help of his abilities, it's easy enough to maneuver himself just a few paces behind Drake. Duke has gotten good at disappearing into shadows—even in broad daylight thanks to working the day shift. For all intents and purposes, Duke is invisible to those who don’t know how to look for him.

Drake is conversing with a man Duke vaguely recognizes as one of Lex Luthers lackeys. Jameson Campion.  Campion has been circling Gotham’s wealth and politics for years, always just clean enough to avoid formal charges but dirty enough that everyone in the know keeps him at arm’s length. He’s in his mid 50s, yet he refuses to be seen without a girl under 25 on his arm, his sham of a marriage notwithstanding. 

Duke would bet the girl he’s with now is barely 20—maybe a college sophomore if he’s being generous. She’s dressed to impress but clearly uncomfortable, her smile tight and wavering as Campion keeps one possessive hand on her lower back. Duke’s stomach twists. 

Drake is making pleasant empty headed conversations with him. Campion chuckles at something Timothy says, clearly enjoying the exchange more than he should, when he flags down a passing server with a raised hand and a flick of his fingers like he’s summoning a dog. 

He turns his back to both Drake and the girl to greet the server with that rehearsed aristocratic warmth. Now turned towards where Duke is standing, Duke watches Campion select one of the flutes from the tray—and, in the same fluid motion, he drops something into the drink. A quick, practiced motion, barely a pause. Then he turns back around with a smile, like nothing happened. 

And holds the glass out towards his date.

Duke’s mind sparks with panic. Shit. He needs to do something. Yes, he’s in civilian mode right now, but that doesn’t mean he can do nothing while this guy drugs and potentially rapes his date. Maybe he could get Jason to intercept her before Campion smuggles her out.  Or he could "accidentally" bump into her and knock the drink from her hand. Or—

Before the girl can even lift her hand, Drake’s own shoots out smoothly, pushing himself forward to take it instead. 

“Thank you!” he says to Campion, “God the week I’ve had, you would not believe,” he mutters as he takes a large gulp. Duke eyes go wide at the sight. 

Then Drake stops, as if just realizing he overstepped. “Oh sorry Cindy! That was meant for you wasn’t it? Here, let me get you another one.” 

Drake slips away in search of another server. Duke’s eyes never leave him as he navigates through the crowd, already planning how he’ll get that drink away from him—when Drake passes by a plant and… pours the drink out into the pot.

Drake poured out the drink.

He reaches the server and takes two fresh glasses from his tray, leaving the now-empty one behind. He takes a large sip from one—making it look like the original—as he makes his way back through the crowd to Mr. Campion’s side. The whole encounter takes less than fifteen seconds. He’s barely gone before he returns, as if he didn’t just save that young woman from who knows what horrors.

Duke clamps his jaw shut to stop himself from gaping. 

He knew. 

Drake knew the drink was drugged somehow. Not only that, he intervened . It was so casual, so unsuspecting, Duke barely realized it was happening before it was already done. 

How? Duke literally watched Campion spike the drink, it happened in an instant. From where he was standing, there is no way Drake could’ve seen it happen. Nobody would have caught it at all unless they were looking for it. 

Was Drake looking for it?

“You good?” 

Duke startles hard as Jason seemingly materializes out of nowhere next to him. Jason raises a surprised eyebrow at him. It’s rare for any of them, excluding Cass, to be able to sneak up on each other anymore. 

“Yah, sorry.” 

Jason frowns, eyes searching his expression and seeing his discomfort. “What happened?” 

Jason listens as Duke explains what he saw. And it’s… wow yah. He’s finally starting to understand why Damian has been so fixated on this. What Duke saw, what Drake did.. that isn’t exactly standard behavior for someone like Drake. If Campion was blatantly drugging her, that's one thing, but if Duke is telling it right, and Jason doesn’t have any reason to think he isn’t, Drake shouldn’t have even been able to tell, let alone act on it so seamlessly. 

It’s something a Bat would do. 

Jason shakes his head at himself, there’s no need to go that far. Drake is smart, Damian himself said he's probably a genius or close to. It isn’t too much of a leap for him to think Campion—a known scumbag—might try something on his barely legal date. Still, for the first time Jason thinks he’s actually starting to believe what Damian has been saying. This isn’t normal. 

The behavior implies that Drake both gives a damn and doesn’t want to be seen giving a damn. There are other ways he could’ve addressed the situation, but they all would’ve involved Drake outing Campion and himself—potentially problematic as it would’ve been Drake's word against Campion’s. Instead, he acted in just the perfect way to make it look like an accident and stop the tragedy in its tracks. 

The fact Campion won’t be held accountable kinda pisses Jason off but ultimately it proves one thing. 

Timothy Drake is far more than he appears. 

Jason isn’t exactly sure what to do with that. He disliked the bastard almost immediately upon meeting him and has been vindicated of his judgments time and time again. But now it seems…has he been manipulating them all from the start? Purposefully making people dislike him, the Wayne family specifically? 

For the next hour or so, Jason and Duke watch him like a hawk. It was pure luck Duke saw what he did before. Drake was so smooth they’d have never known had Duke been distracted. They’re more careful though. Drake’s situational awareness is clearly better than any of them would have thought. 

They utilize Duke’s powers where they can, slipping in and out of the shadows of the ornate architecture. Once or twice, Jason is sure Drake has made them, his eyes sliding over them with a glazed look in his eyes. Yet, he never falters, continuing on as if nothing is amiss.

In fact, as the night wears on, Drake seems to be getting looser. His tone becomes more casual and his words just a touch slurred. Jason thinks nothing of it, probably an effect from the alcohol he’s been steadily sipping on. 

The event is starting to wind down now and Jason is ready for it to be over even if they haven’t managed to spy any more suspicious activity. 

Jason looks over at Duke and raises an eyebrow, silently asking him if he thinks it’s time to go. Duke nods once and Jason is just about to flag down another server to take his glass when he catches the new subject of conversation Drake is in. 

“I heard a rumor you’ve got Wayne’s bastard boy working for you. How’s that going?” 

Jason tenses, as does Duke. They make eye contact with each other. Jason hesitates but ultimately shakes his head. 

It isn’t worth it. 

He knows it isn’t worth it, even if hearing some nobody talk shit about his family always makes his blood boil. Starting an altercation would only reinforce this fucker’s bias—and everyone else’s who sees it happen—not to mention what the news will say tomorrow. This is just how these things are—how they’ve always been—and there’s nothing productive they can do about it.

“If you’re talking about Damian Wayne, it’s going very well,” Drake answers almost too calmly. “He’s quite gifted. It’ll be exciting for him to take over Wayne Enterprises one day.” 

Jason looks towards them as discreetly as he can. Drake’s fingers briefly tighten around the stem of his glass before relaxing again—like he’s forcing himself to stay in character. He’s pretty sure this guy is one of Drake’s partners, either a shareholder, or head of another medical company he works with, something like that. 

The guy is tall, probably in his late 40’s but already entirely gray. His, presumably, wife stands next to him airly. 

The bastard smirks, and gives Drake a sympathetic look. “You don’t need to mince words with me, Timothy. From what I heard, the little brat is a right tyrant.” 

Drake’s face twitches slightly, “On the contrary, he-” 

“It’s a real shame isn’t it?” He cuts him off. “Wayne adopts all those misfits into his family, far too late to instill any real etiquette into any of them, and now he finally has a son of his own blood but still he’s too late.”

Jason physically bites his tongue. 

Drake hesitates, his eyes going a bit unfocused.  “I don’t know about that... From what I can see-” 

“I mean really!” The idiot interrupts again. “It’s been years and still no one knows a thing about his mother. Just look at him, you can’t expect much from such a low class of people.”

Jason reaches over and grabs Duke’s arm, as a restraint to himself or to Duke, he doesn’t even know. Duke clenches his fists and Jason tightens his grip. If Duke weren’t here, nothing would stop Jason from putting this absolute asshole straight on his ass. But, Duke is here and Jason has to be an example. If Jason fights, so will Duke and he isn’t about to get his little brother into trouble just because he can’t keep his cool. 

Drake, for his part, seems just as shocked as they are. It isn’t exactly uncommon to hear snide comments thrown around about the Wayne kids, but most of the socialites know how to insult without actually saying the insult. They aren’t usually so blatantly evil—or stupid. 

Silence meets the ghastly statement just a hair too long. Jason again manages to sneak a look at Drake just in time to see his eyes turn frigidly cold. 

Jason’s eyes widen, suddenly remembering every gossip magazine that labeled Timothy Drake as the spitting image of his mother, both in appearance and in temperament. 

“I think we might have different definitions of low class , Mr. Thompson.” Drake’s voice sounds different now, a different register than before. It’s lower, but not gravelly, his tone firm and pointed. 

Thompson actually laughs, seemingly completely unaware of the blood in the water. “ Timothy! You don’t need to censor yourself with me. Come on then, tell me what you really think.”

“Alright,” Drake smiles but it’s all teeth. Didn’t Bruce compare him to a shark just last night? The comparison is apt. “I think it’s a hard situation for everyone involved,” he starts sympathetically. “Afterall, growing up without a father would be difficult for any child, don’t you think?” 

Thompson tenses a bit, subconsciously wrapping an arm around his wife. “I suppose so.”

“But,” Drake continues. “I’d far prefer a father who stepped up when given the chance and rectified the situation to the best of their ability. Imagine the alternative! Knowing about your estranged child and doing nothing?” Drake laughs, too sharp, too mean. “What a disgrace that would be. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Thompson?” 

Mrs. Thompson nods vigorously, “A definite disgrace. What kind of small man would do that?” 

“Indeed! Could such a person even be called a man? A father?” Drake tisks, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, I’d much prefer a father like Bruce Wayne than an incapable coward.” 

Duke and Jason exchange glances with wide eyes. 

Thompson clears his throat, “Yes well-”

“But of course you have children yourself! How are they doing?” 

“Oh quite well!” Mrs. Thompson answers, oblivious to the tension rising between the two men. “Our younger daughter, Madison, was just accepted into Gotham University and Margret, our eldest, will be graduating next year!” 

“They sound quite accomplished! And how about your son, Maxwell, how is he?” 

If Thompson was looking uneasy before, he’s practically sickly now. His face goes ashen, his expression panicked. 

Mrs. Thompson just looks confused, “Um, we don’t have a son Mr. Drake. Just the two daughters” 

“Do you not?” Drake asks, looking honestly befuddled. “I could have sworn you had a son living in Pennsylvania.” Drake makes direct eye contact with Thompson, “Mansfield, Pennsylvania to be specific.” 

Jason has to actively stop himself from gaping. “ Holy shit,” Duke whispers just loud enough for Jason to catch. 

Thompson looks a bit like a gaping fish with the way his mouth keeps opening and closing with no sound coming out. 

“But I must have you confused with someone else,” Drake amends, looking back towards Mrs. Thompson. “Afterall, you’re both such… high class people.” Drake smiles without a hint of amusement.

“Honey, it’s getting late. Why-why don’t you get our coats,” Mr. Thompson stutters, pulling away from his wife. She frowns gazing between the two of them. “Uh… yes, alright,” she agrees, stepping away from the quiet standoff. 

As soon as she’s gone, Thompson speaks again, “If you think for a moment you can threaten me-” 

“Threaten? Who said anything about that? That sounds an awful lot like black mail, of which I would never dirty my hands with…” Drake gives him an unimpressed once over. “Unlike others.” 

Thompson clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. “Then wha- what do you wan-?”

Drake steps closer, and lowers his voice so much that Jason has to strain himself to hear it, “This is simple. You watch your mouth and I’ll watch mine. Do we understand each other?” 

Thompson scoffs, “If this is about what I said about Wayne’s bast-”

“Do we. understand. each other.?” 

Thompson’s eyes widen, properly afraid again—as he should be. “Of course. Of course, Mr. Drake.” 

Timothy smiles, clapping a hand on his shoulder and making the man flinch. “Good. Enjoy your evening Martin.” And with that, Timothy Drake takes his leave without a glance back. 

Jason and Duke stare at each other for a second, still shell-shocked. 

Then Duke cracks a smile, “Well, I’m convinced. Do you think he’d be our friend?” 

“Wha-?” Jason sputters. “Duke!” 

“You’re gonna look at me and say that wasn’t totally badass!? I’ve never seen anyone do something like that before, not even Bruce!”

Jason shakes his head but really, he can’t help but agree. The quick wit to fight fire with fire like that, not to mention whatever information gathering Drake’s done before to be aware of Thompson’s secret mistress child in the first place, it’s impressive—frighteningly so. 

All this time, Jason thought Drake looked down on him—but if this is how Drake treats people he actually dislikes, Jason’s suddenly grateful he’s only ever been ignored. 

And this is the guy Damian is convinced actually has a bleeding heart? 

Though, that intensity was absent the whole night, only making an appearance when someone dared insult Damian specifically . Drake was biting and cold… but also protective—protective of Damian, Jason’s little brother. And dammit, if that doesn’t earn him quite a few points in Jason’s book.

Refocusing himself, Jason glances around and realizes Drake is gone— nowhere to be found. 

“Did you see him leave?” Jason asks Duke. There’s only one direct exit out of the hall they're in and the two of them are standing pretty close to it. 

Duke shakes his head. “I think he went down the hallway there,” he says, gesturing over to it. 

Jason frowns. There isn’t much down that way besides the bathroom... 

Jason’s eyes widen as a few things suddenly click into place: Drake’s slightly looser demeanor, the faint glassiness in his eyes… and something Duke said earlier finally hits him.

“Duke. When he took that drink before, did you say he actually drank from it?” 

Duke's eyes widen too, the implications setting in. “ Shit.” 

Jason could slap them both. They were so preoccupied with Drake intervening, seemingly aware of the drug, that they completely overlooked the fact that he fucking drank it . It probably wasn’t much before he dumped it out, but depending on the drug it could still have an affect on him. 

“Come on,” Jason barks, rushing as casually as he can. 

“Ugh,” Tim groans into the quiet of the empty bathroom after thoroughly emptying the contents of his stomach. He flushes the toilet and pushes his way out of the stall and towards the sink to wash his hands. 

He didn’t think much of grabbing that drink from Campion. A quick switch solved the problem easily enough, but not before Tim took a gulp to sell the act. 

Even now, Tim has habits that belong to his old body. Taking anything drugged is a bad idea, sure, but as a full time vigilante, Tim’s body had built up a reliance towards most toxins. One drink wouldn’t have affected him at all before, but now? Well. 

Still, he’s surprised it’s affecting him so much. He doesn’t have the tolerance he did before but he has some tolerance. Whatever Campion put in the champagne must have been particularly potent. 

Good, all the more reason for him to feel it instead of that girl. 

It’s been about 60 minutes since he ingested the drug, meaning it’s probably about to hit its peak. He needs to get out of here as soon as possible. 

The door to the bathroom suddenly bursts open and Tim straightens the best he can. The event is practically over now, there shouldn’t be…

Of fucking course. 

Tim stares through the mirror’s reflection, watching as Jason and Duke rush in. They give him a once-over, and he tries to appear unaffected—probably fails.

They’ve been watching him all night, probably in response to his and Damian’s little disagreement yesterday. Tim just ignored them as best as he could and went on with his evening as usual. 

He doesn’t think they saw him switch out the drink, but he can’t be certain. Duke has better control of his powers now than he did when Tim knew him, more experience. It’s harder to track him in a crowd—especially after he was drugged.

Still, Tim didn’t want to tip them off. He kept moving, stuck to the act, hoping the drug might even help sell the tipsy rich boy look but by the time he was speaking with Thompson, everything started slipping. 

Then the bastard just had to open his big mouth.

It was reckless and stupid of him to call out Thompson so blatantly, but his head hurts, his mind is fuzzy, and the asshole just wouldn’t shut up about his brother. 

And now these two are here doing…something.

God, what is his luck these days? 

Tim steels himself, ignoring his protesting body, and turns towards them, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at their starring. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Uhhh,” Jason starts unintelligently. “We were just..um.” 

Duke steps forward, “Uh. I’m Duke. Duke Thomas. This is Jason Todd-Wayne.” he says. 

Tim squints at them, trying to get what they’re playing at, but he’s having a harder than usual time focusing on anything. 

“I know who you are,” he says, throwing a vaguely cold look towards Jason specifically. In this life, they’ve only spoken a handful of times, but there’s always been an undercurrent of animosity between them that Tim has done nothing to disway, only feed. 

“Um right. Cool,” Duke nods. 

Tim raises an eyebrow, “Is there something I can do for you?” he repeats. They were clearly looking for him, but with how they’re behaving, he isn’t sure they know why anymore than Tim does. 

“Our brother works for you. Damian.” Duke says suddenly. 

Tim really isn’t in the proper headspace to sparse through what's happening right now so he just nods, “Yes. He does. So?” 

Duke throws a glance behind him at Jason, who just shrugs. 

Duke looks back to Tim and exhales, as if saying ‘fuck it.’ “We heard what you said out there. You uh, you stood up for him and…we just…wanted to say thanks.” 

Tim tenses. God dammit. Is he losing his reputation with all the Waynes now? 

Tim shrugs, as casually he can. “It’s not a big deal, I just don’t have much patience for hypocrites.”

Jason narrows his eyes knowingly, “It seemed like a bit more than that.” 

Oh, if only they knew . Tim laughs hollowly, feeling more out of control than he has in a while. Stupid drug. Stupid Campion. His mouth starts moving without his say so, “What can I say? Sometimes I just can’t keep my mouth shut.”

Suddenly, Tim’s head spins and it’s all he can do to grip the edge of the vanity behind him to not tumble forward. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder—steadying, firm, comforting, and far too familiar. Tim flinches away hard.

“Woah,” Jason raises his hands into Tim’s eyeline and steps a half step back, giving him space. “Just tryin to help, you looked like you were about to fall over.” 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to be clear. 

“You don’t look good, kid. Let us get you some help.” 

Tim shakes his head, “No, no that’s not necessary,” he raises his head up with, hopefully, a drunken looking smile. “Just had a few too many drinks, ya know? It happens.” 

Jason frowns, and if Tim had more cognizant ability, he’d know that that expression means nothing good. “Right,” Jason drawls. 

Tim straightens himself, trying to seem unaffected even as he feels the drug kicking into gear properly. “Really, I think I’m just gonna head home now.” 

“Did you drive yourself?” Duke asks pointedly. 

Shit.

“Uhh, yah,” Tim agrees. “But it’s fine. I’ll just call an uber.” 

Duke and Jason lock eyes, communicating without a single word—the universal language of the Bats, one Tim’s usually fluent in…except right now, apparently. 

“Let us drive you home,” Jason says.  

Tim adamantly shakes his head, the last thing he needs is more compromised time with the Waynes. “No, really. It’s fine. Don’t concern yourself.”

Duke frowns, “Come on man, you literally live right next door. It’s not a big deal. It’s the least we can do, yah?” 

Jason is already positioning himself at Tim’s side, not taking his weight but ready to at a moments notice. And for as much as his brain is telling him it’s a bad idea , Tim’s subconscious is already leaning into his warmth, knowing deep down in his vulnerable state that the brothers are safe. 

Tim sighs, giving in far too easily. “Yah, okay. FIne.” 

Duke leads the way out of the bathroom while Jason stays close to Tim’s side. Tim does his best to walk on his own, but every once in a while he still stumbles. Jason is always right there to steady him, taking his touch away as soon as he has his bearings again. Duke navigates them through the nearly empty museum and into the nearby parking garage. 

They approach a royal blue Jaguar F-TYPE sports car and Tim can’t help but smirk. He happens to know that this particular model has alway been one of Jason’s dream cars, though in the other reality he always said he wanted it in red. 

“Nice car,” Tim says softly as Jason loads him into the back seat, making sure he’s buckled. 

“Ha, thanks. The parental unit got it for me when I turned 21.” 

Tim laughs at that, honestly laughs but it’s not a pleasant sound—too loud, too brittle. It’s a joke the Titans used to make, referring to their various mentors/ family members as their parental units. They probably make those same jokes with Jason now, since ya know, he never died and Tim never joined. The thought sobers him, a bittersweet smile staying firmly on his face. 

He officially hates this drug. 

Jason and Duke trade a concerned expression unbeknownst to Tim, his consciousness fading in and out now. 

Tim doesn’t remember most of the drive. He sometimes comes into awareness, but for the most part, he’s just dizzy. At some point he feels a sharp pain on his arm, like somebody’s trying to inject him with something. He pulls away, ready to fight off his attacker but then he hears the soothing sound of his brother’s voice. 

“It’s alright, I’m just making sure you’ll be okay,” he hears vaguely. Oh. They’re checking his blood then. That’s fair enough, Tim has no idea what he's ingested or why it’s affecting him so strongly. 

“He should be fine,” he hears Duke say. “We’re really lucky he intervened. If that girl would’ve drunk the whole glass, the dosage probably would have killed her.” 

“Bastard,” Jason growls. “I’ll look into him tomorrow, make sure his supply is cut at the very least.” 

Duke hums in agreement. “Do you need help getting him inside?”

“Nah it should be fine. Stay in the car in case B gets antsy.”

Tim hears the sound of a car door opening and closing. Then a burst of cold hair hits him and a large hand shakes Tim’s shoulder. “Come on kid, we’re at your house. Gotta get you in.”

Tim groans, curling in on himself. “Mmnnm, just let me sleep, Jay.” 

The hand pulls away suddenly. 

“Did he just call you..?” 

“He’s just out of it,” Jason dismisses. “...You think he’d be okay with me carrying him?”

“You know him better than I do.” 

“I’m starting to doubt we know anything about him at all.” 

Duke scoffs, “You believe Damian now?” 

“Shudap.” 

Tim is suddenly weightless, cradled in firm, warm arms. He knows he should be concerned about that—he's so rarely touched by anyone anymore—but his brain registers no alarm. Instead, it hums with a quiet certainty: this is safe. This is fine.

My brain is very rarely wrong. It’s very smart that way, he thinks to himself. 

Tim feels more then hears a chuckle rumble against him, low and familiar. “So I’ve heard. Mind telling me the code to the front door?” 

Tim frowns, his mind sluggishly flipping through the possibilities. “101400,” he mutters. He’s pretty sure that’s what it is anyway, he updates it every few days. 

The door opens with a click. 

Hooray.

Jason huffs a laugh. 

“ Damn, and I thought our house was fancy,” Jason mutters, stepping inside the mansion. “Which way to your room?”

Tim blinks blearily at his surroundings, trying to get his bearings, and simply points towards the stairs. 

The walk up is quiet as Jason navigates the vast hallways, arms still steady around him. Tim thinks—just maybe—those arms tighten the longer they go.They’re on the second floor now and Tim hazily directs Jason towards the proper hallway. 

“Fifth door on the left,” Tim says, then slumps back into the comfortable arms, his task complete. 

Jason’s gait is soft, but not silent like Tim knows he could be. His footsteps seem to echo loudly, a sharp contrast to the mansion’s typical cavernous silence. 

“You really live here all by yourself?” Jason asks softly, pushing open the door into Tim’s room. It isn’t the room he grew up in, but it isn’t his parents bedroom either. Both felt like things of the past. 

“It’s better that way,” Tim breathes softly. 

“Better for who?” Jason asks, gently placing Tim down on his bed, and even covering him with his comforter.

“Better for everyone,” Tim answers easily. 

Jason steps away. The bed shifts gently as the warmth of his arms fades. Tim closes his eyes, ready to be alone again. Ready for the silence to return.

But the seconds pass and he can still feel someone there.

Tim forces his eyes open and is met by the sight of Jason still lingering in the doorway, uncertain and awkward.

He exhales, sounding almost pained. “I’ll see you around, okay Tim?” 

Tim smiles. At least his subconscious was giving him a nice dream. “Yeah. Sure, Jason.” 

Pain. All he knows is pain. 

"Tell me which hurts more, A..or B, forehand..or backhand.”

Jason spits into his face. 

“...I’m going to have to teach you a lesson….”

HIT

SLAP 

“Nah, I’m just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar…”

HAHAHAHAHA

God, that laugh. 

He just wants it to stop.

He wants it to STOP. 

And eventually…

It does…

Green.

All Jason can see is green. It invigorates him just as much as it burns, driving him forward to hurt, to kill. 

There’s a body beneath him, choking on their own blood. Jason dips his fingers into it, vindictively writing a bloody message on the wall. 

Jason Todd was here. 

Jason wakes with a muffled scream. For a second he can’t breathe at all for the panic that grips him. 

It isn’t uncommon for him to have nightmares, they all do. But this wasn’t a normal nightmare. It was like- it felt like… like…. 

His door creaks open and he instantly tenses, going for the throwing star under his pillow… but it's only Dick. 

Dick raises his hands up where Jason can see them. 

“Woah, it’s just me Jaybird,” he says soothingly. “I heard you… do you want company or no?”

Jason exhales shakily, “Please.”

Dick rushes forward, instantly encasing his younger brother into a secure, protective hold. 

“Shhh, it’s alright now, Little Wing. It was just a dream.” 

Jason bites back a whimper, bites back his impulse to insist it wasn’t just anything, trying to maintain some dignity even if it’s just Dick. He goes through his breathing exercises, just like Bruce taught them, slowly calming down with every passing minute. 

“...do you want to talk about it?” Dick hesitatingly asks when his breath evens out again. 

Jason reviews the dream in his mind, trying to decide whether or not that's a good idea… only… he can’t quite grasp the images anymore. It’s like trying to catch smoke, the imagery gone before he can grasp it.  

“...I...I can’t remember anymore.”

Chapter Text

Over the next week, Damian takes active steps to recoup some goodwill between himself and Drake. 

He didn’t really know what to expect coming in on Monday—between their spat on Friday and Drake’s apparent drugging at Saturday’s gala. But when he arrives, Drake is already there early, acting just the same as always. He doesn’t mention their disagreement, nor his interaction with his brothers. It’s like he’s pretending it never happened, a tactic Damian is far too used to both implementing himself and dealing with from the family.

So, Damian goes along with it and tries to be on his best behavior. Admittedly, that doesn’t even last the entire day. 

Before Tam left, she told him that being bold with Drake would probably do more good for their relationship than anything else. After Friday, Damian thought for certain she was wrong, and that he should in fact increase his professionalism to gain Drake’s confidence. 

But at 3pm, Damian comes into Drake’s office with a couple things for him to sign and finds him slumped against his desk, head resting in one hand—fast asleep. And something in Damian snaps. 

Despite Drake’s consistent personality shifts, Damian is confident that falling asleep at his desk is extremely out of character for him. He cares too much about the work. Damian isn’t sure if it’s from the events over the weekend, Drake coming in earlier than scheduled, or just his obvious lack of self preservation skills, but the man is clearly exhausted. 

And if Drake can’t take care of himself properly, logically, as his assistant, the job must fall to Damian.

Damian storms up to his desk and slams the files down as loudly as the paper will allow. Drake immediately shoots awake, eyes wild for a second before he takes in his surroundings, relaxing upon seeing Damian. 

He shakes his head as if shaking himself into awareness. “Sorry about that. Did you need something?” 

“No. But you need to rest.” Damian states. 

Drake blinks slowly, sleep still clinging to him. “...What?” 

“You are exhausted. You came in 2 hours ahead of schedule this morning, you can take 2 hours to recoup some sleep,” Damian goes around the desk, up to his side, and grabs his arm, pulling him to his feet.

Drake stumbles after him, Damian’s grip unrelenting. Drake doesn’t even put up much of a fight, though that's probably more to do with his shock. It only takes a couple of seconds for Damian to get him across the room and dumped onto the couch. That seems to startle him. 

“Wha-? Damian I can’t just take a nap in the middle of the work day!”

“What exactly would you call what you were just doing?” 

“You littl- I didn’t mean to - !” 

“And yet, you did, meaning your body is under undo stress and you cannot be expected to perform at peak efficiency in such a state.” Damian goes back to Drake’s desk and grabs his laptop. “Therefore, I will cover your menial tasks, of which you know I am completely capable, and you will lie on that couch and shut your eyes. Two hours, Drake!”

Damian sits himself in the lounge chair facing the couch across the coffee table, opening the laptop and getting straight to work. If Drake knows what's good for him, he won’t argue. 

A few seconds pass, but Drake still doesn’t move to lie down. Damian glares at him, “Were my instructions not clear?” 

And Drake... Drake gets this incredibly fond expression in his eyes, his lips curving upwards into perhaps the most authentic smile he’s seen from him yet. 

Drake raises his hands in surrender and settles himself down on his side. In just a few minutes, he’s out like a light. 

From then on, Damian doesn’t even try to censor himself. He’s still completely professional in front of others or when communicating on behalf of Drake Industries, but when it’s just him and Drake? Damian is brutally honest and blunt, just as he is in every other part of his life besides the public. He doesn’t mince words, and doesn’t try to appeal to what he thinks Drake wants to hear. 

Drake, for his part, seems relieved, and quickly adapts to the change. They settle back into the rapport they had started to build at the beginning. Damian starts asking questions constantly, eager to soak up every bit of information he can, and Drake answers every single one. 

They work better now than ever. 

Drake still puts up his facade from time to time, going oddly cold for no discernible reason, but Damian decidedly doesn’t react to it. He reigns in his annoyed glances and frustrated sighs and just accepts it as best he can. It’s only been a week of this shifted dynamic; Damian knows Drake’s trust won’t come all at once. But still, he hopes in time he will drop the act completely. 

After the Gala, Duke and Jason debriefed the family on all the events leading up to and following Drake being drugged. Although they both refused to repeat what was said, it was clear that Drake had defended Damian against one of his own people. Even in his drug-hazed state, Drake stood up for him. 

Damian still doesn’t know how to feel about that, it invokes such complicated emotions in him that he doesn’t understand. He should be grateful. He is grateful, but he also feels… guilty, like he hasn’t earned any such kindness from Drake. Even though he’s never wronged Drake—at least not that he’s aware of—he can’t shake the feeling that he needs to make up for something. Hence, his new dedication to making sure Drake takes care of himself. 

What’s even stranger is that Damian isn’t the only one who feels this way. Following the events of the gala, the entire family’s interest has spiked. In an unlikely turn of events, Jason is now as much invested into the Timothy Drake Mystery as Damian himself. He’s been coming up with one outlandish theory after another to explain the inconsistencies in his character and behavior.. 

His current theory is that Drake is a Meta. 

“Think about it!” Jason insists one night. “Barbie said he isolates himself, a fact I can confirm from that empty ass mansion. He’s all by himself insisting it’s for the best. He has internalized Meta-phobia or some shit.” 

Damian cocks his head consideringly, “It could explain why he’s desperate to blend in with the crowd.” 

“But why would he have, and I quote, “Meta-phobia”? Duke asks sceptically. 

“First, I’ve done my homework on his parents and they were terrible ,” Jason starts. “I bet it’s something they taught him, that he’s got to hide his powers to be "normal” or somethin’. Second, he lives in Gotham! A place known for Batman’s “no-meta” rule.” 

“With exceptions,” Dick inputs, bumping Duke playfully. 

“Yah well, not everyone is lucky enough to get the okay from the Bat himself,” Jason mutters. 

Bruce looks up from his work across the cave where he's been pretending not to listen to their conversation, “Are you trying to say this is my fault?” 

“I’m not trying to say anything,” Jason deadpans. “ I am, in fact, saying it.” 

Damian shakes his head fondly at their banter, knowing there is no real heat behind it. 

While there are some merits to the Meta theory, nobody is willing to put much stock into it without more proof. At the very least, they all agree that Timothy is in desperate need of connection and they are all determined to help. 

And so begins the first steps of their newly minted plan: Make friends with Timothy Drake. 

Drake is a pretty private person, so the only way for Damian’s brothers to directly involve themselves is to either approach Drake at the occasional public event, or to make up reasons to see him, the easiest of which is through Damian himself. 

And so everyday, one of his brothers starts showing up at Drake Industries under one excuse or another. 

The first time, Jason comes in under the pretense of giving Damian his lunch. He gives the office door a quick knock before coming in. When Drake realizes who it is, he looks properly panicked. He quickly hides his unease though and answers Jason’s questions about how he’s been feeling calmly enough, though it’s not enough to have either Jason or Damian fooled.  

The next time, it’s Dick coming to pick Damian up and his interaction with Drake is halted and awkward to say the least. 

Drake is in the middle of something when Dick just waltzes in without so much as a knock. Timothy was clearly expecting Damian, so when he looks up, his hard startled shouldn’t be as surprising as it is to Damian. 

“Uhh, Mr. Grayson,” Drake says, turning professional in an instant, though Damian can see the faint tightness around his eyes.

Dick offers a small smile, “Hiya. I’m just here to pick up Damian.” 

“Ah,” Drake nods, but doesn’t say anything further. 

Dick pauses, his eyes scanning Drake's face curiously, like he’s looking for something. The silence stretches between them and Damian can see the tension in Drake steadily rising, his shoulders stiffening and his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side.

 “I don’t know if you remember,” Dick finally starts again. “but we’ve met a few times before when you were younger.”

Drake swallows. “I remember,” he says simply, but more strained then the situation has any reason for. 

Dick hums, staring. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

Drake tightens his jaw, and just nods. “It does.”

There’s another brief silence, thick and uncomfortable, weighted for reasons Damian doesn’t understand, and it doesn’t seem like Dick does either.

Damian steps forward, breaking the odd standoff, “We should get going, Richard.” 

“Of course!” Dick shakes his head, almost like he’s shaking himself from some sort of trance. “It was good to see you, Timothy.” 

Drake just gives a single polite nod, “Likewise.”

Dick and Damian both agree the whole interaction was just weird. To Damian’s more trained eye, Drake just looked so… sad . 

Damian has never so desperately wished his sister(s) were here to intervene. Damian thinks Drake would actually get along with Cass, Steph, and even Barbara, probably more than his brothers anyway. 

After a week of this, with every small interaction, Drake steadily grows more prepared for them and thus more able to deflect any attempts of connection. And so, against Damian’s better judgement, the Wayne’s decide to step it up. 

It’s Friday evening, just a week after Damian stormed out of the office burning with fury (A lot really can happen in a week). Damian packs his things at his desk slowly, eyes flicking over towards the elevator now and then. 

His phone chimes.

On our way up, the text reads. 

Damian nods to himself and slips into Drake’s office where he’s still hunched over his computer. 

“That isn’t due until next Wednesday,” Damian reminds him. 

Drake smirks, not looking up. “You know there’s something to be said about getting ahead on your work.” 

“And there’s something to be said about going home on time. You know, resting. Not that you’re familiar with the concept.” 

Drake rolls his eyes. “Like you're one to talk,” he murmurs, barely audible, but Damian still catches it. “You got any plans for the weekend?” Drake asks before Damian can comment. 

“Not especially,” Damian replies casually. “You?” 

Drake huffs, “You know my schedule better than I do.” 

Damian smirks, “Indeed.” 

There’s a knock at the door and it swings open revealing both Dick and Jason. Drake’s expression immediately smooths over, erasing any hint of himself there was just a moment ago. 

“Hey Little D,” Dick greets, ruffling Damian’s perfectly styled hair. 

Damian pushes him away, “Get off, Richard!”  

Dick just laughs while Damian gives him a viscous glare. 

“I hope our little demon of a brother isn’t giving you too much trouble, Drake,” Jason jokes. 

Drake looks up from his laptop, “No, of course not. Damian is very helpful,” he says monotone. 

Jason frowns, “Damian? Very helpful? That doesn’t sound right.”

“I will stab you,” Damian gripes, momentarily forgetting himself. 

But Drake’s lips quirk up for just a second before he tries to ignore them again by going back to work. The brothers trade victorious glances. 

Jason pushes himself forward, leaning his elbows on the desk and getting into Drake’s space. “SO! Timothy, may I call you Timothy?” 

“Uhh-” 

“We're gonna head back to Bristol and have dinner together at Wayne Manor, we try to get together every week. You in?” 

Drake blinks at him, baffled. “What?” 

Dick steps closer, “We’d like you to come to dinner! Damian’s told us so much about you and it’s kinda weird we know so little about our literal next door neighbor.” 

“And it’s not like you have anybody to go home to anyway,” Jason jokes a little harshly. 

Drake’s face blue screen and reboots at least twice before he finally responds, “Um, that’s very kind of you. I appreciate the offer. Unfortunately, I have some more work that-”

“No, you don’t.” Damian cuts him off knowing exactly what he’d say. Damian nods towards his computer, “Not due until Wednesday, remember?” 

Drake glares at him, properly glares , but it only makes Damian more smug. “In fact, your entire weekend is clear.” Drake opens his mouth but Damian cuts him off again, “Like you said, I know your schedule better than you do.” 

Dick claps his hands together, “Then it’s settled! We parked down in the parking garage, I assume you did too?” he asks as Damian collects Drake’s few personal items and puts them in his bag. 

Jason pulls Drake’s chair out from the desk while Dick pulls him to his feet. Damian hands him his bag and just like that, they’re ushering him out the door. 

“What is happening?” he mutters almost to himself as the brothers push him into the elevator. 

“You’re coming to dinner,” Damian tells him sternly. The elevator closes and the four of them descend down into the parking level. 

Drake is tense, his entire body drawn in, trying to make himself as small as possible and avoid any sort of contact. Damian looks over his shoulder at Dick and gives him a significant look, doing a couple of hand signs where Drake can’t see. 

Target. Fleeing. he signs confidently. 

Damian doesn’t know how, but he knows as soon as they get to their cars Drake is gonna split off and go anywhere but the manor. Dick nods once, signing back Will handle.

The elevator opens and Dick steps out. Tim waits a moment for Damian to step out next then follows, allowing Jason to take the rear. Damian blinks. It had to be a coincidence Drake naturally fell into their standard formation… right? 

Drake points across the way towards the opposite side of the garage from visitor parking. “I’m just there,” he says with a small wave. Damian hits Dick with his elbow. 

“ Ow! Uh, would you mind if I drove with you? I can show you where it's best to park on the Manor’s grounds, it can be tricky the first time,” Dick tells him. 

It’s a weak lie, but not one Drake can really argue with. He shuts his eyes for a long second, almost like he’s gathering patience, then purses his lips and nods. “Yah, alright.” 

Dick practically skips over to him and gives a big wave towards Jason and Damian. “See you over there!” he yells. 

Jason huffs, “That was either the best or worst thing we could have done to get him to like us.” 

“Better then sending you with him,” 

Jason slaps him up the head. 

“Todd!!” 

Tim does his best not to fidget, keeping his eyes squarely on the road, all but completely ignoring the fact Dick is there at all. 

These last few days have been…different. Ever since the Gala and Tim’s extremely unfortunate lack of drug tolerance, there’s been an uptick in Wayne siblings visiting the office. And now this? Surely they don’t think they’re being subtle. 

God knows why they’d even want to spend time with him willingly. Probably because of what he did under said drug influence. The night is a bit foggy, especially towards the end, but Tim remembers enough to get the basics. He went to bat for Damian, right there where anybody—Duke and Jason— could hear him. 

He even let the brothers take him home. God , he hopes he didn’t say or do anything too revealing. At the very least they probably saw the inside of his house. Between that and Oracle snooping in on him… they can probably see how secluded he is, and in true Bat fashion decided they needed to fix it. 

He’s been so sloppy. The whole point of the persona was so that they wouldn’t want anything to do with him, but just a few weeks as Damian’s boss has that all going down the drain. 

He defended Damian and now they think they need to…repay him? With some sort of pity friendship? Better yet, Bruce probably heard more about the poor orphan kid next door with black hair and blue eyes and decided he needed to intervene. 

But there’s nothing to be done about it now. For better or worse, Tim is officially on the Wayne’s radar. That's alright. This is fine.

He simply has to prove them wrong. They want him to come to dinner? Fine. He’ll prove their assumptions are just that. He is in fact perfectly happy as he is, and does not want— nor need—any intervention. He will calm their concerns and they’ll move on.

Unfortunately, that means being a bit more true to his real nature. By now, Damian has seen enough of his true personality. He can’t afford to be a cold-hearted asshole here—that would only raise more alarm bells. But he can be friendly enough, happy, polite, and honest when he knows he’s being scrutinized.

He’s made his bed, and he can lie in it. 

Tim isn’t naive, though. He recognizes that a family dinner may not be the best thing for his mental health, but he’s always been good at compartmentalism. He can manage one night without getting overwhelmed. 

He’ll be fine. 

Everything is fine. 

Maybe if he keeps thinking it, it will become true. 

It’s about a 20 minute drive from Drake Industries back to Wayne Manor (at non-batmobile speeds anyway). Damian is uncharacteristically fidgety the whole way. 

“What’s got you so on edge?” Jason asks. 

Damian bites back an immediate denial of any such thing, it would be a pointless lie. 

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I just… I want him to trust me…us.”

“Trust takes time,” Jason reminds him. “And don’t forget it goes both ways.”

Damian ponders on that the remaining drive. Within a few minutes, they pull into Wayne Manor’s long driveway. 

Drake parks his car on the west end where they usually direct guests to go while Jason pulls into the interior garage. Damian is hopping out of the car before it’s even fully in park, hurrying inside towards the kitchen area. 

“Ah, Master Damian,” Alfred greets him. “I assume Master Timothy has agreed to join us tonight.” 

“Not so much agreed as was coerced,” Jason answers coming up behind Damian. 

Alfred gives them a hard look, “I do hope you minded your manors.” 

“Of course! This is us you’re talking about Alfie,” Jason smiles. 

Alfred sighs, “Where is the young sir then?” 

“He should be coming in the front with Dick.” 

“We should go greet him then,” Bruce chimes in as he passes by the kitchen doorway, already on his way. Damian and Jason make eye contact and rush after him. 

Duke is already in the entry hall, freshly showered from his patrol. Bruce is dressed about as casually as Bruce Wayne ever does in comfortable slacks and a button up white shirt. Damian quickly sheds his own blazer and hangs it up with the other coats. 

“Remember what I told you,” Damian says seriously, pointing at each of them. “Drake responds well to authenticity. If you’re fake, he will be too. That being said, behave yourselves. Drake is an only child and this family is mad enough on a good day.” 

“Don’t overwhelm the latchkey child. Got it,” Jason smirks. 

Damian glares at him warningly. 

There’s a quick knock at the door and Dick opens it from the outside, pushing Drake in first. 

“Welcome to Wayne Manor!” Dick says with a flourish. 

Damian quickly takes in Drake’s stance. He’s definitely on his guard. His body language is open, seemingly relaxed but Damian knows better now. His eyes are too tight, his expression too demure for him to be truly at ease. 

Father approaches him first, holding out a hand. “I believe we’ve met before, but it’s nice to see you outside the limelight” he says, his voice somewhere between his natural timbre and his Brucie Wayne voice, a compromise of sorts. 

Drake shakes his hand, “Good to see you again, Mr. Wayne.” 

“Call me Bruce, please!” 

Drake smirks, a bit of his hidden snark creeping into his voice. “Oh course, Mr. Wayne.”

Damian rolls his eyes, fond despite himself. 

Bruce just chuckles, unbothered, “You’ve met my son Jason, of course,” he motions to his tallest son. Drake gives him an awkward nod like he doesn't know what approach is best to take with him. “And I believe you’ve been introduced to Duke as well.” 

Drake clears his throat, “Yes, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Thank you both again for helping me home the other night,” he says to both of them, his manners perfect, his tone giving nothing away. 

Jason shrugs, “It’s hardly the first time I’ve had to drag a delirious socialite back to Bristol.” 

Bruce gives him a look from behind Drake, but Drake’s lips just twitch unoffended, almost like he’s in on the joke. 

“I can only imagine,” Drake deadpans. 

Duke covers his mouth and coughs, holding back a laugh. 

“May I take your suit jacket, sir?” Alfred says as he enters the hall. 

Drake freezes, his whole body much more stiff than it was a moment ago. He turns slowly to face Alfred, his face completely devoid of emotion, except for his eyes. Damian is reminded of the first time he spoke to Drake at the gala, the split second of pure emotion he glimpsed in his eyes before it was gone again. Seeing it now is almost like deja vu. 

“That’s alright,” Tim says softly. “I’ll keep it on.” 

“As you wish, Master Timothy.” 

“Ti- Tim,” he suddenly stutters, his mask fracturing for a second. His eyes widen slightly, like he’s surprised at his own words. “I go by Tim.” 

“Would you like to follow me into the dining room then, Master Tim?” 

Tim nods and together they all follow Alfred deeper into the house. 

The dining room is set with their less formal dishware, but it still has the effect of being both chic and cozy. The food is already set out on the table.

Bruce takes his usual spot at the head of the table, and the others follow suit. They don’t exactly have a seating chart, but they’re all creatures of habit, each with their own preferred spot. 

Typically, Bruce sits at the head with Dick on his right and Damian on his left. Duke sits next to Damian and Jason across from Duke. Cass sits next to Jason and Steph across from her beside Duke. When Barbara comes, she sets her wheelchair at the far end of the table at the other head, facing Bruce. 

Tim watches them as they all start to find their seats and lingers awkwardly by the doorway, like he’s unsure where he is supposed to go. Duke notices as much and right before he sits he scoots down a chair, motioning for Tim to sit where he normally does beside Damian and across from Jason. Tim swallows, but nods gratefully and takes the seat. 

“So, Tim,” Bruce starts as they all begin to fill their plates. “Damian has been telling me about Drake Industries, I understand one of your suppliers recently dropped out on you.” 

“They did,” Tim sighs. “It was a bit chaotic there for a second, but I think we’ve got everything under control again.” 

Tim and Bruce got back and forth for a while, talking purely business. They go over recent events and how their companies have been addressing them. They discuss how beneficial the partnership between DI and WE has been for Gotham and brainstorm new ideas going forward.  

Since Tim works almost exclusively with Lucius, the two business owners have never sat down directly to speak to each other. The public doesn’t view Bruce as any sort of real authority over Wayne Enterprises, merely the owner. Most don’t realize just how involved he truly is (some people might say the same about Tim). 

But if Tim is surprised at Bruce following along the conversation so well, he doesn’t show it. 

The conversation seems to help Tim relax, looking less and less like he’s about to bolt with every minute. Eventually though, the rest of the family gets bored with the topic. 

Jason intervenes first, “Soooo Timbourine. How’s it really been working with Damian?” He leans in, “And you can be honest.” 

Damian glares across the table at his brother who just smirks. Tim raises an eyebrow at the nickname but doesn’t comment. 

“I meant what I said earlier, Damian is doing very well,” Tim responds, sounding truthful. 

“He certainly lasted longer than I thought he would,” Jason snarks. 

Damian stabs at his dinner a bit too harshly, “What’s that supposed to mean, Todd?” 

“Boys,” Bruce intervenes before a fight can break out.

Tim smiles a bit, “Damian isn’t meant for assistantship, that's for sure. Anyone can see he’s meant for bigger things, but he’s hard working and does the job. It was… an adjustment on my part in the beginning, but I think we’re doing alright now.” 

“We are,” Damian agrees. 

“Damian mentioned you’re quite close with your usual assistant,” Bruce comments. 

“Tamara, yes, she’s fantastic.”

“Knowing how indispensable Mr. Fox has become to me and WE, I can only imagine.” 

Tim nods enthusiastically, “It’s true. I was lucky she came on when she did. I was still figuring things out back then. I probably would have self-imploded if she didn’t keep me on course.” 

“That tracks,” Damian mutters. Duke snorts. Tim gives Damian the side eye but does’t comment. 

 “I understand you took over your family's business quite young,” Dick poses, taking a sip from his drink. 

Drake nods once. “I did,” he says simply, his face deceptively open, though Damian thinks he catches a hint of bemusement, which is fair. It is common knowledge Drake is one of the youngest CEOs of all time, which then begs the question of what Dick is fishing for. 

“I guess I’m just curious,” Dick explains. “Did you always know that DI was what you wanted to do with your life?” 

Tim looks down at his food, a slight crease in his brow. 

“No,” he finally answers. “No, I didn’t think this is what I would do.” 

“Then why did you?” Duke asks carefully, noticing the shift in tone. 

Tim ponders the questions, subconsciously chewing at the side of his lip. 

Damian recognizes it has a nervous habit of his…though…. he’s never actually seen Tim do it before…. How did he know that?

“My parent’s company was not well managed,” Tim says plainly, distracting Damian from his thoughts. “Had I not stepped in, it would’ve gone under. I could have let that happen, I have plenty of inheritance without it but…it seemed like such a waste.” 

“A waste?” Bruce encourages. 

Damian watches him curiously, wondering if Drake will finally be honest about something for once. 

“Wasted potential,” Tim decides. “I knew it could be better than it ever was, and I knew I could make that happen. How could I waste an opportunity to… do so much?” He swallows. “To make a bit of difference,” he says almost to himself. 

Damian smiles a bit. It isn’t an all out confession, but it’s more than Damian has ever managed to get out of him. And Damian knows that his family sees it too—beneath the flowery words, Tim legitimately cares. It’s the exact mindset each of them carry as vigilantes. If any of them have the chance to make someone's life that much better, even at the risk of their own, how can they not take that chance? 

“That’s pretty noble of you,” Jason smirks as he leans back in his chair, a playful glint in his eye. “You know, for a rich boy.”

Bruce sends him a warning glance but Tim just huffs, amused. “Out of the two of us, who’s the son of the wealthiest man in the world?” 

“Ooohhhh,” Duke goads, mockingly drawing out the word. “He’s got you there.”

“That has never been confirmed,” Jason defends. 

“Bruce?” Dick glances at him for confirmation, his brow raised expectantly.

Bruce looks back and forth between the two sides of the table, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for the diplomatic response. “...I can neither confirm nor deny—”

Duke laughs, “So that’s a yes.” 

The tension breaks as chuckles ripple around the table. Even Jason shakes his head good-naturedly, shrugging as if to say, “Fair enough.”

“So what would you have done then?” Dick asks Tim, leaning forward curiously, going back to the original subject. “If you didn’t take over when you did, what would you have wanted to be?”

Tim smiles a bit wistfully, “ ‘ I should have been a great many things .’ ”

Jason practically chokes on his food, coughing and waving his hand. “I’m sorry. Did you just quote Little Women at me?”

Tim's eyes light up mischievously. He looks Jason straight in the eye, suddenly very intense, and asks, “ ‘ Do you know it?’ ”

Jason’s mouth drops a bit, “... Every word .”

“Ha!” Tim exclaims loudly, dropping the intensity as quickly as he put it on. He points at Jason, grinning like he’s just proved a point. “You just quoted Shakespeare in Love !”

“Wh-? You-! I did not!” 

"Did too." 

"Well, how would you even know that if you haven't seen it?" 

Tim shrugs cheekily, " 'I don't know. It's a mystery.' "

"You-" Jason bites back his tongue, knowing any comment on that would give him away. 

Tim scoffs playfully, “Oh come on, you fessed up to liking Louisa May Alcott, but you can’t admit to liking a romcom?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason insists, keeping his face completely blank, a red flag to anyone that knows him that he’s lying. 

“Yes, you do,” Dick declares, laughing. 

“Dickie, don’t you dare!”

Dick leans in towards Tim, as if imparting a secret. “It’s one of his favorite movies, actually,” He whispers conspiringly. 

Jason stands so fast, his chair falls behind him. “Dammit Dick!”

Dick jumps up just as fast, hands raised in mock defense, ready to block Jason’s blows.

“No fighting at the table!” 

Fighting ensues. 

Neither of them would ever risk actually sparring in the middle of the dining room, their civilian guest notwithstanding. They’re far more afraid of risking Alfred’s wrath. Still, the brothers trade a few mock blows, Jason aiming for a particular ticklish spot on Dick’s torso they all know he’s especially sensitive to. 

“Ah! Haha- Stop that! That’s low even for you!” Dick struggles, managing to push him off and wrangle his younger brother into a headlock. “There! How do you like that?” Dick mocks. 

“You are literally the worst!” Jason bites back. 

Bruce shakes his head at their antics and stands, practically scuffing both boys by their necks, separating and manhandling them back into their seats just as Alfred enters the room at the sound of their commotion. He raises a very unimpressed eyebrow at the two of them and they immediately look down, sheepish. 

Damian rolls his eyes fondly. The fight, if it could even be called that, was tame compared to what they’re all capable of, but still rough in a way Damian has learned is fairly normal amongst brothers. 

Damian chances a glance at Tim to see his reaction to such tomfoolery, only… Tim’s eyes are glassy, almost vacant—like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Damian frowns, the light mood draining from him in an instant. “...Tim?” 

Tim blinks quickly, as if startled back into the present, and suddenly stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Uh—sorry, could I use the restroom?” 

“Oh course, Master Tim.” Alfred replies easily. “I can show you-”

“It’s fine, Alfred. I got it,” he assures and rushes out of the room, his footsteps hurried and uneven, echoing down the hallway, going far further than necessary for the nearest bathroom. 

They look at each other in stunned silence. 

“...What just happened?” Dick asks first, his brow creased in concern.

“...I don’t know,” Duke murmurs, frowning. He looks toward the door Tim disappeared through.“Things were going well… weren’t they?” 

“ Tt, you idiots scared him off!” Damian growls, pushing his chair back sharply.

“You told us to be ourselves!” Jason shoots back. 

“I guess that was my mistake!” he hisses. 

Alfred steps closer to the table, “You can argue later,” he says sternly. “Right now, we have a compromised guest probably lost in the manor.”

Damian stands, his jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. “I’ll find him.” He doesn’t wait for an agreement or protest, merely gets up and goes. Timothy is his responsibility, so he’ll take care of it. 

Drake isn’t in the guest bathroom, because of course he isn’t. Damian scours the bottom floor of the manor knowing it’s unlikely Drake would venture too far. When he doesn’t find him in the most obvious places, Damian goes towards the lesser used parts of the East wing, thinking perhaps Drake took a wrong turn. 

Damian enters a dimly lit hallway and… sure enough. There's a door at the end of the hallway that's half open, letting light flood out into the dark corridor. 

Damian gazes at it curiously, realizing just which door he’s looking at. It is a restroom, but it’s behind a false wall panel, making it near impossible to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for. 

How did.. How did Tim know it was there?

Damian steps forward silently, his ear picking up the quiet sound of Drake's voice as he gets closer and… something else. 

Damian stops just a few feet away and simply listens, hearing what almost sounds like…licking?

“ Ack, alright, alright that's enough,” Tim is saying and Damian finally places the sound. That’s Titus. 

Titus gives a very unhappy grumble, a sound so distinct, Damian would know it anywhere. He freezes, panicked for a split second. Titus is supposed to be locked away in his kennel right now. The dog is extremely loyal, but to a fault. It takes him a long while to warm up to people, so whenever they have guests, they have to keep him away, or risk the dog biting someone. 

“How the hell are you so big, anyway?” Tim says fondly, Damian barely making out the sound of him petting the Great Dane. 

Damian can do nothing but stand there with his mouth agape, because he has never seen Titus take an instant liking to somebody ever. 

But apparently he… likes Tim?

Tim laughs softly, an honest laugh Damian has rarely, if ever, heard. “Have you been a good boy, Titus?” Tim whispers warmly. 

Damian stumbles back. 

In his shock, Damian fails to muffle the sound of his footsteps, and Tim instantly goes quiet. Damian sighs to himself and cuts his losses, stepping fully into the doorway so Tim can see him. Drake is sitting on the floor with Titus settled determinedly in his lap as he gives the dog scritches behind his ears. 

“I see you’ve met Titus,” Damian says as neutrally as he can, leaning casually against the doorway. Tim swallows and simply nods, his face going back to that cold distant expression he uses at his most defensive. 

“...are you alright?” Damian asks. The words feel clumsy in his mouth—awkward, uncertain. He isn’t good at the whole emotional vulnerability thing, the whole family struggles with it, though therapy does help. 

If Drake doesn’t have a therapist, he certainly needs one. 

Tim gently pushes Titus off his lap, ignoring the unhappy wuff that earns him. Tim rises slowly, brushing invisible dust from his pants. He clears his throat, “Honestly, I don’t think I’m feeling super well. I should get home,” Drake says in a flat neutral tone. 

Damian swallows. There it is again—that twisting pull in his gut, the instinct that something is wrong, deeply wrong. Even with all the—quite frankly—strange behavior from Drake lately, something in Damian is screaming at him to make him stay. To do something. Anything.

But despite what his brothers might think, he can’t exactly force him to do something he doesn’t want to. 

“I see,” Damian does his best to match his tone. “I’m sure the others will want to say goodbye-”

“No.” The word comes a little too loud, a little too quick. Tim flinches, then takes a breath, resetting himself and starts again in the same monotone as before, “That is…I think it’s best if I just go.” 

Damian stares at him, trying with all his might to see beyond the mask. There’s something buried in those eyes—something old and exhausted and hurt. Like the aftermath of a fire no one knew had been burning.

Damian is so confused. Confused at Drake’s behavior, his apparent knowledge of their family, the bubbling emotions inside of him that have no reason to be there. Something is going on and he wants answers. Desperately. 

But he won’t get them—at least not tonight.

Damian sighs, long and low. “I’ll walk you out,” he allows. 

Drake doesn’t respond, but his eyes flick to Damian’s, and for just a second, they’re soft. Grateful. Apologetic.

Neither speaks as Damian escorts him through the manor. The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s heavy. They walk side by side through the twists and turns. Tim doesn’t hesitate or falter once and Damian can’t shake the feeling that Drake knows the way just as well as he does. 

When they reach the grand entryway again, Damian can’t take it anymore. He turns to him abruptly.

“Timothy, I-” he hesitates when he sees Tim’s face flinch just a bit. “Drake,” he amends, pushing onward. “I’m sorry if this was too much. My family can be..insistent.”

Tim shakes his head adamantly, “No, Dami, no. It was… “ he looks away, blinking his eyes rapidly again. “...I enjoyed every second of it. But I… I have to go now.”

“…alright,” Damian allows. “I will see you on Monday.” He means for it to be a statement but it comes out more like a question. 

Drake nods, “Of course. I’ll see you, Monday.”

He turns and rushes out the door, the brisk air sweeping through the entryway as the door slams shut behind him, leaving Damian standing there with more conflicted feelings than he knows what to do with.

Chapter Text

Bruce mentally keeps track of the time it takes Damian to search for Tim. It’s already certainly been longer than necessary, but not yet a cause of concern. Finally, Damian makes his way back into the dining room—alone— his expression stormy and conflicted. 

Jason frowns, “Where’d he go?”

“...He left,” Damian says simply. 

“He left?” “Left?” “Oh, dear.” Dick, Jason, and Alfred utter simultaneously. 

Bruce raises a hand, preventing them from immediately jumping to conclusions. 

“What happened, Damian?” Bruce asks cooly. 

Damian hesitates, as if debating with himself how much he should say. 

“He was emotional…” he starts haltingly. “Well I could tell he was trying not to be emotional. He just said he wasn’t feeling well and had to go.” 

The table frowns at each other in mutual confusion. “Why the hell would he be emotional?” Jason mutters. 

Damian shakes his head, clearly at a loss. 

Bruce doesn’t know why either but… he feels like he should. 

Timothy Drake has always been an interesting character to Bruce. Granted, he was never really on his radar until Jason came home from school one day ranting about their stuck up neighbor. After that, Bruce made a point of observing the child from afar when they were at the same events. 

The boy was just like any other born into privilege—entitled and arrogant—but with enough wit and intelligence to make anyone think twice about crossing him, even as a pre-teen.

He embodied some of his parents' most defining characteristics—for better or worse—and did so with calculated intention.

But it was the aftermath of these interactions that always nagged at Bruce—the way Timothy would look to his parents afterward, searching for any sign of acknowledgment. How he silently obeyed every wordless command from his mother, how his posture remained perfect, not a hair out of place. And his eyes, always searching for a scrap of validation.

To Bruce, it explained everything Jason had always complained about. Timothy was simply being who his parents had taught him to be. Bruce never expected kindness from the Drakes when it came to the adoption of what they deemed ‘street trash’—so why would their son be any different?

It was a sad situation. 

Given his clear potential, Bruce sometimes wondered what kind of boy Timothy might have been without his parents' influence—if he had been given the validation he so clearly, desperately needed.

In many ways, he saw himself in the boy. Bruce grew up knowing there were expectations for him. Had his parents been there to help him, he would have been shielded from the brunt of them. He had Alfred, of course, but the butler could only do so much. By the time he was 8, his parents were dead, leaving him to shoulder the burdens… alone.

But Timothy? Timothy had his parents, and yet they did nothing to alleviate the pressure off their only child. 

Bruce has always tried to stay somewhat ‘in the know’ about the movements of his fellow socialites. The Drakes, while formidable opponents in their own right, never really dealt in overly shady business—at least, not bad enough for Batman to intervene. They left their company’s fate to people far less competent than themselves and focused instead on their passion for collecting and dealing rare artifacts. 

Said passion took them all over the world on various tours and archaeological dig sites. 

But Timothy was always in Gotham. 

By the time he was 12, Timothy consistently attended events unaccompanied, shouldering the responsibility of maintaining the social status of the Drake name. 

There was a time Bruce considered becoming more… involved in the situation. 

The Drake’s were employing a ‘Mrs. Mac’ under the title of both housekeeper and caregiver to Timothy, but Bruce suspected the ‘caregiver’ title was a bit of an exaggeration. 

But then Damian appeared in his life, then Cass, eventually Duke, and Bruce admittedly got a bit sidetracked for a while.

His mind didn’t go back to the Timothy Drake issue until he got word of his parents death. Surely that would have been a good time to offer support. But by then, Timothy was already showing his independence, quickly graduating and taking a year to travel the world. 

And once he got back? Well, let's just say Timothy was his parents' son in every way imaginable. 

Still, Drake Industries flourished under his leadership and the company became a prominent partner of Wayne Enterprises. DI’s dealings have been clean, a fact Bruce has continually confirmed himself over the years. 

But Bruce has always maintained a healthy amount of wariness where Timothy Drake was concerned, mostly because of his inherited ability to sway public opinion. He worried about what that could mean for his children if one of them got on Timothy’s bad side.

Allowing Damian this internship was a risk, but ultimately far more informative than Bruce ever imagined. 

It doesn’t surprise Bruce that Tim is capable of masking his true self—such behavior is part of his upbringing. But what did surprise him from Damian’s descriptions was the circumstances under which Timothy did so. Bruce would recognize his own calling card anywhere: distraction and misdirection, all meant to show one thing while hiding another. I show you the stone in my hand; you miss the knife at your throat.

Bruce suspected foul play—some sort of scheme or ruse. Black market? Insider trading? Something.

But despite their combined efforts, Bruce and Oracle have uncovered nothing.

Meanwhile, Damian— Damian of all people—has been attesting to Drake’s character. 

And then a drugged delirious Timothy used his influence to defend Damian in turn. 

Bruce’s interest officially peaked. 

And now? Tonight? 

All Bruce feels is concern. 

Bruce could see Tim struggling at first, trying to find his footing. He was surprised Tim didn’t put on the face they’d come to know—he seemingly knew better. Instead, they were left with an unsure yet well-spoken boy, with an undercurrent of sass that, quite frankly, fit perfectly into the rest of the family dynamic. It was like a puzzle piece slotted into place none of them realized was missing. 

Bruce doesn’t know why he ran…but he can take a guess. 

“The young sir has been without a family for sometime,” Alfred inputs, almost reading Bruce’s thoughts. “Perhaps the experience was a bit…overwhelming.”

“...Perhaps,” Damian mutters. 

Something is bothering him, Bruce notes. Something he doesn’t want to voice—at least not yet. It’s taken years of parenting for Bruce to even begin letting go of the need to control every aspect of his children’s lives. Damian is mulling something over, and Bruce will let him. He can come to Bruce if and when he deems it necessary.

Bruce hums. “We’ll give Tim some space,” he says, as if it’s a suggestion, but his tone clearly makes it an order. And it is. The boy is compromised, and Bruce won’t let his children’s impulsiveness be the reason to scare him away. He faces Damian again. “But he should know he’s welcome here at any time.”

“Yes, Father.” 

They finish dinner in a much more somber mood, each of them replaying the evening in their minds and what about it could’ve caused such a reaction. 

“Have you ever met him before, Alfred?” Duke asks suddenly as the butler begins to clear their dishes. 

Alfred shakes his head after a moment, “Not personally. I remember seeing him with his parents on occasion. But no, I never spoke to him that I remember until tonight.” 

Duke nods, as if satisfied, but Bruce catches Jason and Dick trading glances. 

He noticed it too, of course. Tim’s odd reaction to Alfred, the way he spoke his name without a thought, like- like they already knew each other. 

It was admittedly peculiar, but from the little he’s gauged, Tim is a peculiar boy. 

Seeing as his children have taken such a vested interest, he’ll let them do their own investigations. 

If there is more to this to be found, they’ll find it. 

Damian stays at the table for as long as he can stand it, trying to appear normal and not as shaken as he feels. Once everyone starts to wander off to do their own thing before patrol officially begins, he rushes off to his room. His mind races like it can come up with the answer to all this if he can just think for a moment. 

He paces back and forth the length of his room for a while still processing what he saw: Drake somehow navigating the Manor like it was his own, his familiarity with Titus, his familiarity with them, the way he fit like a long lost piece. 

His mind grapples for some kind of explanation… but he has none. Somehow, someway, Drake knows things about them, things he has no business to.

He should tell Father, he needs to—it could be a security risk— but… something holds him back. Telling Bruce would only label Tim as a potential threat to the family, It would sick Batman onto him and the last thing Damian wants to do now is alienate Tim further. That same feeling Damian’s been wrestling with for weeks now is screaming at him that Drake is safe — that he’d never do anything to hurt them. 

In his frazzled state, it takes him far too long to realize he’s being watched. Jason leans casually against his door frame with his arms crossed. Damian winces slightly. It isn’t like him to be so caught off guard, so distracted. 

His brother raises an eyebrow at him, “You want to tell me what really happened back there?” 

Damian forces his expression in a careful blankness. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“What’s that thing you always say, Jay?” Dick drawls as he sweeps into the room, flopping down onto Damian’s bed without so much as a pause. “Me thinks the boy do protest too much?” 

Jason cringes, “Ugh. You butchered that. Never quote Shakespeare again, you savage.” 

Duke peaks his head into the doorway, he raises an eyebrow. “We talking about it?” 

He officially hates living in a household of detectives. 

“No!” Damian snaps at the same time the others reply, “Yes.” 

Damian growls, reaching up and grabbing at his hair harshly. Dick is instantly on him, gently but firmly grabbing his wrist and forcing him to let go. 

“Come on, Baby Bat,” he says soothingly, the way he does with them when they're injured or shaken. “What's got you so stressed?” 

Damian blinks rapidly, his emotions starting to overwhelm him. “...I don’t know what to think.” 

Jason steps fully into the room and steers Damian to sit on the bed. Duke shuts the door behind him and sits on the floor with Jason while Dick sits right across from Damian, his presence soothing but not overwhelming. 

“Talk to us,” Dick implores. “What really happened with Tim? Why didn’t you want to tell B?”

Damian closes his eyes. “I didn’t want Father to see him as a threat.”

Jason’s face goes serious, “Should he?” 

“No.” he replies instantly. “...I don’t think so,” he amends. 

“Walk us through it, ” Duke suggests.

Damian takes a breath and before he knows it, it’s all spilling out of him. 

“I found him in the restroom, but not the guest one in the next hall. It was the one in the east wing behind the faux wall.” 

They all frown, “How did he-?” 

“I don’t know,” Damian clips. 

“Okay, go on,” Dick encourages. 

Damian steadies himself, “Titus was with him,” he states. 

Duke winces, “Ohhh. I’m so sorry that's my bad. I let him out after patrol without thinking.” 

 “Oof,” Jason grimaces, knowing just how aggressive Titus can be towards strangers. “Did he bite him? Is that why he left?” 

“I feel like we would have heard more of a commotion for that,” Dick mutters to himself. 

“No, that’s just it!” Damian exclaims. “He- Titus was sitting in his lap and letting Drake pet him. He had no issues with him at all. He was… licking his face.” 

The brothers stare at each other in mutual confusion. For as much as they all love Damian’s dog, he does not take to new people well… at all. It took Dick 2 weeks of staying at the Manor every day for Titus to let him anywhere near Damian. 

Titus liking anyone on spot has only ever happened with Damian himself. 

“Not only that… he- he knew Titus’ name.”

 Dick’s brows crease, “What do you mean?”

“As I approached,” he recalls. “I could hear him talking to Titus like… like he knew him, calling him by name and everything. But- I have never told him about Titus before and he wasn’t wearing his collar.”

Dick looks towards the other two, “Did either of you mention it?”

They shake their heads no. 

“He knew Alfreds name too,” Duke recalls. “We didn’t tell him that.” 

Dick turns back to Damian. “Have you ever mentioned Alfred by name since you’ve been his assistant?” 

Damian thinks about it. He rarely discusses anything with Drake other than what they’re working on. He may have mentioned his family butler, but…no. He’s never mentioned Alfred by name. 

Damian shakes his head no. 

“...Then how did he know it? How does he know any of this?” Jason concludes.

Dick’s expression darkens. He stands, “We need to tell Bruce.”

“No!” Damian lurches to his feet instantly. “Please don’t, Ahki.” 

He can’t say why he’s so insistent. His mind is foggy, yet active, firing in a way that feels like he’s in battle…like he has something he needs to protect. 

Dick frowns. “Dami. This could be a security breach.”

“It isn’t! Trust me. He doesn't mean us any harm.” 

“You don’t know that and even if you did, that doesn’t make it less dangerous.”

“He’s not our enemy,” Damian insists. “He… he is important somehow and I’m at the cusp of understanding why. I know he’d never hurt us, intentionally or otherwise.”

Dick stares at him long and hard trying to decide what to do. It’s rare for Damian to stand up so vehemently for someone, but he's always been a good judge of character, even if he can be a bit harsh at times. It’s why the family trusted him in the first place even when their own perceptions of Drake were so opposing before. 

They stand at a stalemate for a minute, neither sure how to move forward. Damian’s stubbornness is nothing new, nor is Dick’s. But Dick has always had a weakness for Damian’s pleading eyes. 

Dick grits his teeth. “We will check with Oracle,” he decides. “If she finds anything that indicates something nefarious, we tell Bruce now.”

Damian hesitates. “Fine,” he allows. 

Jason lets out a breath and pulls out his phone, “I’ll call her then.”

They gather around Damian’s desk where Jason props up his phone and starts a facetime call with Barbara. She answers almost immediately.

“Hiya Jay,” she starts, looking over and double taking at the sight of them all. “...and everyone else. Something going on?” 

“Possible security breach,” Dick says tersely. “... and we’re keeping this between us for now.”

“Intriguing,” another voice comments and Steph's face suddenly pops up on the call. “You know I love keeping things from the big man.”

Dick gives Barbara a look, who just shrugs, “Don’t give me that, we were already on the phone when you called.” 

“Come on then boys!” Steph insists. “Don’t leave me in suspense.” 

“Or me,” Cass’s voice chimes in the background, listening in. 

Damian shakes his head. Well, it isn’t the first time his siblings have banded together to keep something from father.

Barbara gazes at them seriously, “Talk to me. A security breach?” 

Barbara, Steph and Cass listen attentively as the brothers walk them through Tim’s odd behavior recently and the events at dinner, explaining the various small bits of information Tim didn’t have business knowing. 

“Has there been any breaches into our security in the last few weeks or months?” Dick finally asks. 

Barbara types away at her computer, still listening but eyes firmly fixed on her monitor. “Negative,” she denies. “Everything's coming up clear. I would know if anyone had gotten in, especially if it was into Wayne Manor’s security.” 

Duke frowns. “What about Cardinal? They get into the system without detection all the time, don’t they?” he poses.

Barbar shakes her head, “Cardinal knows their way in, but even they aren't able to get out without leaving a trace. The Batcomputers encryption notifies us when someone enters the network from the outside. I know every time they get in and what they do, but Cardinal hasn’t touched our network in over 3 years since we started working directly. And I’ve never seen them or anyone for that matter touch Manor security.” 

“Drake could just be well informed,” Steph points out. “Or maybe he’s a stalker. I could see him being the type.”

Dick shakes his head. “The fact we even have Titus isn’t public knowledge, let alone his name. He’d have to be spying on us to know something like that.”

“Which I can guarantee you he isn’t,” Barbara says, “At least not from the security cameras.”

“He could potentially remember the manor’s layout from all the times he’s attended events here,” Jason suggests. “Maybe he came across that bathroom sometime in the past?” 

“It’s a stretch,” Duke says. “But knowing Alfred’s name isn’t so crazy. That’s public knowledge isn’t it? 

“He goes by Mr. Pennyworth at events,” Cass’s face appears, sliding in beside Steph. “But anyone would be able to look it up, yes.”

“He said it so confidently though,” Dick says thoughtfully. “It was like he knew Alfred personally. You guys saw how tense he got when he first saw him?” 

The brothers nod in agreement, anyone with eyes could see it. 

Steph curses, “If he’s not a hacker and he’s not a stalker, probably, then how the hell does he know this stuff?” 

Silence meets her question. 

“The information itself is inconsequential,” Cass says slowly. “None of it indicates a threat. It’s how he knows that could be dangerous. What else might he know or learn?” 

“I could think of at least one family secret he’d probably find particularly intriguing,” Duke mutters blithely. 

Barbara looks up, her expression tight, “Now that isn’t possible.” 

“Yah, come on. Do you really think he’d stay quiet if he knew?” Steph questions. 

“He would.” Damian states without hesitation. 

His siblings look at him with various levels of surprise. It isn’t exactly like him to hope for the best of humanity. He isn’t quite the pessimist he used to be, but he’s certainly not an optimist. 

“What makes you so sure?” Cass breaks the silence. 

Damian shakes his head. He doesn’t know why he knows, he just does. 

Jason leans forward, “Listen I know my meta-theory from before was a bit outlandish, but it could be a legitimate reason for all this.” 

Duke scoffs, “Not this again.”

“Telepaths exist!” Jason insists, exasperated. “He could be getting all of this from our head just by being in the same room as us. Maybe that is why he self-isolates, so he doesn’t slip up or have to deal with the noise of other people's thoughts all the time.” 

“By that logic, he could be manipulating Damian to get into our good graces,” Cass points out.

Damian glares, “He is not.” 

“How would you know?”

“I know.” Damian growls. 

“The entire meta theory is circumstantial at best,” Dick interrupts. 

“Do you have another explanation?” Jason shrugs. “Cause I don’t, short of him watching us from the vents. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” 

Silence again. 

“No, you’re right,” Duke mutters. “Why would he care to know such miniscule things about us in the first place?” 

Dick sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. “We can agree this didn't happen by accident, but we need a substantial explanation.” 

Damian glares at him, gritting his teeth. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? I just need more time.”

Dick raises his hands, gesturing for him to calm. “Fine. We don’t tell Bruce yet, only because we don’t have actual proof of anything. But Damian…If there is even a possibility he knows our other secrets…we have to know.”

Damian slumps down into his chair, tilting his head against the back of it. Despite every instinct telling him Drake isn’t a threat, realistically he knows Dick is right. They need to know how he knows all of this and Damian is in a place to potentially get that. 

 “Understood,” he says sullenly. “I will investigate further and report back my findings.”

“Test him, if you can. See if you can catch him reading your mind,” Jason throws in.

Dick looks upwards in a mimicry of an eye roll. “Look for an explanation, whatever that may be.” 

“Yes, Ahki .” 

“We must be patient,” Cass advises sagely. “Time will reveal all.” 

“I’ll keep searching,” Barbara says above the sound of her typing. “But like you said, the information you’re talking about doesn't exist anywhere digitally. Something else is definitely going on here.” 

“Steph and I will be finished with this mission soon,” Cass reminds them. “If I can meet him in person, I may be able to gauge his motives.”

“How long?” Dick asks. 

“A week, maybe two,” Steph answers. 

Dick nods, “We’ll talk again next week then. Good luck with everything.” 

Steph huffs, “I think you’ll need it more than we will.” 

Tim manages to keep the tears at bay until he’s locked away within Drake Manor, but as soon as he’s safe, they well up beyond his control. 

He staggers through the mansion, pulling off his rough work clothes as he goes until he’s left in just his slacks and undershirt. He makes it to the library and opens up the safe room, practically flinging himself into his chair. 

He curls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, burying his face down between his legs.

Going there was a bad idea, he shouldn’t have let them so easily manipulate him into it. He should've fought harder, made up some sort of excuse. At the time, he felt like anything he made up wouldn’t have been believable, but the alternative would have been better than whatever the fuck that just was. 

Tim shakes his head, as if that will shake the thoughts—the emotion— the evening dredged up away, but to no avail. 

Tim has always felt strongly. Too strongly. 

His parents had deemed him a 'clingy' child by the time he was four. He always wanted more, they said—more time together, more hugs, more attention. Tim heeded their criticisms and tried to rein himself in. He curbed his worst impulses and learned to hide how he truly felt. Eventually, he successfully gained his parents’ trust. Maybe too successfully.

By the time he turned 8, they decided he was old enough to take care of himself while they were away. Leaving Tim…alone. 

It was then that the intensity of his emotions truly became a problem. Tim was miserable constantly and so very lonely. He dealt with it, of course, because what other choice did he have? 

He buried his sorrows in his obsessions—his favorites being photography and Batman and Robin. Combining the two came as easily as anything.

Tim found happiness in it, or at the very least, a good distraction. 

But sometimes the feelings still overcame him. 

By the time he was eleven, he had learned a handy little trick. When the feelings became too much, Tim would just... turn them off, like a switch in his brain. Instead of the overwhelming, crushing weight of his emotions, he could simply be... numb.

Numbness had its own drawbacks, of course, but it was far superior to dealing with the emotional nonsense. 

At first, he would use the ability sparingly, only when he was truly overcome. But then…Jason died. Batman went off the rails and Tim was needed . He couldn’t have the luxury of grieving someone who never even knew him, not when the father of that boy was falling to pieces with nobody but Tim to hold him together. 

Tim’s emotions didn’t matter. All they did was hinder him. 

Overtime, numbness became almost instinctual. He’d barely even need to think about it. When he was overwhelmed, his brain would just simply…let things go quiet. 

It was fine for a while. Until the numbness wasn’t just sometimes, it was constant. 

And then Tim started thinking things he knew he shouldn’t. Things like… what even was the point of it all? 

Had Cass not been there to intervene…

She got him help. Made him get help. And Tim allowed himself to feel again, even when it was bad, even when it was horrible. 

He still compartmentalizes—he can’t function without it. But he doesn’t shut his emotions off completely. Not anymore. He made a promise to his sister, and even if she can’t remember, it’s a promise he takes seriously.

Never has he been so tempted to go numb again. 

Tim fights with himself for a while, fights the urge to let it all fade into nothingness, fights to put the feelings back into the neat little boxes he’s crafted for them. 

He needs something to do—needs a distraction. 

With barely a thought, Tim turns on his computer, eyes scavenging across case files for somethin g to do. But he doesn’t have any new cases. He sighs, frustrated. 

He hovers the mouse over the only other folder on his desktop; the photos he took a few weeks ago at the drug bust. He hasn’t had the chance to go over them yet. 

His photography has always been his go to distraction since he was a child, even when he himself became a Bat. 

It’s probably counterproductive to his goals of not thinking about them right now. But maybe that's therapeutic in its own way? 

Tim clicks the folder open, and starts going over the photos, quickly discarding the rejects and organizing the good ones. He does his best to ignore the subjects of the photos, working purely from an artistic standpoint, looking for good color, composition and value balance. 

It works for a while… but not forever. 

…He thought he could handle it, he’s been around the Waynes occasionally without too much trouble in the past. Why would dinner be any different? But then again, back then neither party wanted to be in each other's vicinity for longer than necessary. He didn't expect to be so… welcome, didn’t expect them to act so goddamn friendly, like they wanted him there. 

He didn’t expect his- the Waynes to act so like themselves, like the friends he remembers having once. It was easy to fall into conversation with them, to tease Jason about his favorite movie, to maintain the banter they used to engage in constantly. 

In the previous timeline, Jason would always make references no one in the family understood. He’d call them 'uncultured swines.' To rectify this, he and Tim had many a movie night together after rough patrols—on the nights when neither could be bothered to return to their respective safehouses (once they could actually stand to be in each other’s presence, that is).

Shakespeare in Love was a movie Tim never got around to watching until this reality, though he knew from a drunk night out with Jason that it was one of his favorites. He’s wanted to tease him about it ever since. 

Working with Damian has been hard, but not unbearable. If he's being honest with himself he’s enjoyed it, the balm of family being so much more potent than the pain he deals with daily. But tonight he got too comfortable, gave too much of himself in the name of sating their curiosity. He allowed himself to be enclosed into the comforting familiarity. 

And he shouldn’t have. 

It was going fine enough at first. Seeing Alfred was hard initially, but he pulled it together. Talking business with Bruce? Fine. Even lightly teasing and getting teased in turn was okay. Better than okay. It was…fun.  

He probably would’ve been able to manage most of dinner without any issue until he saw Jay and Dick playfight. 

It wasn’t even a big deal, but the sight snapped Tim back to the harsh reality of his current life—forcing him to confront the stark difference between this timeline and the one he knew.

Back then, when Dick and Jay fought, there was nothing playful about it. Sure, they’d trade banter like none other, but anything physical was a fight —and it almost always ended in blood, or worse.

But now? 

In this reality, they’re actually brothers like they were always meant to be. It’s a good thing, something Tim made possible, but seeing it was a stark reminder. 

This life isn’t for him, and never will be. 

It doesn’t matter that Tim was the architect that made it a reality, it doesn't matter that he still loves the Waynes as his family and always will. It doesn’t matter because no matter how much he might want it, he cannot take it. 

Tim made the choice years ago, that as much as he can and will change things for the better, he cannot—will not— play God. 

He can intervene when the situation calls for it—use his knowledge to change physical circumstances and help people for the better. But he refuses to use his emotional, personal knowledge of those he knows intimately to manipulate them. He won’t do it. Especially not for his own benefit.

Because there is no halfway for Tim. He’d either have to engineer a place for himself back into the family—unknowingly breaking their trust in the process—or stay completely separate. Even if they wanted to be his friends… he just can’t do that. In the long term, it would hurt too much to be treated like an acquaintance when, to him, they are everything. But to ask for more would be taking advantage—taking something that doesn’t belong to him. It’s a fact. A simple, painful reality.

But dammit if it doesn’t hurt. 

Tim ignores the tears as they continue to fall carelessly down his face, working now on editing a particularly good photo he caught of Damian right before the fight, his former brother’s expression set and determined. 

There are a multitude of reasons he keeps his distance from the Waynes, most of them logical to keeping his cover. But the most important reason is that it keeps him safe. It keeps him separate from his heartbreak, from the gaping wound Tim lives with, from the fierceness of his emotions. 

Tim needs to be functioning to do his job, he doesn’t have the luxury to fall apart…

His hand shakes so hard he has to let go of the mouse. 

…But sometimes he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. 

Tim looks at the photo again and memories from before start springing at him one after another, some good, some bad—all of them painful. 

For once, he lets everything rush into him; the anger, the sorrow, the longing, and most painfully, the guilt. 

Tim remembers another time when Damian looked just like that, firm, determined, and steadfast. He tries to block out the images of that night, the one that started it all, but they come anyway. Against his will he relives the sight of it, the sound of his name whispered with bloody lips, the same as he heard less than an hour ago. 

Timothy.

He remembers the feeling of his little brother shuddering in his arms, taking his last breath. 

All because of his failure. 

Even if they did somehow want him back…how could he ever go home knowing how badly he let them down? 

Tim curls in on himself again and sobs near silently. 

The only way he knows how. 

Dick’s dreams are fragmented. 

Haly’s Circus. His parents' smiling faces. 

A boy so small and sweet, timidly asking him for an autograph. A warm hug. 

The desire to do more.

And then he’s in his first apartment in Blüdhaven, and a boy—the same boy, older now but still too young—finds him again.

Begging. “Please. You’re the only one who can help him.”

But he can’t. He can’t go back to Robin, not after-

He’s in the cave, walking someone through the basics of a back handspring. He glances up, expecting to see Jason or Damian, but its- its. 

He’s in the manor, couch cushions everywhere, two in the morning. His brother is finally asleep in the corner, curled in on himself. Dick covers him with a blanket. He doesn’t wake him. 

Dick blinks himself awake slowly, his mind foggy and confused. His eyes scan the dark room, unseeing. His chest rises with a sharp inhale, like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching for clarity.

He turns over in his bed, then turns again, slumping deeper into his pillows. 

He rubs a hand over his face, chasing something that’s already slipping.

Theres- theres something important. He needs to… Dicks eyes fall closed again, the dream already a distant memory. 

Bruce dreams of turmoil. 

He twists and turns within his bed, mumbling to himself, coming in and out of sleep constantly. 

He’s almost there. He can make it. He can. 

…He doesn’t .

He carries the broken beaten body of his son, Jason, through the ruins, stumbling and falling to his knees in agony. 

All he knows is grief. 

Criminals flash before his eyes, thugs, drug dealers, petty thieves, it doesn’t matter. Batman shows no mercy. He doesn’t kill, but nor does he save. 

Bruce is lost in the swirls of darkness, bleaker than any he’s known in his life. 

And then a presence is there, steady, firm and insisting. He’s pulled up from the depths practically against his will, forced back onto the right path. He’s reminded of his purpose.

Of his promise. 

But he can barely manage the pain. 

He numbs himself the only way he knows how. He distances himself from everyone and everything that could make him lose his way again, lose his sight. He becomes harder, stricker. 

The boy he trains isn’t his, no matter how much his heart claims otherwise. He’s smaller and physically weaker than the ones that came before him, but not in spirit. 

Weak men wait for opportunities; strong men make them.

He pushes him harder than he’s ever pushed a protege, gives him experiences and lessons he isn’t ready for. 

And the boy becomes strong. 

Still, Bruce keeps his distance. He never heals from his wounds, not really, merely builds around them, ensuring the rest of him is armored and prepared. 

His traitorous heart loves each of the others as they come and he desperately wishes he could be what they need. 

But he will never be what he was. 

He knows the family suffers for it, but they are also safer, fiercer.

He won’t let it happen again. Never again. He would rather put a knife to his own throat than to see one of his own torn away from him again. 

…But still… he fails. 

Bruce thrashes in his sleep and tumbles off his bed. 

He backs himself against the wall, hand on his chest, and begins his ritual to calm his breath. Even once he manages it, his heart still races— fear and panic at the forefront of his mind. 

He’s on his feet before he knows it, stumbling into the manor. 

He makes it to Dicks room first, silently opening the door to peer inside. Dick is fast asleep. His bedding is thrown haphazardly, restless, but his chest rises and falls peacefully enough. 

Damian’s room is next and Bruce finds him cuddled between both Titus and Ace. His youngest isn’t so young anymore, he thinks ruefully. Bruce approaches his bed and gently caresses his hair on his head. 

“Father?” he mumbles, blinking awake. 

“Shhh, we’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

It says so much about how far they’ve come when he simply listens, falling back to sleep almost instantly. 

Bruce finds Duke amongst a bed of sheets and blankets thrown about, just as strewn as Dick’s was. Bruce grabs his comforter and carefully places it over him so as to not wake him.

With every child he finds safe, his anxiety eases.

He stands outside Jason’s door for a while, unable to make the final step to go in.

He can’t remember almost anything from the dream except for the torrid of emotions, at a depth and intensity he isn’t sure he’s ever experienced before. 

Except for the sight of his son, of Jason’s mangled dead body, beaten, bloodied and torn apart. Except for the feeling of absolute anguish . That stays firmly planted in his mind.

The door in front of him creaks open, and Jason sticks his head out. 

“Are you gonna come in or are you just gonna keep being creepy out here?” Jason snarks, his voice groggy. 

Bruce huffs and follows him in. 

“What are you even doing up, old man?” 

“I could ask you the same,” he replies. 

Jason flops back down on the bed dramatically. “Sleep and I have not been the best of friends lately.” he sighs. 

Bruce hums sympathetically, “I can relate.”

“Yah?”

“The more we see in the world, the more material our minds have to taunt us,” he sighs. “But it’ll pass, it always does.”

Jason squints at Bruce, analyzing him in a way that only his children seem to be able. “Something spooked you,” he observes. 

Bruce swallows, blinking away the bloody images that flash before him. “It was just a dream.”

Jason furrows his brow and opens and closes his mouth twice before seeming to change his mind. “Yah, just a dream.”

Bruce clenches and unclenches his fist. He should go back to bed but…but he has to make sure… 

“You know I love you right?” Bruce blurts. 

Jason’s eyebrows fly to the top of his head, “Feeling sentimental? Jeez that dream really did shake you.”

“Jason.” he sighs. He knows he doesn’t say it enough, knows he isn’t as emotionally available as what his children need sometimes but, “I just. I know we’ve had our differences, our disagreements and we probably always will. But… I just need to know that you know that.”

Jay softens, his eyes sympathetic. “Of course I know,” he breathes. “We all do.” 

Bruce relaxes, “Good.” The tightness in his chest eases a bit more as he gazes down at his brilliant, healthy, alive son. He smiles just a bit, “Get some sleep, chum.”

Bruce walks back to the door, gently easing it open and closing it softly behind him. 

“G’night, Dad,” he hears quietly just before it shuts. 

Bruce smiles and heads back to his room, pulling out his phone to check Cass and Steph’s vitals as he does. They aren’t sleeping, but that’s no cause for concern—they’re still in the middle of a case. He’ll check in with them in the morning, he decides. Barbara, too, is safe and sound at the Clocktower.

All is well.

He barely got an hour of sleep before his dream woke him, and he’d prefer a few more hours before tomorrow. But as he settles down again, his mind refuses to quiet.

He methodically reviews what he just physically confirmed for himself: his children are safe and secure. Steph and Cass have each other. There’s no reason for alarm, no reason to be anxious.

Yet his subconscious persists, insisting he’s missed something.

He mentally counts and recounts every one of his kids, trying in vain to calm the unease crawling beneath his skin.

But no matter how many times he does it, his mind keeps insisting—he’s forgetting one.

Chapter Text

They don't talk about it.

Damian goes back to work on Monday and Drake happily pretends the whole thing never happened. Damian doesn’t push, because he can’t risk actually being dismissed now. He has a job to do—observe and report. 

After a day or two of letting things settle between them, Damian starts to do more of his work in Drake’s office. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, just sets himself up on the couch with his laptop and works alongside Drake in silence. Drake frowns at him the first few times, but doesn’t protest. 

Once he can more consistently observe his reactions, Damian starts his experiments. 

He’s made a list of possible powers and abilities that would explain Drake’s affinity for the people around him, most of which involve abilities of the mind. He discussed the matter with Raven beforehand who gave him some tips and tricks for identifying a telepath. 

He starts subtly coming into the office having already constructed more vigorous mental shields over his mind. He monitors his interactions with Drake throughout the day, looking for any sign he’s noticed the change. As far Damian can tell, he doesn’t. 

He steps up his investigation in increments. He spends an entire day projecting what he’d most like for lunch, only for Drake to get him something completely different. 

Another day, he purposefully plays the same song in his head over and over again to hopefully either annoy Drake into slipping up or get him to accidentally start humming it. To no avail. 

He projects his thoughts more forcefully, louder and more sudden to see if maybe Drake will flinch or react somehow. He must be making some sort of face while he does so, however, because instead, Damian just gets an odd look from Drake and a question if he’s feeling alright. 

Damian certainly isn’t an expert in these things and Drake is certainly good at hiding things, but after a full week of effort to no avail, he’s doubting Jason’s telepath theory holds as much ground as he first thought. He doesn't know Drake as well as he’d like but he can still read him, especially when his guard is low. At this point, unless Damian's abilities to provoke a reaction are extremely flawed, he’s fairly certain Drake is not a meta-human of the mind. 

Yet, Drake still lets things slip, still knows things he shouldn’t. 

A few times a week, their daily meeting takes place over lunch, as it's the often only time Tim has available during the day, and they eat together while they talk.

Today, Drake orders food for them, just like he did that first time, from a nearby Greek restaurant that's surprisingly good. 

Typically, Drake orders two identical meals without much input from Damian—not that Damian has ever complained. Whatever Tim chooses is always filling, well-balanced, and fits Damian’s dietary restrictions. Besides, it’s kinda nice to not put much thought into his meal.

Today though, Drake is clearly starving.  

The meal arrives and Tim and Damian sit down together as usual. For the walking disaster Tim is, he usually does pretty well at getting at least one meal in during the work day, although he’s been dramatically less consistent the last week. It seems to have caught up with him though as he pulls out 2 large wrapped packages for himself, entirely different from the mixed Mediterranean salad he normally gets them both from this location.

Tim is already laying out the coming week as he hands Damian his meal and sits down with his own. Damian starts to respond in kind while Tim takes a few bites, seeming to sigh a bit in relief. 

Which is when the smell of what he’s eating finally hits Damian. It’s two large Gyros, filled with what looks like chicken and lamb respectively.

Damian stares. 

For as long as he’s known Tim, he’s always ordered them both vegetarian meals. Damian was surprised the first time they ate together, not only was the meal vegetarian friendly, it was marked Vegetarian specifically , the way a restaurant might mark a peanut or gluten allergy. 

Damian never had to mention his dietary needs to Tim, and as such, just assumed Tim was like him—a vegetarian. Damian even told Alfred as much so he’d prepare dinner at the manor accordingly. Why else would Tim always eat that way? 

…How else would he have known about Damian? 

After a long moment, Drake seems to realize Damian has gone eerily silent. He stops and looks up, meeting his hard, confused expression. 

“What? Something on my face?” he asks. 

Damian just stares, slowly shaking his head. 

Tim swallows, looking uneasy. “What is it?” 

“...are you not a vegetarian?” Damian decides to ask pointedly, curious to see what he’ll do when called out. 

Tim freezes, gazing down at the food in his hand, then back at Damian. His eyes go slightly wide, and Damian can practically see his thoughts morph from panic to damage control, trying to cover another slip up, another piece of information he has no business knowing. 

Because Damian’s diet is not public information. Had Drake gotten them both meat at least once, he might have managed to get away with it, but he didn’t. He ordered Damian’s meal the same as usual, while he alone got something different. Meaning there is no other explanation than Tim somehow knowing. 

“Uh..” Drake manages after a second. “No. I’m not.” 

Damian looks down at his own food, still unopened, where the label on top is clearly marked Vegetarian and back at Tim. 

“Lucius mentioned it to Tam before you started.” He explains a tad too quickly. “That you don’t eat meat.”

Damian raises a quizzical eyebrow at Tim, unconvinced. “Did he?” 

“Yep,” he clips, looking away.  “I’m not picky so I've just been getting the same as you, but today well…” 

Damian narrows his eyes, “Yes?”

Tim shrugs, “They’ve got really good Gyros.”

Damian hums tranquilly and lets the subject drop. They go on with their meeting, Damian pretending the interaction has already been forgotten. 

“What do you mean your findings were inconclusive?” Steph laments when Damian debriefs the siblings. 

Damian shrugs. “At this point, I find Drake possessing any abilities of the mind very unlikely.”

Jason heaves a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do we have any other hypothesis?” he asks, tiredly. 

“I did some research into his parents, specifically his mother,” Barbara says over the video call. “Janet Drake had a reputation for being a gossiper, but whatever outlandish rumors she spread always had a tendency to be true.”

“A Master of Whispers,” Duke proclaims with a mischievous smile. 

Jason gives him a look, “Game of Thrones, really?”

“Am I wrong?”

Dick frowns, “What are you on about?”

“It means a collector of secrets,” Duke explains. “Someone who uses knowledge like a weapon.”

“Ah,” Barbara nods along. “Well in that case, yes. It’s an apt description.” 

Duke raises a smug eyebrow at Jason who just rolls his eyes. 

“So you think Timoth- Tim has just.. what? Followed in his mother’s footsteps?” Jason asks.

“It seems reasonable,” Barbara shrugs. “He certainly has the social skill set for it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Duke remarks. “Maybe we’re being too paranoid about this. He is our neighbor, maybe he’s just nosy.” 

Steph hums, “I suppose it’s possible, especially if he’s a skilled observer. He could’ve memorized the manor’s layout from galas, maybe he’s heard you guys talk about Titus in public?” 

The possibility is there, but the explanation doesn’t sit right with Damian. 

Dick shakes his head, “It wouldn’t explain his familiarity with all these things. Knowing something and using that knowledge like it’s your own are two different things.”

Damian nods in agreement, “Exactly. There has to be something more.” 

“What makes you so sure?” Barbara poses. 

“He knew I was a vegetarian,” he admits. Everyone looks at him questioningly. “ I didn't even realize it until today, but he’s known probably since the very first day I started. And he just… accommodated me without a thought, without even mentioning it to me. Like it was…natural.” 

Dick hums thoughtfully. 

Damian continues, “When I asked, he said Fox mentioned it to Tam but I spoke with Fox afterwards for a check in and he said he never mentioned anything.” 

Steph sighs. “So he’s not a telepath, probably. He could be an information gatherer, but that still doesn't tell us how he’s getting his information or why he’s getting it about us specifically,” she sums up. 

Duke slumps back into his chair, “Does this mean we’re back to square one?” 

They all sit in discontented silence. 

They’re back to square one. 

The next week, Damian goes with Drake to his first public event with Drake Industries. 

It’s a medical conference of sorts, sponsored by DI themselves. It’s an all day event filled with various medical suppliers, doctors, researchers, all dedicated to advancing the field of medicine.

“Conferences like these are important, Damian.” Drake tells him as they walk through the center together. “These aren’t just investors with a passing fancy. They’re educated in the field with pockets to show for it. This is where having knowledge trumps just pure charisma. You have to know your company, its flaws and weaknesses and be ready to defend or secede any point of argument.” 

Damian nods along, trying to absorb everything he can. For the first time since dinner at the manor, Damian puts aside his desperation to unravel Drake’s secrets and only focuses on what he has to teach him. 

Drake has to give a presentation himself discussing DI’s latest innovations and the timeline for production. 

Damian sits amongst the rest of the crowd as Drake goes onstage and gives his address. It goes off perfectly, as almost everything Drake does in public tends to. 

After that, Damian follows along at Drake's side while he works his magic with the investors. He’s different from when Damian observed him at that first gala. In this environment, Drake doesn’t try to hide his intelligence, if anything he leans into a bit. By doing so, he quickly gains the trust of the other intellectuals he speaks to, leading to further discussions and buisness propositions.  

Overall, he’s far more gracious than Damian is used to seeing him. Confident of course, but not arrogant. 

And it just frustrates Damian all over again. 

Apparently Drake is not against showing some of his true colors for the benefit of his company, yet he consistently allows, no, encourages the public to view him badly on a personal level. Why? Wouldn’t putting up a competent front in all aspects of his life only improve his standing and experiences, both personal and professional? 

They go to a few other presentations that manage to distract Damian from his frustrations.  In fact, Damian quickly finds himself honestly captivated by all the information he’s gaining. 

Science isn’t his strong suit like some of the other heroes he knows, but medical knowledge about the body is familiar to him. He knows the rudimentary stuff that every vigilante needs too. His figure drawing studies have also allowed him a more in depth understanding of the various parts of the body and how they work together. 

Like drawing and painting, he’s never really seen his interest as anything but a passing fascination, but since he’s here he may as well try to broaden his horizons. 

And so, the next time they have some time to socialize, Damian gently grabs Drake’s attention during a break between sponsors. 

“Do you need me to stay with you?” he asks quietly. 

Drake turns his head towards him quickly, his eyes wide and concerned with an intensity Damian didn’t expect. 

“Why? Are you alright? Is something wrong?” he rushes. 

“What? No, I’m fine,” he assures. “I just… I was wondering if I could speak to some of the researchers about their findings. I find it… intriguing.” 

Drake stares at him long enough that Damian thinks perhaps his suggestion wasn’t such a good idea. “But if you don’t want me to, I understan-”

“Wha-? No! No, sorry,” Tim shakes his head. “That just took me by surprise. Of course you can go. Just try to stay somewhat close.” 

Damian's lips twitch into a small smile, “Thank you, Tim.” 

Damian spends the next hour and a half talking to anyone who’s willing to answer his questions. 

He speaks with various doctors of different fields, and although he sees merit in each, he finds himself particularly drawn towards the study of the brain. It’s intricate, complicated at a level they still don’t fully understand. One could study their whole life and still not uncover all of its mysteries. 

With the odd dreams he’s been having of late, he’s been surreptitiously researching the brain anyway, trying to figure out the cause of them. He can never quite remember what he sees, but he always wakes up with a distinct feeling of nostalgia, as if he’s relieved a memory. Occasionally, an image will stay with him, but without context, none of it makes sense. He feels like the dreams have been getting clearer as of late, but he doesn’t know why. 

He’s been in this particular conversation for over 20 minutes now. Dr. Patel seems to be more on the shyer side, but she is perfectly happy to field his inquiries, no matter how rudimentary, or oddly specific. 

“So, you’re saying we still don’t fully understand why certain memories fade?” Damian asks curiously. He’s been theorizing that his dreams are in fact a product of some repressed memories from his time in the League. There are periods from that time he’s never been able to recall well, likely because of whatever trauma he experienced. 

Dr. Patel nods encouragingly. “We understand some aspects. We know the hippocampus plays a major role in encoding and retrieving ‘data’, so to speak. The more we engage with certain memories, the stronger those neural pathways become. Conversely, neglecting a memory allows it to fade.”

Damian catches a glimpse of Tim subtly watching him. Damian hasn’t wandered far, since apparently Tim is determined to stay close to him, a gesture Damian isn’t sure if he appreciates or resents. 

Tim is in some sort of mind numbing conversation himself with a local philanthropist, having finished with all the other investors for the afternoon. From his consistent glances, Damian assumes he’s eavesdropping on his conversation with Patel. Damian doesn’t blame him, it’s probably far more interesting than whatever nonsense the other man is spewing.

“Fascinating,” Damian murmurs, focusing back on Dr. Patel. “I’ve read studies that link emotional intensity to memory retention. Does that imply heightened emotions contribute to better recall?”

“Partially,” she allows. “The amygdala does interact with the hippocampus to reinforce emotionally charged memories. But even then, the brain is selective. Trauma, for instance, can heighten recall or suppress it entirely.”

“Which is why some people block out painful experiences,” Damian nods along. 

“Dissociative amnesia,” Dr. Patel supplies with a small smile. “The brain, in an effort to protect itself, compartmentalizes overwhelming memories. But what’s even more intriguing is neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reorganize itself in response to those disruptions.”

She pauses. “We’re beginning to understand that it might actually be part of a more complex balancing mechanism. Something deeper— spiritual even.”

Damian lifts an eyebrow curiously. “You’re referring to the study of spirituality within the context of known science,” he says, not quite a question.

She nods. “It’s still a developing field, but no longer just a theory. With magic and meta-physiology entering the public and scientific discourse, we’ve had to acknowledge that the concept of a soul isn’t just philosophy—it’s a measurable, reactive force. It’s no longer a question of if the soul exists, but how it functions. And we think it’s very closely tied to the brain.”

Damian frowns, thoughtfully. “So a traumatic event affects the soul, and the brain compensates?”

“Potentially,” she agrees. “We’ve documented cases where trauma fractured the soul, and the brain—through neuroplasticity—attempts to compensate for that spiritual damage. It’s all part of the system trying to maintain internal balance. The brain reorganizes not just because of emotional need, but because the soul is out of alignment.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed . He considers the Lazarus Pit and its known side effects on the mind. Ra’s and his predecessor’s have used the pits' power for generations, though Damian doesn’t think anyone has used its influence as long as his grandfather. The pit heals the body while leaving an indelible mark on its user, perhaps on their very soul. Maybe that is why his grandfather seems to be getting increasingly erratic over the years. 

“This is ground breaking research,” Damian compliments honestly. 

“We like to think so,” she smiles, pleased. “But we're only scratching the surface. We used to say magic is just science we didn’t understand yet, but now we know better. It’s a different science entirely—just as rigorous, but governed by laws we're still uncovering. Just as there are the studies of the mind and body, we must also discover the facts of the spirit. Everything we experience in life—every grievance, every joy—echoes across all three.” 

Damian nods thoughtfully, his eyes flicking over back to Drake momentraily. He’s been getting steadily more tense over the last 10 minutes or so, probably at his wits end by now with his current conversation partner. Sensing his own conversation coming to a close anyway and deciding he’s fed his curiosity enough, Damian thanks Dr.Patel for her time and makes his way back to Drake’s side. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Mondrich!” Tim emotes immediately on spotting his approach. “This is my assistant telling me we’re over time. We’ll have to finish our conversation another day.”

Damian nods solemnly in agreement, though they are under no such time restrictions. 

“Ah, not to worry, I understand the meaning of a tight schedule,” the man laughs. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Timothy laughs. 

As soon as the man is gone, Drake drops the tight smile.

“Literally perfect timing. God, that guy infuriates me,” he says, reaching up and massaging his cheeks. Damian imagines his facial muscles ache from just how carefully he’s been controlling his expressions all day. 

Drake starts to navigate them through the conference center. It’s a vast building, almost a maze, but Drake seems confident in where he’s going. 

“You seemed like you were faring better than I was.” 

“Yes. I… enjoyed today far more than I thought I would,” Damian admits. 

Drake smiles a bit, gazing at him over his shoulder. “Yah? What did you enjoy?”

"Well..."

Before he knows it, Damian is rambling about all the little bits of knowledge he’s learned, talking more than he usually allows himself to. 

He tells Drake about the recent studies done in orthopedics, and the developing theories regarding speeding up bone regrowth. About how researchers are experimenting with new protein matrices modeled after animal regeneration, and how promising it looks even outside of metahuman application.

He tells him about the newly developed nanobot-assisted surgeries—tiny programmable machines that can isolate and repair damaged tissue with minimal invasion. He explains how they’re being tested in post-operative recovery to reduce internal scarring and accelerate healing.

He tells him about the brain and everything Patel imparted to him.  About how memory loss isn’t just emotional—it’s mechanical, sometimes even protective.  About how trauma doesn’t just scar the mind, but the soul too, and how the brain will physically restructure itself to keep things in balance.

Tim listens quietly, eyes focused on him the whole time even as they continue to walk the long way around the conference center. He doesn’t interrupt, just nods now and then, letting Damian speak, while also asking the occasional question. 

It’s only when Drake stops to grab them both a cup of water off a passing refreshment table that Damian realizes just how long he’s been talking. What does Richard call it again? Info dumping? 

Damian clenches his jaw, a bit embarrassed, though Drake doesn’t seem annoyed. He continues to engage with him, asking clarifying questions as they go, giving off every verbal and physical que he’s invested in the conversation. Damian relaxes, grateful despite himself. 

“You seem really interested in all this,” Drake comments as they start making their way out of the center. “Have you ever considered studying medicine more seriously?” 

Damian hesitates, “No, I’ve...I’ve never really thought about it.” 

Tim slows his steps and comes to a stop, staring at Damian with an expression he can’t read. “Your grandfather was a Doctor, you know?” 

Damian narrows his eyes slightly. Such knowledge is public information, of course, but once again something at the back of his mind tingles, like Drake has gained this knowledge by some other means.

“I am aware. And?” 

“I don’t know.” Tim shrugs, “Why not you?” 

“...Why not- what?” 

“Medicine, Damian,” he says slowly, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You seem really passionate about it. And with your connections and opportunities…I feel like that's worth exploring.” 

Damian shakes his head, “That- that isn’t my path.”

“Why not?” 

Damian tsk defensively, trying to figure out a way to explain this to him without giving too much away. “I- I am… a part of a legacy. I am my fathers only blood son and while that means very little in the grand scheme of things, none of my siblings have a desire to carry on that legacy. I have a responsibility to do so.” 

“Did Bruce tell you that?” he asks, almost challengingly. 

Damian opens and closes his mouth, caught off guard by the familiarity with which Tim uses his fathers name, just like how he spoke to Alfred in the manor. He looks away from Drake’s piercing gaze, all too knowing, and considers the question. 

“...no,” he admits. “He’s never- he’d never force me to do something I didn’t want to.” 

Tim hums. 

“But that doesn't mean it isn’t my responsibility,” Damian rouses. “Someone has to carry it on. I won’t have my family’s legacy fall into obscurity.” 

“But you don’t have to be a CEO to carry on a legacy,” Drake insists. “Look at Thomas Wayne. He was a surgeon at Gotham Hospital for over 10 years. He still did a lot to increase the family's wealth and used it to help Gotham. He was smart, he invested, he hired the right people to see his vision fulfilled. Bruce himself hasn’t been an acting CEO for years, so why do you have to be?” 

“I don- he-” Damian stutters, trying and failing to come up with some sort of rebuttal, but he doesn’t have one. Damian’s life purpose has always been to follow in his fathers footstep, to take up the mantle of both the Wayne family name and Batman. He’s never even considered what he would do if given another option. 

He never thought there was another option. 

Tim’s eyes soften, “Look, I just want to make sure this is what you really want. If it is, then great. You will be the best by sure determination alone,” he chuckles. “But if it isn’t… you’ll still be great, but I’m not sure you’ll be happy.” 

Damian swallows. 

“It’s just something to think about… “ Tim fidgets, looking suddenly unsure of himself. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.” 

“No it's…” Damian furrows his brows. “...I will think about it. Thank you.” 

His lips twitch, “Anytime.” 

Tim’s eyes slide over Damian’s face, then shift toward something just over his left shoulder. 

His posture changes in an instant—going unnaturally stiff, the easy lines of his expression hardening. His gaze sharpens, his eyebrows draw downward in a sharp crease, and his lips press into a thin, controlled line. And Damian somehow...recognizes that expression—that's Tim's plotting face, the expression he wears as he methodically weighs his next move.

Damian tenses right beside him, on guard almost instantly. “What is it?” he asks, automatically following his gaze, searching for the threat…but there's nothing there, just the shadow of an unused hallway sprouting off from the main lobby they're standing in. 

“Nothing,” Drake says too quickly. He tries to put on a pleasant face again, as if to appease Damian, but it’s too late. Damian can see the tension growing in between his shoulders, the way his eyes can’t quite stay on one thing for long. 

Something is wrong. 

“We should get going,” Tim says suddenly, placing a hand on Damian's shoulder and physically stirring him towards the doors leading outside. Damian fights the urge to shrug him off—Tim has never initiated physical contact with him before and he isn’t sure if he’s doing it for Damian’s sake, or his own. 

Tim lets him go as soon as they’re outside, the light of the setting sun casting everything in a soft glow. 

“I know Al- your butler was planning on picking you up, but why don’t I just drive you home instead? Right now.” Tim asks quickly, already leading him towards the direction of his car. 

Damian squints at him. Despite being literal neighbors, Drake has literally never offered to carpool before, the only exception being because of his brother’s machinations. 

Damian shrugs a shoulder, at a loss for words but not seeing a reason not to. “...I suppose.” 

“Great! Let’s go.” 

Tim practically drags him towards the parking lot. He’s trying to be cheerful to make up for whatever has him so disquieted, but Damian knows better now. Damian is once again rethinking the meta-human theory. What could Drake have seen or sensed that would make him react this way? 

Whatever the reason, Damian finds himself trusting his judgement. If he says they need to get out of there quick, he’s willing to listen, even if he would really prefer an explanation. 

Damian buckles himself into the front seat of Tim’s car—a posh dark grey BMW. Damian absently wonders why he didn’t get it in red or even black, he’s sure he’d like that much better…for some reason. Damian frowns, wondering where that thought came from. He winces suddenly as a sharp flash of pain suddenly flares up behind his eyes. Damian breathes through it and within a few seconds it passes. 

By the time he focuses on the road again, they’re already merging onto the highway towards Bristol. 

The drive is mostly silent with Tim checking his rearview mirror more often than strictly necessary. They arrive at Wayne Manor in record time with no evidence of anyone following them that Damian can tell. Tim drives up to the large metal gate at the front of the estate and waits a moment for them to swing open electronically. Once they do, he navigates the car around to the front entry. 

Damian hesitates before getting out. Drake is still clearly uneasy about something, seeming to think someone is on his tail. 

“Would you like to come in?” he suggests. “I’m sure Alfred would be happy to make us something-”

“No. No, that’s alright Dami,” he rushes, waving him off. “I actually need to get back home.” 

That’s the second time Tim has called him ‘Dami’, seemingly without even realizing it and it makes that thing at the back of Damian’s head itch, alongside another quick stab of pain behind his eyes.  

“Alright… if you’re sure,” Damian allows haltingly. He hates to leave him like this, but he’s sure Drake has no intention of telling him what's really going on and he’d rather not let it slip he’s onto his suspicious behavior either. 

“Drive safe,” he says instead, hoping his true meaning will come across. 

Tim’s eyes focus on him properly for the first time since the conference center, bright blue and brimming with intensity. 

He nods, “I will.” 

Tim speeds home as soon as he’s sure Damian is safely locked away in Wayne Manor. He parks his car and storms into the Drake mansion, making a beeline for his safe room. 

As his computer boots up, Tim closes his eyes and mentally recalls exactly what he saw. He had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind the whole day, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. That buzzing sixth sense, the one that's kept him alive more times than he can count, refused to quiet.

But then as he was speaking to Damian, he spotted it. Movement where there should have been none, the flicker of a shadow, a spot of black fabric lined in red. It was a blink and you miss it moment but Tim was trained to respond to less. 

The League of Assassins. In broad daylight. 

Bad. Very, very bad. In the League, boldness always precedes imminent action. 

Systems at the ready, Tim dives into the surveillance cameras at the conference center. Sure enough, he spots some of the telltale signs of meddling within the feed. They were prepared to scrub the data at a moment's notice. 

Had Tim left and allowed Damian to wait for Alfred to come get him, they would’ve taken him. Damian would’ve disappeared with no evidence to show for it. No witnesses. No trail. 

Tim runs his fingers through his hair anxiously, grabbing tight at the strands, the pain grounding him, keeping him tethered to the present. 

It’s a miracle Tim spotted them at all. It isn’t like the League to be sloppy, but then again, they have no reason to suspect Tim would be able to recognize them. The ninja was probably just adjusting their position, confident Damian would be none the wiser with his back turned. To anyone else, it would've been a minor shift in the crowd—harmless. 

It's a mistake they’re gonna regret. 

It’s been over a month since he last saw Pru and he hasn’t heard a word since. It could mean her mission has been successful so far… or it could mean she’s been captured. There’s no way to know, not yet. That’s the risk with deep-cover ops: silence can mean survival or death, and there’s no clear way to tell the difference.

For Ra’s to come after Damian so blatantly suggests he didn’t expect much resistance. 

He thinks Damian is unprotected. 

For once, Tim is very happy to disappoint. 

If the League comes for Damian again in broad daylight, he won’t hesitate to protect him, secret identity be damned. While he’d really prefer to keep his day-time cover intact—there’s too much tied up in it— revealing his identity is a small price to pay to protect his brother. Still, he’d like to avoid it at all cost.

Tim doesn’t have a direct line to Talia (despite requesting one for years in case of this exact scenario), but he does have some access to the League’s databases.

Sure enough, Talia went off the grid just a few weeks ago, the League unaware of her current whereabouts. A clean vanishing act. Tim digs and digs for Talia’s location, for some way of sending a communication, but she’s as good at hiding as her father taught her to be. 

If she doesn’t want to be found or contacted, she won’t be.

They aren’t in an all-out war yet, but as far as Tim is concerned it’s only a matter of time.

And Damian’s fate will be the final catalyst.

He is truly on his own here. 

Tim sighs deeply. 

Cardinal could potentially warn the bats, but that would bring up questions he isn’t ready to answer. It would strongly imply that he himself is a former League member and without a proper explanation, he’d likely lose what little trust they’ve built over the years. 

He can’t risk that. 

But. Overall, Tim does hold more cards than Ra’s could possibly know. Wayne Manor is a stronghold in its own right, home to some of the most formidable warriors in the world. Ra’s wouldn’t dare try to take Damian from there.

Which leaves only two vulnerable windows of opportunity—patrol and Damian’s time at Drake Industries.

In both cases, Tim can protect him.

He will.

Tim checks the clock. The Bats should be suiting up for patrol by now. He may have disrupted Ra’s’ initial plan, but depending on how determined he is, the League could try again as soon as tonight—especially if they believe they can catch the Bats off guard.

Tim won’t allow that. 

He checks the patrol schedule. Sure enough, Robin is due for a solo patrol tonight by the east docks. 

Cardinal suits up.

Chapter Text

Dick decides to stick close to Damian during patrol that night.

His youngest brother has been unusually quiet since returning from the conference. Evidently, something rattled Tim enough to rush them both home without any sort of explanation. Barbara’s been keeping tabs on Drake Manor ever since, but so far, nothing has surfaced—no threats, no signs of trouble, nothing to justify the urgency.

Still, Dick can tell Damian is worried, even if he won’t say it out loud.

It’s been a curious thing, watching their relationship unfold. Dick has only seen Damian care for a few people outside the family, most of them heroes like themselves. 

Tim, however, is a civilian with a not so great reputation at that. It says a lot about Damian’s growth that he’s been able to see beyond that, even when most of the family couldn’t. The rest of the family—and Dick himself— still has their doubts where Drake is concerned, and for good reason. But Dick knows better than anyone how difficult it is to gain Damian’s confidence. So for now, Dick will trust his judgment. 

“How's the east side looking?” Batman asks over the comms. 

“Quiet so far,” Nightwing answers. “No noise from Penguin.” 

“Hm. Keep me posted,” Batman orders before switching over comms. 

Nightwing looks over at Robin for some sort of comment or acknowledgement, but there’s still nothing, just the same eerie silence. There’s a certain tension around his eyes, Dick notes, one he recognizes from the many times Damian has tried to hide an injury from them.

Dick squints at him. 

“You alright, Robin?” he asks softly. 

“Fine.” he responds shortly, his tone clipped and defensive. 

Dick just looks at him, raising a single unimpressed eyebrow. 

Damian sighs, knowing when he’s been made. “I have a headache,” he admits. 

Nightwing hums sympathetically, “Do you want to call it early?”

“No,” he snaps. 

Dick raises his hand in surrender, willing to let the matter drop. Something as small as a headache isn’t grounds for too much concern…unless he has a concussion. 

He better not have a concussion. 

“And you didn’t need to come with me,” Robin plows on. “I’m perfectly capable of handling a patrol route on my own.”

“I know you are,” Dick agrees easily, not rising to the bait. Of course he knows how capable Robin is. That isn’t why he came. 

Dick allows the silence to stretch for a few minutes as they continue on with their patrol.

“Is there something on your mind?” He asks eventually, his tone carefully open. 

Robin’s jaw tenses, his gaze fixed ahead. “..a few things,” he admits slowly. 

Dick simply nods and waits, allowing Damian to reply in his own time. They grapple across a few rooftops, the city humming quietly beneath them.

“...have you ever wondered what your purpose was?” Damian finally asks. 

Dick cocks his head, wondering where this line of questioning is coming from, but doesn’t ask. “I have,” he responds honestly. “We all have to ask ourselves that question at some point.”

Damian nods, fiddling with the hem of his uniform sleeve, “And what was your conclusion?” 

Dick hums thoughtfully. “Well, it’s different for everyone,” he prefaces. “For me, it’s about helping people on my own terms—not Bruce’s, not the League’s, not even the Titans’. I realized that whatever I did, it had to be because I wanted to do it. I couldn’t be driven by other people’s expectations—only my own.”

Damian doesn’t respond right away—he just kicks at a few loose pebbles near the edge of the rooftop, watching them skitter off into the darkness below.

“I always thought my purpose was to serve,” he says at last. “My grandfather. My mother. Even Father. I thought I was only good enough—only useful —if I met their expectations… lived up to their standards”

Dick swallows hard against the bile that threatens to rise in his throat. “You know that isn’t true, right?” he mumbles. 

Damian doesn’t respond at first and Dick wonders if this is something he’s gonna need to bring up with Bruce.

“I think…” Damian starts again. “I think I’m starting to.” 

Dick smiles to himself, relief and pride warring dominance. Damian has come a long way from the angry, closed-off kid who thought love had to be earned through violence and obedience. He’s becoming the man Dick always hoped he would become and it makes him impossibly proud.

In the not so far distance, multiple gunshots suddenly echo off the buildings. 

“Nightwing, Robin. Come in.” Oracle's voice crackles through the comms. 

“Copy, Oracle.” Nightwing responds, instantly back into focus. 

“I’ve got an armed robbery situation 5 blocks from you,” she informs them. “2nd and 8th.”

“Got it,” Robin answers, already flinging himself off the building. 

Nightwing smirks and follows, catching up with his brother easily. 

They’re only 2 blocks out when Oracle’s voice comes back, “Wait. I also have a possible sexual assault is progress, 6 blocks south. A woman just got dragged into a dark alley.” 

Nightwing and Robin land on the next building and look at each other in silent question. 

“I can handle that,” Robin volunteers. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet back up with you when I’m finished.” 

Nightwing nods. “Fine. Be careful.”

Robin doesn’t dignify that with a response and the next second he’s gone. 

Nightwing arrives at the scene of the robbery. It’s 8 guys, heavily armed, robbing what looks like a jewelry store. They’re definitely packing, though they aren’t even trying to be subtle about it. 

Nobody ever said a big gun gives you a big brain. 

Nightwing whistles lowly from the rooftop, making the goons immediately tense as they look around frantically for the source. Nightwing just laughs ominously before silently landing in the middle of the group.

“Diamonds? Really?” he snarks. “Catwoman is gonna be jealous.”

The goons shout, firing blindly but Nightwing is ready for it, easily catching the muzzles of the guns of the nearest 2 guys and ripping them out of their hands. Nightwing swings the rifles around, using them like clubs to smash the two gunmen in the face before tossing the weapons aside. The remaining six scramble, some still firing wildly, but Nightwing is already moving—ducking and rolling through the chaos seamlessly.

One thug tries to bring a shotgun to bear, but Nightwing lunges in, twisting the barrel upward just as it fires, sending a deafening blast upwards. He drives a knee into the guy’s stomach, then pivots, hooking an elbow into his jaw and sending him sprawling.

Another two charge him from opposite sides. Nightwing feints toward one, making him flinch, then twists around to slam an escrima stick into the other's ribs. The thug crumples with a pained wheeze. 

The first guy recovers fast, swinging a crowbar down towards his head, but Nightwing catches it mid-swing, yanks it free, and cracks him over the head with it instead.

"Uncivilized," Nightwing quips, throwing the crowbar down. 

He rolls his shoulders briefly, ready to bring this whole thing to an end, but before he can press the attack, one of the remaining thugs pulls a grenade from his belt. 

Dammit. Why the hell are they so well equipped? They’re not professionals.

"We don’t want any more trouble, man!” he pleads, one move away from pulling the pin. “Just stay back and let us go!"

Nightwing tenses, calculating his next move—but before he can act, a royal blue blur drops from above.

CRACK.

A pair of nunchucks whips out, striking the thug’s wrist and sending the grenade bouncing harmlessly away. The thug yelps, clutching his hand, just as the newcomer lands beside Nightwing.

Bluejay.

Dick can tell Jason is grinning under his mask as he breezily twirls a set of nunchucks in each hand. "Tsk, tsk, Dickwing. That could’ve been bad.”

"I had it handled," Nightwing grumbles, already flipping over an incoming attacker.

"Sure you did," Bluejay drawls, bringing his nunchucks down hard on a goon’s kneecap. 

One thug raises his gun, but Bluejay’s already moving. He spins his nunchucks in a dizzying blur, cracking the first guy across the temple before hooking the weapon around his arm and yanking him forward. The thug stumbles right into Bluejay’s elbow, dropping like a sack of bricks.

Meanwhile, Nightwing dodges another wild punch, hooking his foot behind the attacker’s ankle and sweeping him off his feet. He looks up to see the last thug making a break for it.

"Oh no, you don’t," Bluejay mutters. He flicks his wrist, sending a nunchuck flying. The chain wraps around the guy’s ankle, sending the thug crashing face-first onto the pavement.

Jason grins. "Man, I’m good."

Nightwing rolls his eyes. “What are you even doing here? Bit far from Crime Alley, isn’t it?” 

Blue shrugs, “It’s been a quiet night. A little too quiet if I’m honest.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, “Something wrong?”

He shakes his head, “Just a feeling I guess.” Jason looks around them, “Where’s the demon brat?” 

Dick gives him a warning glare. “ Robin is handling a probable assault.” He checks the time, “He should be back in a second.” 

“That gives us some time to ask our new friend some questions,” Bluejay smirks, dragging the still conscious goon back to his feet and pressing him against a brick wall. “Wanna tell us how you and your boys got loaded with military grade weapons?” he growls. 

“It was just a job,” the man cowers, immediately caving. “Some weird folks came up to us about an hour ago. Said they’d give us some crazy ammunition if we made some noise for a while. That’s all! I swear!” 

Dick frowns, “Why? Who were they?”

“I don’t know! They had their faces covered, dressed in all black like some sort of ninjas. I didn’t ask questions!”

Nightwing and Bluejay make eye-contact. That sounded an awful lot like-

A chime sounds in their ears—Damian’s distress signal. 

Nightwing is scaling the building before Oracle even has a chance to speak. 

“Robin isn’t answering comms,” she tells them, he and Bluejay already hopping between rooftops. “The block’s entire CCTV is down. I’m blind!” 

“15 minutes out,” Batman informs them. He’s on the complete otherside of the city. 

“Nightwing and I are close, 3 minutes tops.” 

“You may be entering a dead zone,” Oracle warns. “We won’t be able to reach you.”

“Copy,” Nightwing replies. “Be advised, we suspect League involvement.” 

“What!” Oracle snaps. “What do yo-?” her voice sputters out and their comms fill with static. 

“Dammit,” Jason mutters, leaping between another gap. 

“Come on,” Nightwing says lowly, his fear and anxiety quickly shifting into an angry, deadly focus. “We’re close.” 

Cardinal silently stalks Nightwing and Robin from a distance, his billowing cape blending in seamlessly with the color and texture of the Gotham rooftops. 

His uniform is a beautiful combination of practicality and style, if he does say so himself. The suit itself is a deep red kevlar with accents of black along the seams. From wrist to elbow, the sleeves are solidly black, matching his black gloves. At the neck of the suit, the kevlar becomes flexible, shifting into a large red hood that covers his head—an acknowledgment of sorts to the timeline that never came to be. 

He wears an oversized domino mask with reflective beady lens over his eyes. It reaches from the top of his forehead to below his cheek bones, only the bottom of his nose and his mouth left seen. The mask is a deep red with feather-like shapes pointing downwards across his cheeks, the material slightly transparent at the bottom of the mask. 

On top of all of it is a large cape, almost cloak, with its own hood that doubles over the first, casting his entire face into shadow.  It’s a simple design, but efficient, the whole suit armed with various small weapons along with his usual bo-staff. 

He narrows his eyes at the duo curiously from his spot 5 buildings over, wondering what caused Nightwing to switch up the original patrol plans. Maybe the Bats got wind of the League like he did? 

As Nightwing and Robin move across the cityscape, so does he, always keeping at least a 5-10 building distance between them. Usually when Cardinal goes out, he takes extreme measures to ensure he’s far far away from the Bats. If he’s spotted, he has no doubts they will try to corner him, ally or not. 

Tim is only half listening to their conversation over the comms, he’s too high strung. Every flickering light, every distant sound has him tensing, looking for any sign of the League. He starles slightly when he hears the gunshots in the distance, but quickly relaxes. The League would never utilize militant weapons like that, they’re too loud, too obvious. 

Nightwing and Robin take off and Cardinal follows, halting with them as Oracle tells them about the other situation.

The brothers separate. 

Tim narrows his eyes. It could be nothing… but it doesn’t feel like nothing. 

Cardinal follows Robin. 

Robin makes it to the alleyway Oracle directs him to, dropping down between the structures. Tim hesitates about 4 rooftops away. If he gets too close, he risks being seen. But if something happens…

“Oracle, I’m not seeing anyone here. Are you certain this is the correct location?” Robin asks over comms.

As the silence stretches, Tim’s muscles go taut. 

“...Oracle?” 

A low, whining tone like a broken signal, then the comm fills with static.

Cardinal bolts. 

Tim skids to a halt at the edge of the rooftop, peering down into the dark alley below. In the 15 seconds it took for him to close the distance, the League has already revealed themselves. 

There are at least 15 assassins surrounding Robin on all sides, but they’ve yet to draw their weapons. 

Damian however, stands at the center, both katanas unsheathed. He turns slowly in place, eyes tracking every twitch, every breath from the shadows surrounding him. His posture is calm, but his body is wound tight, coiled like a spring waiting to snap.

From above, Cardinal crouches low, eyes narrowed. 

“What is the meaning of this!?” Robin demands. 

The assassins don't answer. 

Damian scowls, leaning his weight onto his back leg. 

“I am Damian Al Ghul Wayne, Ibn al Xu'ffasch,” he growls, voice full of authority he’s long since left behind him. “You will answer me.” 

A single assassin steps forward. “The Head of the Demon calls you home, young Prince,” they say. 

Damian tightens his grip on his swords. His jaw locks, and his voice drops an octave “I am home.”

The assassin cocks their head and just stares. “You will come with or without your consent.” 

Robin’s nostrils flare. “So be it.” 

A ninja behind Damian lifts their arm, a glint of light catching on the syringe aimed for his neck.

Cardinal draws a dagger in an instant and hurls it with deadly precision. The blade strikes true—shattering the syringe against the pavement before it can touch his skin.

At the sound, Damian whips around, blades raised. He barely registers the save before the assassins surge forward. He sidesteps the first strike and counters with a swift slash, steel meeting steel as the alley explodes into motion.

“Oracle! Nightwing! Come in!” Robin shouts into the comm, but there's no response. He slashes left and right, barely keeping the assassins at bay. He tries to reach for the R on his suit—the hidden trigger for his distress signal—but the relentless assault gives him no opening. All he can do is defend himself.

Robin is a capable fighter—one of the best the League has ever trained and even better since training under the Bat—but even he can’t combat this many trained killers for long. 

Cardinal straightens himself, his shadow falling across the entire alleyway. 

He takes a single step forward off the edge of the rooftop, his cloak flaring behind him to slow his descent. He tosses out an array of throwing stars as he falls before landing gracefully and unleashing his bow staff hard on the first few unlucky ninjas in front of him. 

Robin double-takes at the sudden, unfamiliar presence, and Tim silently prays he won’t see him as a threat. At the very least, Damian must see he’s fighting on his side and doesn’t have much of a choice but to accept the help. After a beat of hesitation, Robin shifts his stance and closes the distance between them until they’re back to back. 

“Who are you and why are you helping me?” Robin demands. 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Is that really your first concern right now?” he drawls in his modulated voice. 

One assassin lunges. Cardinal parries, kicks off the wall, and knocks them out with a swift elbow. Robin slides into the opening that creates, slashing clean across two more attackers.The alley echoes with the rhythm of combat. Cardinal swings high, Robin ducks low. Their movements begin to synchronize.

Cardinal ducks under a blade, then pivots behind Damian. He spots a brief opening, and he takes it.

Tim turns, reaches around Damian and double taps the yellow R on his uniform, activating his distress signal. Damian whips his head towards him in confusion, but Cardinal is already back in the fight, engaging another 3 assassins. A sharp chime echoes through the comms. The Bats are on their way.

The assassins withdraw slightly, circling, reassessing. Breathing hard, Cardinal and Robin stand shoulder to shoulder in the center of the alley. For as many as they take down, they just keep getting back up. 

“Who ARE you?!” Damian growls in frustration, scrutinizing his profile. 

Cardinal sighs, “Just another bird.”

Robin frowns beneath his mask. “...Cardinal?” 

Tim smirks, twirling his staff behind him. That’s as much small talk they can get in before the League is on them again. 

The assassins strike fast and without hesitation, a wave of steel and strength descending on the two vigilantes. Cardinal reacts instinctively, spinning his staff in a wide arc to give them space, then moving in tandem with Robin. Robin adapts quickly, almost as if remembering how they used to fight together, their styles different yet complementary when they put their minds to it.

Cardinal ducks under a sword swipe and kicks the attacker’s knee backward with a sickening crack. Robin parries two blades at once with expert precision. He slashes downward, turning a deadly strike into a quick disarm. 

Robin breaks from the formation, leaping off a dumpster to bring both feet down on an assassin’s shoulders. The landing is messy. He’s tiring. 

Tim eyes the rooftops. Where the hell are they?

Then, from above—footsteps. A gust of displaced air. And the soft, telltale buzz of electrified escrima sticks crackling to life.

Nightwing and Bluejay leap into the fight. 

The two heroes land to the left and right of their youngest brother, presenting a unified front against the remaining assassins. Tim can’t help but smirk. There is no way they're losing this fight now. 

Confident Damian’s back is protected, Cardinal vaults off a nearby wall, pressing in on the ninja’s at the back of the alley and cornering them against the dead-end brick. He lands in a crouch and sweeps one of them off their feet with his staff before spinning it into the gut of another.

He plants one foot against the alley wall, runs up three paces, and flips over a startled assassin, cracking his staff down on their skull mid-air. Without pause, he twists and sweeps the legs out from under another, then hurls two flashbangs into the shadows where more figures lurk. The resulting bursts of light and smoke send several League members staggering. Cardinal moves in behind them before they can recover, his staff finding pressure points with brutal precision.

“Who the fuck is that!?” Bluejay shouts above the chaos, swinging his nunchucks in a dizzying blur as he knocks two blades out of an assassin’s hands and smacks the attacker across the jaw.

Nightwing shrugs, blocking a strike with an escrima stick before jabbing another in the ribs. “Don’t know, but he seems to be on our side.” 

“That’s Cardinal, you idiots !” Robin snaps as he kicks off one assassin’s chest and launches himself into another, blades flashing in a wide defensive arc.

“Wait really?” Bluejay blinks, glancing over at the cloaked figure—only to catch a blow to the side of the head.  “Ow! Son of a-!” 

“Fight now, fangirl later!” Nightwing orders. Bluejay growls, but obeys. 

Cardinal sweeps one ninja off their feet, jabs another in the ribs, and glances toward Bluejay—who catches his eye for half a second before throwing a smoke pellet into the corner, obscuring movement behind Tim. Without missing a beat, Cardinal pivots, and clocks the would-be ambusher as they stumble into the open.

From above, Nightwing’s escrima sticks crack against metal blades, herding the remaining League members toward Tim’s position. He reacts instantly, launching two flashbangs at their feet, the light bursting just as Robin charges from behind. The blinded assassins don’t stand a chance—Robin sweeps in low while Cardinal disables two more with his staff, their movements in perfect sync.

In a matter of minutes, they have the League retreating. An assassin raises a hand, flashing a few hand signs and the others peel away like smoke, taking their injured comrades with them, melting into the shadows as quickly as they came. 

Silence creeps back into the alley, broken only by the heavy breathing of the four vigilantes left standing.

The Bats eye Cardinal curiously, like they want to question him, but Tim has no intention of sticking around. 

Without warning, Tim leaps into the air, grabbing onto a hanging ladder and swinging himself up onto a fire escape. 

“Wait!” Bluejay rushes forward. 

Cardinal brandishes his bo-staff warningly above him and Bluejay halts, raising his hands up defensively.

“Woah! Okay, no need for that. We’re on the same side, right?” Jason tries to calm him, using that voice he uses on victims, calm yet casual. Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. 

“...I don’t know. Are we?” Cardinal challenges. 

“I mean, I think so,” Jason shrugs. “You did just save Robin’s ass.”

Robin scowls, “I could have held out until you arrived.” 

Tim throws him a highly dubious look that he’s sure is lost between his mask and hood. “You couldn’t even get to your distress signal, but you think you could have held out against a company of League assassins?” 

Stunned silence meets that statement. 

“You know who they were?” Nightwing asks, his voice low and suspicious. 

Cardinal meets his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m familiar with the League, yes.” 

“How?” 

Tim can’t help but chuckle, honestly amused. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Cardinal turns away, ready to take his leave. 

“You’ve stayed in the shadows all this time,” Bluejay rushes to say. Cardinal pauses with his back to them. “Why reveal yourself to us now?” 

Cardinal turns his head over his shoulder. “Ra’s will come for him again,” he says instead, ignoring the question. 

“Is that a threat?” Nightwing growls.

“A warning.” 

“..what do you care?” Robin asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

Before Cardinal can respond, the comms crackle to life again. 

“-ome in. I repeat, come in,” Oracle orders. 

“Copy, Oracle,” Nightwing responds. 

“Robin. Report,” Batman’s voice growls. Cardinal tenses.

“I am unharmed,” Damian mutters. 

Batman grunts. “Stay where you are, I’m almost there.” 

Tim’s heart spikes, adrenaline crashing into his system like a tidal wave. He spins around and bolts, grabbing his grappling hook and flying up to the rooftops as fast as humanly possible. 

“We’re fine B, but…” Nightwing continues over the comms, hesitating as he just watches Cardinal flee. “...we had help.”

“What do you mean?” 

Tim isn’t even listening anymore—just absolutely sprinting for his life, desperate to be gone before Batman arrives.

He bolts across rooftops, vaults over ledges, and drops into alleyways without a second thought. His body moves on instinct, every cell in him screams for distance.

He ducks down a fire escape, cuts through a side street, then climbs again, using every hidden nook and cranny he knows to obscure his trail. He can’t avoid every camera—not in this state—but he does his best, slipping through blind spots, ducking behind HVAC units, never stopping long enough to leave a pattern.

He runs until his lungs burn and his legs threaten to give out, until the edges of his vision blur and the rooftops stop feeling real. Finally, he stumbles between two chimneys and drops to a crouch, tucking himself into shadow.

Chest heaving, he presses a trembling hand against the bricks, grounding himself. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. Gradually, the pounding in his ears softens. His heartbeat slows. His hands stop shaking enough to unclench.

Only then does he finally tune back into the comms.

“-aving a hard time pinpointing him,” Oracle is saying. “It’s like he knows exactly where the surveillance cameras are! As soon as I catch a glimpse he’s gone again.” 

Tim huffs. He’s spent his entire life chasing the Bats across this city from the time he was eight—twice over—and studying the surveillance from his computer for almost just as long. He’s memorized the blind spots, calculated the glitches and mapped the rhythms of Gotham’s digital eye. He knows how to hide. 

“Give me an idea. Where is he heading?” Batman demands. 

“That’s just it, I don’t know! His path is unpredictable. I can't tell.” 

“I have the waterfront covered on the east side,” Bluejay grumbles, sounding displeased. “He’s gone B. Let's just leave it at that.”

“No,” Batman growls. “He can’t have gotten far.” 

Shit. Okay. So the Bats are hunting him. Nice. Cool. He can handle this. If he can just get to his bike, he should be able to avoid them long enough to get the hell home… Shit. His bike is over 20 blocks away now and they know he’s in this part of the city. 

He’ll have to be patient— wait them out. 

Mind made up, Tim wraps himself up in his cloak. He pulls the outer hood down low and buries his face into his knees. He designed this cloak to fit in seamlessly with the cityscape of nighttime Gotham, both in color and texture. Hidden in shadow as he is, he should become a seamless part of the Gotham landscape.

And he waits. 

Tim listens to the comm chatter the whole time, mentally tracking their whereabouts. The four active Bats fan out, creating a broad perimeter that they slowly narrow in on based off of the few camera’s that spotted him in his mad dash. 

He can feel them converging. Can feel them tightening the net.

Cardinal remains entirely motionless for over an hour until he hears the soft landing of someone on his rooftop. 

Tim doesn’t flinch, scarcely breathing as he listens carefully. 

A sigh. “Still nothing over here, B.” Dick reports. 

Another figure lands next to him. “Give it up Batman. He’s not out here,” says Bluejay. 

Batman sighs over the comms. “Report back to the cave for debrief.” 

“On our way.” 

“Fucking finally, ” Bluejay mutters. 

Tim expects to hear the two of them grapple away, but they linger for an oddly long moment, both completely silent. He knows how effective their wordless communication can be, but he doesn’t dare move—not even a twitch—to see what’s holding them up.

A second later, he hears the distinct sound of two grappling lines firing, leaving the rooftop in utter silence.

Still, Cardinal waits another ten minutes—long enough for everyone to reach their mode of transport and be on their way back to Bristol—before he even thinks about moving. The comms are quiet, the whole of Gotham back to its normal chatter approaching the early morning. 

Finally, Cardinal slowly raises his head, uncoiling tight muscles one at a time. He rolls his neck until it cracks softly, then stretches out his legs, forcing circulation back into the numb limbs. Confident he’s reasonably safe and that he can move fluidly again, Cardinal rises, stepping softly towards the edge of the building. 

The wind brushes against his face, cool and biting, as he looks out over the city below. His eyes scan rooftops and alleys, mentally mapping the most efficient, low-visibility route. He’s halfway through calculating his first jump when—

A swift shift in the air and Cardinal’s instincts flare to life, turning on a dime and catching the escrima stick before it can strike him in the head. 

Nightwing stands on the other side of the building, having presumably just come out of his own hiding spot. Tim scours his surroundings for any of the others, but no, it’s just Nightwing. 

The two vigilantes just stare at each other completely frozen for a stunned moment on both sides. 

Cardinal slowly lowers the weapon that would have certainly given him concussion.

Nightwing lets out a quiet huff, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “That was clever. You almost had me.” 

Cardinal spins the escrima stick once in his hand before tossing it at Nightwing’s feet.

“I aim to please,” he mutters blithely. 

Nightwing picks it up, tossing it up and catching it in his palm before taking a step. Tim counters the motion, mirroring his sidestep, and the two begin to slowly circle one another. 

“...You seem strangely familiar,” Nightwing drawls curiously. “Have we met before?” 

Cardinal grits his teeth, “I tend to avoid familiarity where I can help it.” 

“Yah,” he hums, nodding slightly.  “All these years and this is the first time any of us have ever even seen you.” 

Cardinal doesn’t deny it. 

“Why the secrecy, huh?” Nightwing presses. “Would it be so horrible to know each other a bit better? We could help each other out, you know.” 

“I don’t need your help,” he says lowly. 

“But we need yours?”

“Evidently,” Tim snarks. 

Nightwing actually laughs—a quiet, surprised sound that seems to slip out before he can think better of it. Despite the tension, the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

The circling slows slightly, the distance between them narrowing.

“I suppose you aren’t wrong,” Nightwing admits, his voice softer now. He hesitates, “...thank you, by the way. For helping our- for helping Robin.” 

Tim scowls, “I don’t want your thanks.”

“Then what do you want?” 

“Honestly? I want you to leave me alone.” 

Nightwing sighs, “That's not really how Batman operates.”

Tim scoffs before he can stop himself.  “I’m aware . Heaven forbid Batman doesn’t have every bit of information on someone to prepare accordingly.” 

Nightwing narrows his eyes, “...pretty much, yah.”

The two of them are just a few feet apart now, the tension between them growing taut. Tim can feel his pulse in his throat.

“Look,” Nightwing starts again, his voice gentler now, as if sensing the shift in the air. “We know you’re doing good out here. All we want is a name to give us some peace of mind. You think you could do that?”

Tim stops moving entirely. He plants his feet, facing Nightwing head on, “Not a chance.”

NIghtwing sighs, adjusting the grip on his sticks. “Then you know I can’t let you leave,” he breathes, sounding honestly regretful—but not enough to stand down. 

Cardinal can’t help but smirk, “What makes you think you can stop me?” 

Neither could tell you which moved first. One second they’re still, the next they’re both moving in a flurry of motion. 

Nightwing strikes clean, and precise—but Cardinal is already there. He slips under the blow, palm catching Nightwing’s wrist, twisting it just enough to redirect the next strike. Nightwing spins low for a sweeping kick that would’ve taken anyone else’s legs out from under them. But Cardinal leaps lightly over it, flipping back with perfect balance.

He’s going easy on me, Tim thinks bitterly, narrowly ducking a follow-up kick. Fighting with Dick is swift, sharp and painfully familiar. He was trained by Dick almost just as much as he was trained by Batman. He knows how he thinks, how he moves. 

Cardinal doesn’t counter immediately. Not yet. He just keeps evading. Dodging like he knows exactly where each attack is going. Because he does.

“You're holding back,” Cardinal goads between motions. “Don’t.”

That earns him a low grunt from Nightwing, and suddenly the tempo changes—faster, sharper, and far more aggressive.

Tim smirks despite himself. He’s missed this. 

Elbow, jab, high kick—Cardinal parries each one with movements just a hair faster, just a breath more exact than Nightwing expects. Dick is usually a far better fighter than him, but he’s made the mistake of underestimating Cardinal and Tim uses it to his advantage in every possible way. He slips past a strike and clips Nightwing in the ribs with a knee, spinning around him before he can grab hold.

“Khul,” Nightwing curses in what Tim recognizes is his mother tongue. He has to be careful now, an angry Nightwing is his most dangerous. He needs to end this. 

Without thinking, Cardinal launches himself into a high, twisting flip over Nightwing’s shoulder—one of Nightwing’s own signature evasions—and lands flawlessly behind him.

Nightwing stumbles, caught completely off guard. Nobody knows that move but the sibling’s he’s taught it too. Tim’s eyes widen, realizing what he’s done.

“Thats—”

Before he can finish, Cardinal moves.

He surges forward, slamming his palm into the side of Nightwing’s neck just enough to stagger him, and in one smooth motion, draws a slim drugged soaked dart from his belt—specifically designed to take down one of the bats. He jabs it into the exposed space above Nightwing’s suit collar, straight into a vein on his neck.

Nightwing jerks in surprise, blinking rapidly as his limbs start to go heavy. “What—what did you—”

“Sorry Dickie,” Tim breathes, catching him gently as he starts to slump.

Nightwing’s knees give out, his eyes widening as Tim eases him down, guiding his body to rest gently against the rooftop wall.

“You’ll be alright,” he mutters, brushing Nightwing’s hair back from his forehead almost absentmindedly. The drug should only keep him down for about 15 minutes or so. He needs to go.

Tim stands, heart pounding, body humming with tension. And then he’s running, leaping off the edge and disappearing back into the Gotham skyline.

Ra’s watches the footage with narrowed eyes. 

The plan had been executed to perfection by his followers: the little Robin, separated from his safety net, isolated and alone. It was supposed to be a quick grab. He knew the Detective would come with his other protégés, but by the time they arrived, it should have been too late. 

Instead, the boy had help. 

This… Cardinal. 

The name is familiar. He created quite a stir some years ago across Europe, but then he all but vanished—spoken of only in rumor and fleeting whispers.

And now here he is in Gotham. Damian’s protector? 

Talia’s betrayal came as little surprise to Ra’s, he’s been anticipating it since she smuggled his heir away from him. He’s let her believe he was appeased, if only because he did want his grandson to be trained by the Detective himself. 

The body and mind of his future vessel must be perfect. He will take the skills Damian has gained and wear them as his own—becoming the Detective’s ultimate adversary, a demon draped in the boy’s skin. A foe Batman could never defeat, not truly, for he would wear the face of his own son. 

It is poetic. Beautiful. Final.

Once his designs are complete, neither Talia nor the Detective will be able to touch him.

But his daughter is clever. He anticipated some form of interference, some last-ditch safeguard—perhaps a loyalist of her own—but not… this.

Cardinal fights like one of their own, almost as if Ra’s himself had a hand in his training. Ra’s sees it in his footwork, in the sharp economy of his strikes, in the way he reads their strategy like an open book. Yet, he also fights like a Bat—calculated, elusive, devastating. He operates seamlessly with the others, even Robin himself. 

Only…they don’t recognize him. Robin, Nightwing, and Bluejay—hadn’t known him. Not really.

They know his false name, but not his face. Not his style. They have never fought with him before. 

And yet, the protector knew them, was ready and willing to bleed for them. A stranger. 

No. Not a stranger. 

Cardinal knew them too well, knew even where to reach for Robin’s distress signal, knew how to close ranks with Nightwing and Bluejay, knew the tempo of their coordination as if it were second nature. Their movements flowed seamlessly, not with the frantic energy of strangers improvising, but with the precision of someone who had once trained beside them.

He would’ve given his life for them.

How? Why? 

Ra’s al Ghul’s fingers drum once on the carved wooden armrest of his seat—then still, silent as stone.

This was no coincidence. This wasn’t improvisation. The protector moved like someone born of the League yet forged by something… other.

His daughter has outdone herself. 

“Prepare the prisoner,” he orders, his voice low and even, but brimming with authority. “I have questions for her.”

The servant behind him bows deeply without a word. The hem of their cloak sweeps the floor as they turn and disappear through a shadowed corridor, leaving Ra’s alone again. 

The glow from the monitor flickers across his face, casting deep shadows across his sharp features as he continues to study Cardinal’s hooded features. Ra’s eyes sparkle in deep fascination as he watches the man move across the screen. A curiosity ignites in him, the likes of which he has not felt in centuries.

If this is the protector Talia has assigned to her son, then she has chosen well. Ra’s will take Damian eventually—that is inevitable—but if the Protector gets in his way again… well.

Ra’s will simply have to satisfy his curiosity.

Chapter Text

Bruce stares at the monitor of the Batcomputer unblinkingly, studying every second of the footage taken from the other’s domino masks. 

It’s been a few hours since their initial encounter with Cardinal and only an hour since Dick returned from his own confrontation with the still unnamed bird. 

“Again,” he orders, specifically watching back the moment Cardinal evaded Dick. Barbara rewinds the footage, and plays it in slow motion. 

As far as the flow of the fight goes, Cardinal had the upper hand. He had just dealt a blow to Nightwing, he should have pushed his advantage. But no, he seemed to recognize Nightwing’s curse as the warning it would’ve been to anyone who knows him and instead chose to evade— instinctually. Like he knew his opponent on a fundamental level. 

“Again.” Barbara replays the clip again without comment. 

Then there is the move itself. Of course Bruce recognizes it as Dick’s own handy work. While it isn’t necessarily a difficult maneuver, it was specifically designed by a trained acrobat turned martial artist. It isn’t something learned or taught anywhere else in the world . The only people who use it are the ones Dick has taught personally. 

“Again.” 

Dick, Jason, Damian, and even Duke and Barbara seem content enough to sit back in their chairs around the debriefing table while he studies the footage. They know better than to disrupt Bruce while he’s analyzing. The only sounds are the soft hum of the Batcomputer and the rhythmic clack of keys. 

“Keep it playing,” Bruce instructs after watching the moment over again. 

Barbara nods. 

They all watch Cardinal’s masked eyes widen—like he recognizes his error, like he realizes he’s given too much away— and then he’s on Dick, using his shock to his advantage to drug him. Bruce catches Dick wince out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't bother commenting on it, they both know he should’ve known better than to underestimate such an unknown threat. The consequences of that are lesson enough. 

The screen flickers as Cardinal gently lowers Dick to the ground, his touch attentive, careful, gentle even. “Sorry Dickie,” Cardinal says softly, almost…affectionate? 

And then he’s gone . 

Bruce just stands there for a long moment after the clip ends, his thoughts jumping from one issue to the next, organizing them in his mind of highest importance.  

He turns, faces the others, and sighs. “Cardinal knows our identities,” he states. 

Barbara shrugs, “We’ve known that was a possibility for years. It’s highly unlikely he could do what he does without eventually coming across it. Even if he wasn’t looking, Cardinal has always been vastly intelligent.” 

Bruce knows this. He’s suspected and planned accordingly for every worst case scenario if Cardinal were to turn on them, though in the nine years Cardinal has been active, he’s never done anything to indicate he would. 

“Doesn’t prove he’s a threat,” Jason says diplomatically. “He’s certainly more competent than any of us gave him credit for, but he’s probably known our identities for years. He’s yet to do anything to break our trust.”

“That we know of,” Duke points out. Jason nods his head to the side, conceding the point. 

Bruce strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gaze falling on Damian. “I don’t suppose you recognized him at all?”

His youngest son doesn’t respond, eyes vacant and far away. Bruce frowns, “Damian.”

Damian blinks, focusing back on Bruce again, “What?” 

Bruce narrows his eyes but lets the moment pass, “I asked if you recognized him.”

Damian opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head, “No. Why would I?” 

“He has League training," Bruce replies easily, a bit surprised Damian didn’t already pick up on that. “And he seemed to know you were in danger. Maybe you knew him before? Maybe he’s one of your mother’s soldiers?”

Damian thinks about it for a long moment, his brows drawn and his mouth tight. “If I did… I don’t remember him.”

Bruce crosses his arms, and nods, expecting as much. “Granted, he utilized multiple techniques. I suspect he may have even trained with Shiva at some point. His form is sophisticated in a way I’ve rarely seen outside of…well..” he trails off, uncomfortable putting it to words. 

“Us.” Dick fills in flatly. “He fights like one of us.” 

Bruce exhales, nodding once. “Yes.” 

“He has been watching us for years,” Barbara tries. “It’s… possible he’s picked some things up.” But even Barbara sounds dubious of her own theory. 

Every single person in the room knows the discipline, dedication, and work it takes to perfect their form. Every move, every block, every strike, drilled over and over until it’s instinct, practiced countless times to be embedded into their very nature. It’s the reason they fight so well together as a unit. They know each other intrinsically. 

Duke points to the screen. “That’s more than mimicry,” he states firmly. “That’s muscle memory.”

“It was like--,” Dick cuts in, his voice quiet and troubled. His face has been drawn into a perpetual frown since the moment he got back. “He knew how I fought, down to the letter. It was like sparring with Jason or B,” he shakes his head. “It just felt so… familiar. ” 

Bruce hums, “Is there any chance you’ve met him before Dick? Any chance he’s someone you’ve trained. One of the Titans maybe? Or someone you’ve trained who’s since trained him?” 

Dick sighs, putting his head in his hands. He shakes his head after a moment, “No one I can think of, no. I can reach out to a few people tomorrow but… that move isn’t something I teach recruits. It’s specific to being a Robin or at least a Gotham based vigilante. It isn’t practical in other settings.”

“And it definitely isn’t the type of thing you can learn strictly from observation,” Jason agrees. “Even if it was fucking badass,” he mutters. 

Bruce gives a look but doesn’t comment. 

Barbara sighs. “Then where did he learn it?”

The question weighs heavy in the answering silence, no one having any sort of explanation. Bruce observes Damian carefully as he rubs at his temples with both hands.

“We got lucky tonight,” Bruce says solemnly. “Without Cardinal’s help…” He shakes his head, not wanting to think about it—about his son back in Ra's hands—but that’s exactly the reality they’d be facing if Cardinal hadn’t stepped in—if he hadn’t been prepared to step in.

“Has Talia said anything to you, Damian?” he asks. “Given any indication of League activity?” 

Damian sits up a little straighter and clenches his jaw, like he’s forcing himself to focus on the question. 

“I haven’t heard anything for months,” he answers slowly. “Normally Pru would’ve checked in with me by now. But… I am technically still considered grandfather’s heir. Perhaps….” He swallows, "Perhaps he’s ready for me to fulfill that role.”

“That’s not happening,” Jason clips.

Dick leans closer toward his brother, “You’re not going anywhere, Baby bat. We’ll protect you.”

“I am not helpless,” Damian growls, glaring across the table at his two eldest brothers. 

“Everyone needs help sometimes, Dami,” Duke murmurs. 

Damian exhales harshly out of his nose, not an agreement, but not a protest either. 

Bruce rolls out his shoulders, feeling the stress of the situation practically manifesting itself in his muscles. “We have to assume the worst,” he says frankly. “So until further notice, you’re grounded Damian.” 

“Wha-? Father!”

“It’s for your own safety,” he insists firmly. “I won’t let Ra’s get his hands on you again.” 

Damian folds his arms stubbornly, but it seems like he can’t quite find it in himself to protest right now. 

Bruce eyes him with concern. He’d done a quick check on his youngest when they returned to the cave, and for all intents and purposes, Robin was fine. A few cuts and bruises, sure, but nothing serious—no sign of a concussion either. Nothing that would explain his current behavior.

“I’ll try to get a hold of Talia tomorrow, see if she can explain any of this.” Bruce scans their faces, each reflecting variations of unease, curiosity, and quiet frustration.

“Get some sleep,” he says finally, “We’ll look at this again tomorrow with fresh eyes.” 

They begin to disperse, everyone moving a little slower than usual. The boys have long since showered and changed, but none of them are at ease. No jokes. No bickering. Just heavy silence as they leave the cave one by one.

Although, Damian actually looks relieved to be released. Hopefully some rest will sort out whatever is happening inside his head. 

After they’ve gone, Bruce turns toward Barbara, who came over the moment patrol ended. She’s the only one Cardinal speaks to with any sort of consistency. She probably knows him better than anyone.

“Be honest with me,” Bruce says softly. “Do you have any idea what's happening here?”

Barbara shakes her head, her expression tight. “I’m just as confused as you are, Bruce.”

Bruce sighs, lifting a hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. He steps over to the chair in front of the Batcomputer and slumps down. “You’re welcome to spend the night here, of course.” 

Barbara offers a tired laugh. “Not sure I’ll be able to sleep, but… thanks. I’ll try.”

She wheels herself over to the elevator and disappears up into the manor, leaving Bruce alone in the silence.

He should sleep. He really should. But he can't, not when there’s still a mystery to be solved. 

Bruce sits up straighter, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck before pulling up the footage and watching it all over again. 

He watches as Cardinal carefully lowers Dick to the ground. He doesn’t just call him by name, Bruce notes. He calls him ‘Dickie’, a nickname only those in the family have ever used for him. He even sweeps his hair from his eyes in a way Bruce would never expect from a stranger. 

He does know them. 

Somehow, someway, Cardinal knows their family intimately—and not just from a distance. Looking at everything together, it’s the only thing that makes sense. 

But how? 

Who? 

Bruce leans forward, narrowing his eyes as he studies the clearest shot of Cardinal’s masked face he can get. 

“Who are you?” he murmurs into the quiet.

Duke’s dreams feel like just another day—only… shifted.

He sees his first days in Wayne manor, the oddness of it all, the slow adjustment. 

He sees his siblings, each so different yet so alike in ways that only time and shared scars could reveal.

And among them, a face that belongs, yet doesn’t.

They laugh together, cause mischief together—especially with Steph and Cass. The four of them pulling pranks on their other siblings, giggling like children long past their childhoods. He hears his laugh—small, and unguarded but real. Not something conjured to comfort or confuse.

Duke knows the difference. He can spot an illusion better than anybody.

The two of them work together easily—minds in sync, moving in similar fashion. Both detectives. Both passionate. Both reckless when it counts.

There’s a rhythm to them, a natural beat that doesn’t need explanation. It just exists, solid and certain.

He watches his brother, studies him in the quiet moments between chaos. The set of his shoulders. The way he fiddles with the edge of his sleeve when he’s thinking. The silence that never quite feels comfortable.

He wonders how he can help—how he can draw him out of the emptiness that clings to him like a second skin.

Because it's always there, even behind the laugh, behind the quiet brilliance. Something vacant. Something empty.

For all their similarities, Duke’s not sure he’ll ever understand him completely…

But he wants to.

Dick’s mind is rife with uncertainty. 

His mentor. 

His father. 

His friend. 

Bruce is gone. Dead. 

Dick has to step up now, has to become the thing he never wanted. Has to fulfill a legacy he thought he could leave behind him. 

And Damian needs him. He needs Robin—perhaps more than any of them ever did. Not just so he can help others, but so he can help himself. So he can learn what’s right and what’s wrong. He needs stability. Robin can give him that.

Dick can give him that.

But—

“This is all I have now!” the other boy shouts.

Dick tries to make him see. He doesn’t want to hurt him, but he only has so many options.

“You’re not my protégé, T-…. You’re my equal. My closest ally…… You have to understand-” 

“I don’t.” 

He tries to get him to stay, tries to explain, to reach him, but deep down, he does understand. They all have to find their own path.

He just wishes he wasn’t what pushed him away…

Green, green, green. 

Rage—fury like he’s never known.

Jason pounds into the body beneath him. Each hit lands with a venom he didn’t know he was capable of. This will teach him. For someone supposedly so smart, he’s incredibly, unbelievably stupid.

Didn’t his parents ever teach him not to take what wasn’t his?!

Jason pulls away, breathing hard, looking down at the bloodied heap beneath him.

And he wants to gag. 

The rage subsides. 

And all he sees is the broken body of a child. 

Jason reels. He wants to wake up—he needs to wake up.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

Other images flash before him. 

A boy grown into a man. His face is older, wiser, but still carrying that willful stubbornness behind his eyes. He never deserved what Jason gave him, what Jason did to him. He was only ever trying to do what was right. 

That’s all he ever does. Even if it means breaking himself to put someone else back together.

He should hate Jason, despise him, curse him to the ends of the earth… but he doesn’t. 

And then—Jason gets something he never expected from him. Something he’s done nothing to earn.

Forgiveness. 

“...Bruce wouldn’t appreciate you being nice to me,” Jason grumbles. 

“Bruce isn’t here.” 

He looks away, he can’t bear the intensity in his eyes—the sincerity. “I… wasn’t always the nicest guy in the world to you, Dra-...”

“....I get it. Maybe…maybe we’ll all get it someda-”

A shout tears through the manor, instantly waking everyone in the family wing. Jason blinks, disoriented. Is somebody having a nightmare?

BANG. He hears fumbling—a scuffle? Furniture scraping. THUMP.

Jason stumbles to his feet, his mind still half asleep. He makes it to the hallway and finds Dick and Duke emerging at the same time in a similar state, meaning… 

Even from here, they can hear it—the uneven gasps, the quiet keening, the way panic curls itself into the air.

They’ve seen Damian bleed, seen him bruised, seen him furious—but this?

It sounds like their little brother is spiraling, something they’ve only seen before from Fear Toxin. 

The three of them break into a sprint, rushing to Damian’s room without a word.

Damian’s gotten used to the dreams over the last few weeks. Although he remembers so little, the more he has them, the clearer they get, slowly but surely helping him assemble the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know existed. 

But this time, the dream is as clear as anything.

“Robin!” a voice calls to him. Robin- no. Red. Red Rob- “We need to get to B, I have information he needs to know.” 

“Little busy!” Damian snarks back.

Red growls in frustration, “Listen to me brat! We either need to get to B, or to the big machine in the middle of the warehouse, whatever comes first.”

“Why?!” Damian snaps back as he cuts down another droid. The clang of metal on metal, the smell of oil and ozone in the air—it’s all so vivid. They’re fighting… androids, he remembers. He knows this battle…why-?

“You just have to trust me!”

Trust him? The instinct is so fast it nearly surprises him. He trusts him, of course he does. It’s not even a question. He might fight him tooth and nail and deny it to no end but… of course he trusts him. 

“Fine. Lead the way. I have your back.”

The fight is a blur but they get to where they need to be. Damian squints at the odd looking machine, but Red doesn’t seem surprised to see it. He’s always 5 steps ahead of the rest of them. 

“Now what?!” a new wave of robots is coming towards them. 

“I need to disable it,” Red says. “Can you hold them off until then?”

“Tt,” Damian scoffs, drawing his second katana. “Of course I can.”

Damian fights, and he fights—blades flashing, feet twisting in sharp, practiced movements. Sparks fly with every strike, oil sprays across his face, the metallic screech of collapsing droids ringing in his ears. The minutes pass like hours, and still they come. Too many. Far too many.

“Red Robin!” He yells. 

“Wait!” the voice calls back.

His arms are burning. His breath is ragged. He can feel the toll, but he doesn’t back down. Not when it matters. Not when he is counting on him. Damian gears himself, finding another burst of energy, but his arms are tiring, he can’t keep up. 

“Red!” he yells again, 

“Just a few more seconds!” 

Damian sees the blow coming, but he’s too slow to do anything about it. 

“Drake!” he cries.

A dagger impales him straight into the chest. Damian staggers and then-

“Got it!” 

The androids suddenly drop, taking Damian down with them. He can do nothing but lay there as the entire world starts to blur. 

“Good job, Baby Bat,” he hears distantly, his ears filling with static that has nothing to do with the dead comms. Weightlessness sinks into his limbs. He feels far away and close to everything all at once.

“Robin?” 

“Robin!” 

“Robin? Red Robin? Come in,” a voice says in his ear. 

“Robin is down!”

Damian feels the weight on top of him slowly start to ease, at least he thinks he does….everything is getting so fuzzy. 

“No,” he hears. “...no, No, NO!”

“Red Ro-... port.”  Is that his father?

“I- he…he-” the voice stutters, ragged and thick. 

“Damian! Dami! Wake up! WAKE UP!”

A hand slaps at his face insistently, the voice so very demanding, he can’t do anything but obey. 

He drags himself out of the fog for as long as he can. Every instinct is screaming that it’s over, that it’s time to sleep, but the feeling of someone next to him, holding him, anchors him. 

Damian's eyes open slowly, half-lidded and barely conscious.

“There you go! There you go! Stay awake! You hear me? You need to stay awake!”

Damian blinks blearily, everything so blurry, slowly getting darker around the edges of his vision. Damian forces himself to focus on the panicked face above him and sees-

 “...Timothy?”

“Yah that's right, it’s me. It’s me Baby Bat,” Tim shushes him, pulling him close.

Drake. Timothy. Tim. His enemy, his adversary, his rival…his comrade, his equal…his brother. 

Tim’s touch is trembling but sure. His eyes holding a level of panic Damian wouldn’t have ever expected from him, not for Damian’s sake anyway. 

Not after everything he’s done. 

Does he even know how much Damian has come to respect and admire him? Probably not. 

And now…now he’ll never know. 

Damian gazes at him fondly, hoping to convey something to him from his expression alone. It’s poetic, he supposes, to know Tim cares for him… only now… at the end. 

His lips twitch into the barest of smiles… at least he’s not alone… at least he’s with his family. 

His eyes close and his mind goes blissfully quiet.

Damian wakes with a shout, his breathing erratic—panic and anxiety battling for dominance as fragmented memories crash through his mind. Flashes of steel, of shouting voices and static-filled comms—of blood. His blood. Another time. 

Another life.

He fumbles out of bed, limbs heavy but pumping with adrenaline. He gets tangled in his blankets and crashes to the floor with a loud thud .

He scrambles upright, only to almost immediately lose his balance again, falling into his bedside table, causing it to bang against the wall and knocking over a lamp onto the ground. 

Finally, he manages to brace himself against his closet door, chest heaving. He presses his forehead to the cool surface, grounding himself, just barely.

The door to his room bursts open.

His brothers rush in. 

But not all of them. 

Not him.

“Damian!” Dick rushes towards him, immediately bolstering him up. Damian doesn’t realize he’s trembling until Dick pulls him into a hug, grounding him with steady arms. “What is? What happened?”

Jason and Duke scour the room, Duke casting light into every shadow looking for the source of the disturbance. 

“Was it the League? Where are they?”  Duke asks, voice low and urgent.

Damian pushes Dick off, shaking his head. “No, no- It wasn’t- I need,” he gulps harshly, every attempt at words failing him. He can’t catch his breath. He can’t breathe. 

But he couldn’t care less. 

“Father. Where’s Father?” He manages, determination overcoming everything else. 

Without waiting for an answer, Damian tears away, stumbling out the door despite the dizziness that clouds his vision.  He rushes down the hall. His brothers call after him, quickly catching up, but he can’t stop—not now.

The door to Father’s room is open but the bed is empty. The cave then. 

Damian pushes forward, his footsteps erratic, his momentum all that's keeping him upright. Everything tilts around him—the walls, the floor, his thoughts, but the dread in his chest only drives him faster.

He reaches the stairs—and his faint grasp on balance finally gives out.

He pitches forward, arms outstretched, resigned to the fall, completely expecting to take a horrible tumble down the stairs —

—but two strong arms catch him at the last second.

“Woah! Woah, slow down,” Jason says, holding him tightly.

Damian tries to free himself, thrashing in his grip to no avail.“Let me go. Let me GO! You don’t understand!” 

Jason only holds him tighter.

“What? What is it?” Dick steps quickly beside them.

Damian tries to steady his breath, realizing, with bitter frustration, that he won’t get anywhere without their say so. He stops struggling. He clenches his jaw, trying to control the way his breath hitches.

But as the initial shock and panic subsides, sorrow and anguish rush to take their place.

“I remember,” his voice cracks. “I remember everything.” 

They just shake their heads at him in confusion. They have no idea, and before now, neither did Damian. 

“Young Masters?” Alfred’s voice calls from below as the lights flick on downstairs. “What is it? What’s happened?” 

“Everythings fine, Alfie. Damian just had a bad dream,” Jason says quickly. 

Damian struggles harder against his grip, “Everything is NOT fine ! He’s changed everything!”

“Damian, you’re not making sense,” Dick tries, keeping his voice level and calming. 

Damian doesn’t want to hear it, “I need to see Father, NOW!” 

He feels a bit like how he once did as a child—demanding, insistent, and so sure he knows better than everybody else. Only right now, in this moment, he truly does. 

“Jesus Dick, let him talk to Bruce,” Barbara’s voice cuts in tiredly, her wheelchair appearing beside Alfred at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes are sharp, taking in Damian’s shaken form.

Dick sighs, “Yah, alright.” 

Jason moves like he’s about to scoop Damian up, but Damian jerks away. “I can walk!” 

Jason raises a dubious eyebrow, “You sure?” 

Damian doesn’t respond, unwilling to admit just how deeply shaken he is. He pushes forward, more balanced on his feet now, down the stairs one step at a time. His brothers follow silently at his back. Jason stays closest, his hand hovering near Damian’s elbow, steadying him when he falters.

The closer they get, the faster Damian goes, taking the last few steps at almost a run. 

Damian bursts into the cave, his eyes wild. 

“Damian?” Father’s voice echoes. 

He’s at the Batcomputer, still going over the footage of Cardinal and—

Of course.  

Doesn’t that make a sick sort of sense. 

Damian’s breath starts to race again, his emotions getting the better of him. 

Bruce stands suddenly, startled to see his youngest in such a state. “Dami-?” 

Damian can’t stand it. He rushes forward, practically tackling Bruce. His father catches him easily, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation, holding him firmly to his chest. Damian buries his face into his Father’s neck and weeps. 

He isn’t sure how long he cries, not even certain which part of this whole disaster he’s crying about. Damian’s always been a bit more passionate, a bit more emotionally charged, but he’s prided himself on slowly learning how to temper himself. 

But not now. 

He catches bits and pieces of the conversation above him as Barbara and Alfred join them,  his brothers explaining the little of what they know about his state. They still think it was just a bad dream. 

“It wasn’t a dream!” He states firmly, finally pulling away from Bruce’s grasp, his face red and puffy. He looks at his father pleadingly, “It wasn’t a dream.” 

“Ok. Ok, it wasn’t a dream,” Bruce agrees, leading him towards the debriefing table and sitting him down. Alfred is there the next second, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, one that they usually use for shock. He can’t find it in himself to protest. 

Bruce sits in the chair in front of him, leaning in close and placing a hand on his shoulder to ground him. 

“What happened?” he asks gently. “Can you explain it to us?” 

Damian takes a shuddering breath, his chest tight with emotion, wondering where to begin. Everyone else settles themselves around the table, with the exception of Alfred, who remains standing like a sentinel by his shoulder, quiet and steady.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he starts slowly. “For weeks now. But not the usual kind, they felt… different. Real. I could only ever remember bits and pieces—images, feelings. But tonight…” He swallows hard, his voice catching. “It all came back. I remember everything.” 

He pauses, hoping someone will speak—hoping someone else will say they understand. But when he glances up, the silence is thick, his family’s faces reflecting various levels of confusion and unease.

“What do you mean ‘remember?’” Jason asks softly. “What did you forget?”

Damian swallows, shaking his head. “We all forgot,” he corrects. 

Dick frowns, “Forgot what?” 

“Our brother ,” he states emphatically. Damian’s eyes fill with tears again. He blinks rapidly trying to prevent their fall. He fails. 

“Tim.”

The silence that follows feels like a vacuum—pulling the air from the room, leaving only the sound of distant bats echoing across the walls and Damian’s unsteady breath.

“Tim…Drake?” Alfred clarifies gently. 

He nods. “He- I don’t know how he did it, but he changed the timeline, made it so he never came into the family. He…” Damian shakes, his hands curling into fists on the table. “..he’s been protecting us all this time.” 

Bruce frowns, “...Tim… changed the timeline?” 

“Yes.” 

Dick shakes his head, baffled. “Why would he do that?”

Damian inhales and exhales shakily, “...To help us..to save-” His throat closes up. He can’t say it. The grief and guilt claw at his chest like a living thing. He glances up, locking eyes with his father instead. 

“Tim is Cardinal.”

The entire family frowns, expressions shifting from confusion to outright skepticism.

Barbara shifts, “That’s not possible. He’s too young, Cardinal’s been active for over 9 years.” 

“It’s him ,” Damian insists. There’s no hesitation in his voice now, only conviction. “It’s how he knew how to fight with us. Why he protected me. He was trained by Father. By Richard.”

Barbara shakes her head, already moving toward the Batcomputer. “Damian, I’m telling you. I have access to his security.” 

Her fingers fly across the keyboard, the familiar glow of monitors bathing the room in soft blue light. Within seconds, she pulls up live surveillance footage from Drake Manor.

“See?” she says, gesturing to the screen. It shows the young CEO sound asleep in his bed, limbs tangled in expensive sheets, utterly undisturbed. “He’s been in bed at home all night. It can’t possibly be him.”

Damian frowns at the screen, genuinely confused for a moment, before his newly reinstated memories provide the obvious solution. 

“He’s a genius,” he says flatly. “And a bloody good hacker, nearly on your level. He knows how you think.” Damian scoffs, laughing bitterly, “He knows how all of us think—that son of a bitch.”

Dick reels back, gazing at Damian in shock, understandably so. It isn’t like him to cuss someone out like that, he prefers to insult their intelligence. 

But not now. 

Right now he’s just angry.

“Go deeper,” Damian practically orders Barbara. 

She hesitates, her expression growing a bit concerned, “…I don’t think.”

“Go. Deeper.” He cuts in, his voice sharp and insistent. “Scan every line of code, I guarantee you will find something.”

Barbara gazes at Bruce for guidance, who nods once. “Do as he says.” 

That’s all she needs. Oracle shifts into gear, her hesitation gone in an instant. Her fingers begin to fly again, her brow furrowed, expression steeled.

While they wait, Bruce leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees to look Damian straight in the eye. “You say you’ve been having dreams before tonight.”

Damian nods.

“Can you describe them?” 

Damian considers that. His brows draw together as he searches for the right words. “I was dreaming of…then, the events of before. Memories.” He exhales slowly. “By the time I woke up, they’d be gone. But then… I started remembering things during the day, about Tim specifically, bits of information that made no sense.”

His father gazes at him thoughtfully, more contemplative than Damian would’ve expected. Bruce turns his head slowly, looking down the table at the others, measuring their reactions.

“Has anyone else been experiencing anything like that?”

Jason leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His jaw tightens, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He doesn’t speak at first, but the hesitation says enough.

Everyone looks toward him.

“Little Wing?” Dick murmurs.

Jason lifts his head and gazes back at Bruce. He nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“You’ve been having dreams too?” Duke asks quietly.

“Of what?” Bruce demands, his tone suddenly urgent. 

Jason shakes his head, “I can’t remember much either… except for…pain. Anger.” 

Damian winces. Pit madness is very real and very dangerous. It forever alters a person, no matter how resilient. 

For the first time, Damian thinks he’s starting to understand why Tim did it. He’s always put the family’s well being above his own, hasn’t he? Always calculating what they needed—even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process, almost always without a scrap of acknowledgment or thanks for his troubles. 

Of course he’d think he could get away with it. 

Meanwhile, Bruce’s body goes tense at Jason’s words. 

“Master Bruce?” Alfred asks. 

Bruce shakes his head, (the image of his son’s mangled body as fresh as when he first dreamt it.)

Alfred looks around at the assembled group inquisitively. Damian follows his gaze. 

Something has shifted in the room. Everyone looks unsettled. On edge. Each of their expressions shows further contemplation, as if…as if they understand what he’s talking about. 

“...have you all been having dreams?” Alfred asks softly. 

Duke gazes down, scratching at the back of his head. “Maybe? I’m not quite sure.” 

“Master Richard?” 

Dick furrows his brow, eyes growing distant. “Huh,” he grunts, not quite surprised, more like something just clicked into place.

Barbara’s typing pauses, (her mind flashing to a little boy with green hair.)

Bruce straightens, “Damian I need you to be specific. What exactly happened before? What was different?” 

So much. So much was different, darker, harder. How can he even begin?

Damian steadies himself, forcing his voice into something flat and clinical, starting with the most obvious difference. “You remember when Jason ran away to Ethiopia?” 

Bruce flinches slightly, but nods. “Of course.” 

“Well… the first time didn’t go as well…” 

Which is saying something, because that event affected Jason deeply, still affects him to this day. His gaze drifts to Jason. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped in front of his face, his expression… drawn and sad. 

“Cardinal saved my life,” Jason fills in, realization dawning on him. “...Because he knew it would happen. Didn’t he? Without him…” He meets Damian’s eye, “...I died. Didn’t I?” 

Damian swallows and nods once. 

The room goes still. The silence that follows is tense, brittle. No one breathes. No one speaks. Everyone is trying to wrap their heads around the weight of that, the implications. Damian doesn’t mention the aftermath. The pit. The blood. The grief that nearly broke their father before the rest of them could even meet him.  Now is really not the time to open that bag of worms. 

“Timothy already knew your identities at that point,” Damian continues. “He convinced Father to let him become the third Robin. ‘Batman needs a Robin,’ ” he adds, repeating the old phrase they used to say like a mantra.

“But in this time—”

“Without my death, he had no reason to,” Jason finishes, voice low.

Damian nods. 

“ Fuck, ” Dick mutters, running a hand down his face. For once, Alfred doesn’t admonish him.

Duke frowns, “Even if this is true, which I’m not completely convinced it is, why wouldn’t Tim re-introduce himself organically? Why the deception, the secrets?” 

“Because he’s a self-sacrificing idiot,” Damian snaps. 

They all look at him in surprise, unused to Damian letting his temper get the better of him this bad. It’s been years since they’ve seen him so unhinged. 

“When I brought him into his house that night,” Jason says suddenly, his voice quieter now, almost disturbed. “He said..he said it was better for everyone …that he was alone.”

Bruce stands suddenly and starts pacing the length of the table, back and forth. Damian can see the pieces falling into place in his mind, because it makes so much sense: Tim’s odd behavior, Cardinal’s secrecy, the way Cardinal always seemed to know things before they happen. 

Damian knows his father. Knows the rigid line he walks every day between control and chaos. Knows that, for all Bruce tries to be impartial, nothing matters more to him than his children—their safety, their well-being, their futures. He takes it all on himself, bears it like a mantle, as if their pain is his to carry, their mistakes are his to prevent. So to realize now that he’s failed so completely—forgotten one of them entirely, even if it wasn’t his fault—Damian can practically feel the weight of that starting to crush him.

Everyone watches him trepidatiously. “...Master Bruce?” Alfred tries after a minute. “Are you alright?” 

“Am I-?” Bruce lets out a shaky breath, stopping mid-stride to face them. “I’ve potentially forgotten the existence of one of my children. No. I am not alright.” 

 “ Oh my god,” Barbara breathes.  Everyone whips their heads toward the monitors, where she once again has the Drake Manor security feed pulled up—only now...

“You were right, Damian. He—he rerouted the footage,” her voice is low, almost in awe. “...He only let me see what he wanted me to see.”

Barbara clicks the mouse a few more times and replays last night’s timestamp—only this time, they see what really happened.

They watch as Cardinal rushes into the manor’s library and disappears behind a secret bookshelf, only to reemerge sometime later—dressed once again as Tim.

“ Holy shit,” Duke breathes. 

Dick stands, unable to hold still anymore as his anxiety skyrockets. “This is real.” 

“I know,” Damian growls, his sadness giving way once again to anger. How dare he do this to them? What gives him the right? 

“Wait. Wait.” Jason raises his hands. “This doesn’t make any sense. If he’s somehow rewritten the timeline, why are we having dreams? How can Damian remember something that never happened.” 

“But it did happen,” Damian corrects, his voice hard. “Despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise.”

“But why do you remember and we don’t?” Duke asks. 

“If we’re all having dreams,” Dick points out, “that means the memories are in there somewhere, right?”

Bruce nods in agreement. “It must be possible.”

He checks his watch, and Damian follows suit. It’s already well past sunrise. The sky beyond the cave is brightening, but no one has really rested. He doubts Father has slept a wink, nor will he until he has answers.

“I’m calling Zatanna. She might be able to give us an explanation,” Bruce says. “Dick, call Steph and Cass. They should be nearly done with their mission anyway. Have them come home immediately.”

Dick nods, still looking shell-shocked, like he’s moving on autopilot. “What do I tell them?” 

Bruce pauses, “We have to assume Tim can access our communications.”

Barbara shrugs a bit helplessly, hands splayed in frustration. “At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“So say it's a family emergency,” Bruce instructs. “With the League coming after Damian, it’s true enough.” 

“Okay.” 

Bruce leans over towards Barbara, “Can you mask your presence in his systems? Make sure he doesn’t know that we know?” 

“His system isn’t all that different from ours,” she tells him. “I can hide what I’ve seen, but he’ll know I was here.” 

“Will he suspect?” 

“Maybe?” Barbara shrugs, “But I’ve been accessing his network from the civilian side for the last couple of weeks. If I touched anything from Cardinal’s end, we would know. He has traps for that, our own systems would already be destroyed. He’ll probably think I’m still fooled by the smoke and mirrors.” 

“Keep it that way. Let me know if anything changes.” 

Bruce turns to Damian. He can feel his face is still puffy, his eyes a torrid of complicated emotions. 

“...Damian, I want you to stay home from Drake Industries today. You aren’t in any place to see Tim and we need to plan how we want to approach this.” 

“What?” Damian shoots to his feet, shaking his head furiously. “No.”

“We need to handle this delicately,” Bruce insists. 

“But I have to-” 

“Cardinal-... Tim has proven himself smarter than any of us realized. And if he’s this determined to hide himself from us…” Bruce swallows, jaw tight. “We need to regroup, calm ourselves, and handle this logically. ”

Damian slumps back into his seat, fists clenched. He’s so far beyond frustrated he doesn’t even have words. But deep down, he knows his father is right. He isn’t sure what he would do if he saw Timothy right now. 

Probably punch him.

“Fine,” he mutters, staring at the floor. “But you can’t keep me from him forever. He’s… he’s my...” 

Damian swallows, unable to get the words out. 

Bruce softens. “We will bring him home. I promise.”

Jason:

Chapter Text

Tim shows up to work bleary eyed and exhausted. 

After making his escape from the Bats, he was up the rest of night trying to track the company of assassins that infiltrated Gotham. To be fair, he would’ve been up anyway—his nerves were shot, his mind constantly replaying the encounter in his head, picking apart every second of their interaction.

Cardinal had been careless. Too careless.

He’d executed that move without thinking. Muscle memory had taken over, but he should’ve known better. Dick was the only one who could’ve taught him that maneuver. 

And he knows he noticed.

He tries to convince himself it doesn’t matter. It was dark, adrenaline was high and even if it was suspicious as hell, they still can’t possibly trace it back to him. He’s covered his bases. 

They don’t know.

They can’t.

He keeps repeating it, like a lifeline he’s barely clinging to, because if he lets himself spiral, let the panic get a foothold, he’ll implode. And there are only so many things in his control.

Tracking the League was a pretty pointless exercise. It took him hours just to get back to Drake manor, and the League has always been more slippery than anyone. Tim knows in the last timeline, they had a holdout on the outskirts of the city. Ra’s would sometimes utilize it to keep an eye on them, before Tim blew it up, that is. 

It’s the most logical place for them to be, but Tim still doesn’t know what kind of numbers they’ve brought. With last night's performance, he wouldn’t be surprised if Ra’s doubled or even tripled his soldiers. 

Tim checks the clock: five minutes past Damian’s usual arrival time—then eight, ten, thirteen. With each passing minute, Tim’s anxiety skyrockets.

He doesn't think Damian was injured last night but there’s always the chance he missed something in the chaos. Still, even if Damian had taken a hit, Tim doubts it would stop him from showing up. It isn’t like him. Not unless he was injured severely —in which case, Bruce, Dick, or Alfred would’ve forced him to stay home.

But to not give notice? 

Something has to be wrong. 

Another ten minutes pass, and Tim's anxiety builds to the point that he's nearly ready to hack into the Manor's security himself just to check on Damian. He shouldn’t. He’s already on thin ice with the Bats as it is. If he were to hack into the Manor’s security so blatantly…

But still, his fingers twitch. Just a quick look—just enough to see if Damian’s alright—

His personal cell phone starts to ring.

The sound nearly makes him jump.

Heart in his throat, Tim snatches the phone up and checks the caller ID.

Bruce Wayne. 

Tim swallows, stealing himself, and answers.

“This is Timothy Drake,” he starts pleasantly, using his usual opening. 

The line is silent for a moment, and then, “Tim. Hi, it’s Bruce Wayne." 

Bruce’s voice sounds odd, but not in a way that Tim can place, almost… strained. 

“Mr. Wayne!” he greets easily. “It’s good to hear from you. I assume you’re calling about Damian?” 

“Hn,” he grunts in agreement, a distinctly Batman sound that he rarely lets slip as Brucie. “Yes, he’s feeling a bit under the weather. He won’t be coming in today.” 

Definitely injured then. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tim says evenly. “Nothing too serious I hope?” 

Bruce hesitates. “...no, just a bit of food poisoning I think. With any luck, he should be back tomorrow.”

That is…surprising. An injury serious enough to keep Damian down would need longer than a day of recuperation. Unless Bruce is just being cautious of the League? 

Unease starts to creep down Tim’s spine. The timing is…odd.

“I see,” he replies, keeping his tone steady despite the unease curling in his gut. “Well I hope he feels better soon. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Wayne.”

The silence stretches just a hair too long.

Then, softly, “...Bruce,” he corrects. “I told you before, you can call me Bruce.” It feels a bit more than the usual request, heavy in a way Tim doesn’t understand. 

Tim blinks. “Tell Damian I look forward to seeing him tomorrow,” he says briskly, unsure what else to say and hangs up.

Tim sits quietly for a moment, his mind already producing all sorts of possible explanations, but none of them fitting just right. 

Tim pushes his chair back and stands, walking to the paneled wood wall to the right of his desk. Three separate hidden compartments are built into it. 

One holds his tech: a laptop linked to his Cardinal servers, along with trackers, comms, and other essential equipment. Another contains weapons, first aid supplies, and antidotes for some of the deadliest toxins he might encounter—Joker Venom, Fear gas, and even a few of the drugs commonly used by the League.

The last compartment stores his spare Cardinal uniform.

He rarely, if ever, needs most of this gear at the Drake Industries, but he knows better than to be unprepared.

He goes to the far-left panel and taps a specific spot in the bottom corner. The panel pops open, revealing his tech stash. Tim grabs his laptop, closes the compartment, and returns to his desk.

It’s been a while since he’s hacked into the Bats' database. He doesn't really need to anymore, besides surface-level observations. Once he and Oracle started working together, it didn’t make sense to be too deeply involved. Oracle tells him what he needs to know. It was a show of respect and trust on his part—and also a message: mind your business, and he’ll mind his.

In accordance with that, Tim doesn’t go deep, and despite his curiosity, he doesn’t touch manor security—he merely pulls up the reports from last night's attack. Oracle will know he was here, but given last night's events, he doubts she’ll blame him for it.

Tim reads through each account thoroughly, paying special attention to Nightwing and Bluejay’s reports. Damian was supposed to be on patrol alone, a perfect opportunity for the League to corner him. But Nightwing didn’t follow the plan, hence the distraction, meant to separate the brothers. It means the League had to have been watching Damian the entire time and adjusted accordingly. 

Maybe it’s for the best Damian stays home. Tim isn’t used to Ra’s being so blatant; he normally has more tact than this.

Perhaps Talia is already moving against him, making Ra’s more desperate for leverage against her. But Talia should know that. She should know Damian is more at risk. Does she really have such sure faith in Cardinal to leave her son’s protection to him alone—without so much as contacting him?

Tim sighs. 

He’s always hated the Al Ghul family drama and the unwitting part he consistently plays in it. 

Now that the Bats know Cardinal is aware of the League, maybe they’d be more willing to hear what he has to say about them… or maybe they’re more suspicious than ever. He did drug Nightwing and leave him on a rooftop last night. 

Nobody’s perfect, alright?

The important thing is, at least for now, Damian is safe at the manor. Knowing Bruce, Tim wouldn’t be surprised if he’s grounded Damian from patrol all together. 

While he’s in his network, Tim also checks into his systems at Drake Manor. Oracle accessed them a few times yesterday, likely in response to Tim’s odd behavior at the conference with Damian, but besides that there’s nothing of note. 

Appeased for now that everything and everyone is as secure as they can be, Tim puts his laptop back into its hiding place, and tries to focus his mind on his actual work. He still has a company to run, dropping the ball now would only be more suspicious. He needs to keep up appearances.

He sighs to himself. He hasn’t exactly been the most careful as of late, but hopefully, with everything going on, the Bats will put the oddities of Timothy Drake aside for now—at least long enough for things to settle down again. If he’s lucky, they’ll forget about the whole issue. Damian’s internship won’t last forever, after all.

Things will go back to normal soon enough. 

Damian spends the rest of the morning and into the afternoon slumped in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, idly watching clips of Cardinal from the night before on repeat on one monitor while skimming through a few published papers by Dr. Patel on the other. He fiddles absently with the beacon Pru once gave him, unable to focus. To this day he doesn’t know exactly where it goes, only that it’s a protection his mother was adamant about. If ever he needed help his father or siblings couldn’t give him, he’d have another lifeline. 

His mind drifts, flickering between past and present, one life and another. 

How often did he used to find Drake in this exact same chair? On some case bender, refusing to rest until it was done? 

How he envied him, his jealousy cloying, overcoming any other thought concerning the boy. How could he not be? Tim was everything he wanted to be, had every skill he lacked… the perfect son. 

Damian, now older and wiser and without so much of his mother’s influence, knows that wasn’t truly the case. Tim struggled to find his place in the family, Damian and Jason making it all that much harder for him. He recalls Tim’s falling out with Dick, how vindicated Damain felt at the time. 

He was terrible to him.

And yet. 

And yet Tim came back, changed the entire timeline, erasing himself from the memories of the only family he had left…for Damian. 

Jason and Dick keep him company in the cave, wisely assuming he isn’t in the best headspace to be alone while Duke is out on patrol. Dick sits nearby at the debrief table, sorting through all the information they’ve gathered on both Cardinal and Tim over the years, trying to connect the pieces without the memories Damian now carries. Jason sits across from Dick on his laptop, working on some paper for school. 

Damian swallows.

He supposes it wasn’t just for Damian. Jason’s life, more than anyone’s, is fundamentally different from the one he had before.

Jason didn’t have to die, didn’t have to go through the terrible experience of being forced back to life against his will. He got to actually finish high school and work on his literature degree from Gotham U, something Damian knows he’s always dreamed of.

Jason is happier this time around. Bruce is happier. Dick is happier.

They never had to lose such an instrumental member of their family… at least not that they knew of. He can see the appeal; he can understand why Tim did it.

…was it worth it?

Damian’s eyes instantly water again without his consent, he blinks rapidly refusing to let tears fall. 

Dick, either sensing or seeing his struggle, stands suddenly and comes over to Damian’s side. He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t comment on the moisture in Damian’s eyes that he hasn’t been able to fully rid himself of all day. Instead, he simply places himself at Damian’s shoulder, eyes locked on the repeating footage, his proximity naturally grounding him.

As Damian finds his equilibrium again, he follows his brother’s focus onto the screen for what has to be the hundredth time. Admittedly, watching the footage over again with context is much more telling than it was before. 

Jason stops what he’s doing too and joins his brothers to watch as well, placing himself behind Damian’s other shoulder. 

Tim has always fought a bit scrappily. He wasn’t trained as early as Damian or Dick, and he never had the raw strength that came so naturally to Jason. Damian remembers Tim always making up the difference with pure determination, patience, and brains. It used to drive Damian crazy how he could best him when he had no right to.

Damian watches him fight now, and he’s… different. He uses the same training he had before, but he’s more graceful than he was—fluid, more confident than desperate. He isn’t so skinny either. If Tim’s self-preservation instincts are low in this timeline, in the last one they were practically non-existent. It was something Damian had only just started to notice before… before…

But it’s better this time. He is better, healthier, stronger. He suspects Tam’s influence has something to do with that. 

“Damn,” Jason mutters appreciatively as Cardinal executes a particularly impressive maneuver. The fight wraps up and Cardinal tries to make a quick getaway. Que Jason trying to stop him and Cardinal warning them that the League will be back.

“You know who they were?” Nightwing asks suspiciously. 

Cardinal meets his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m familiar with the League, yes.” 

“How?” 

Cardinal chuckles, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

And isn’t that the truth?

Jason shifts, “So…why exactly does he have League training if he was one of us?” he asks Damian. 

Damian fidgets, looking down at his hands uncomfortably. “...I never knew the whole story,” he admits shamefully. He never even asked. 

“He... left for a while,” he says haltingly. “We... we all thought Father was dead. But Drake... he never believed it. He went on a… quest, for lack of a better word, to find him.”

Dick cocks his head to the side in question, “That never happened here.”

Damian huffs, “A lot of things never happened that should’ve, I expect because of his intervention.” He shakes his head, fond despite himself, “He was gone for over a year trying to find proof father was alive. When he came back, he was…different. And the Leagu- Grandfather was on his tail.”

“Why?” Jason frowns.

Damian shakes his head, “I just know Ra’s was somehow involved in his investigations.” Damain’s lips twitch. “But in the end, Timothy bested Ra’s, sent him away from Gotham, proved Father was actually alive and brought him back…. all by himself.”

Dick and Jason trade confused glances. “I know Jason would’ve been…gone by then,” Dick says uncomfortably.  “But where were you and I?” 

Damian’s year as Dick’s Robin flashes before his eyes. In that life, Dick was Damian’s primary mentor for a full year before father returned and their relationship was different because of it. Even when father came back, a part of Damian always saw Dick in that light. Here, while Dick has certainly been a pivotal influence…he has always been first and foremost his brother.  

And Jason. Of course Jason was actually alive at that point, still working through the pit rage and acting as a Crime Lord.

There was so much distrust between all of them, so many unspoken resentments and fractured relationships. They were too caught up in their own pain that when someone in their family truly needed them…they let Timothy fend for himself.

Damian swallows past the lump building in his throat. “It’s complicated,” is all he can manage. 

His brothers, blessedly, let the subject drop. Dick changes the subject, “Anything from Talia yet?”

Damian shakes his head. “I’ve been monitoring her channel all day, and nothing," he sighs. "…I hope she’s alright.” 

His mother is just one more issue among the mountain of revelations and recovered memories he now has to sort through in his mind. His mother was different before, or at least, different than how he understood her to be in this timeline. She’s always been driven, but his reinstated memories reminded him just how relentless she can be— what her ambition can and will drive her to.

The fact she hasn’t responded to Bruce’s message is telling. She is either incapacitated… or purposefully choosing not to interfere. 

Just then, an alert from the Zeta-Tubes rings out, cutting through the cave’s heavy silence. Two sets of footsteps echo down the hall. Bruce has been at the Watchtower for the better part of the day discussing the situation with Zatanna and Constantine. 

Sure enough, Bruce and Zatanna round the corner and come into view. 

Jason folds his arms over his chest, “Well? Do we have any answers yet?” 

“We have more theories than answers,” Bruce sighs. “As far as we can tell, there hasn’t been any cosmic damage. Nothing to indicate our branch of reality is unstable due to meddling with the timeline.”

“That’s something,” Dick murmurs. 

Bruce nods, “Zatanna would like to examine Damian to see if there are any traces of magic on him. We’re not sure if magic was even the catalyst for all this, but we’d like to rule it out.”

Damian nods, “What do you need me to do?” 

“Why don’t you come over to the medbay, and we can have you lie down,” Zatanna suggests. 

Damian stands and follows her instructions, entering the medbay and lying down on his back on one of the cots. Father hovers anxiously over Zatanna’s shoulder, while Dick and Jason linger awkwardly near the entryway. 

“Alright Damian, there are a few different parts of your consciousness that could have affected your memory,” she starts. “I’m going to start with examining your head. After that, your heart, and your soul.” 

Damian stiffens, “My soul?”

“That's the closest English word I have to describe it,” she explains. “It’s more like your essence, the cumulative spiritual matter that makes you who you are.” 

Even with everything Damian now knows regarding the scientific study of the subject, magic—and anything remotely connected to it—still grates on his nerves, as it does with most of the Bats.

Magical spiritual nonsense, Damian thinks bitterly. Drake will pay for making him go through this.

 “...alright,” he agrees.

Zatanna’s hands glow slightly as they hover over his head. Damian doesn’t feel much, just a sense of pressure on his temples. The feeling goes on for about a minute or so before Zatanna moves her hands down towards his sternum. This time it feels more like a pull expanding through his chest, something pushing things around, seeking and searching. After about another minute of that, the feeling passes and Zatanna pulls away. 

She hums. “No trace of magic so far,” she says. “This next one might be a bit uncomfortable, Damian,” she warns. 

He is going to hit Drake so hard. 

This time Zatanna’s hands hover the whole of his body, sweeping over him back and forth from his toes, up to his head and back. At first there's just a faint tingling, but then that feeling grows until it’s near painful, like intense pins and needles across his entire body. Damian can’t help but tense but manages to remain still. 

“Huh,” Zatanna breathes, her brow creased curiously. Finally, she takes her hands away and the intense tingling abides. 

“Well?” Bruce probes instantly as Damian sits up.

“It’s not magic,” she says, turning to face him. 

“Then what is it?” 

Zatanna hesitates. “May I examine the three of you as well?” she asks, looking between Bruce, Dick and Jason. 

Dick shrugs, “Sure, why not?” 

One by one, they take turns lying down on the cot and going through the same procedure Damian just did. 

Jason goes last and seems particularly uncomfortable through the final step. Zatanna lets him up quickly enough and Jason is instantly back on his feet, trying to look casual while being anything but. 

Bruce gives him a look of concern but quickly puts his attention back on the magician. “Zatanna.” he growls, growing impatient. 

Zatanna sighs, sitting herself down on the empty bed looking perplexed. “Like I said, no magic, but…whatever happened has affected all of you on a fundamental level. Your souls have been..altered.” 

Bruce narrows his eyes, “How so?” 

“Well,” Zatanna exhales. “A soul is made up of everything that makes you you. Your life experiences, knowledge, emotions, trauma, choices—all of it molds and shapes us into who we are. Our souls are like a spiritual reflection of that. And all of your souls have… scars, or the spiritual equivalent of them.”

Bruce shakes his head, clearly at a loss. This is why the Bats hate dealing with anything magic related, it’s unpredictable, and not to mention difficult for a group of logic minded people to understand. “What does that mean?” 

Zatanna takes a moment to gather her thoughts, then starts slowly, “If the timeline was altered like you think it was, it means this isn’t a new branch of existence. All of you lived a certain life and were then reset . Your minds don’t remember the life from before, but your souls? They aren’t so quick to forget. Whatever memories you’ve forgotten must’ve been paramount to the formation of your soul—your identity—as it was. To have them suddenly taken away…it leaves ‘scars’.” 

“But how could that translate into our actual memories if we’ve never physically experienced these things?” Dick voices. 

“The way memory works isn’t just neurological,” Damian interjects. 

Bruce raises a curious eyebrow at him. 

Damian swallows, a bit shy despite himself but continues, “Recent studies suggest that the soul may interact with the brain in ways science doesn’t yet fully understand. There’s growing evidence that the two influence each other. Some theorists believe dissociative amnesia is the brain’s way of protecting the soul by suppressing memories that are especially traumatic. Therefore in theory, the soul could also reinstate memories to the mind that have been lost.”

Zatanna smiles, “Yes, exactly Damian.”

“Huh,” Jason grunts. 

“So that’s why we’re having dreams? Why we can remember?” Bruce clarifies, narrowing the explanation down to its most basic parts. “Our souls are recalling what was?” 

Zatanna nods. “After examining all of you, I don’t see another possible explanation.” 

“But why now?” Jason questions. “Why haven’t we been having dreams our whole lives?" 

“You wouldn’t have any need to remember,” Zatanna shrugs. “Unless you were exposed to something that brought the memories forward, a reminder of who you once were.” 

“Drake,” Damian supplies. 

Dick cocks his head, “...So by that logic, Damian is the only one to remember because…?” 

“I’ve had the most exposure to him,” Damian finishes.

Zatanna nods. 

Bruce frowns. “Is it really that simple? That's how we regain our previous memories? By spending time with Tim?” 

“That's what I’d put my money on, yes,” Zatanna agrees. “On the rest of you, the scars are almost dormant, a part of the soul that exists but isn’t affecting your current state. But on Damian… it’s like the scars have lit up, becoming just as relevant as the rest of the soul.” 

“There’s no way to speed up that process?” Bruce asks. 

She shakes her head, “You’ll only react to natural stimuli. But how long that takes and under what circumstances will be completely dependent on the person.” Zatanna hesitates, “I wouldn’t rush this, Bruce. Damian seems to be mostly okay all things considered but…there's no telling how remembering a lifetime of experiences in an instant could affect someone, especially if the memories are especially traumatic.” 

“That may be,” Bruce acknowledges. “But I don't even know how many years he’s been on his own. I won’t make him wait any longer than necessary.” 

Zatanna furrows her brow but eventually nods. “Just be careful. And ask for help , if you need it. Alright?” 

Bruce just grunts. Zatanna shakes her head fondly. 

Her gaze rests on Damian, “Your family will naturally be curious about the events of before, but I’d advise you to keep that knowledge to yourself where you can. Let the process proceed as naturally as possible.”

Damian nods once, secretly grateful for the excuse to keep things to himself. He doesn’t know he could ever explain all that occurred. How could he possibly begin to describe his father's grief at the loss of his son? The heartbreaking confrontation when Jason came back again? How could he tell Jason that the very brother they’re trying to bring home, he once beat near to death? 

“Thank you for your help Zatanna,” Bruce says finally. “I’ll follow up with you in a few days.”

“Course, Bruce,” Zatanna says, placing a brief comradery hand on his arm. “And I’d love to meet him sometime. You know, when you get your son back.” 

The silence stretches but Bruce doesn’t have a response to that, so he just nods. 

Zatanna nods back and starts to turn to go, but stops at the last second, her eyes lingering on Jason, “I’d warn you to be the most cautious,” she says. “I don’t know what you went through, but it’s had a lingering effect on your soul. Be mindful. Reach out to Dinah, any of you, if you need to.”

With that, Zatanna escorts herself back to the Zeta tubes and out of the cave. 

“What did she mean?” Jason mutters almost to himself. Damian swallows, he can feel his brother's gaze on him, his desire to know, but with Zatanna’s wisdom fresh in his ears, Damian ignores the request. 

Jason doesn’t ask again. 

Bruce looks between his sons uneasily. “...Maybe Zatanna is right. Maybe we shouldn’t rush into this-”

“No.” Jason shakes his head. “Whatever comes-whatever happened…we can deal with it. I can deal, alright? You said it yourself, Tim’s been all on his own for years now. That ends as soon as possible.” 

Dick and Father make eye contact with one another, silently gaging the other’s feelings about this. Damian can see they’re both trepidatious, neither want to take unnecessary risks, but in this case it really is only a matter of time. 

Tim is coming home one way or another. 

Bruce finally gives a short nod, resigned. “Very well.”

There’s a pause, the air shifting just slightly as the tension begins to give way to purpose.

“So,” Dick says, drawing a breath, “where do we start?”

Jason leans back in his chair, stretching out like he’s physically shedding his unease. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says with a shrug, his voice lighter. “Operation: spend time with runaway little brother to remember said brother. Seems simple enough.”

Damian lets out a dry scoff. “You don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

Dick glances at him, brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

Damian hesitates, “I won’t claim to be an expert on Drake, he and I were never…close. But he is a genius. He’s gone through every means to keep himself a part from us, even going as far as  crafting a persona we’d find particularly irksome, all to keep us at a distance. Forcing his hand will not be easy.” 

“We managed to get him to come to dinner didn’t we?” Jason points out. 

“And look how that turned out,” Dick mutters under his breath. 

Damian cringes at the reminder. So much of that night makes sense now. Tim was trying so hard to remain neutral while his family was right there , ignorant of the space he used to fill. He’d been grieving in plain sight, and no one had seen it. Damian can only imagine how painful that was. No wonder he bolted. 

Damian looks down at his hands contritely. He wonders what it’s been like for Drake these weeks, being forced into proximity with him. Damian is sure that seeing everyone else is an emotional trial for Tim. How could it not be? They were his only family. But Damian? He probably wanted to avoid him at all costs for very different reasons. 

A soft chime breaks the quiet. The Batcomputer lights up with an incoming call. Bruce crosses the cave floor, his expression unreadable as he accepts the transmission from Oracle.

“Any changes? Is he suspicious?” Bruce asks without preamble.

Barbara, now back at the Clocktower and operating from her full setup, appears on the screen. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so—though he did comb through the reports from last night.”

“Probably to gauge what we know,” Bruce murmurs.

Barbara nods. “I’ve added extra security layers to the manor, the Batcomputer, and our comms. It won’t necessarily keep him out, but it should send a message.”

“He probably thinks we just don’t trust Cardinal now,” Dick says as he joins Bruce, arms loosely crossed. “I doubt he has any idea that remembering is even a possibility.”

“Where are we with that, by the way?” Barbara asks, shifting her full attention onto them.

“Zatanna says it’s proximity,” Bruce replies. “The more time we spend with Tim, the faster the memories come back. But it’s not an exact science—we don’t know how long it will take.”

Barbara exhales slowly, her expression resigned. “Figures. Do we have a plan for that?”

“Not yet,” Bruce admits. “I want to wait until we can bring Cass and Steph up to speed. Duke too, once he’s back.”

“Cass and Steph are only an hour out now,” she informs them. “I can comm Duke and have him return from patrol by then. We can talk it all through once everyone’s in.”

Bruce nods once. “Alright.”

“Let me get this straight,” Steph says from her designated chair at the debrief table. Her blonde hair is greasy, twisted into a low bun—there hadn’t even been time for a shower before Bruce called the meeting. And after hearing everything? Yeah, she gets why.

“You’re telling me the stuck-up, hot, rich ass twink next door is actually Cardinal —used to be the third Robin—until he somehow changed the timeline, erased himself from our memories to spare us a whole bunch of pain, or some crap, and now Damian’s remembered everything from that life? And the rest of you are having bizarre, cryptic dreams that might be actual memories, and could potentially fully remember the lost timeline just by hanging out with said twink?”

She glances to Cass, who sits beside her, calm and collected as ever. “Is that right? Did I get that right?”

Cass gives a small, nonchalant nod.

Jason lets out a short, slightly hysterical laugh. “More or less… yeah.”

Steph slumps back, trying to absorb… all of that. “And in this other timeline, you died, right?” she asks Jason.

Jason’s smile slips a bit. “So I’ve been told.”

Steph narrows her eyes at him. He’s perturbed by that fact, obviously, and for good reason. It’s weird for Steph to imagine a life within the Batclan where Jason isn’t a member. How would that have affected Bruce? Surely he wouldn’t be the same as he is now… how would that have affected all of them?

They really do owe quite a lot to their rich-ass neighbor.

Still, while it’s certainly a troubling thought, Steph feels like she can read Jason well enough to see that he’s less bothered by the fact that he died and more concerned with everyone else’s reactions to said death—meaning they’re already walking on eggsheels around the fact. 

So Steph tsks, falling back onto her tried and true sense of humor, and jokes a bit carelessly, “And stopping that was supposed to save us from pain and suffering? Bit of a stretch, no?”

Dick glowers at her. “Not funny.”

“Ok, damn,” she mutters, raising her hands in mock surrender. But she still catches the corners of Jason’s lips twitching upward. He’s like her in that way. They deal with grief and hardship with a smirk on their face and a crude joke on their lips.

The rest of the family can suck it—progress isn’t always linear and shit, okay?

Cass sits up straighter. “It isn’t all that surprising, everything considered. It does explain all the random bits of information he knew.” 

Bruce frowns, “What bits of information?” 

Steph arches both eyebrows and shoots a look across the table at the Wayne brothers, who all shift like they’ve suddenly forgotten how to sit comfortably. “You didn’t tell him? Really? I think it’s pretty relevant at this point.”

“I honestly kinda forgot about that,” Duke mutters, just as Jason says, clipped and defensive, “It didn’t come up.”

Bruce’s voice sharpens. “What didn’t come up?”

Damian exhales, resigned. “There were oddly specific things Tim knew about us. That night, after dinner, he gave more away than I think he meant to. Nothing explicit, but... things that didn’t make sense at the time.”

“Like what?”

Damian shrugs, “He knew the layout of the manor. Knew about the hidden bathroom in the east wing. Titus took to him right away—and he knew Titus’ name without me saying it. He had this weird familiarity with Alfred that felt... unatural. And he knew I was a vegetarian, even though I never mentioned it.”

“We thought he was a telepath,” Jason mutters under his breath.

“You thought he was a telepath,” Duke corrects, shooting him a look.

“Oh, please—it was a solid theory!” Jason throws his hands up. “How was I supposed to know he literally changed the course of history to get out of this family?”

Barbara chuckles, “If I’d known that was an option, I’d have given it a shot years ago.”

“Same,” Steph adds with a smirk, leaning back in her chair.

“Oh, come off it,” Dick scoffs, clearly offended on the family’s behalf. “You love us.”

“This family is a prison,” Steph mutters deadpan.

Bruce raises a hand, halting the banter. He glances over all seven of them, each of whom were clearly aware of this development and said nothing. “And nobody mentioned this to me because…?” 

Steph avoids eye contact, turning her head with the others to stare pointedly at Damian.

Honestly, knowing what they do now puts Steph far more at ease with Damian’s odd insistence that Drake was good. Steph started buying into the telepathy theory for a second, if only because someone altering the little demon’s brain seemed more likely than his genuine optimism.

Damian hesitates, but answers his father, “I was worried you would label him as a threat and… Even without remembering, I just instinctively knew he wasn’t.” 

Bruce takes that in quietly, his face both stormy and sympathetic. Steph can practically see him drawing from that legendary well of patience to keep himself level headed. 

He sighs, “I can see why you would have done that, especially now. But Damian, that was dangerous. There was no telling if you were right or wrong.” 

“But I was right,” Damian snaps. 

“This time,” Bruce admonishes. “Just… next time try to trust me, alright?” 

Damian simply nods. 

It isn’t exactly out of the norm for them to keep things from Bruce, but Steph knows it bothers him. Not because he doesn’t respect their right to privacy, but because keeping information from Bruce limits his ability to strategize and plan. He’s got an overprotective streak the size of Gotham itself.

Steph has never fed into his paranoia though, hence her constant solo missions, only recently accompanied more often than not by Cass. Quite frankly, Steph doesn’t think it’s healthy to live that way and the fact that Bruce evidently has another son who's gone to these lengths to keep his own existence a secret from Bruce? 

It’s both heartbreaking and borderline hilarious. 

Karma is a bitch like that. 

Duke exhales, “I’ve got to say though, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? Of course he’d be familiar with the manor, of course he’d remember Titus.” 

Jason nods thoughtfully, “Of course he would defend Damian against a bunch of rich white supremacists.” 

“Of course he would get overwhelmed at a family dinner,” Cass adds. 

At that, the room falls into a thoughtful hush. Each of them lost in their own reflections about this boy—practically a stranger, but one who should have been their family—their friend. 

Steph’s own place in the family is unique. Like Barbara, she wasn’t formally adopted into it, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Steph is her own person; she didn’t need Bruce to rescue her from her admittedly traumatic past.

Still, Bruce and the others have been a constant support in her life. She doesn’t necessarily see them as her siblings, though they tend to get lumped together that way, but the same time, they are the most important people in her life. Had she not had them? Had Bruce and Alfred and Jason not been there when everything in her life fell apart? 

She’s not sure if she’d still be here.

That is what being a part of the Batclan has meant to her: a support system with a large enough net to catch any one of them if they were to fall. 

Tim removed himself from that support system and has operated solo all these years. Even if Steph understands that urge, it’s unnecessary and, quite frankly, idiotic of him. Everybody needs somebody, against their will if needs be. 

It’s too dangerous out there to go alone.  

Steph leans forward, placing her elbows on the table as she fold her hands together. “What are our next steps?” 

“Exposure,” Bruce replies instantly. “Zatanna said it’s something to do with our souls, that they hold onto the memories where our minds do not. Interacting with Tim… wakes those memories up I suppose.” 

Steph rolls her eyes, “God I hate magic.” 

“But that’s just the thing,” Jason comments, a quizzical look in his eye. “Zatanna said there wasn’t any magic involved. It affected us in a spiritual sense, but magic wasn’t what caused it.” 

Steph frowns, “Then how did it happen?” 

One by one, everyone slowly turns toward Damian again, who keeps his head low, as if that would stop them from asking him directly. 

“Dami?” Dick asks softly, leaning in closer to him. “...do you have any idea how…or why he did this?” 

Damian picks at a loose hem on his jeans. “Zatanna said to keep my knowledge to myself,” he reminds them. 

Duke narrows his eyes, "You can't tell us anything? Not even how it happened?” 

“I don’t know how it happened,” he snaps. “I was…indisposed at the time.” 

The family just continues to stare at Damian expectantly who finally heaves a heavy sigh, knowing they won’t drop it. 

“I don’t know the how,” he repeats. “The last thing I remember… We were facing an enemy with an army of androids. The villain—we never knew his name—predicted every move we made, countered us with ease. I was with Drake at the battle and…he seemed to know more about the situation, but he wouldn’t tell me what.” 

Steph squints, “Why?” 

Damian shrugs, “It may have been sensitive information, or… he may not have trusted me.” 

Duke frowns, “Why wouldn’t he trust you? You said he was our brother, right?” 

“He is our brother,” Damian growls. 

Dick nods placatingly, “Yah, of course he is Baby Bat…. So why-?” 

“I was not kind to him.” Damian snaps. “We were not friends. He- he had every right to hate me. There are a thousand reasons he didn’t tell me! And I don’t blame him.” 

Steph exhales through her nose, watching the kid across the table—not so much a kid anymore. Despite how much he’s grown, he’s still wrapped in the same sharp edges he had when she first met him—back when she was Robin and he was barely out of the League. Angry, arrogant, insufferable.

She hadn’t had the patience for it. It was part of the reason she ditched the mantle when she did. Steph didn’t need Robin to become who she was meant to be, and she certainly wasn’t going to put up with a selfish entitled demon brat to keep it. So Steph mostly ignored Damian for his first year or so until he learned to behave like a civilized human being.

But what would that have looked like for Tim? If he is this self-sacrificing, how much heat was he willingly to take on for the sake of everyone else? To make peace? 

Bruce steps closer and lays a comforting hand on Damian’s shoulder. “From what I know about Tim, I really don’t think that is true Damian. But that’s something the two of you will have to work out.” he says gently. “For now, just tell us what you remember.” 

Damian swallows, his fingers curling into fists on his knees as he gathers himself. “Drake said we needed to get to the machine at the center of the warehouse. Our comms were down, we were completely on our own. We fought the androids together and got to the machine. Drake said he needed to shut it down and asked if I would cover him…” 

Damian trails off. A flicker of pain crosses his face, and his eyes drop to the floor as if the memory is playing just beneath his feet. His family waits patiently for him to gather himself

“I did as he asked, but…within minutes I was overwhelmed and…” he glances toward Dick, the words catching in his throat. Dick gives him an encouraging nod,  “I was stabbed through the chest….” 

Silence. 

A breath catches in Dick’s throat, but he keeps his expression steady, his hand firm on Damian’s shoulder. Jason looks away, jaw tight, blinking hard. Duke swears under his breath, too quiet for the table to catch clearly. Barbara lowers her eyes to the table. 

Steph stares, expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again.

And Bruce — Bruce just stands very, very still, like a statue, not even breathing. His face is carved in stone, unreadable, but his silence is telling enough to everyone.

“Drake shut down the machine a second later and the androids shut down,” Damian pushes on. “But…it was too late for me. The last thing I remember is Timothy holding me as my vision faded.” 

The silence stretches for a long while, heavy and unmoving. Dick scoots his chair closer and slings an arm around Damian’s shoulders, pulling him in without a word. While Steph is sure Damian finds comfort in it, the gesture feels more for Dick’s benefit. The tactile monster that he is, he needs to feel for himself that Damian is right there with them—alive, breathing, unharmed.

“So…” Steph eventually breathes. “He didn’t just save Jason… he saved you.” 

Damian swallows hard, his gaze fixed on the table. “It would appear that way. Yes.” 

“Good brother,” Cass whispers, her voice barely more than breath.

Yes, Steph agrees silently. A very good brother.

“That machine,” Bruce states, his voice a little less than steady. “It shut down the droids. Do you think it could have been anything else?”

“A time machine, perhaps?” Jason fills in, leaning forward, half-joking, half-serious. 

Damian shrugs helplessly, “You’d have to ask him.” 

“...or get our memories back,” Duke mutters after a long pause, his brows furrowed.

The family analyzes each other, studying one another’s demeanor and body language, looking for a unanimous consensus without speaking a word. 

“So,” Steph states firmly, a determined glint in her eye each of them have come to fear and respect in equal measure. “Exposure?” 

Bruce nods once, slow and deliberate. He crosses his arms, shifting his weight subtly from foot to foot. “Damian has warned me it won’t be easy,” he says, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “But I think we’re up to the task.”

Steph smirks and sinks back into her chair, arms folding loosely across her chest. “What did you have in mind?” 

“An ambush.” 

Alfred, who has stood quietly at the edge of the room, tilts his head warningly. “Master Bruce,” he says simply.

Bruce’s lips twitch—an almost-smile. “A friendly ambush.”

Steph laughs, “I knew you still had some mischief up your tight ass.” 

Bruce shakes his head fondly, “Dick?” He turns the meeting over to his eldest. 

Dick stands with Jason and together they explain the plan. It’s simple, but effective. Having Bat training as he does, Steph is sure Tim will see through the farce in an instant, but in the name of keeping his cover, it will be difficult for him to get out of it. And with the sheer amount of resolve the family is maintaining…. well.

“And thus the exposure therapy begins,” Jason surmises at the end. 

Bruce steps forward. “To be clear, we’re not revealing our hand just yet. This is reconnaissance,” he says, his tone even but purposeful. “We want to get to know him better—maybe get him to open up a bit more. It’s also a chance for Steph and Cass to meet him for the first time and see what kind of effect that has on them. We still don’t know how exactly the memories return or what triggers them, aside from proximity and time.”

Bruce turns to Cass. “Cass, you’ll be our most valuable source of insight. He’s very good at putting on a front, but I don’t think even he could fool you.”

Cass smiles a bit at the compliment, but quickly sombers, “...how do we know this will not hurt him again? Being around us seems to be difficult for him.” 

Bruce pauses, considering the question carefully, “I don’t want to hurt him. But if his pain comes from the fact that his family has forgotten him, I won’t let that stand. I—we need to get our memories back; it is the only way forward. We need to see him… know him to make that possible.” 

Barbara sighs, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of her wheelchair, “Why can’t we just talk to him? Tell him Damian has remembered and that we want to remember him too? Wouldn’t he want that?”

The table once again turns to Damian for guidance, having the most knowledge of the man from this timeline and the last. 

He sits quietly, his posture tight. “I do not know for certain what he would do,” Damian admits. “But… knowing what I do…I think he would flee.” 

Duke frowns, “Why? Why would he do that?” 

Damian blinks his eyes quickly, “I don’t think you understand how much he has spared us from. The other timeline was… painful for all of us in different ways. And Tim…” He hesitates, his voice quiet. “I think he’d be more than willing to never see us again if he thought he could protect us from that.”

Jason scowls. “Yah? Well tough,” he growls. “He can’t just blink himself out of our family and not expect us to fight for him at the first chance.” 

Cass nods in agreement, “Whatever pain may come from the memories is a small price to pay to bring him home.” 

Damian’s fists tighten, “I agree,” he assures them. “But I doubt he will.” 

“Too bad,” Dick replies, his voice low and deadly serious. His easygoing nature has practically vanished, replaced by a determined steel. “He didn’t give us a choice in the matter, now he doesn’t get one either.” He stands, “We are bringing him home even if we have to drag him kicking and screaming.”

Steph can’t help but smirk, she’d kinda like to see that. And if Drake is as stubborn as he seems to be, she very well might.

Talia gazes at her beloved’s message passively, deleting it almost immediately. It’s charming he thinks she doesn’t already know her father’s plans, of course she does. She has painstakingly ensured she is 5 steps ahead of Ra’s for years. And yes, she is all too aware of his designs for her son. 

It is a regrettable sacrifice, but a necessary one. 

They are on the precipice of war, a war Talia has prepared for the majority of her life.

When Ra’s disappeared from Nanda Parbat, Talia knew the time had come. Pru’s disappearance all but confirmed her father’s knowledge of her betrayal. It was a shame—Pru had been one of Talia's best soldiers—but she knew the risks, and she would never have allowed herself to be taken alive. At the very least, her death means one less person who knows of Talia’s plans. A single sacrifice, remembered among the many necessary for the future to unfold.

Her father has long since stopped caring for the League’s interests, all he cares for now is his own power and his ability to maintain it. 

Talia’s patience has won her many supporters in the League—just over half, by her estimates. But still, it is not enough. If she is to lead, she needs at least 75% loyalty. That many already agree the old ways no longer work—that a change in leadership is needed to guide the League into a better, more modern era.

However, those who remain loyal to her father do so out of a lack of faith in her and her ability to become what the League needs. Instead, they have placed their hope in Ra’s prophesied heir—an heir he himself has named:

Damian. 

They suffer under the delusion that Ra’s will relinquish his power and place Damian on the throne. Over the years, her father’s mandated observations of the boy have allowed rumors to run rampant through the League—rumors that the son of the Bat has grown strong and wise, that he will be the League’s way forward, and that Ra’s will instate him as soon as his training is complete.

They don’t support her because they believe Ra’s has chosen a superior successor.

And thus, Talia’s only child has become an obstacle to her means. 

For Talia to gain control, the delusion must be broken. She knows her father’s nature—knows his designs are only in preservation of himself. Ra’s will take her son, not to lift him up to the mantle, but to clothe himself in Damian’s youth and strength.

The ritual is an old one, not used for centuries. It’s a bastardization of what the Lazarus Pit was originally intended for. Their ancestors believed in the purity and sanctity of the body as the literal house of the soul. The Pit was created to prolong the body’s life, and therefore the soul's existence on this plane of reality. The ritual instead usurps one soul and instates another in a body it does not belong to.

Ra’s has carefully erased all knowledge of the practice until he and his line alone could utilize it.

But soon the entire League will know it too.

The only way forward is to break the delusion and show her father’s loyalists who he truly is—and the lengths he will go to in order to retain his power.

He doesn’t know it yet, but Ra’s is practically handing her the throne. All Talia needs to do now is allow events to unfold as they will and shine a light into the shadows Ra’s has made his home.

Damian’s abduction is not only inevitable, but necessary.

It’s a calculated risk. Talia does not desire to see her son die. Either her father’s loyalists will rebel once they understand Ra’s intentions, thereby saving Damian, or the ritual will be completed and Ra’s loyalists will come flocking to her anyway.

Talia admittedly did not expect such a fierce line of protection from the Cardinal. From what she’s heard through her spies, without Cardinal’s interference, Ra’s would already have Damian in his hand. She’s never understood his obsession with protecting Damian and the other Gotham vigilantes. At the very least, that protection gave Damian an additional sense of safety—and Talia some peace of mind regarding her child’s well-being.

But that time is past.

Cardinal has become another loose end. He was useful, to be sure, on more than one front. If not for him, Talia wouldn’t currently possess the final nail in Ra’s literal coffin. She truly appreciated his ingenuity in arming every single Lazarus pit known to exist. But both he and Pru have played their parts.

In the end, Cardinal’s interference will mean little against the indomitable will of her father. If he is as stubborn as she believes, Cardinal may lose his life in his determination to protect Damian—a loss few will notice, let alone grieve.

Talia loves Damian more than she’s ever allowed herself to love another human being, but his existence has always been just another piece in the game of chess she and her father have been playing since he first taught her the meaning of strategy. 

Sacrifice is merely another tool she was trained to utilize.

Chapter Text

Damian is back in the office the next day. 

Tim can’t explain it, but something about him feels… different.

As Tim expected, Damian shows no visible sign of injury. He works with the same efficiency Tim has come to expect from him, getting his work done in an orderly well timed fashion. But there’s a shift in him, subtle yet undeniable. He’s more…subdued? 

Damian has long since stopped trying to hold back telling Tim exactly what he thinks at any given moment. It’s who he is, blunt and unapologetically himself. But today it’s like he’s simultaneously holding back while being more emotional than ever. It’s not in anything he says or does outright, but in fleeting expressions Tim catches when Damian thinks no one’s watching—something in his eyes. Pained. Sad. Angry. 

Damian must know Tim is on to him, because he goes out of his way to avoid any sort of one-on-one time with him. Just last week, Damian was insisting on working in Tim’s office, almost never letting Tim out of his sight, but now he barely sets foot inside unless he has to. The last time they saw each other at the conference, Tim was admittedly acting out of character, but he didn’t do anything that should’ve caused this. 

Something clearly happened yesterday, and whatever it was, Damian is now dealing with the emotional fallout.

And Tim doesn’t know what to do about it. 

Where is Dick when you need him?

Emotional intelligence has never been Tim’s strong suit, nor almost anybody in the Wayne family for that matter (though they are much better in this timeline since Bruce is far more open to therapy than he was before), 

God, this really isn’t his job.

It wasn’t in the last timeline when they were actually related (sort of) and it sure as hell isn’t his responsibility now. Damian is self-sufficiant—more than capable of dealing with whatever family drama he’s spiraling through without Tim’s involvement. But as the day progresses, Tim finds himself more and more distracted, wanting to help despite himself, or at least know what has him so out of sorts. 

So Tim orders lunch and calls Damian in so they can eat together while doing their daily check-in. 

Damian takes it in stride and they go through their meeting as usual, only without a hint of Damian’s usual snark and sass. He’s censoring himself, Tim realizes, keeping his words neutral to combat whatever he actually wants to say. He’s trying very very hard not to give something away. 

Tim knows that feeling all too well, experiences it daily, especially in Damian’s presence.  But why would Damian need to hide himself away? What does he think Tim might see? 

“Are you feeling alright?” Tim asks carefully once they’ve finished up with all the business talk they need to. His voice is light, but deliberate.

Damian tenses, just slightly. “Why do you ask?” 

“You were sick yesterday. Food poisoning, right?” Tim shrugs casually, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes it takes a bit longer than a day to recover.” 

Tim knows full well something so insignificant would never keep Damian down. He isn’t injured, which means something else kept him home and is affecting him into today. Something that impacted him personally. The League did go after him—Ra’s, Damian’s grandfather. That can’t have been a good experience, though Tim wouldn’t expect it to affect him so. 

“Ah,” Damian relaxes slightly, shoulders dropping just a touch. “I am fine. Merely… contemplative, I suppose.”

Tim tilts his head, still watching him closely. There’s a long beat of silence before he nods, encouraging him to go on. “Of?”

Damian looks away, jaw tight, as if weighing something. His fingers fidget anxiously with the hem of his sleeve. He seems on the verge of retreating into himself again, of brushing it off with a quick evasion, when instead he blurts, “Did you like being an only child?”

Tim frowns, taken aback. “...What?” 

Damian swallows, his gaze fixed just slightly off of Tim’s eyeline. “...Did you enjoy being an only child? Did you ever wish… did you ever wish you had siblings?” 

Tim opens and closes his mouth, unsure how to decipher that question, something sharp and familiar rising in his chest. A pulse of want. The same one he’s buried for years—family, belonging, the impossible yearning he ignores daily. Those are the dreams of a child, and Tim hasn’t been a child in a long time. 

So Tim steadies himself, carefully reconstructing a measure of calm, not the mask of indifference he knows Damian hates, but as neutral as he should be to such an out of pocket question. 

Tim shrugs causally, “I’ve never known any different, have I?”

Damian quickly breaks eye contact, immediately looking down towards his shoes. Tim can’t quite see his face now, but he can still see… some sort of conflict there Damian is desperately trying to hide. 

“Are you…having some sort of issue with your siblings?” he asks cautiously. The last thing he needs right now is to get involved with Wayne family drama, but he also needs to stay informed in case it’s anything serious. 

Damian picks his plate back up, distracting himself by taking another bite of food—for time or for clarity, Tim isn’t sure.

Damian shakes his head after a moment, his face smoothing over again. A mask, Tim can tell, but an effective one. 

“...My brother and I had a disagreement…many disagreements actually,” Damian says haltingly, his voice low. “He was an only child before my father adopted him and sometimes I wonder…I wonder if he preferred it that way.” 

Tim doesn’t make a point of keeping up on the interworking of the family anymore. Generally, they all get along pretty well—much better than before anyway—a family as they always should have been. Sure they might fight but no one’s tried to kill anyone yet, right?

With Damian’s description, he could literally be talking about any of the Wayne children. They were all only children whose parents were taken away by some unforeseen horrific circumstance before Bruce took them in, so Tim really doesn’t know who he’s talking about. 

But then, it doesn’t really matter. 

“I doubt it,” he says sincerely. 

Damian finally looks at him properly. “Really?” he asks softly—like it’s surprising, like he genuinely has no idea if that’s true or not.

Damian doesn’t know how lucky he’s been, especially in this timeline. Sure, he had to grow up with the League, but with Tim’s intervention that time was as minimal as possible, long before Ra’s would have had him doing truly horrific things. And once Damian did arrive at the Manor, he was welcomed— wanted.

Tim knows how vicious thei- Damian’s siblings can be, but at their core, they love each other, want what's best for one another. 

He knows because he did. Despite all the vitriol that was spat at him over the years, Tim couldn’t help but care… couldn’t help but hope they cared about him too deep down. 

“Really,” Tim affirms. 

Damian fidgets, “You- you don’t think he would have been… better off?” 

Tim shakes his head automatically, “No. I don’t think that’d be possible. You’re a good kid Damian. And…I bet you're an even better brother.” 

The words feel a bit like glass coming out of Tim’s throat, not because he doesn’t think it’s true. No, Damian cares for his own with a fierceness unmatched. But because… well. Tim wished he could have had the chance to experience it for himself.  

Damian’s eyes go a bit pained for some reason, doubtful, almost guilty, and Tim doesn’t know what comes over him. He just knows he can’t let that stand.

“Look,” Tim leans forward, trying to catch his gaze. “Everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean. Sometimes we say things to people we care about because we know just how much it will hurt them. Love is a double edged sword that way, it leaves us vulnerable to be hurt worse. I may not have the most experience, but…”

He smiles bittersweetly and shrugs, “Well, brothers fight. That’s normal enough, isn’t it?” 

For a second, Tim thinks Damian’s eyes go a bit glassy, but he blinks, and it’s gone in an instant. There’s an intensity there, though—something raw and fragile that looks suspiciously like hope. 

“I hope you’re right,” he says, finally relaxing a fraction, more than he has the rest of the day anyway. 

They finish their lunch in an odd silence and Tim isn’t quite sure how much he’s helped but at least he tried. He’s itching to go snooping onto the Manor’s CCTV to see what exactly went down yesterday, but with Oracle upping the security, he’d really rather not risk the wrath of her or the rest of the Bats. He needs to play his cards right now more than ever. Whatever the family squabble is, he’s sure they’ll resolve it in time. They always do. 

The rest of the day goes by peacefully enough, Damian still oddly reserved but steadily relaxing as time goes by. Tim takes it as a win. 

Meanwhile, Tim starts surreptitiously adding heightened security measures to the Drake Industries building in case the League comes snooping around here. He’d like to hope Ra’s coming after Damian in broad daylight was an isolated event, but at this point he wouldn’t put anything past him.

He sets up an alert system on his laptop that will immediately notify him if there’s any breach—whether its unauthorized access, rooftop intrusions, hacking attempts, or any other suspicious activity in or around the building. This way he should have some warning, evening if it’s just a few minutes, before they come in force. 

Tim has had no luck on any of his many attempts to reach Talia either. Meaning she’s deep into hiding, captured, or ignoring him. Tim isn’t sure which option is worse. He knows Talia cares about her son, so why is she abandoning him when he needs her most?

The hours slip by and Tim doesn’t even realize the work day has come to an end until Damian knocks on his door once and lets himself in. Tim spares him a quick glance, expecting some sort of update before he leaves to go home, but he just… lingers in the doorway, oddly still. The silence drags long enough that Tim looks up again properly.

Damian’s posture is straight, jaw set, but there’s something taut behind his eyes, something not exactly comfortable. Determination, perhaps.

“Everything alright?” Tim asks carefully. 

Damian nods, sharp and immediate. “Yes. It’s just…”  He hesitates for half a second before going on, voice firmer. “Alfred won’t be able to pick me up tonight. Something came up.”

Tim frowns, mentally conjuring up multiple explanations for why that could be, some harmless, some chaostrophic. Damian doesn’t seem stressed though, just…weirdly tense. So… it could be nothing?

Tim jolts after a few seconds, realizing he still hasn’t responded. “Ah. Well uhh.. Is someone else coming for you then?” 

Dick and Jason pick Damian up often enough, it’s not exactly out of the ordinary. 

“They could be,” Damian says evenly. “But it would take them twenty minutes, minimum, to get here. You drove me the other day, and we live next to each other. Logically, it makes more sense for you to take me again.” 

His eyes flick to Tim’s still-open laptop, and his expression hardens. He glares at Tim, an expression far more familiar than how he’s been acting all day “And you shouldn’t be staying late anyway.”

Tim furrows his brows as the meaning finally clicks. “You want a ride?”

“Well, since you offered, that’d be lovely. Thank you.” 

Tim blinks, “Wait, wha-? That isn’t what I-” 

“I’m waiting.” 

Tim gawks, “I still have work-”

“Come on Drake,” Damian rolls his eyes. “I don’t intend to wait an eternity for your well of willful spite to finally run dry.” 

Tim’s eyes widen and his jaw drops a bit, caught off guard. That- that almost felt like something Damian would have said to him before… but with a lot less bite and more… fondness? 

Damian seems to realize it too. His shoulders tense slightly, his expression faltering for just a second, like he’s unsure if he’s crossed a line, but Tim just lets his lips twitch upwards into a small smile. 

Tim rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, and stands to grab his things. He’s gotten far too soft. 

“I think you’ll find my willful spite is endless,” Tim snarks right back as he passes Damian without another word. 

Damian relaxes a bit and scoffs, “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” he mutters following him. 

Tim leads Damian into the elevator and down into the parking garage. Damian gets in the car wordlessly and within minutes there on their way. 

The air between them feels…odd, different then the oddity of the rest of the day. Almost charged with something. Nervousness? Anticipation? 

They get to Wayne Manor quickly enough. Tim waits a moment for the gates at the entrance of the property to open. Once they do, he drives up the long driveway and pulls to a stop at the main entrance to the manor. He puts the car in park, glancing over at Damian, waiting for him to hop out.

Only…he doesn’t. Damian just sorta curls into himself sheepishly. 

Tim raises an eyebrow, “Damian? We’re here.” 

Damian nods once, eyes forward, “Yes.” 

Tim waits another second, glazing around. “...you gonna get out?” 

Damian clears his throat, “Right, of course.” He grabs his bag and pushes himself out of the car just as the front door bursts open. 

“There you are, Baby Bat!” Jason exclaims. “I was wondering where my little brothers were.” 

Tim flinches, did he just say-?

“Todd,” Damian growls, an angry scowl on his face. 

Tim’s mind freezes, rewinds and then short circuits. Ok, weird. He must have misheard, right? That’s the only explanation for that. 

Tim observes Damian’s fierce glare towards Jason. Guess it’s the two of them who’ve been fighting then? Doesn’t matter, not his circus, not his monkeys and all that. 

Dick pushes his way out next, ruffling Damian’s hair and giving Tim a wave. 

“Thanks for bringing him, Tim!” 

Tim nods once. “Course,” he mutters, a bit dazed. “I’ll see you, Damian.” 

Damian waves goodbye, his expression still tight and guilty? 

Tim doubles back the way he came, the familiar curve of the driveway winding beneath his tires as he approaches the gates to exit the Manor grounds. He slows to a stop and waits for a moment for them to open, eyes flicking toward the metal structure as the seconds tick by.

And tick by.

And keep ticking.

Nothing happens.

He frowns, glancing at the dashboard clock. One minute. Then two. Then five. Still, the gates don’t budge.

They used to be manual, but Bruce eventually upgraded them to a motion sensitive system, mostly so Alfred didn’t have to trudge out in the rain whenever a visitor came by. Tim taps the steering wheel impatiently, then sighs and throws the car into park.

Tim gets out of his car and is just about to reach for his phone when he spots movement down the driveway. A figure in casual clothes sprinting toward him with long, fast strides—Duke. 

“Sorry man,” he calls to him as he closes the remaining distance, slightly out of breath. “The gates are jammed.” 

Tim just stares at him in disbelief, “What? All of them?” 

Duke nods with a helpless shrug. “Yeah. I dunno—some sort of electrical failure.”

Tim looks up at the massive wrought-iron gates. They spiral and twist upward in intricate patterns, rising at least twenty feet high and reinforced by the same brick walls that surround the rest of the property. Getting off the grounds on foot would be easy—there were wooded paths and side doors—but for vehicles, these gates and the two others on the opposite ends of the estate were the only way out.

“They were just working,” Tim mutters with a frown. “What the hell could’ve happened in the two minutes it took me to drop Damian off?”

Duke raises his brows and gives a small shrug, as if to say beats me.

“Bruce is calling a mechanic now,” he adds. “But it might be a few hours before someone gets out here.”

Tim balks. “A few hours?!”

“Yup,” Duke clips, not seeming the least bit apologetic. 

Tim stares.

“Why don’t you just come inside?” Duke suggests easily. “Alfred almost has dinner ready.” 

The gears in Tim’s head start to turn. They did a good job of strong-arming Tim into dinner with them last time, though it obviously didn’t go the way they planned. Is this supposed to be round 2?

It is, isn’t it?

Ah. That explains Damian's odd behavior. They set him up, didn’t they? Damian was the lure to get Tim here and now conveniently he is unable to leave. 

Tim tilts his head back and huffs. He has to hand it to them—it’s a solid attempt. Subtle. Coordinated. But Tim barely managed the last family dinner. He’s not about to suffer through another one, no matter how strong Bruce’s instinct is to adopt every stray that crosses the threshold. Tim’s not playing along. 

Not this time. 

Tim shakes his head, “Sorry Duke, but I can’t do that.” 

Duke’s eyes widen slightly. “What? Why not?” 

Tim lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’ve got things to do tonight. It’s fine—I’ll just walk home.”

At least Damian isn’t in his immediate vicinity to correct him this time. 

Duke frowns. “No,” he says firmly. “It’s getting dark out and it’s due to rain soon. Your place is over a mile away.”

Tim shakes his head stubbornly, swallowing with a bit of difficulty. “I’m sorry, but…I can’t,” he insists, voice rougher than he intends it to be. 

Duke’s expression shifts, his eyes softening. Not with pity, exactly, but something frustratingly close. As if he knows. As if he can see just how hard this is for Tim.

Which is impossible, obviously.

Duke sighs, giving a slight nod. “Okay. At least come back to the house for a second? We’ll get your car parked in the meantime and I’m sure Bruce would prefer to call you a cab.”

Tim eyes him skeptically, but ultimately doesn’t protest. It’s not like they could really hold him here against his will. He exhales through his nose before sliding back into the driver’s seat. He jerks his head toward the passenger side. “Get in.”

Duke obliges, climbing into the passengers seat as Tim throws the car into gear. They drive back up the long driveway in silence, the mansion looming larger with each second.

Duke gestures toward a spot near the west side of the garage, and Tim pulls in without comment. Duke gets out and starts toward the house, tossing a casual, “Come on,” over his shoulder.

Tim follows hesitatingly, wary of whatever they have up their sleeve for him. Duke opens the door into the entrance hall and leads him in. Damian, Jason, and Dick are nowhere to be seen. 

Bruce rushes down the stairs instead, an apologetic look on his face. “Ah Tim! Good to see you! Sorry about the gates, I really have no idea what happened there. I just called my guy, hopefully we can get them back up and running real soon.” 

Bruce’s demeanor is odd. The last time Tim was here, Bruce mostly acted like himself, throwing a bit of Brucie in there so as to not seem suspicious. Now? It’s like Brucie but in another font. He’s tense, drawn in on himself in a way that’s so him , but he’s usually able to drop that when he puts on his Brucie face. It’s like he can’t help it, like he’s trying so hard to appear unbothered and at ease that Brucie is the only thing he can conjure up. 

Tim nods slowly, his eyes narrow, “Right.” 

Bruce clears his throat, “We were just about to sit down for dinner. Why don’t you join us? Hopefully we can get things sorted quickly and we can get you home.” 

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Wayne.” Tim denies, tone polite but firm.. “I really need to be getting home. It’s not far, I don’t mind walking.” 

Bruce frowns slightly. “It’s Bruce, Tim. And walking ? It’s almost dark.”

Tim forces himself to smile pleasantly, but he can feel it’s a bit too tight. “Then, I’ll call a cab. Really, I have things I need to be working on tonight.” 

“No, please stay! I insist! At least let me make up for the inconvenience.” 

Tim can feel his smile starting to crack at the edges, his forced pleasantness straining. “No.” He says bluntly. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t.” 

Bruce’s eyes narrow and his jaw sets. Warning bells instantly start going off in Tim’s head. 

That look is a sign to every Robin that they will listen and obey if they know what's good for them— regardless if Bruce is in the right or wrong. It’s a look Tim has seen right before the bad blow up fights between Bruce and Dick, between Bruce and Jason, between Bruce and- well basically everyone. Tim has seen with his own eyes how fighting against that look can end in literal blood and broken bonds. 

But Tim was never Robin, never Bruce’s problem, and certainly never his son. 

That look has no authority over him. Bruce has no authority over him. 

Bruce opens his mouth, and Tim braces himself for a dose of heavy handed authority, when Alfred comes into the entry instead. 

Bruce closes his mouth. 

“Ah, Master Tim,” Alfred bows his head slightly. “Thank you for bringing young Master Damian home, I’m afraid we had a bit of a mishap in the kitchen earlier.” 

Tim hums, nonplussed, bringing himself back to his equilibrium. “Nothing too serious I hope.” 

“Not at all, everything is sorted now. But I’m terribly sorry about the inconvenience with the gates. Surely you’ll join us for dinner?” 

Tim fidgets and swallows, “Ah, actually I-” 

“It was so very sudden, your last departure,” Alfred continues as if Tim hadn’t spoken. “Good hospitality is a dying art in this world, but one I uphold with the highest regard. I’d hate to have been a poor host.” 

Tim blinks, “You- No of course you weren’t-” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alfred says, “But I’m afraid your manners are too kind. Please, allow me to rectify my earlier failure by serving you a proper meal.”

He steps aside with a graceful gesture, practically herding Tim inside without ever laying a hand on him. Tim feels the invisible leash tighten around his neck. He can’t say no to Alfred, not when he’s insisting like this, not when he’s somehow taking his last visit as some sort of personal failing on his part. Tim would get quite a bit of personal vindictive pleasure refusing Bruce, but Alfred? 

It’s Alfred. 

Without any sort of approval from his higher brain capabilities, Tim finds himself acquiescing, allowing Bruce and Duke to usher him deeper into the house. 

Still, Tim can’t help but lean over towards Duke, the most normalish person in this whole family (or at least he allows people to think he is). “Be real with me, is there any way I’m getting out of this?” he whispers conspiringly. 

Duke actually laughs, “Not a chance.” 

Tim scoffs, “You Wayne’s are a different kind of stubborn, you know that?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Duke mutters under his breath. 

Tim throws him a confused look but then they’re taking the final turn and arriving into the dining room. The others are already there gathered around the table, speaking to each other in hushed voices, but immediately silence upon seeing Tim. 

Tim does his best not to shrink under their scrutiny, taking in the room and trying to make some fast paced deductions while he can. 

First, this isn’t one of their usual weekly dinners where whoever is available comes if they can. Everyone is here. Barbara, Dick, Cass, Jason, Steph, Duke, Damian, Bruce and Alfred. The whole family. Tim hasn’t seen them altogether in one room since… he doesn’t even know when.

Second, Cass and Steph shouldn’t be here. They weren’t scheduled to come back from their assignment for another day, meaning Bruce called them back early. 

Third, shit, Cass is here. 

“Have a seat,” Bruce directs before Tim can really start to panic.

Damian steps up without a word, takes his arm and bodily drags Tim towards a seat near the center of the table. Tim hardly notices, his mind working overtime to come up with some sort of plan to deal with this fresh new hell. 

There is no way he’s escaping this evening with all of his secrets intact. 

He doesn’t know what conclusions Cass will draw, seeing as the truth is so far outside the realm of possibility, but there isn’t a version of this where Cass doesn’t see right through him. She was trained to know people better than they know themselves. And Tim’s always been so bad at lying to her.

That’s fine, he tells himself almost desperately. He can deal with that, Damian already knows more about him than he ever intended. The family already knows he’s got a bleeding heart deep down. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things because they don’t know the truth. And they never will. 

Even more so than last time, the most dangerous move he could make in this situation would be to lie. Cass is too good, she’ll see through it. It would only give them more reason to dig into him. And if Barbara was so determined? He’s not sure his little mind game in his security would be enough to fool her anymore. 

The best way to deal with this is to be calm, cool, and as honest as he can be, or face the wrath of Cass. If they’re insisting on…what? Making friends with him? Pulling him out of his self-inflicted isolation? He can let them try, let them think it will last. 

The fact is, Tim isn’t the type of person one hangs around for, he’s known it since he was a child, was reminded as a teenager and then relieved it all over again. 

He’s expendable. A placeholder. A pitstop in other people’s stories.

Eventually, something more important will take their attention—some crisis, some mission, some real member of the family who needs them. And Tim will fade again. Slip through the cracks like he always does.

It’s not like they’d ever tell Timothy Drake the big family secrets. Not really. So whatever this is—whatever weird campaign they’re on to include him—it won’t last.

Damian’s internship only has a few weeks left anyway.

After that? It might finally be time for Tim to take a break. A real one. Leave Gotham for a while. He could say he’s scouting new opportunities for the company, chasing international partnerships. Maybe set up temporary operations in Hong Kong. Or Shanghai. A business retreat. A strategic expansion. Something to keep them at bay… and enough time and distance for them to forget.

But for now, at this moment, the only way out is through. 

He can manage this with minimal damage. 

…he thought all of that last time didn’t he? 

Tim’s mind tumbles through these conclusions in the time it takes for Damian to direct him into his seat which he takes as gracefully as he can manage. 

He’s been sat squarely in the middle of the entire family. Bruce sits at the head of the table, as always, with Dick to his right and Damian to his left. Tim is next to Damian, with Cass on his other side. On the opposite side of the table, next to Dick, are Jason, Steph, and Duke, respectively, with Barbara taking the other end of the table in her wheelchair. 

It places Tim right across from both Steph and Jason who are looking at him with equally concerning mischievous expressions. 

Tim swallows. He hasn’t seen Steph in years. She has no reason to come to the events the others are required to attend, no reason to interact with Timothy Drake at all.

She was once his best friend, his closest confidant, long after their romantic relationship fell apart. They weren’t meant for each other that way, but they always loved one another. Seeing her hurts just as much as he expected it too.

And then there’s Cass to his left. His only sister, the girl who saw him when no one else did, made him feel loved even when he deemed himself unlovable. He can feel her eyes studying him, ever calculating and knowing, reading him as easily as one reads a book. 

So, Tim smiles, not his gala smile but something a bit more real, hoping that harnessing a bit of his actual happiness at seeing them might counter whatever grief he’s surely projecting to Cass’s astute gaze. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Tim starts towards both girls, introducing himself to the women who once saved him from himself. “Timothy Drake.” 

“Stephanie Brown,” Steph replies, her expression open, eyes flicking over his face with unmistakable curiosity. “But I suppose you can call me Steph.”

Tim glances at Cass who gives him a small but warm smile, “Cass.” she says simply. 

Tim smiles back. “It’s good to meet you both,” he says sincerely. 

“Master Jason, Master Dick,” Alfred says to the two eldest. “I have everything plated in the kitchen, would you be so kind as to help me bring it in?” 

“Course, Alfie,” Jason says easily and he and Dick follow Alfred into the kitchen. 

“Do you know of Barbara Gordon?” Bruce asks Tim, gesturing towards the other head of the table where she sits. “She’s a family friend of ours.” 

Tim nods, “Of course. The Commissioner's daughter. Though, I know of you better from your work with Gotham’s public library. You’ve done incredible things there.” 

Barbara blinks, then smiles surprisedly. Tim knows it isn’t often people actually recognize her for her own accomplishments rather than her fathers, at least not in civilian life. 

He and Barbara were once close, too. For a time, they always had each other’s backs—before Jason returned, before Damian arrived, and before the Birds of Prey began taking most of her attention. She helped him through his… well, his experience at the hands of the Joker. She even helped train him in his early days. But after her injury, they naturally drifted apart.

One of his biggest regrets is not being able to prevent her injury entirely this time around. 

But it has been nice to work so frequently with her again, even if it’s only remote.  

“Do you visit the Library often?” Barbara asks with a quirk of her eyebrow. 

“Not anymore,” Tim admits. “But I used to all the time when I was a kid.” 

Barbara hums, “Why’d you stop?” 

Tim opens and closes his mouth, hyper-aware of Cass’s eyes on him. The truth is, of course, he used to go there as a kid because it was one of the few places a child could go without their parents and not draw too much unwanted attention. It’s actually where he first met Barbara, back when he was seven—though he doubts she remembers that now. He started going less often once his obsession with Batman and Robin really took hold.

And after he woke up in his ten-year-old body, he stopped going altogether. 

“I just got distracted by other things,” he says simply, honestly. 

Barbara smiles a bit, “Well, you’d be welcome anytime. It’d be fun to see you there.” 

Tim’s brain stutters, “Uh, yah. That’d be…nice.” 

Alfred comes in then with the boys and together they lay everyone's plate in front of them. It’s a simple enough meal as far as the Wayne family goes, steak with mashed potatoes, a mushroom sauce and artichokes on the side. 

Tim can’t help but smile. Artichokes were always one of his favorites, it’s been a while since he’s had them considering he’s not much of a cook himself (besides the basics) and rarely goes out to eat at the sort of restaurants that would serve them. 

Everyone begins to dig in, and for a while, no one speaks to Tim. It's not awkward, exactly—more like they’re deliberately giving him space—like…like they're letting him adjust. 

Bruce starts asking Dick about work and Jason about his schooling, while Duke peppers Steph and Cass with questions about their recent travels (censored, of course). Tim wonders if his sudden departure last time made them more cautious around him—treating him like an easily startled newborn bird, as if one wrong move might send him fleeing again.

Tim hates that they’re right. 

Tim listens contently to their scattered conversations, quietly talking down his anxiety the whole time while also fending off the numbness trying to take hold of him. 

After a while though, the sounds of conversation become less panic inducing and more… calming, like he’s listening in on the Bat comms on any other night in his safe room. The familiar cadence soothes him, and before he knows it, he’s managed to finish more than half his plate.

He looks up and catches Cass glancing at him with that quiet, knowing expression. Tim wonders just how much she’s already gauged from him—how much she’s already seen under his carefully crafted mask.

Then, almost subconsciously, Tim realizes a voice is distinctly missing from the chatter.

He gazes over at Damian by his side. The teen is eating his food quietly, his eyes distant, like his mind is somewhere else. Tim nudges him gently with his elbow, “You alright?” he murmurs quietly. 

Damian shoots him a side-eye, guarded and stiff. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies, voice clipped.

“You’re quiet,” Tim observes softly.

“So are you,” Damian counters pointedly.

Tim shrugs one shoulder, “It’s not my family dinner.” 

Damian slams his fork down onto his plate causing a loud TANG and turns to Tim with a spark of fire in his eyes Tim hasn’t seen in years. 

“Damian,” Bruce’s voice cuts through warningly. Damian scowls and immediately slumps back into his chair like his strings have been cut. 

Tim frowns, at a complete loss. What is going on with him today? 

“So Tim,” Bruce sidesteps the moment seamlessly, like it didn’t even happen. “How have things been at DI since we last talked?”

Tim straightens a bit, following his lead and easily slipping into CEO mode—familliar territory. “Uhh, steady, despite the mishaps. We’re expanding the R&D budget. I’ve also been vetting a few new department heads.”

Bruce nods, approving. “Smart. Delegation will be crucial if you want to scale without burning out.”

Tim gives a noncommittal shrug, but before he can say more—

Steph groans theatrically, cutting in, “Are we really going to talk about business right now?” She turns to Jason with mock outrage. “Is this what happened last time? No wonder he left. I would’ve too.”

Jason barks out a laugh,. “My thoughts. Next they’ll be talking quarterly projections.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Tim responds dry, but amused. Steph has always had this blunt way about her that just brings Tim out of his head and into the present. He’s naturally more himself around her, more snarky and sarcastic in response to her own sass. 

“Oh no, I am putting my foot down.” Steph insists. “We are not talking about work. This is a social setting, Timothy. We do banter and mockery here. Those are the rules.”

Tim raises his eyebrows, feigning confusion, “Mockery?” 

Internally, he’s debating with himself if he should engage in said banter. Banter is dangerous. Banter is personal. Banter is... exposing. But well, Cass is already here anyway.

Besides… this might be the only time he gets to engage with Steph like this—on any level. In this timeline, in this life.

“Oh, absolutely,” she deadpans. “You’ve been way too quiet.” She leans closer, leaning against her elbows on the table, her expression going mischievous.  “I want to know everything about you.” 

Tim almost wishes she did. But no. She doesn’t know him like she used to, doesn’t carry any of their shared past, their jokes, their fights, their victories. She’s Steph and he’s just… someone who gets to be around her. If this moment’s all he has, he might as well make it a good one.

So, yeah. He’ll banter.

Tim tilts his head as if considering her request. “Everything?”

Steph grins, “Everything," she echoes. "Deepest fears, most embarrassing childhood memory, your skincare routine—especially that last one, because seriously, how the hell do you look like that?”

Tim plays along, signing dramatically, “Ah, I can’t help you there. Genetics, I’m afraid.” 

Steph deflates, as if put upon. “God dammit, why do the boys always get all the luck?” 

“Patriarchy,” he replies instantly. 

Dick snorts into his drink, while Cass smirks over the rim of her glass.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Damian mutters in an annoyed voice, sounding a bit like a disgruntled Alfred. It reminds Tim so strongly of before, of Damian’s annoyance everytime the mood struck Tim and Steph to do something especially rambunctious. 

Partners in crime. 

Steph rolls her eyes, “Don’t listen to the demon brat, he’s allergic to fun.” 

Tim laughs, actually laughs. It’s a quiet sound, nothing that outwardly draws anyone's attention but to Tim it feels good. Familiar in a way that he allows to warm him up. 

He catches Duke smiling in his direction, almost like he’s happy to see it too. 

“Let's start with the basics,” Steph continues unperturbed. “Favorite color?” 

Tim thinks about it, deciding to indulge in a bit of mischief. “Probably blue.” 

As expected, Jason straightens, a shit eating grin on his face, “Any particular reason?” 

“Or better yet,” Dick jumps in, grinning just as wide, “Any particular shade?” 

There’s a glint in Tim’s eye, but his expression remains perfectly neutral, the picture of innocence, as if he doesn't know what they’re getting at. “Sky blue,” he says, like it’s the most boring, obvious answer in the world.

The brothers both deflate. Dick hums, “Not, I don’t know, cerulean?” 

“Or royal blue, maybe?” 

Tim cocks his head to the side, squinting slightly like he’s genuinely putting thought into it. Then shakes his head, “Nope.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Tim doesn’t quite catch. 

Duke chuckles, steering things along. “Ok, what about hobbies?” 

Tim squints at him, “Hobbies?” 

“Yah,” Duke nods. “What do you do in your free time?” 

“You assume I have free time.” 

“Everyone has free time sometimes,” Barbara joins. “You a gamer? You seem the type.”

“I used to be,” Tim agrees. “But not for a while.” 

“Do you cook? Bake?” Jason tries. 

Tim scoffs. “When I want to set my house on fire.” 

“Dancer?” Cass offers, a little too hopefully.

“Sorry to disappoint but no,” he shakes his head. “I’m actually fairly clumsy.” 

It isn’t even a lie. Tim has always been gangly, and uncoordinated. He had to work hard to train himself out of it, first for public events like galas and then on a higher level for bat training. But even now when his mind is somewhere else, it isn’t exactly uncommon for him to trip over his own two feet. Coordination is something he earned—not something that came naturally. 

Still, his statement is met with multiple dubious looks, as if they honestly find that very hard to believe. 

“I’ve seen him sleep deprived,” Damian mutters. “He isn’t wrong.” 

Tim throws him a look, “How would you know if I was sleep deprived?” 

“When aren’t you sleep deprived?” Damian accuses.

Tim opens and closes his mouth, at loss for how to respond to that. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he decides. 

“It is not- !”

“Anyway,” Bruce intervenes quickly, but Tim thinks he catches the barest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Back to your hobbies. You have to do something outside of work, surely.”

Tim shrugs, “Sorry to disappoint, but I rarely do anything just for the fun of it anymore.”

Damian tsks. “He’s a photographer,” he states assuredly. 

It’s only years of practice that stops Tim from jolting. Yes, photography is probably the only thing he does that could be considered a proper hobby, but that’s both personal and practical to his job as Cardinal. It isn’t something anyone really knows about, or has ever known about. Even in the last timeline, the only people he ever told about it were Cass, Steph, and Dick (when he brought him proof of Batman's action, when he was trying to convince him to go back to being Robin). There’s no way Damian would know about it. 

Well…there was that one time. But no, that was then . This is now.

Unless… has Damian seen him spying? No, that’s impossible. Tim’s meticulous. He’d have heard about any surveillance chatter on the comms.

Swallowing the sudden rush of tension, Tim keeps calm and turns to Damian slowly, keeping his voice steady, “How did you know that?”

Damian shifts uneasily under Tim’s gaze, avoiding eye contact for a moment. He clears his throat, as if realizing he’s said too much. “I- I did my research on you before I started. You were credited as the winner of an Urban Landscapes competition some years ago.” 

Tim’s brow creases in thought. To him it’s been what feels like 20 years since that actually happened…but Damian is right. He applied to the exhibition when he was 8, put in all of his monthly allowance to get the photo professionally printed and framed and delivered it to the gallery himself. He didn’t know how to create an alias back then, so it was under his name, though he didn’t think anybody would connect it to him —Timothy Drake, the Drake heir. 

He thought he was lucky enough to even get into the competition back then, he never expected to win it. It was one of his proudest accomplishments before he became Robin. 

Damian eyes him like he’s trying to gauge Tim’s reaction without being too obvious about it. He’s worried, nervous about Tim’s reaction. Probably because he got the information through decidedly unorthodox means. Aka, Bat sleuthing, a decidedly not normal practice. 

He doesn’t realize how lucky he is that it’s Tim he’s talking to—someone who has long since known about and utilizes the same techniques.

“Huh,” Tim huffs instead, like he’s simply surprised and not as startled as he actually was. “You’re certainly thorough.” 

“Really?” Dick smiles softly, looking genuinely interested. “You’re a photographer?” 

Tim clears his throat. This is getting a little too close, too familiar. “I dabble,” he mutters. 

“Amature photographers rarely win professional competitions,” Bruce states pointedly. 

“It was a while ago,” he says dismissively, taking his fork and pushing the remaining food around on his plate. 

Barbara leans in from her wheelchair, eyes sharp. “When exactly? I feel like I would’ve heard about the Drake heir winning something like that.”

Tim glances up at the ceiling, “Let’s think,” he deadpans.

“He was 8 at the time,” Damian adds so very helpfully. Tim throws a glare his way before catching himself. 

“8!?” 

“Damn.” 

“So you’ve always been an overachiever?” Jason snarks with little heat. “Good to know.” 

Tim continues to push his food around, determinedly not looking at anyone as he feels his face warm. 

“That’s incredible, Tim,” Bruce says adamantly with what sounds like real pride creeping into his voice. No. Nope, not thinking about that.  “I’m sure your parents were very proud.” 

Tim laughs but even to his own ears it sounds hollow, “You could say that.” 

“What’s your focus?” Cass asks after a moment. 

Tim feels like he’s in a fever dream. Is he in a fever dream? It would actually make more sense than his current reality. 

“Urban Nightlife,” he answers without thinking, feeling almost like he’s on autopilot. The whole table gazes at him with various levels of surprise, “Uhhhh, but like I said it’s been a while.” 

“You take photos in Gotham?” Bruce asks, doing a convincing job of keeping his tone neutral. “At night?”

“That’s a bit dangerous, no?” Dick pipes up. 

Tim shrugs, “Seems pretty safe to me these days. Could be worse.” A lot worse, he doesn’t add. 

Duke is the one to ask the dreaded question, leaning forward and smiling mischievously. “You ever catch any photos of the Bats?” 

“Once or twice,” he replies easily, as nonchalant as he can be. 

“Who’s your favorite?” Jason asks. 

Tim frowns, “Favorite?”

“Favorite Bat.” 

Tim huffs and smiles a bit, “Robin,” he replies without hesitation. 

Damian startles, looking at Tim with what seems to be shock. 

Duke rolls his eyes, “Typical.”

Steph shakes her head in agreement, “I expected more from you, Timmy. Isn’t Robin a bit basic?” 

“I think you mean classic.”

“But which Robin, is the real question?” Dick leans closer. 

Tim smirks, taking another bite of his steak, “Wouldn’t you like to know, Circus boy.” 

Steph throws her head back and laughs, “I like him. He can stay.” 

The night continues on like that. Some light teasing here, some banter there, everyone surprisingly at ease with one another. 

Tim is in a daze the whole time, sometimes just content to simply exist in the moment, sometimes fighting back his anxiety and rising panic until he inevitably gets distracted again. 

He lets the time slip by, eventually deciding to just allow himself to forget for a while. Forget the heartache that's sure to come for him later, forget the lifelong desire to have this exactly as it is: A family without so much bad blood between them, years of hurting and being hurt by each other. 

It isn’t perfect, no family is, but to Tim? It’s damn near close. 

I did this , Tim thinks to himself. He made it possible. And even if it isn’t his anymore, it’s enough that it’s theirs. 

Tim allows them to persuade him to stay for dessert, happily surprised when Alfred reveals he’s made homemade donuts for them. Tim picks up his pastry gingerly and takes a bite of the perfectly glazed masterpiece. He has to hold in a groan because it is absolute heaven. 

Did they do their research on him to find out what he likes? They must have, though Tim rarely indulges in such things anymore…how did- how did Alfred know? 

Bruce clears his throat, distracting Tim from his inner musings. 

“I know we’ve probably kept you long enough,” he says. “But you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We usually do game night when we’re all together like this.” 

“Yah, stay Duckboy!” Steph says. “I think I could take you in scrabble.” 

Tim raises an eyebrow at the nickname. “Is that a Drake pun?” 

Steph shrugs, “Yah, okay, not my best work, but not the point. You in?” 

For a second, Tim is tempted. Why not? He’s already come this far…

But. Then again…this is already too far. 

He has to do damage control now, to at least try and mitigate the effect this night will have on him. Tim knows himself. His mental health was abysmal before and isn’t all that much better this time, but he’s not a masochist. If he wants to protect a semblance of his peace… he can’t stay. 

“Ah, no. I’m afraid I really should get going.” 

Tim is looking down while he says it but even so he can feel the atmosphere dip. The gathering isn’t happy with that decision. 

Jason lets out a loud sigh and opens his mouth to say something before someone, either Dick or Steph, kicks him under the table. From the glare Dick is giving him, Tim is betting on him. 

“Of course,” Dick says with a smile. “Just- Just know that we’re always close by if you need anything,” Dick holds his eye almost pleadingly, “You’re always welcome here, Tim.”

 “...Thank you,” Tim swallows, and clears his throat, trying to dislodge the lump he can feel rising. “I’ll just uh, call a cab I suppose.” 

“No need, Master Tim,” Alfred interjects. “The mechanics just informed me the problem has been resolved, you can drive yourself.” 

Tim can’t help but laugh, “That was… convenient timing.” 

Alfred gives nothing away, “Indeed, sir.” 

Cass stands, “I’ll walk you out.” 

Tim opens and closes his mouth. He’d really prefer not to be alone with Cass if possible, but he knows better than to argue. So, Tim follows her lead and stands, giving the family an awkward wave. “Thank you for having me.” 

“We’ll see you soon, Tim,” Jason tells him, and it sounds less like a promise and more like a fact.

Tim flees without another word, slowing down to let Cass catch up with him only once he’s a good way down the hall. 

Cass doesn't try to start a conversation, so Tim doesn’t either, knowing she oftentimes prefers silence to useless words. They walk side by side together through the twist and turns of the corridors silently until they finally reach the entryway again. 

“It was good to meet you, Cass,” Tim mutters at the door. 

Cass nods, self assured. “Yes, it was.” 

That shocks a laugh out of Tim. He smiles at her, nods once, and turns away to finally make his escape—when Cass calls after him.

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” she asks, her voice quiet but unwavering.

Tim halts, hand on the nob of the door. He’s so close. “Keep what up?” he asks without looking. 

“Carrying on all by yourself.” He can feel her stepping closer. “Everybody needs people, Tim.” 

“I have people.” 

“No you don’t…not really.” 

Tim wishes he could disagree. He has enough connections for his essential needs…but not nearly enough to be happy. He wishes he could let himself have more people, but he’s long since learned his lesson in that regard. It’s better not to risk it.  

Better not to give himself hope. 

“Goodnight, Ms. Cain.” 

Tim opens the door and is gone.

Chapter Text

Cass takes her time making her way back to the family, her mind spinning over everything she just learned. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her Father and brothers when they told her of this new development, but believing it and seeing it were far more different realities then she anticipated. 

Cass smiles.

She has another brother.

A brother who is awkward and funny. A brother who is fundamentally kind and commpasionate—who wants so badly to do right by the people he loves.

Cass’s smile falls.

A brother who is in a pain of his own making. 

The family has already moved out of the dining room and settled into the study, already in discussion. They haven’t seen her yet, so Cass just leans into the doorway and listens as they all throw out their own opinions of the evening—of Tim.

“I told you he was a little shit!” Jason raves, sounding put upon, but Cass can tell he’s fighting back his actual amusement.

Duke smiles unabashed. “I like him,” he states outright. “I think things went alright, all things considered. Though, he did not seem happy about our littler scheme. I don’t think he would’ve stayed at all if not for Alfred.” 

“Indeed, sir,” Alfred remarks neutrally. Cass smirks, observing how very proud of himself he is over the fact. 

Steph leans back into the sofa thoughtfully. “He seemed surprisingly normal, considering everything we know about him.”

Damian scoffs, “He has you fooled then. He’s no more well adjusted than any of us.” 

“Ha!” Duke laughs, “Speak for yourself.” 

Dick turns to Damian curiously, “Has he really taken photos of us without us knowing? In the masks?”

Damian hesitates, but nods. “From what I understand…he’s been doing it since he was a child.” 

Jason frowns, “Like.. before he was Robin?”

“...perhaps,” Damian responds cryptically. His face is conflicted, closed off. He doesn’t elaborate. 

“Huh,” Jason cocks his head. “He must be one sneaky son of a bitch.” 

Damian just nods again. 

Cass looks over her youngest brother sadly. This hasn’t been easy for him. His reinstated memories have altered him. Not drastically, but enough for Cass to see it in his countenance. He's heavier than he was before. Guiltier.

Of what, Cass doesn’t know and probably won’t unless she too regains her memories. 

She hopes she will. 

Getting her brother back at all will be enough—but she wants to remember their bond, to recall whatever experiences they shared that made Tim look at her so fondly, at the entire family with such love in his eyes.

Damian, it seems, saw that fondness too. He was mostly neutral at the beginning of dinner—a touch nervous, perhaps even guilty for tricking Tim into the situation in the first place—but that was to be expected. But as the night went on and Tim began to openly banter with the others, Damian withdrew even further into himself. That same guilt he’s been carrying for days was evident, but so was something else… jealousy. As if…as if he wished for the same easy camaraderie Tim offered the others.

That was his interpretation, anyway. But Cass saw the truth—how Tim was simply already comfortable with him in a way he wasn’t with the others yet. He inquired after Damian almost as soon as he’d gotten his own bearings. He didn’t banter with Damian because Damian wasn’t engaging in it. But Tim was still concerned about him and gave him space out of consideration, not favoritism.

Still, Damian was perfectly happy to throw him under the bus in that insulting way of his that reads more like teasing than actual insults to anyone who knows Damian. Tim took it in stride, even as he was clearly shocked at Damian’s easy knowledge of him. 

Cass wonders if they ever bonded over their shared love of the visual arts in the other timeline. 

Those two will have a lot to work through once everything comes to light. There’s clearly plenty of history between them, a record of hurts and hurting, but the affection both brothers hold for each other is obvious to Cass, even if it isn’t to each other. 

“Cass?” Barbara calls out, finally noticing her. 

The others turn their attention to Cass, and she nods in greeting. There’s a weight of expectation in their gazes that she has learned to both accept and embrace—the hope for answers only she can give. It’s suffocating sometimes, the weight of that responsibility, but necessary—a burden she gladly bears, especially for the sake of her family.

“Well?” Bruce probes, his anxiety palpable. 

Cass furrows her brow, gazing down at the floor sadly, “He is in pain,” she tells them softly. “But he cares about us, all of us. Very much.”

Silence fills the room as they absorb that. 

Steph breaks it with a dramatic huff, “Then what's his problem? We invited him to stay, didn’t we?”

“He wanted to stay,” Cass tells her adamantly. “And he was… angry at himself for wanting it.”

“Bullshit,” Jason mutters to himself. “Why does he have to make it complicated? Why is he so convinced we’d reject him?” 

Cass hesitates, not wanting to cause any undue hurt, but well, the truth is the truth and if any of them gain their memories, it’s bound to be known at some point. 

“I expect he has some… unresolved trauma,” she tells them. “He seems convinced he does not have a place here.” 

The family looks at each other in confusion.

“Why would he think that?” Dick breathes. 

Cass shrugs, “I do not know.” 

The gathering turns almost as one toward Damian for some sort of explanation. Damian just gazes forlornly at the ground, a war between guilt and sorrow battling for dominance in his body language. 

Duke leans closer beside him, “Dami?” He tries to place a comforting hand on his shoulder but Damian immediately pushes him off, and stands, agitated. 

“I told you,” he grits. “We had many issues before.” 

“...Okay,” Jason drawls unconvinced, his need to know more shifting into frustration. “But that’s just between you two, right?”

“And we’ve seen he cares about you,” Duke points out sagely. “Whatever issues you had must’ve been minor enough.”

Damian looks away. Cass can see the weight of whatever knowledge he has bearing down on him, suffocating him with the responsibility of choices that were once his….and others that weren’t. “There were…other conflicts that could have left him feeling…cast aside.” 

Bruce frowns, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his posture. “What are you talking about Damian?” 

Cass watches Damian considers it for a moment, considers telling them what he knows, but then a resolve hardens into place, both for the sake of himself and for the mercy of everybody else. 

 “It isn’t my place to tell you,” he says definitively. 

“Seeing as your the only one here who knows shit about this, I‘d say it’s your fucking place! ” Jason snaps. 

“Jason.” Bruce says sharply. 

Damian clenches his jaw, “It was your lives!” he snaps. “I can’t begin to know how any of you felt, what experiences you had, why any of us did what we did…” Damian shakes his head adamantly, “My mistakes are my own. But it isn’t my place to inform you of events I‘ve only heard about,” he repeats. “If you want to know what happened, you’ll have to remember yourself.” 

With that, Damian storms out of the room, his emotions hot and exposed like a live wire. 

Bruce stands as if to follow him, but Cass blocks his path. 

“Let him go,” she instructs. “He’s right. It isn’t his job to explain our own choices in another life.”

Bruce just stares at her, debating whether or not he’ll listen to her judgment, but ultimately yielding to her wisdom. He backs away and slumps back down onto the sofa, “You’re right. I just…” 

Bruce has grown a lot in the few years that Cass has known him. He’s a perfectionist in every aspect of his life—including fatherhood. He will always do what he believes is right for his children, and it kills him when the aftermath of those choices proves to be wrong.

Even though it was quite literally impossible for Bruce to know what Tim had done until now, he’s still taking it on himself as a personal failing.

To think that he may have done wrong by Tim—even in another life—to such an extent that it still affects him?

Bruce wants to fix it.

And he doesn’t know how.

Dick sighs from beside him in commiseration, holding his head in his hands. “You heard Zatanna, Bruce,” he says kindly. “We can’t force this. And we can’t force Dami either, this is already difficult enough for him.” 

Dick’s stress is rooted in his natural empathy—his deep need to do right by the people he cares about. He wants his brother back, like they all do, but he also wants to be there for him. Tim has already proven how much he cares for his family, how far he’s willing to go for them, even at the expense of himself.

Dick hates when people get hurt for his sake, and he wants— needs —to make that right.

“I think,” Alfred speaks up. “We should all get some much needed rest. If our memories are rooted in our dreams, then let us see what comes to us tonight.” 

Bruce nods in agreement, gazing up and around at his remaining children and allies. “Dick, Jason and I will patrol tonight. We’ll keep an eye out for the League, though I doubt they’ll approach, with Damian home.” 

He turns to Steph and Cass. “The dreams are unpredictable. What we dream and how much we remember is completely individual,” he reminds them. “I encourage everyone to record anything you can recall upon waking. In my experience, most of it is gone within a few minutes.” 

Jason narrows his eyes, gazing at Bruce suspiciously, “Most of it?” he questions. 

Bruce hesitates, but ultimately ignores the observation. “With any luck, our interactions tonight will trigger… something.” He looks between the two girls. “Let me know how it goes for you both in the morning.” 

The family slowly starts to filter out, either to bed or patrol respectively. Steph walks alongside Cass as they make their way up to the family wing. Steph hesitates at her door, tossing a crooked grin over her shoulder to Cass. 

“Well,” she smirks. “Here goes nothing.” 

There’s a flicker of apprehension beneath the bravado, a tension in her shoulders that belies her smile.

Cass huffs, nodding once to before moving on to her room. 

It’s still a few hours before she would normally sleep, but Cass lays down anyway, body heavy, limbs loose as she stretches across the mattress. She begins breathing meditatively, inhaling through her nose, holding, exhaling through her mouth, hoping to lull her body into resting sooner. The ceiling above her is a dark, and familiar sight.

Cass thinks she should probably be nervous. Despite trying to hide it, Steph is at least somewhat uneasy about the prospect of recovering their memories. Cass doesn’t blame her. They don’t know what their lives before looked like, and if Damian’s behavior is any indicator, that life wasn’t necessarily a good one. It should frighten Cass.

But it doesn’t. 

Fear doesn’t even cross her mind. She feels focused, steady. A hum of resolve sits beneath her skin. She is ready for whatever the dreams bring. 

Her breath slowly eases as she allows herself to slip into unconsciousness, her last thought resting on her new brother.

And how desperately she wants to bring him home.

Steph dreams of a life so similar to her own.

Her father’s betrayal, her rise to Spoiler, the hard-earned independence that always felt just out of reach. She still crashes into the same walls, still forces herself to get back up. The masks, the bruises, the stubborn pride, getting the attention of a certain crew of Bats and Birds—it’s all there. 

Only this time, there was just one in the beginning.

Robin.

Her Robin.

He’s young, his voice softer, less guarded.

“I understand all the responsibilities you have. You don’t need to add to them by worrying about me,” she tells him. 

“I’ll always worry about you,” he mumbles without meeting her eyes.

Steph laughs, leaning in just enough to nudge his shoulder. “You worry about everyone.”

“Not like I worry about you,” he says, quiet and raw.

She feels a love so strong it could ruin her. In many ways, it does—burning too fast and too hot for either of them to come out unscathed. 

Twin flames.

They fight, they fall apart. Not out of hatred—never that—but from the crushing weight of their own lives, the responsibilities and burdens they can’t bear to share. 

They separate for a time. There are trials to be had, mistakes to make, distance needed for them both to grow. And they do.

They learn. They forgive. They heal.

And what blooms in the aftermath is something just as profound.

Friendship, the likes of which she’s never known. The kind that knows all the worst parts of her and cares anyway. 

And always will.

“Saving the world is a complex problem,” he sighs, collapsing beside her on a rooftop. “I’m doing my best, but… I feel like my best could be so much better.”

Steph sits next to him, bumping into his shoulder fondly, “One life at a time right?” 

Tim smiles, “Yah. Maybe.”

“This is what happens when a little bird flies out of his nest too soon!”

Backhand.

Fronthand.

Laughter.

Crowbar. 

Rinse, repeat. 

The beating feels almost familiar now. Jason's mind may not retain the memory of it when he wakes up, but within his dreamscape he knows he’s relived this particular memory countless times now. 

Sometimes he relives it as if he’s experiencing it, sat in that chair, bound, his Robin suit torn and bloody. He feels the pain, the fear, and most crushing, the hope. 

He was so sure Bruce would come for him. 

Other times, like now, Jason watches the scene unfold before him like a bystander, a witness to the tragedy. He can’t interfere. It is already over, written in dried blood. Nothing can be done to change it. 

Not even Tim’s interference can erase the stain. 

Jason stands just behind the Joker's shoulder, watching his younger self try and hold in every cry, every flinch. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction…though he got it…in the end.

His mind drifts even as he watches, eyes fixed on that damn crowbar as the Joker brings it down over and over again. 

And then…and then the dream starts to morph. The beating continues, an arm coming down hard on a smaller lithe body, but it isn’t a crowbar anymore…no. It’s a bo-staff. And it isn’t his younger face he’s looking down at anymore…it’s- it’s—

“-they said I wasn’t tough enough to be Robin,” Jason growls, bringing the stolen staff down again only for his prey to dodge properly this time, scampering a few feet away. Jason smirks, stalking closer. “But today, they say you are. Show me, Tim. Show me what you have that I didn’t.”

Jason swings hard and fast, fueled by something deeper than anger—something bitter and ugly. Tim keeps dodging, clever, tactical, slipping through every strike. 

The Pit rage surges through his veins like wildfire, a force outside himself, yet impeded deep within, screaming for justice, for answers, for blood. What makes this kid so much better? Each hit he lands on him isn’t just a mark of failure on Bruce—it’s a threat, a judgment, a punishment. This is what Bruce deserves for trying to replace him, for pretending Jason wasn’t expendable all along.

The genius protege, he thinks bitterly, landing another hit into Robin’s side. The one who could deduce Batman’s identity when no one else could. The one everyone whispers about: smarter, sharper, more like Batman than even Batman himself. It makes Jason sick. He refuses to believe it, clings to the rage clawing through him—the Pit screaming that this kid is nothing special, just another scrawny, desperate teenager Bruce molded into a weapon. 

Jason is barely even conscious of the words tumbling from his mouth. 

“-you solved a mystery no one else could. You discovered who he was behind that mask. Millionaire Bruce Wayne. You were so pleased with yourself, I’m sure that you forgot who you were really dealing with. I know Bruce Wayne. And let me tell you, Tim, if someone was trying to find out who Batman really was. If someone was stalking him for weeks. He’d know about it. You can’t be that good..”

Jason throws another punch, but Tim is already ducking under it and popping up on Jason’s other side. For a split second, Jason catches a glimpse of the look in his eye, a resolve setting in, a determination that will keep him alive for years to come.

“I am.” 

Tim throws a solid punch right across the side of Jason’s mouth. It whips his head to the side, blood welling up in his gums. Jason cradles his jaw, the all consuming rage intensifying. The pain gives him focus, the blood gives him vindication. 

Jason turns back slowly, eyes wild, lips curled into something that isn’t quite a smile. Tim’s already moving, trying to get away, but not fast enough. Jason stalks after him like a predator, steps heavy and unrelenting. Then he lunges. He slams into Tim with full force, driving him to the ground. The impact rattles through them both, but Jason doesn’t stop—he straddles Tim and brings his fist down.

This will teach him. For someone supposedly so smart, he’s incredibly, unbelievably stupid.

Didn’t his parents ever teach him not to take what wasn’t his?!

Jason wakes with a gasp.

Cass dreams of seemingly unconnected fragments. 

She observes her mother, cold, harsh and demanding as ever, but solid and undeniably impressive. The dream shifts.

“Cass, right?” a boy asks, his face kind yet guarded. “Welcome to Wayne Manor.” 

Cass isn’t confident with her words yet, so she simply nods, signing a simple thank you. 

He signs ‘your welcome’ back to her. 

Cass smiles. 

Duck, dodge, hit, block. 

She sees her mothers form in the boy, just as solid and unyielding, but it doesn’t suit him. The boy knows coldness personally— was probably raised with it. He can harness it, use it as a tool, but it doesn’t belong to him. 

“That’s enough humility for one day,” he pants, collapsing on the mats in an exhausted heap. 

Cass smiles, wiping the sweat off her face. “You’re better. Quick learner.” 

“Really?” he asks shyly. He needs more validation, she decides. “Thanks.” 

One image fades into another. A different place, a different time. He’s gone through hell. He’s different, and Cass isn’t sure it’s for the better. He’s harder than he was, sadder. 

“Things have settled down in Gotham,” he says haltingly. “Bruce is back—the family has… settled down. I thought maybe…it was time to make it official.” 

He hands her a bundle of black fabric, an emblem of a bat facing up for her to see. 

Cass swallows, “There is a Batgirl,” she reminds him. “Stephanie needs it.” 

“And what do you need?” 

“To just…” Cass exhales. “..be.”

“Call yourself whatever you want,” he says. “The point is— just don’t forget…you have a family.” 

“Thank you,” Cass says earnestly. “But family is not always home.” 

Her brother nods like he knows, like he understands. 

Cass finds herself in a dark maze of tunnels. Catacombs, she realizes. Cass follows the distress signal, rushing down the corridors, praying she’s not too late. 

A few more minutes and she might have been. 

Cass is good at what she does, good at pain and violence though she rarely enjoys it. But in this moment, Cass has no pity, no remorse for the Daughter of Acheron as she cuts her down—naked and vulnerable. 

“Thanks for saving me from a fate not quite worse than death,” her brother jokes, pretending he isn’t as shaken and she knows he is. She doesn’t call him on it, but internally she hopes he knows just how much she cares about him. To her, such things are obvious, words aren’t necessary when she can read love off a person just as easily as anger or fear.

Maybe she’ll find her words to give him the validation he needs…someday. 

Her brother deserves so much more than what has been allotted to him. 

Despite what he wants her and others to think, despite what he’s good at making people believe, the boy is made of pure hope and determination. An unyieldingness to make things better, the way he knows they can be. 

But the world and the people in it are not so easily changed. 

An immovable object and an unstoppable force. 

And her brother is vulnerable. 

His crash is inevitable. 

It’s pure luck she finds him when she does, standing precariously balanced on the edge of a rooftop. A trained Robin never struggles with such a thing as rudimentary as balance, yet her brother sways with the wind as if he’s undecided whether or not he will just let it take him. 

Cass lets the absolute fear and heartbreak at the sight wash over her for just a second before she’s stalking forward silently. Never has her stealth been so important. He is one of the most difficult to sneak up on in the family, second only to her in situational awareness, yet her brother is clearly stuck too far inside his head at the moment. 

Cass doesn't waste any time and within seconds she has his cape in hand, pulling him far back from the edge and pinning him face down, his wrists trapped behind his back. 

Only then does she allow the panic to grip her, the fear to make itself known what exactly she almost just lost. 

“Stupid.” She mutters, angry tears falling from her eyes unbidden. “Stupid brother.” 

Tim doesn’t fight her, doesn't do anything but slump, the will to fight drained from him in a way she's never seen before. 

Cass turns him over and cups his face, looking for answers in his movements, in his expressions. Her ability to read someone has never failed her so terribly, for it seems as if the very life of her brother has already drained out of him, leaving a shell of a person she hardly recognizes. 

Cass has been away too long. How could she not know? How could any of them not have seen? 

Cass doesn’t leave him alone for the next few days, ensuring he eats and sleeps. He doesn’t protest as much as she would have expected. Life returns to his eyes a bit as they spend time together, but not enough for Cass to truly feel comfortable leaving again. 

Cass debates whether or not she should tell the family. 

It would be a betrayal. He may never trust her again, but she values his life more than she values his trust. Still, she isn’t sure what the right path forwards is. 

Finally, Cass sits him down. Her emotions are so volatile, she can’t bear to speak the words, so she signs them, putting every ounce of feeling into her motions, willing her brother to see, to feel her love for him and just how much he scared her. 

By the end of it they’re both crying. Cass holds her brother as he finally allows himself to feel the sadness he’s been numbing himself to. She knows he’s in pain, but it is a necessary pain. Pain means he’s alive, pain means his brain is still telling the rest of his body that it still needs to survive. 

Ultimately, Cass gives him a choice. He’ll either get help on his own terms, keeping Cass updated the whole way….

Or she’ll tell Dick. 

The threat strains their relationship for a time, and rightfully so, but it works. With time and consistent support, he starts to get better. Therapy teaches him how to deal with previously buried trauma. His relationships with the rest of the family begin to steadily improve. He even confides to Steph about what happened. 

It isn’t perfect, but Tim is alive—and even better, he is glad to be alive. He finds his purpose again, his dedication to making the world better returns in full, a force she hopes will never be stopped again. 

Cass wakes not with a gasp or a shout, but with a peaceful inhale and exhale. Something she didn’t know she was missing slots into place. 

She remembers.

The memories are there, present but not overwhelming. They’re like… another perspective, a viewpoint of her life she recalls with such clarity, yet it doesn’t change her current circumstance. She is still herself, now with extra knowledge of what could have been, but wasn’t. The memories are hers. They belong to her, but she does not belong to them. 

This life now is hers. But that doesn’t mean what happened then has no bearing on the now. 

Oh, Tim.  Wonderful, caring, self-sacrificing, Tim.

She understands why he did it, and knowing what she does about him again, she can’t even blame him. To Tim, there would have been no other choice once he realized Damian was truly gone. He’s always given himself to the family, even when they wouldn’t always return the courtesy. 

He was doing so well. Everything was getting better before… before.

And now he’s lived for years by himself, isolated. Alone. 

He’s surviving though, not letting the numbness overtake him like she knows is his natural inclination. He’s letting himself feel the pain, at least in doses, or perhaps he’s done well to avoid it all together…until recently. The fact is as much of a relief as it is a concern. 

It isn’t necessary, his pain. 

Cass knows he always had a hard time believing it, but the family always cared for him. The circumstances of the previous timeline were in many ways felt the worst by Tim and his precarious introduction to the family. Like Damian, Cass wasn’t there for any of that, but she knows it affected him and is still affecting his perceptions. 

Both his insecurities and his desire to make the world better has convinced him the family will somehow be happier without him. 

It isn’t true. 

Cass has long since felt an absence she could never put into words, a hole in their formations, a blind spot that should have been covered, a voice missing from the banter. On a subconscious level, they’ve all made room for a person that isn’t there. 

But he can be. 

It won’t be easy, despite no one else physically living the other timeline, Tim did. There will be hurts to be healed, conversation to be had, assurances to be made. 

But it’s possible. 

Tim made it possible. 

Cass shakes her head fondly. For someone who was so determined to eradicate their existence from the memories of those he loved, he inadvertently created the perfect environment for him to be welcomed back home. Cass may disagree with his methods, but she can’t argue the results. The family is closer now, happier. 

And they will be all the more happy to bring their final member home. 

Damian is up with the sun as per usual after nights he hasn’t patrolled. He hasn’t dreamt much since remembering, but still he sleeps fitfully, his mind awash with comparisons of the then and now. 

His feelings and emotions have been all over the place, constantly swinging from righteous fury to suffocating guilt. He was excited at first about the prospect of cornering Timothy, but after their conversation at the office, he just felt sick with contrition for forcing him into what was likely a very uncomfortable situation.

Until, of course, the dinner itself—and Drake’s flippant quip about it being Damian’s family, not his .

Damian reigned himself in for the most part, allowing Drake to engage in banter with the rest of the family. He should've been happy to see it, should've been relieved. Instead, all he could feel was jealousy and deep self-loathing. 

The two of them never had that sort of relationship. Even at the end, when Damian’s respect for him was at an all time high, they never had that kind of comradery. Everyone in the family had their issues with each other at some point, sure, but there was always affection between them. 

But Damian and Tim? 

Their relationship was founded on mutual animosity. Over time, that animosity felt less personal and more just…how they were. Like they didn’t know any other way to interact with each other.

Before his memories came back, Damian would have considered them friends, or at least friends adjacent. Despite being his intern, he respected Timothy and he seemed to respect Damian in turn. He’s been patient, kind, helpful even though Damian didn’t deserve such kindness. 

With everything Damian did to Tim… he should hate him, even now. They were on their way to better terms in the past life, sure. But never once did Damian apologize for the multitude of injuries he gave him, for the multiple attempts on his life. And Tim just… accepted that…like he didn’t even expect an apology in the first place. 

And then, he gave it all, his whole life—for Damian’s life. Although, the more he thinks about it, the less certain Damian is that it was really for him at all. Damian knows his death would have torn the family a part again. In the grand scheme of things...it seems far more likely Timothy did it for them. 

Damian sighs, finishing getting dressed for the day and wondering how the hell he’s going to get through another day at the office without giving himself away. Timothy has always been the best detective among them all. He doesn’t have Cass’s level of skill reading body language, but he isn’t a novice. He knew something was up yesterday and while he’s probably equated that with the plan to entrap him into another dinner, Damian has no such excuse to explain any oddities in his behavior today. 

Damian is just about to leave and go down to the kitchen for breakfast when he hears a firm knock at the door. Before he can even call out a ‘come in’, it opens and Jason enters, his breathing unsteady and his eyes a bit unfocused. 

Damian frowns. Jason normally isn’t up until at least 10am after a full patrol. 

“Jason?” Damian starts. “Are you alright?” 

Jason just exhales, slumping against the wall, his expression stormy and his muscles tight, like he’s preparing for a fight. 

Damian takes a cautious step closer, possibilities springing to his mind as he views his brother’s obvious disorientation. “Did you dream?” 

Jason swallows and nods once. 

“What do you remember?” he asks anxiously. 

“Not much,” he finally speaks. “I can usually hold onto the feelings… pain, and violence. I think…I think I’ve been remembering my death.” 

Damian holds back a wince. 

“But then…I think there’s more. No,” he shakes his head, locking eyes with Damian. “I know there is more.” 

Damian swallows. 

“It was almost the same,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “but… this time. There’s this one image that stuck with me.” 

“...which was?” Damian manages. 

Jason flinches, tightening his jaw. “ Tim. Beaten and bloody under me.” 

Damian holds his gaze, but only just. Jason straightens himself, and steps closer to him. 

“But that isn’t possible. It can’t be possible,” Jason gets into Damian’s space, his face muddled with confusion—desperation. “Because I died. You said I died!” 

“You did die,” Damian affirms softly in stark contrast to Jason’s raised voice. 

“Then why do I have memories of Tim!?” he demands. “My life before shouldn’t have been any different than the one I lived here, with the exception of my death. Wanna explain to me why I seem to remember beating a certain Robin within an inch of his life?’ ”

Damian winces, taking a step back. 

Jason sighs and takes a step back too, suddenly aware of his actions. Damian watches him try and center himself, breathing deeply. Jason keeps backing up until his back hits the wall, then slowly lets gravity pull him to the ground. He buries his head into his knees, continuing his deep breaths.

Damian watches him trepidatiously, fighting with himself on how much he should say. Jason deserves the truth, especially now. But how can Damian tell him when he barely knows the half of it? How can he give him context he doesn't have? How could he possibly begin to explain the aftermath? The bond that eventually formed between him and Tim despite all the odds against it?

A minute passes before Jason sighs deeply, looking back up at Damian.
“I understand it’s not your responsibility to tell us these things—I do,” he says truthfully, his eyes pleading. “But… please, Baby Bat, I need some sort of explanation here.”

Damian swallows and nods once, moving over to sit beside Jason on the floor, deciding to just tell him the bones of it. That's as much as he really knows anyway. He wasn’t part of the family yet. But he knows the basics: how it fundamentally altered his father—changed the very course of their family.

“You died,” Damian reaffirms gently. “And then…you came back.” 

Jason squints, “What do you mean… back ?” 

“I don’t know everything,” Damian prefaces, choosing his words carefully. “My mother found you— alive, but…you were practically brain dead. She…she put you in the Lazarus pit to revive your consciousness, but…” 

Jason exhales sharply, “No one comes out of the Lazarus pit the same,” he fills in. 

“Yes.” 

Jason slumps further into the wall. They stay silent for a few minutes, Damian allowing Jason to absorb the revelation. 

“And then I,” Jason starts suddenly, his voice unsteady. “I.. tried to kill Tim?”

Damian frowns thoughtfully, carefully considering everything he heard about that time. “I honestly don’t know if that was your intention…you certainly could’ve if you wanted to…. But Tim survived with only a few additional scars to show for it.”

That isn’t as comforting to Jason as Damian intended. Jason’s flinches, his face contorting into an ugly grimace. 

He scoffs with a bitter shake of his head. “No wonder he doesn’t want anything to do with us…with-with me.” 

Damian hesitates, “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.” 

Jason looks over at him, “What do you mean?”

Damian fidgets, avoiding his eye. “...let's just say you weren’t the only one to make an attempt on his life,” he admits. 

Jason sits up straighter.

“I’m not proud of it,” Damian states clearly. “But… it did happen. I was in the League for much longer…my mentality was different. I- I saw Timothy as a threat…not that it’s any excuse.” 

“Huh,” Jason breathes after a moment, slumping back into the wall and letting out a dry laugh, edged with disbelief. “He had two of us going after him and he never went 6 feet under?” He shakes his head, half amused, half incredulous. “Guess he’s pretty good at keeping himself alive.”

Damian smirks, “I used to curse that exact fact.”

Jason chuckles lowly, but his expression goes back to contemplative fairly quickly, his analytical side taking over again. “And yet… he still did all this. Turned back the clock to save your life. Saved my life. Let you be his intern. Any normal person would be well within their rights to let us rot in hell. And yet…” Jason shakes his head fondly, letting out another dry laugh. “Is he actually insane?” 

A small smile tugs at Damian’s lips. “There must be something severely wrong with him, yes.” 

Jason hums thoughtfully, “Or maybe…,” he fiddles the hem of his jacket. “Maybe he’s just a good brother.” 

Damian swallows, his voice going soft. “Brother’s do tend to fight,” he parrots in agreement. 

“And they forgive,” another voice joins. 

Jason and Damian both tense, the only physical tell of their surprise, and turn to see Cass leaning casually in the doorway from where she was evidently listening in.

Damian’s frown deepens as her words sink in, holding her eye as she stares at him with such assurance. 

Cass steps deep into the room fully. “Tim had long forgiven both of you for what happened before he changed things. It’s why he changed things, because he loves all of us. I understand the guilt you may have,” she looks from Damian to Jason and back again. “but you needn’t have it for his sake.”

Damian frowns at the specific wording, “How…how do you know that for certain?” 

Cass just smiles. 

Damian stands suddenly as the realization strikes him, “You…you remember? Everything?” 

“What!? How is that fair!?” Jason demands, standing as well behind Damian.“You see the kid for a few hours and poof,” he gestures dramatically, “Everything comes back?” 

Cass smirks slightly. “Just lucky, I guess.” 

“That can’t be it,” Jason grumbles, real frustration tingeing his voice.

Cass sombers and shrugs one shoulder, “I truly don’t understand it anymore then you do..but…to be fair, I do have less traumatic experiences with Tim then you do.” 

Jason glares, “I really don’t like that you both know what happened…” he swallows. “What I did… while I’m over here floundering for scraps of information.”

Cass places a gentle hand on his shoulder, “It doesn’t change anything,” she says earnestly and a significant amount of tension leaves Jason’s frame. Everyone in the family knows, Cass never lies if she can help it. “It will come back eventually, when you’re ready for it.” 

Cass turns her gaze to Damian, and he immediately looks away, not ready to face someone who knows— really knows—what everything he’s done, who knows of all of his mistakes, of his egregious flaws. 

Cass doesn’t reach out to touch him, seeming to know better. “You were a manipulated child,” she says softly. “Tim knew this. He forgave you, I promise.” 

Damian swallows, “Forgive me if I can’t simply take your word for it.” 

“He will tell you himself,” she says decisively, “Eventually.” 

Jason shifts, “You and Tim were close then? Before?” 

“I am his sister,” she says simply. 

“Then do you have any new insights on how we should move forward?” 

Cass cocks her head in thought, “Patiently. Damian was correct on his assessment. If we overwhelm him, he may run.” She faces Damian again, “Be careful today, but do not censor yourself too harshly, or he will know.”

Damian looks down, old feelings of deep-rooted inadequacy—ones he thought he’d long outgrown—rising sharply to the surface.

“And if I fail? If I reveal myself too soon?”

Cass shrugs. “Then we move our time table up,” she says easily, like it really is that easy, like there isn’t a significantly high chance Damian will screw this up for everyone. 

Cass’s eyes soften, reading his fear and anxiety.

“I want him to come home willingly…” she prefaces and then smirks, but there is nothing friendly in it. The smile is all promise and terrifying resolution. “But make no mistake he will be coming home one way or another. No one, not even Tim can stop that now.”

Jason gives an exaggerated shiver. “Jesus, I forget how terrifying you can be.” 

Cass smiles innocently. “You should get going, Dami. I’ll speak to Bruce and the others, inform them of the…development." 

Jason nods, “I’ll go with you,” he looks over at Damian. “They should probably know what you told me so they aren’t uhh…shocked when they find out later.” 

“Fair,” Cass agrees. “That time was very…intense for everyone.” 

Jason huffs, “Yah, I bet that’s one way to put it.” Mirth suddenly lights up his eyes, “Dick is gonna be so mad that you remembered before him.”

Cass is unmoved, “Tough.”

Steph chooses that exact moment to stumble in, bedhead in full disaster. “ Shit, you guys weren’t kidding about having random ass dreams.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Good morning to you too.”

Steph ignores him, “Were me and Tim…” she frowns as if trying to remember her train of thought. “Were we… involved at some point?” 

Cass raises an eyebrow, “Why do you ask?” 

“I think… I might have kissed him?”

Damian cringes, making a disgusted face. “Ugh, did you have to remind me, Brown?” 

Steph gapes, her jaw open and closing before finally yelling, “You didn’t think to mention that?!” 

Damian rolls his eyes, “I’m doing my best to forget about it even now!” 

Jason’s eyes bulge, “Tim and blondie?!” 

“It was short lived anyway,” Cass pipes up. “They’re much better friends.” 

Steph whips her head towards her, “Excuse me? What?”

The room stinks of sweat, blood, and the faint chemicals of ‘medicine’.

Ra’s stands perfectly still, simply observing. 

The prisoner twitches weakly in the chair, her once bald head lolling against her shoulder, a thin string of drool and bile trailing down her chin. 

Her body is collapsing in on itself after so much strain, systems failing one by one. Not unexpected. They had to double the dose—far beyond what a weaker mind could endure. But she is no fool, and the truth was not forthcoming from her.

His gaze sweeps over her ruined form—trembling hands, labored breath, eyes glassy with the weight of her own betrayal.

So stubborn. So clever. She resisted every other method of interrogation for months, never wavering, never slipping. He almost admires her resolve. Almost.

But even the strongest minds are breakable. 

The serum is a new tool in their arsenal, one Ra’s wishes they would’ve developed sooner. It dismantles the very architecture of deception, makes it impossible to speak falsehood, makes evasion taste like acid in the throat. It unravels the mind gently, then all at once. Like pulling a thread from an intricate tapestry until the whole illusion collapses in on itself.

Its effects took longer than he anticipated, but then again, this is no ordinary prisoner, not like the other weak minded they may use it on in the future. Regardless, it was effective enough in the end—she did eventually speak. She may not have divulged everything she knows; her body and mind have grown weak, fraying at the edges of sanity. But she’s told him enough, and what a tale it is. 

Unexpected. 

But not unwelcome. 

The Protector has been clever, to be sure, but he has ironically run out of time. Ra’s turns his head slightly, just enough for the guards behind him to hear.

“Take her below,” he says quietly. “And leave her there. She has served her purpose.”

The sound of boots scuffing stone follows, then the groan of leather straps releasing. The woman lets out a sound—half gasp, half whimper—as they lift her from the chair like dead weight. Ra’s does not look at her again. 

His fingers brush the hilt of the blade at his hip. 

The time has come to bring his grandson home.

Chapter Text

Tim doesn’t break down after another evening with the Waynes. 

He goes home and gets to work, trying for a while to not think about the evening at all. Still, memories randomly come back to him unbidden, making him want to both laugh and cry simultaneously. 

But he doesn’t. 

He’s…unusually calm about the whole situation, and that confuses him more than anything. Tim actually allows his emotions to reign free for once, trying to even understand what he’s feeling at all. He isn’t..happy by any means, just…glum?

He can’t quite place the feeling. 

He doesn’t sleep that night either, his mind reminiscing more often then not, remembering the good times, remembering what he once had.

The next morning, Tim goes into the office early. Following his daily routine, he checks his work emails and finds he has an update from Tam. She’s in Paris now and will be making her way over to London to spend the last two weeks of her vacation. 

Two weeks. 

Damian’s internship is almost over. 

And Tim finally places the emotion: Melancholy. 

He isn’t numb, nor is he in the depths of his despair, just…accepting of the whole situation, of everything that's happened since Tam first left. Spending time with the family, despite it being difficult, was good. A reminder of what he’s sacrificed for, what he continues to fight for. 

And soon enough, it will be over. 

He should be relieved. No more meddling siblings peaking in on him everyday, no more being carefully watched, no more stressing every other minute what kind of conclusions Damian is coming to. 

He isn’t completely out of the woods yet. At the very least, Cass saw—not just that he’s isolated—but likely how deeply he longs for family. And going off their last interaction, she also probably knows that said isolation is self inflicted. 

Cass has a heart of gold, but he’s still in essence, a complete stranger. His needs won’t come above the next mission. She holds her duty to help people above all, and saving lives will come before anything else. 

Tim sighs. It’s time to prepare for an extended leave. He could do something like Fox has done before and work from another country for a few months, just long enough for the family to get distracted by the next thing. 

But not yet. Not until he knows Ra’s will back off of Damian. 

Speak of the demon brat and he will appear. 

Damian comes into the office right on schedule as per usual. In contrast to yesterday, he grabs his laptop and wordlessly sets up shop on the couch in Tim’s office. He seems determined to keep to himself though, so Tim doesn’t try to initiate any sort of conversation. 

Tim spends the day sorting through some menial tasks while incrementally checking the program he has running to identify any possible League activity in Gotham, specifically within the radius of Drake Industries, Wayne Enterprises, or the Manor. He has an alert set to immediately inform him of any prominent activity, but it’s been almost 3 days since the League attacked Damian with no sign of them since. 

If Tim knows Ra’s, he’s likely been either collecting intel, or gathering stronger numbers. 

He will make a move soon though. Tim is sure of it. 

In the afternoon, Tim’s schedule is packed with back-to-back meetings, some of which he doesn’t let Damian attend—namely any and all board related meetings. It isn’t that he doubts Damian’s ability; Damian has more than proven he can control his temper when the situation demands it. But if Damian is going to step into Wayne Enterprises leadership anytime soon, Tim doesn’t want the board seeing him as anything less than the rightful Wayne heir. If they ever viewed him as an assistant—or worse, an intern—they’d never treat him as anything else.

“You don’t think I can handle it,” Damian says flatly before he goes.

“That’s not it,” Tim replies without looking up.

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Really? Because it feels like you think I’m not capable enough to be in the room. Or maybe you think I’d purposely sabotage you”

Tim sets his pen down, frowning at him and the oddly specific insecurity. Truthfully, that may have been a concern once in another life, but not now. These past months, Damian has shown Tim far more respect than he expected, even if he does call out his idiocy with increasing frequency. 

“That isn’t it,” he corrects honestly. “This is about optics. If they see you next to me now, they’ll think you’re my assistant, not a future pier. I’m making sure they see you as you are—capable.”

Damian looks away, arms crossed, and says nothing. Tim sighs, letting it be. 

The afternoon is gruelingly mind-numbing. By the time his last meeting ends, Tim is well and truly exhausted—his lack of sleep and drained emotional bandwidth finally catching up to him. He makes his way back to his office and slumps back into his chair, letting out a long, heavy sigh.

After about thirty seconds of resting his eyes, he forces himself back upright and gets back to work. He pulls up his security programs, and he double-checks for any triggered alerts. He’s only a few seconds in when he suddenly feels a presence there with him, a shadow falling over him.

He quickly closes the program and switches back to DI’s software.

Damian’s eyes follow the movement but says nothing.

He must be truly tired if Damian is sneaking up on him that easily. Damian usually does like Tim does in the office and makes himself more noticeable than his natural inclination would usually allow.

Tim frowns, surprised Damian’s still here at all. It’s fairly late now, about a half hour after office hours officially ended. When Tim’s final meeting went late, he assumed Damain would see himself home as he’s done before. 

Tim blinks up at him, his mind slow to comprehend his presence. “What are you still doing here?” he mumbles. 

Damian scowls, “I might ask you the same thing.”

Tim shrugs. “Meeting went late,” he mutters.

“I gathered.”

The moment stretches with a sort of disapproving silence Tim doesn’t have the energy to comprehend. 

“Uhhh,” Tim starts again awkwardly. “Was there something you needed?” 

Damian nods, “I’m ready to go when you are.” 

Tim squints, “...to go?” 

“Home, Drake,” Damian rolls his eyes. 

Tim scoffs as realization hits him, “You want me to take you home again?” 

Damian shrugs, “Why not?” 

Tim shakes his head, turning back to his computer, “I’m not a damn taxi service, Damian. And I still have a bit more to do here.” 

“How much is ‘a bit’?” 

Tim sighs, “...Maybe 15 minutes.” He’s lying—it’s more like an hour’s worth of work—but the thought of enduring Damian’s silent judgment for that long makes his skin itch. He can always finish at home,

“Then I will wait,” Damian decides, sitting himself down into one of the chairs in front of Tim's desk. 

Tim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually protest. 

“I’m dropping you off at the gates this time,” he mutters. 

Damian raises an eyebrow. “The gates were fixed,” he says entirely too innocently. 

Tim glares. “Nevertheless,” he deadpans. 

Tim turns back to his work again but swears he spots a smirk pulling at the corner of Damian’s mouth. The little shit. 

The sun has already set, leaving only the soft, fading light of dusk. Downtown Gotham has quieted, the rush of office workers heading home long since gone. In the stillness, they sit in companionable silence while Tim wraps up a few odds and ends. And it’s… nice—comfortable and relaxed in a way Tim rarely, if ever, experiences anymore.

These past months, spending time with Damian has been…healing in a way he didn’t even realize he still needed. It makes him mourn deep down the brotherhood that never was between them. Given time and better circumstances to understand one another, Tim thinks they could have been… friends. 

Tim smiles slightly, blinking away the moisture rising in his eyes. 

He will miss this. 

Would it be so bad to enjoy it while it lasts? 

Damian’s gaze bores into him, his eyes knowing and intense. “You are upset,” he states, sounding perturbed. 

Tim looks back at him, the bittersweet feeling in his chest only growing. “Why would you think that?”

Damian hesitates. “…I can tell,” he says simply. 

Tim huffs, shaking his head fondly. “I got an email from Tam today,” he explains. “She’s doing great. She and her friends are heading off to London soon.” 

Damian narrows his eyes, “And this… upsets you?” 

“No,” Tim denies. “It just uh… it made me realize she’ll be back soon. Your internship will conclude in just under 2 weeks. And well…” He meets Damian’s eyes, “I’m excited for Tam to come back, but I have to admit…I’ll miss having you here.”

Tim looks away as soon as the words are out, mentally scolding himself for such blatant honesty. Still, he expects some sort of acknowledgment, maybe even a sentiment of understanding. He doesn’t expect the outright hostile glare he receives instead. 

“I don’t know why you are under the impression our acquaintanceship- our friendship is at an end,” Damian states bluntly. “If you haven’t noticed, let me make myself clear. I hold you in high regard. I expect you will be a profound influence on my life for many years to come.”

Tim just stares for a long moment, at a loss for words. 

Damian continues on, “Not to mention, the-” he stops, gritting his teeth slightly. “ My family has taken quite a liking to you. I expect to see you regularly at our gatherings going forward.” 

Tim opens and closes his mouth. Damian speaks with such confidence, as if it’s already a decided matter, a forgone conclusion. Shit he didn’t realize how invested they’ve already become. Unless this is just Damian speaking his own opinion on the matter, which is certainly possible. 

Either way, Tim can’t let him continue with that expectation.

“…I- I don’t think that's a good idea,” Tim manages. 

Damian stares him down, blank and entirely unmoved. “Why?” he practically demands.

Tim blinks, not expecting such bellicosity. “What?”

“Why?” Damian repeats slowly. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea? Be specific.”

Tim just shakes his head, letting out a puff of air, both unwilling and unable to put it to words. “It wouldn’t work.” 

“I’m still waiting on a reason,” he growls, his frustration starting to show properly. 

Tim sighs, his own frustration growing. “Look,” he contends. “I know Bruce—your father— has this whole thing about adopting children who need help, yah? But that isn’t me. I’m an adult.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t need family,” Damian responds instantly, bluntly, as if he was prepared for that exact excuse. 

Again, it’s like the decision has already been made and Damian is just waiting for Tim to get with the program. What exactly has Tim done these past weeks to cause this? By all accounts, he has been an unsociable uptight prick with just a few exceptions that should have been overlooked for his greater history of being an asshole . 

Tim suddenly regrets not snooping more on the family these past few days, because what the hell kind of conversations have they been having about him to make Damian so sure this is the inevitable conclusion. 

Tim’s phone pings with some sort of notification—they both ignore it. 

“It means I’m capable of taking care of myself,” he corrects, trying to tamp down his rising temper. 

Damian scoffs, “Debatable.”

Tim glowers, suddenly reminded of a little boy who always got his way simply because he willed it to be so. 

But not this time. 

“Look,” Tim says sternly. “Just tell the calvary to stand down, alright? And that includes you. I’m not going to be another one of his charity cases.” 

Something about that statement causes Damian to snap, not evening trying to maintain his calm facade anymore. “Why are you so insistent on keeping yourself apart from us?” He bursts, jolting to his feet. 

Tim’s eyebrows crease, “Damian-”

“We care about you. I know you care about us! What’s the issue!?”

“The issue is, it’s not my family!” Tim snaps. 

Damian’s jaw clamps shut with an audible click , but his eyes still speak volumes. He glares at Tim with an intensity he remembers from when Damian despised him, only now it’s not in hatred, just pure anger.  

What? Because Tim doesn’t want to accept his oh so gracious invitation? 

He wants to laugh at the irony. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Tim shakes his head with a bitter quirk of his lips. “You know it’s true. I’d be an intruder, an interloper, a pretender,” he spits the words that were once hurled at him back at Damian with more than a little vindictive spite. 

Damian flinches hard, stepping back as if the words wound him, as if he knows their significance. “…We both know that’s a lie.”

Tim actually laughs this time, “Is it?”

“Yes.” He growls. 

Tim gazes back at his computer dismissively, as if the conversation has no bearing on him. He’s still smiling but there isn’t anything soft about it. It’s sharp, and biting. 

He shrugs, still not looking at him. “Well, we’ll just have to see. Once your internship is over, it won’t be so easy for you all to look in on me.”

Damian glowers, a snarl flaring at his lips. “You think because I won’t be your assistant anymore, that we’d just forget about you?”

Tim huffs at the irony. “It wouldn't be the first time,” he mutters to himself. 

“And whose fault is that!?!” Damian suddenly bellows. 

Tim’s smile drops all at once, his eyes snapping to Damian’s, his body going rigid and cold.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies quickly, as monotone and emotionless as he can, numbness encroaching at the edge of his consciousness in response to the instant wave of panic and anxiety threatening to overwhelm him. 

He can’t- he can’t mean-

Distantly, he recognizes the sound of an insistent beeping steadily growing louder. 

Neither pay it any mind. 

“You do.” Damian snarls, rounding the desk, getting closer and closer to Tim with every word. “And don’t pretend a part of you isn’t dying inside everyday because of it.”

Tim stands himself, shaking his head insistently as he backs away from Damian, from the truth he’s laying before him, a truth Tim has steadfastly ignored with all his might for days.

“I know you,” Damian insists, steadily closing the distance between them. “And despite being highly functioning, you wilt in isolation. You will be miserable the rest of your life. Is that really what you want?”

Tim swallows, stopping his retreat just short of the wall he senses behind him, unwilling even now to be cowed. He gazes back at the teenager, now just three steps from him.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he rasps, his words desperate yet firm. 

Damian’s expression flickers with uncertainty for a moment, before hardening again, his resolve clear and unyielding. 

“Don’t I?” he challenges.

Tim frowns. 

“I know you take your coffee black, not because you like it that way but because it’s practical. You don’t want to get used to the taste of anything else,” Damian states matter of factly. 

Tim squints at him in confusion.

“You speak at least 5 languages that I know about, probably more at this point, including Arabic in the League dialect,” Damian goes on, unrelenting.

Tim opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The beeping continues to grow louder, only adding to the white noise buzzing inside Tim’s head. But Damian just keeps going, unperturbed, taking a small step closer with every statement. 

“I know you stalked Batman and Robin as a child and found out their identities because of one of Grayson's signature moves. I know you're a better detective than Father, probably the best in the world.”

Tim is practically paralyzed at this point, his emotions too complicated to even begin to interpret. 

Damian has no such issues. 

“You prefer the bo-staff because it gives you the most control, the likelihood of killing someone with it accidentally is practically zero.”

It can’t be. It can’t be. It’s quite literally impossible . 

“I know you never wanted to be Robin in the beginning, but you took up the mantle anyway to save our father, and in turn, save Gotham…I know that without you he probably wouldn’t have lived long enough for me to know him.”

Damian swallows, blinking rapidly against the tears Tim realizes are building in his eyes. 

“I know that despite everything I did to you, you still gave everything to prevent our family from having to experience such a loss again. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Damian looks past Tim’s face, just half a foot from him now, his expression distorted and sad . 

He finally meets Tim’s eye again, this time with such conviction . “Is it so shocking that we’d do the same at the first opportunity to get you back?”

Tim exhales raggedly, his heart racing with fear, anxiety, and most painfully… hope. 

“Dami?” he finally manages. 

Damian exhales, nodding once, something small and relieved lighting up his face. “Hello, Timothy.” 

Tim’s shoulders slump, his eyes wide in a tender awestruck expression. And for one glorious small second, Tim lets go of the tension that’s been building in him for 9 years. 

But then his mind suddenly clears, as if he were just hit by a burst of frigid air, and he finally recognizes the sound of the beeping. 

And what it means. 

“Get down!” 

Tim grabs Damian by the shoulder and pushes him to the ground just as the windows burst open behind them. Glass flies everywhere, the whistle of wind tearing through the office. Shadowy figures clothed in black and matte leather armor with red accents rappel in through the jagged openings —at least 20 of them—silent, precise, and unmistakably League .

Damian rolls to his feet before Tim can blink, a snarl already curling his lip. “Tell me you have weapons here.” 

Tim pants uneven breaths, his mind trying to jump toward the imminent problem of the assassins currently surrounding them, but his eyes are stuck on Damian looking back at him just like they once did—expectant, impatient, recognizing.

“Drake!” 

Tim shakes himself. Later, they’ll deal with it later. 

He tucks in and rolls beneath an incoming blow, sliding across the hardwood floor toward the panel beside his desk. He slams his fist into it—three quick strikes. The panel pops open, revealing a bo-staff, a set of batons, and an array of throwing knives and daggers, all magnetically secured.

Tim grabs the batons first, narrowly ducking another strike, then hurls them to Damian’s waiting hands. They aren’t his katanas, but they’ll do.

Without missing a beat, Damian snatches them midair and launches into motion. Meanwhile, Tim sweeps the legs out from the nearest assassin and plants a brutal kick into their gut as they fall. Hooded heads snap toward him as the others adjust, recalculating. 

Tim grabs his staff next, flicking it open with a snap , and drives the butt-end into the sternum of the closest attacker. A second ninja gets a kick to the knee, followed by a sharp crack of his  staff to their jaw.

He vaults over the desk and lands beside Damian with a grunt, staff raised just in time to deflect a curved blade aiming for Damian’s shoulder. Damian doesn’t so much as flinch—he pivots with the rhythm of the strike and lets Tim’s block become the start of his own attack, slamming a baton into the attacker’s ribs before sweeping their legs out in a tight, efficient arc.

They don’t speak. They don’t have to.

Tim drops low, sweeping his staff across the floor in a wide circle. Damian jumps, flipping over Tim’s back in perfect sync, landing behind the next assassin with both batons cracking down like twin lightning strikes. The attacker goes limp, and Damian immediately shifts, pressing his back against Tim’s.

“Left,” Damian mutters.

Tim spins just in time to catch another assassin mid-lunge, using their momentum to toss them headfirst into the nearest lounge chair.

Another attacker charges—Tim ducks, Damian strikes high. They move like clockwork. Not perfect, not polished—but practiced. Trusted. The kind of rhythm built in tense sparring sessions and late-night missions that technically never happened.

“This is impossible,” Tim mutters as he ducks beneath a spinning blade.

Damian doesn’t answer, but the way he covers Tim’s blind spot speaks volumes.

And for a moment—one fleeting second in the chaos—they’re winning.

But then the assassins adjust. 

One swings in close, aiming straight for Damian’s chest. Tim intercepts, jabbing his staff upward into the attacker’s ribs before slamming him down onto the carpeted floor. Another closes in from behind, catching Tim with a sharp blow to the shoulder that sends pain lancing down his arm. Damian whirls to cover him, but three more rush in at once, forcing them apart. 

The narrow advantage they held slips, swallowed by the sheer, unrelenting numbers. 

“Damian, you need to go,” Tim calls out. “They’re after you.”

“And leave you?” Damian asks flatly, disarming two attackers in a flurry of strikes, “No.” 

A flash of movement—Tim turns too late. A dagger catches him across the side just below the ribs. With no armor to take the blow, it cuts deep. He grunts, stumbles back a step, clutching at the bloom of pain. His stance falters for half a second, but he doesn’t drop. He drives his staff into the floor to steady himself and swings upward, catching the attacker under the chin with a satisfying crack.

Tim looks up and catches a flash of wide, panicked eyes—gone in a blink, replaced by Damian’s trademark battle-ready glare. “Try not to die, Drake,” he snarls, driving a baton into the side of an attacker’s knee before twisting to block another blade.

Tim huffs. “Try not to get kidnapped,” he shoots back, sending a trio of throwing knives into the fray. One lands in an attacker’s shoulder, another slices through a hood, the third buries into a wooden beam with a sharp thunk. 

His side burns in a way that he knows has less to do with the cut he received and more to do with what the blade was laced with. He knows this feeling. It’s the League’s specialized paralysis drug, specifically intended to down an opponent without killing them. The last time he experienced it though, it wasn’t nearly so potent or fast acting. 

Damn his stupidly non-existent drug tolerance. 

He’s faltering already, moving too slow, reacting a half a second later then he should. 

The League feels it too. They shift tactics.

A group of the assassins break off in perfect unison, weaving around Damian’s strikes and zeroing in on Tim. He barely registers the change in formation before a fist slams into his jaw. He stumbles, catching himself with the end of his staff, his limbs feeling heavier and heavier by the second. 

Damian moves to intercept—Tim sees him blur in the corner of his vision, trying to force his way back to his side—but two more assassins cut him off, driving him toward the far side of the office with a coordinated flurry of strikes.

Tim blocks one blow, then another lands across his shoulder, the sword cutting across his shoulder blade with another dose of the toxin. He barely holds onto his staff. He drops to one knee, breath ragged.

He needs an antidote. Now.

Tim mentally thanks every lesson of paranoia Bruce ever taught him that he keeps an array of emergency antidotes here, but they won’t do him any good if he can’t get to them. 

A second hit knocks the wind out of him, driving him to the ground. His vision pulses at the edges, blurring in the corners. The assassins are toying with him now, relentless. They know he’s slowing down, herding him even further away from his brother.

Tim grits his teeth, forcing himself back onto his feet.

He thrusts his staff outward with all the strength he can muster, clipping one assassin in the thigh hard enough to make them falter. It buys him a breath—a single precious second—to reorient. He pivots on his heel, half-stumbling into the wall behind him. 

He dives for the still-open panel, ignoring the screaming protest of his muscles and the fire blooming in his side. His fingers close around a syringe of clear liquid on the bottom shelf, color-coded for easy identification. He rips off the cap, jams it into his thigh, and slams the plunger down.

A sharp sting. Then ice in his veins.

One of the assassins lunges. Tim flings himself sideways with barely enough coordination to avoid the blade. The antidote will take a few minutes to take effect—maybe more. Until then, he’s half-dead weight, the double dose of the drug still slowing him down with every second.

He tries to swing his staff again, but his grip falters and the strike comes out slow, clumsy. The assassin catches it midair, twists, and rips the weapon from his hands. Tim stumbles backward, arms flailing as he tries to recover, but his legs aren’t listening anymore. Another blade cuts across his bicep—shallow, but jarring.

He barely raises his arms in time to block a strike from his own staff, his forearm jolting with pain as metal crashes against it. He swings wide with his elbow, but he overcompensates and spins himself off-balance again. He lands on his knees hard.

His body sways as he loses his ability to control his movements nearly entirely. Blood drips from his fingers, mixing with shattered glass on the floor. He blinks once, twice, commanding his body to move .

But it doesn’t. 

Another boot catches him in the ribs. 

His world tilts.

He catches a glimpse of Damian’s face across the room, eyes wide again, but this time, the panic overcomes his expression completely. 

Tim crumples to the floor.

Though his body is barely responsive, his mind is as alert as ever, allowing his perfectly functioning eidetic memory to hear the gut wrenching aftermath of his fall. 

Damian’s voice, ragged with fury and fear, “No. No! Drake! Timothy!!!”  

There’s a vicious clatter of metal and angry exclamations but with Tim down, Damian is fighting alone against 20+ assassins. There’s only another 30 seconds of fighting when—

Thunk.

It stops all at once. 

Tim forces himself to move—jaw clenched, teeth grinding, neck straining against the weight of his useless limbs. He manages to lift his head an inch off the floor.

A taller assassin is kneeling beside Damian’s form, patting him down for weapons while another pulls out what appears to be a small scanning device for their belt. They sweep it slowly along Damian’s body until it blinks at his right forarm—right over the spot where Tim knows Bruce implants a chip in all his protégés, willingly or otherwise. The chip acts as both a tracker and a vitals monitor.

The assassin pulls out a second device—sleek, sparking faintly—and presses it directly against the spot on Damian’s arm. It hisses on contact. Sparks jump. Damian’s body jerks slightly, even while unconscious.

Tim doesn’t need to guess what they’ve done.

The chip is undoubtedly fried.

The larger assassin stoops back down and slings Damian over their shoulder unfeelingly, like cargo. Meanwhile another assassin approaches Tim’s still limp form. He tenses. 

“Leave him,” the leader commands instead. “Our window is closing. The Prince is our priority.” 

The League members fan out with lethal precision, retreating the way they came through the jagged wall of shattered glass—but not before the nearest assassin pivots, stoops low beside Tim, and slams the hilt of their blade into the side of his skull.

A white-hot burst of pain—then the world collapses into darkness.

Tim wakes with a gasp, his mind firing on the double, awash in panic. 

No.  

They’re gone.

No, no, no. 

They took him. They took Damian. 

Not again. Not again. 

He did it again. 

He let them. He-he-needs to-

He needs to move. Now. 

He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it couldn’t have been long. Someone should be coming to investigate the attack on Drake Industries. He needs to be gone by then, or else they’ll try to do something helpful like take him to the hospital. 

Tim doesn’t have that time. 

Fix it. 

He can fix it. 

He needs to move. 

Tim breathes deeply, the pain radiating through his body helping his mind gain clarity—focus. 

He narrows his thoughts to the muscles in his arms and legs. Moving them takes monumental effort, but he forces them to obey, the antidote still slowly taking effect. The more he convinces his body it can move, the easier it gets.

He painstakingly crawls back towards his supplies and reaches up for another vial. His coordination is shot, and his hand flails as he reaches out, knocking several other vials to the floor, but at least now he can see them more clearly. He’s suddenly incredibly grateful he chose to store the antidotes on the bottom shelf.

His fingers finally close around the right one.

Tim brings the antidote to his mouth, biting off the cap covering the needle. With all the force he can muster, he jams the second dose straight into his thigh. Feeling starts to return to him quicker then, sharp and painful, like an extreme version of pins and needles, but it’s feeling all the same.

Tim checks his watch and frowns. It’s been almost 20 minutes since the initial attack, yet Tim doesn't hear any signs of anyone coming to investigate.

He scours his ruined office, eventually managing to find his phone. 

He sighs as he checks the first notification. 

There is a city wide Shelter in Place alert. Apparently, there's just been a massive Arkham breakout. His mind flashes back to the small alert he ignored from his phone during his building argument with Damian. It came within minutes of the League’s attack. 

Of course. 

It means the Bats are preoccupied protecting the city, they probably haven’t even noticed something is wrong with Damian yet. 

Well played Ra’s. 

Tim looks upwards from his spot on the ground toward the other panel in the wall where his spare Cardinal suit awaits him. His body is still recovering from the toxin, he has multiple injuries, and likely a concussion. 

But the Bats have a duty to the city, it must come first. Talia is still radio silent, Pru is missing, captured or worse. 

Nobody else is coming. 

He’s on his own. 

His hand reaches down to his side, his fingers curling around his staff tightly.

“I’m going to fix it,” he vows. 

Damian’s eyes snap open, fully awake all at once. 

His body is limp and heavy, his muscles slow to obey his commands. Paralysis drug.

It’s one of many such toxins he grew up with. While the assassins that took him were smart enough to give him a large dose, his metabolism is already burning through it. Slowly but surely he can feel the faint tingling in his limbs that indicate the effects are already wearing off. 

In the meantime, Damian takes in his surroundings. He’s been placed sitting up against a wall, giving him a clear view of a typical Gotham looking warehouse, empty but for some old, seemingly abandoned merchandise. It doesn’t tell him much. 

Damian closes his eyes and hones in on his other senses. 

The air is humid, almost cloying. There’s a taste of salt in the air along with the nauseating scent of mildew. In the distance, he can just barely catch the sound of water lapping at the side of what sounds like wood and stone. 

The docks then. They’re trying to smuggle him out of Gotham by the river, then presumably to another location where they can fly him out to wherever his grandfather has sequestered himself. 

Damian evaluates his body again and finds more and more sensation coming back to him by the second. He’s slow—clumsy— but he can move if he really tries, though not especially well coordinated. He fumbles with his suit jacket, searching for where his distress signal should be clipped. 

But it’s gone. 

Of course it is. 

He tilts his head downwards, turning his wrist just enough to get a glimpse of his watch. He approximates it’s been about 40 minutes since the attack at Tim’s office. 

Tim. 

They must have hit him with the same drug they got Damian with, it would explain his sudden collapse, almost like his strings were cut. 

Damian swallows. He’s fine. He must be. After all the hell he’s put Damian through these last few months? Damian won’t give him another choice. Not now, not when he finally laid it all down for him. 

How long will it take for the drug to wear off for Tim? How long will it take for him to contact the others? Surely they’ll notice when Damian doesn’t come home. 

But even that could take too long. By the time they even know they should be looking, how long will it take them to find him? If he gets moved to a secondary location, it will be infinitely harder for them to locate him. 

Unless… 

Damian concentrates on his feet, wiggling his toes to start, then his ankles. The sensation is there, slowly but surely growing stronger. He closes his eyes, putting every ounce of concentration into bringing his leg toward his chest and grasping his left shoe.

His fingers tremble with effort, still sluggish from the drug coursing through his system. It takes three tries to get a proper grip, and even then his nails scrape uselessly against the edge of the sole. Gritting his teeth, he forces his hand steadier, prying at the small, almost invisible seam near the arch.

Finally, the hidden compartment gives. A sliver of black plastic with red trim glints in the low light—the beacon Pru gave him. Thumb-sized, plain, and unremarkable to anyone else. 

Damian stares at it. He’s carried it with him everywhere he’s gone since first receiving it, but he’s never once used it. His breath comes shallow now as he wraps his fingers around it. His thumb shakes, hovers... and then presses down. A faint vibration pulses through the device. 

The signal is out.

Will his mother be made aware? Will Pru finally make herself known after all these months of silence? Will they share the information with his family? Allow them to help? 

He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t exactly have a choice. In this state, escape is highly unlikely to downright impossible. 

Ra’s will have him. 

With a head full of memories of what once was, there’s no doubt of his grandfather’s intentions. He means to take Damian’s body, wear it as his own. 

He can only hope somebody gets to him before it’s too late. Damian would rather die than have that become a reality. 

Damian slowly puts the beacon back into its hiding spot, safely hidden away until they have him change his clothes. His current work attire isn’t exactly inconspicuous. If he’s very lucky, they won’t bother for at least one location change. 

He’s left alone for another 10 minutes or so, and Damian uses every second to try and convince his muscles to work properly. He eventually manages to stand but only barely, shaky on his feet. 

That is of course the moment the assassins return. There are only 5 of them now and Damian would feel insulted if he didn’t feel like a colt walking on newborn legs. Still, Damian straightens himself to his full height and glares at them with as much condescension as he can muster. 

“You have assaulted your Prince,” he sneers in the League’s dialect. 

“We are bringing him to heel,” the frontmost assassin corrects, likely the leader of the company. Damian doesn’t recognize them, but that isn’t surprising. His grandfather's most faithful have always been faceless. “The Demon’s head will be pleased.” 

The captain motions to the others and two of the assassins step forward, restraining Damian’s arms on both sides while pushing his head low so they can easily steer him forward while supporting him if he stumbles. Damian struggles against them, but their grips are firm. 

They drag him from the warehouse’s shadow, boots crunching over shards of glass and splintered wood, and march him across the final stretch of uneven pier toward the waiting dock. The air reeks of brine and diesel, and in the not-so-far distance, Damian spots the slow, ominous approach of an incoming cargo ship—its lights cutting through the dusk. 

“The Bat will come for me,” he warns, voice edged with defiance.

The captain doesn’t even bother to look at him, his reply flat and dismissive. “He is preoccupied.” 

Damian’s muscles go taut, their meaning cementing itself with brutal clarity, any hope of an imminent rescue fleeing from his mind. This was calculated. They came for him just as night fell, far from the help of his family, with some orchestrated distraction keeping them away. Do they even know he’s gone yet?

But Ra’s… Ra’s hasn’t accounted for every variable. He couldn’t have.

A fierce, almost reckless pride ignites in Damian’s chest.

Ra’s couldn’t possibly have planned for the threat that is Timothy Drake. 

As if summoned, a low rumble trembles up from behind them, at first weaving into the distant churn of the boat’s engines—nearly lost beneath the hiss of wind over the waves—but with each passing heartbeat, it sharpens, swells, demands attention.

The assassins pause, heads lifting in unison.

A roar tears through the stillness, an engine growling like a war cry. 

Damian turns in sync with his captors, just in time to see Cardinal come screaming around the side of the warehouse in a streak of red and black cutting through the fog. Sparks spit from the pier as his motorcycle skids hard into the dock, the air thick with the scent of burning rubber and salt.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Tim veers sharply, cutting the engine in a controlled skid. He launches himself off the bike mid-turn, bo-staff already in hand, and slams into the nearest assassin with brutal precision. They go down hard, cracking against the pavement as the bike spins to a halt behind him.

Damian uses the distraction to sweep the legs of one of the ninjas restraining him and overbalancing the other, freeing himself in a second. But he’s still unsteady on his feet.

The two recover quickly, both trying to grapple him again. Damian doges, ducks, and evades but he’s slow. One of them grabs his arm, twisting it hard behind his back. Damian grits his teeth, refusing to cry out, and then as quickly as it comes, the pressure is gone. 

Cardinal has both assassins flat on their backs in what feels like a blink of an eye. 

Damian breathes raggedly, more relieved to see him than he’d ever admit. Cardinal gives him a quick once over that Damian knows means he’s looking for injuries. 

“Report,” he says in his modulated voice, but a note of concern still bleeds through the chaos that sounds far too much like their father. 

“Drugged,” Damian answers simply. “Reaction time compromised.” 

Cardinal gives a sharp nod. He pulls out some sort of vile and wordlessly plunges it into Damian's neck. The feeling is cold and sudden—an antidote. Cardinal then grabs a handful of throwing stars from his belt and gives them to Damian quickly, already pivoting as the boat docks and more League operatives close in from the water's edge. 

"Stay behind me," he orders, stepping into the path of the nearest attacker.

A flurry of blades comes at him from two angles—one high, one low. Tim snaps his staff up to parry the upper strike, spinning so the lower blade skids harmlessly off the reinforced plating on his thigh.

“How’d you find me?” Damian demands, ducking under a wild slash, taking aim on his first target. The throwing star flies, embedding itself into an assassin’s shoulder.

Tim drives a brutal jab into another’s gut, followed quickly with a hit to the leg hard enough to fracture bone, sending one assassin crashing into the water with a splash.

“You called,” is the only response he gives as he blocks another blow meant for Damian, pivoting to shield him again.

Damian’s grip almost slips on his star. His head whips toward Tim. “You—But Pru gave me—”

“Who do you think gave it to Pru?” Tim answers unfalteringly as his staff catches another strike mid-air, and he uses the rebound to slam the butt into his attacker’s chest. 

Damian gapes as he hurls a second star into someone's knee, forcing the assassin to crumple, his mind grappling with all the implications of that. “How did you get my mother to trust you?”

Tim exhales sharply with an exaggerated huff. “Trust is a strong word.”

Damian stares, legitimately dumbfounded. 

Another ninja rushes him from the side. Tim sees it and moves fast, throwing himself between Damian and the attacker, taking a shallow slash across his side to drive his staff into the ninja’s solar plexus and then their head, dropping them fast. 

Cardinal staggers, but stays standing, gearing himself up for the next bout. 

“You have so much explaining to do when we get out of this,” Damian growls. 

Tim lets out a groan that Damian is certain has nothing to do with his accumulating injuries. 

“Father?” Damian prompts as he catches a throwing knife mid-air and tosses it back from where it came, burying it into another assassin.

“Ra’s instigated an Arkham breakout,” Tim grunts, twisting to block a blade with the metal shaft of his staff. “The others are handling it.”

“You didn’t call for backup?!” Damian barks, aghast, ducking low as Tim vaults over him, kicking two attackers away in one fluid motion.

Tim scoffs. “Like the last time Cardinal helped you went so well?” 

Damian scowls, “Your. Own. Fault.” he grunts harshly, enunciating each word with another throwing star.  

Tim doesn’t entertain that with a response, practically ignoring Damian all together, like he can’t process the words right now. His breathing is growing heavier, Damian notes, his grip a little tighter on the staff. 

He’s slowing down.

Damian tries to rejoin the fight properly to give him some reprieve. He aims a sharp kick at an assassin’s knee, but it lacks his usual power. The attacker catches his ankle mid-motion—and just as fast, Cardinal’s staff cracks against their skull with a sickening crack.

“Don’t push it,” Tim warns, breath rough and unsteady. He doesn’t have time to say more.

A sharp whistle splits the air. A signal.

They both freeze for half a second, long enough to register the movement in the shadows. A dozen more assassins melt into view from within the boat, weapons glinting, fanning out on their left and right and slowly trying to close in behind them. 

Tim’s head swivels side to side, chest rising and falling too fast. 

Damian straightens, eyes narrowing. “We’re not going to win this.”

“You’re still compromised,” Tim says tightly. “Get cover.”

“No.” Damian’s voice is hard. Stubborn. He steps closer to Tim, shoulders squared. “Don’t you dare.”

Because he knows what Tim’s doing. He sees it in the way his brother shifts his stance in front of him, anchoring himself like a final wall.

“Get to the bike,” Tim orders, not looking at him now, eyes locked on the advancing line. “You get back to the Cave, and you stay there. I’ll buy you the time.”

Damian’s throat closes. “Don’t be stupid,” he mutters stubbornly. 

Tim wavers just slightly, swaying where he stands, the slash on his side bleeding freely now, the strain of too many hits making his limbs tremble.

Damian shakes his head, panic bubbling beneath his fury. “If I leave—if I leave you now, you could die.”

“If you don’t leave, we both will.” Tim’s voice is steel, unyielding and final.

“I just got you back!” Damian pleads, the words tearing out of him, raw and desperate.

But Tim is unmoved, “You need to go. Now.” 

Damian looks at him—and sees it. His eyes hold a calm resolve that chills Damian to the bone—he’s already made his choice, already accepted this ending long before they even stepped into the fight—an inevitable conclusion. 

“You can’t make me!” Damian snaps, eyes burning, his voice trembling on the edge of rage and grief.

“I’m not arguing with you, Damian!” Tim bites back, voice cracking through the air like a whip. “Go!”

He shoves him—hard. Damian stumbles back, boots sliding over slick stone, the scent of blood and damp earth rushing up into his sinuses. But before he can charge back in, the League closes in. 

Tim launches himself forward, moving like a lit flare thrown into a swarm, his staff carving wide arcs that force every pair of hostile eyes toward him.

Damian staggers further back, heart pounding in his ears, until he nearly trips over the bike lying behind him. He blinks down at it blankly, yanking it upright on instinct. His fingers fumble on the ignition before the engine roars to life. 

He turns back towards the fight and half wishes he didn’t.

It’s chaos. 

Blades flashing. Tim’s cape snapping through the air. The dull thuds of impact and hisses of pain as Tim forces them all to focus on him, and only him. 

The living embodiment of a final stand.

Damian can only watch helplessly as an assassin slips past Tim’s guard— sinking a silver dagger into the upper left side of his torso between the ribs. Tim gasps, the air ripped from his lungs.

“NO!” Damian shouts, darting forward. But Tim plants his feet, turning just enough to catch Damian’s eye, forcing his voice out in a roar that cuts through the mayhem. “GO!”

Damian obeys thoughtlessly, swinging a leg over the bike, but even as he does so, he’s frozen, his hands still on the handlebars, unable to tear his gaze away from the tragedy unfolding before him—Tim, battered and bleeding, falling to his knees as his injuries overcome him, yet still a force to be reckoned with against the relentless tide. 

Time seems to slow, the chaos blurring around the edges, leaving only the sharp, unbearable clarity of what Damian is witnessing. 

And he finally understands. 

Every sacrifice Tim has made, every wound silently borne, every risk taken in the shadows to protect the family, floods Damian’s mind in a relentless rush of memory and feeling. 

For as logic minded as Tim likes to pretend he is, he is at his core, a creature of unfathomable depth and emotion.

And he’s selfish.

It was never just about protecting the family, or even the greater good. It was personal—intensely, painfully personal. Tim didn’t just do it for them, he did it for himself…because he couldn’t bear it any other way. 

Because he loves Damian as much as he loves any of them. 

Damian sees it now with perfect, piercing clarity: Tim is ready and willing to die—right here, right now—for him. Without hesitation, without regret.

And Damian can’t take that from him, no matter how much he wants to. 

The knowledge settles heavy in Damian’s chest, crushing and liberating all at once. He’s helpless to it. 

Helpless, but to watch as another ninja steps forward, raising his sword high above Tim’s neck, their aim sharp and true, ready to finish the job—

“No,” their captain snaps sharply, voice cold and commanding as iron, catching the assassin’s hand mid-swing. “The Demon’s Head wants him alive.”

Tim collapses nonetheless, his knees buckling as either the pain, exhaustion, or blood loss overwhelms him, and one of the waiting assassins catches him with practiced ease.

Damian feels the weight of every gaze shift to him—dozens of cold, unblinking eyes sizing him up. 

Damian stares for half a second too long, feeling like he’s being stabbed himself for turning away. His fists clench so tight they tremble, muscles taut with fury and grief.

But if he doesn’t move now, if he hesitates any longer, it will all be for nothing.

He grips the bike with desperate strength, palms slick with sweat and blood, and revs the engine, heart hammering in his chest, sprinting away before the League can advance on him. 

He doesn’t look back. He can’t. Because he knows whatever he sees will make him turn around again.

The bike roars beneath him as he speeds into the night.

Chapter Text

Batman slaps a pair of cuffs on Harley, chaining her to a nearby bench for the police to come and apprehend. 

She groans dramatically, “Come on Bats! You’re no fun. Live a little!” 

Batman doesn’t dignify that with a response, just grapples up to the nearest rooftop. 

“How are we looking?” he growls into the comms. 

“Black mask and Two-face are in custody,” Nightwing answers. 

“Crime alley’s been cleared,” Bluejay chimes in next. 

“Cass and I are on Mad Hatter’s tail,” Spoiler says. “Shouldn’t take long.” 

“Hm.” 

The breakout isn’t sitting right with Bruce. The criminals were sloppy, panicked, like they weren’t aware of their own plan, like they weren’t anticipating the opportunity. There was no coordinations, no teamwork. Say what you will about Gotham’s gallery of Rogues but most of them are geniuses in their own right, even if they are more of the ‘mad genius’ variety. Their plans often stem more from chaos than logic, but they are thought out, meticulous, and intentional. 

This doesn’t feel intentional. 

An uneasy sort of dread starts to creep up Bruce’s neck. 

“Have we had any word from Robin?” 

Damian was still at Drake Industries when the Shelter in Place alert went out. They assumed he’d stay there to keep his cover, to not give away to Tim that Damian knows that Tim knows who they are. Bruce sighs. This ruse is getting more and more convoluted by the day. 

Something is going to give and soon. 

“Nothing,” Oracle responds. “But his tracker still puts him at DI.” 

Bruce frowns. Even if Damian were held up, he’d still try to assist as soon as he could, or make some sort of contact at the very least. Tim would know that too. Bruce is reasonably sure he wouldn’t fight Damian on the issue, whether that meant letting him leave or even just giving him a moment to contact the family. 

“Check CCTV,” Batman orders, his muscle suddenly fraught with tension. 

He doesn’t like this. 

He doesn’t like this at all. 

Bruce can just barely make out the distant sound of her keyboard keys before it suddenly goes quiet. 

“Oracle,” Batman growls when the silence stretches over the comms longer than necessary. 

Barbara curses, “The whole block has gone dark.” 

“What?” Nightwing snaps. 

Batman is already moving, grappling towards Drake Industries as fast as he’s able. 

Idiot , he admonishes himself. They were in such a mad dash to apprehend as many Rogues possibl before they could do too much damage, Bruce didn’t stop to think. But of course. Of course a breakout would be the perfect distraction. Ra’s knows how much he cares for this city and how important it would be to control the damage quickly. 

“I’m the closest,” Bluejay states, voice solemn. “3 minutes, tops.” 

Batman subtly changes his trajectory, going for where the Batmobile is hidden instead. He’s locked in and on his way in record time,  still 10 blocks away when Jason speaks again. 

“ Shit,” he breathes.

“What?” Batman barks. 

“Tim’s office is in pieces,” he reports, voice steady but Bruce can hear the undertone of urgency. “They came in from the windows. There was definitely some sort of fight.”

“Ra’s,” Nightwing mutters. “And the boys?”

“Not here,” Jason answers gravely. 

“They took them both ?” Spoiler questions. 

Bruce’s mind goes from panic to a terrifyingly narrowed focus in an instant. Yes, he’s worried—petrified even— but that won’t do his son- his sons any good. They need him.

Bruce doubts Ra’s had any idea Tim would put up a fight—but when he did—because there’s no doubt in Bruce’s mind that Tim would have shed his cover to save Damian, the most logical move would’ve been to eliminate him. Take out any threat to the League’s mission. Which means they either would have killed Tim outright or, at the very least, incapacitated him.

But there isn’t a body. Meaning Tim was either taken alongside Damian…or-

“What else do you see?” he demands. 

“Wait…” Bluejay drawls, the sound of broken glass apparent as he steps through the office. “Huh. Looks like our red bird has a stash of supplies hidden here at the office.” 

Bruce nods to himself. Smart. It’s what he would do.

“What kind of supplies? Anything missing?” 

“Weapons mostly. Some antidotes and…” 

“What?” 

“...There’s a spot here that looks like it would hold a uniform...but it’s empty.” 

A deep sigh over the comms. “He went after him,” Cass states, not a question in her voice. 

“Status on Mad Hatter.” Batman grits, tightening his grip on the stirring wheel. 

“We’ve got him cuffed,” Spoiler reports. “GCPD in route.” 

“I want everyone back at the cave immediately,” Batman orders. “Bluejay, I want scans of the entire office. Oracle. Get me something.” 

“Already on it.” 

The Batcave is buzzing—no, boiling —with tension.

Monitors flash rapidly as CCTV feeds from around Gotham are scanned, rewound, analyzed, dismissed, and pulled back up again. Barbara’s fingers fly across the keyboard, her jaw clenched tight. She’s still at the clocktower, but her monitors have been synced up to the cave’s. They see what she sees.

Jason paces like a caged animal, arms crossed tight over his chest. Duke is up and alert, standing by the debriefing table, his eyes darting between maps and timestamps. Cass leans silently against the cave wall, arms folded, jaw tight. Spoiler’s cape and mask have been discarded beside the Batcomputer, her brow furrowed as she stares at scrolling data. 

Bruce stands rigid at the main console, his cape drawn tight around his frame, one hand clenching and unclenching. Dick is right there by his side, his frame equally tense. 

“Still no visual on the boys,” Barbara mutters, half to herself, eyes scanning lines of code. “I’ve got a dozen traffic cams offline in a four-block radius around Drake Industries. They scrubbed everything from the last few hours. I can’t even be sure when they were taken.”

“Someone would have noticed an attack on DI at any other time than a Shelter in Place,” Jason states. “They wouldn’t have moved before then.” 

“No sign of Damian’s biosignals?” Dick asks, rubbing his temple. “Heart rate, adrenalin, anything?”

“I told you,” Oracle mutters. “They must have fried his chip. It’s looping the same location and vital signs over and over again.” 

“Since when is that even possible?” Steph grumbles.

“Since now, apparently,” Barbara’s voice is clipped, irritated—but not at them. “I’m rerouting to thermal imaging—if they’re anywhere near the waterfront we might get lucky.”

Duke frowns, “Why the waterfront?” 

“Because it’d be the easiest and most effective way to smuggle someone out of the city in the middle of a breakout, especially if they know I’m looking. CCTV is thin by the docks.” 

“Anything from Talia?” Cass suddenly asks Bruce. 

“I sent a message from the Batmobile,” Bruce says, his voice hard, clenched. “Still no reply.”

“She knows,” Dick mutters darkly. “She has to.”

“She wouldn’t let Ra’s have Damian,” Jason counters with a shake of his head. “Talia is many things, but she does care about him.” 

“Talia has only ever been loyal to herself,” Dick insists. “When was the last time she even reached out to him?” 

“To what end?” Jason shrugs. “How would it benefit her?”

“Enough,” Bruce sighs. “We don’t know her role in this yet. We don’t assume anything.”

Barbara exhales through her nose, typing furiously. “Working on decrypting satellite footage near Gotham harbor. If Ra’s moved them by boat, I might be able to pick up a heat signature trail before it vanishes.”

Bruce turns, zeroing in. “Focus on activity between the South Pier and Tricorner. Anything from two hours ago until now.”

“Already scrubbing,” she nods, not stopping.

“What if they’re already gone?” Dick asks, his voice laced with a touch of panic. “If they’ve already made it out of the river and to the sea—”

“No.” Bruce cuts him off. “They couldn’t move that fast. Not with Tim interfering. Ra’s wouldn’t have planned for him. He’ll have slowed them down.”

There’s a sort of instinct in Bruce’s gut, a confidence he has both in Tim’s abilities and his own ability to predict his next move. He recalls Damian mentioning how he started to remember things in the days leading up to his full awakening, bits of information that didn’t make sense to him at the time. 

Until proven otherwise, Bruce is going to trust that instinct. 

“That’s if they haven’t already taken him out in the process,” Steph mutters. 

“Do we have any way of contacting him?” Dick implores, his anxiety seeming to get the better of him. 

Oracle shakes her head, “Just the chat box and I doubt he’s looking right now.”

“Why wouldn’t he contact us?” Duke questions, his brow furrowed. “How does he even know where they’re going? He can’t do this on his own.”

“An excellent question,” Jason agrees, his tone edged with sarcasm.“What makes this kid think he can take on the League—by himself ?” His voice spikes toward a near-yell.

Bruce eyes his second son with a touch of concern. Breakfast this morning was quite an affair—Cass revealing her returned memories, Jason sharing the fragments he recalled from his dreams . Cass hadn’t given every detail, but it was clear Jason’s apparent resurrection was far from peaceful.

Even now, Bruce sees a flicker of restless fire in Jason’s movements, an edge of emotion in every gesture that reminds him of the teenager Jason once was. It doesn’t necessarily alarm him, they’re all on edge right now. 

But it does make him wary of what the future may hold for his son. 

Of the trauma Jason may yet be forced to live…or relive.

Bruce pulls himself back to the moment. One crisis at a time. They’ll deal with it when it comes.

Jason heaves a heavy sigh, slumping down into a nearby chair with a shake of his head, “What the hell is he thinking?” he growls. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Cass mumbles, barely discernible. 

But Bruce catches it. 

He frowns, turning towards her. “The first time for what?” 

Cass hesitates.

“He’s gone up against the League by himself before,” she says simply, her expression carefully blank. 

“Damain mentioned that,” Dick mutters, stepping closer. “But he didn’t say why.” 

Cass looks at him sharply, her face suddenly stormy. The intensity surprises Bruce. Cass is as good at hiding her emotions as she is at reading them from others. 

But only a second later, Cass clenches her jaw and folds her arms in front of her, breaking eye contact with Dick and reigning in whatever emotion or memory reared its head. 

Steph’s eyes are keen, following her each and every motion. She’s likely able to read Cass better than even Bruce at this point. 

“We don’t want to know, do we?” Steph sighs tiredly. 

Cass meets her eye sullenly, “No.” 

The statement leaves a heavy, uneasy silence in its wake.

And Bruce…Bruce doesn’t know what to do with that information. He’s starting to see a pattern—Tim operating as though he must face everything alone, a mindset surely forged in the other timeline and carried over to the present if his actions now are any indication.

But why?

In what world would Bruce have allowed that? In what world would the others have let it happen?

​​…How did Bruce fail so completely that his own son lives under the belief he has to fend for himself?

Cass continues. “My point is, Tim’s choices may seem questionable, but he is capable. He knows who he’s dealing with—better than any of us know Ra’s.”

Bruce’s brow creases. “I was trained by Ra’s,” he reminds her. 

Cass meets his eye, “So was he.” 

Bruce opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s even going to say to that when a loud incoming rumble interrupts him. 

The entire family tenses as one—their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. 

“Oracle,” Batman barks. 

“Unknown vehicle incoming,” she replies instantly. They all eye the cave’s entrance as the sound grows louder. 

“Wait!” Oracle calls. “Stand down its-”

An unfamiliar motorcycle screeches into the Batcave, dark crimson red with deep blue accents, the rider slightly too small for it. 

Damian.

He’s hunched forward, his gaze distant, gripping the handlebars too tight, jaw clenched. His blazer and suit pants are torn, his face dirty. The bike lurches to a stop, and he all but collapses off of it. He stumbles forward, pale, sweat and blood streaking his temples.

“Damian,” Bruce says sharply, already moving toward him . He kneels, scanning him for injuries, patting him down for any possible spots of discomfort, his hands quick but careful. Damian allows the scrutiny almost absently.

“What happened?” Bruce asks once he’s reasonably sure there’s nothing immediately life-threatening.

Damian opens his mouth, but no sound comes out—his eyes still vacant, unfocused.

“Damian.” Bruce tries again, same result. He exhales quietly. “Robin. Report.”

“Full frontal assault on Drake Industries,” Damian replies at once, his voice clipped and automatic. “League. They used the Shelter in Place as a cover.”

Bruce nods, filling in the rest of the chain of events. “They took you. Cardinal followed.”

Damian clenches his jaw hard.

“Damian..?” Dick steps closer, reaching to steady him, but Damian pushes him away.

Bruce raises a single hand, silently commanding the others to give the boy his space. 

Damian takes a few deliberate breaths in and out. Bruce waits as patiently as he’s able, watching his youngest fight desperately for control. 

“That— that beacon I told you about,” he starts finally. “The one Pru gave me from my mother…”

Bruce frowns. “What about it?”

“I knew you wouldn’t get to me before I was moved again,” he rushes. “So I pressed it, just to get her attention. Bu-but she wasn’t the one the signal went to.” 

“Tim.” Cass supplies. 

“That’s how he knew where to find you,” Duke murmurs. 

A tight ball of anxiety starts to squeeze around Bruce's chest—painfully. 

“Where is he, Damian?” He asks quietly. “Where’s Tim?’ 

“They took him,” Damian whispers. “He-he sustained multiple injuries. Stabbing to his side…but I heard them. They said… they said Ra’s wanted him alive.” 

Bruce keeps his face neutral, even as another spike of panic jolts through him.

“Why?” Jason demands, his face skewed up in confusion. “Why would he care about him?” 

“Cardinal stopped his first attempt to take Damian. He wouldn’t have taken such an interference lightly,” Bruce says as evenly as possible, already moving back toward the Batcomputer. The others fall in behind him.

The last thing he wants right now is to panic them, but Ra’s does nothing without reason. Taking Tim wasn’t impulse—it was chess.

If Ra’s wants Tim alive, then alive he’ll most likely stay.

…But at what cost?

For what purpose?

“Where did they take you, Damian?” Bruce asks, eyes scanning the map of Gotham spread out on the monitors.

Damian steps up beside him. “There.” He points to a dock just south of Tricornor. “But… they’ve already gone,” he adds solemnly, a guilty frown pulling at his mouth. “I—I didn’t have any way of contacting you, and I… He told me to get back here and I just—”

“Damian.” Bruce’s voice softens as he risks placing a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. You did the right thing.” He faces the monitors again. “Oracle, anything?”

“That location is a dead spot on a good day,” she mutters bitterly. “Give me some more time.” 

Bruce nods, turning back to face Damian again. 

“Damian, we need information. Where would Ra's have taken him?” 

Damian shakes his head, frustration radiating off him. “He has any number of holdouts around the world he could be using. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Doesn’t Talia have spies specifically assigned to track him?” Jason grumbles from behind them.

“Pru has been out of contact for weeks, probably longer,” Damian says. “There may be others but… I’m not sure.” 

“Then where the hell is Talia in all this?” Dick growls. “We sent her a message days ago—her son was just nearly kidnapped—and still no response? No protection? It’s like she wanted you to get caught.”

“I had protection,” Damian mumbles, his tone heavier now, guilter. “I just didn’t know it.”

“Protection that proved far more effective than I ever imagined,” a silky feminine voice cuts in from nowhere.

Bruce whips around and there on the monitor is none other than Talia Al Ghul herself. 

“Talia,” he acknowledges.

“Hello, beloved.” Talia’s image flickers slightly on the screen, her expression calm and composed. She wears green robes, embroidered in gold, her hair pulled back, expression unreadable and cold. She’s seated like a queen—poised, elegant, dangerous . 

However she’s managed to breach their systems, she’s muted Barbara in the process. Oracle is still visible in her corner feed, but her mouth moves in silence. From the way she is snarling down at her computer, Bruce doesn’t need audio to know she’s cursing Talia out for invading her network. 

Talia’s gaze rests on Damian, emotionless and blank, but Bruce is almost certain he’s reading disappointment from her features. 

“I see the Cardinal kept his word,” she says, voice flat but with a bitter edge. Bruce tenses.

Dick hears it too, taking a protective step in front of his brother and pushing him back slightly. “Why do you sound so disappointed?” he asks pointedly. 

Talia meets his glare with a dangerous look of her own. Bruce raises a hand towards Dick, silently commanding him to stand down. 

“You and Cardinal are…acquainted?” Bruce interrogates calmly, trying to direct her attention away from his eldest. Those two have never seen eye to eye on anything. 

“...For just over two years,” Talia admits after a pause. “We had an… understanding of sorts.”

“What understanding?” Damian presses.

Talia’s gaze returns to her son. “He was quite adamant in your protection. He came to me years ago, warning of my father’s intentions for you. He brought evidence—enough that I sent you here far earlier than planned. That was the end of our dealings until he gained the trust of one of my most faithful.”

“Pru,” Damian breathes, pushing past Dick. “Where is she?”

“Dead, if we’re lucky,” Talia says without hesitation.

Damian’s face twitches. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she knew the risks and the stakes,” Talia says briskly. “Pru had more information on my plans than anyone. We can only hope she took her own life before Ra’s decided he wanted what she knew.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. Despite preventing his children from jumping to conclusions where Talia is concerned, he is under no delusions about her real character. He knows the type of creature she truly is— the lengths she will go to accomplish her means. 

She is her father’s daughter in every conceivable way. 

Still, it’s rare for her to be so blatant with her callous regard to the lives of others. She usually has more tact. 

She’s harder now, he realizes, almost militant in her posture and tone. Like a general preparing for battle. 

“I’ve been trying to contact you for days,” he says quietly, dread pooling into his stomach. “You haven’t responded to me once. Why now?’

Talia doesn’t reply for a long moment, as if recognizing Bruce’s train of thought. 

Talia, like her father, does nothing without a reason. 

“Cardinal was taken,” Bruce states the obvious when she still doesn’t answer him. 

 “Yes,” she agrees. “...an unfortunate setback you will now have to correct.”

“What are you talking about?” Jason growls, stepping forward, fists clenched.

Talia narrows her eyes, “The Cardinal made his distaste for Ra’s quite clear, even proved it by assisting me in my preparations against him. I trusted that distaste enough to allow him to protect Damian where you couldn’t—a precaution.” Talia clenches her jaw, visibly grinding her teeth in annoyance. “Still, I did not anticipate him to be quite so…effective.”

The events of the last few days flash before Bruce’s eyes, the way Talia made no effort to help, practically welcoming Ra’s’ attempts to come for her only child. She wasn’t out of reach, she was merely letting events unfold as she wanted them to be. 

“You knew this would happen,” Bruce growls. “You knew Ra’s was coming for Damian. You wanted him to be taken. And expected Cardinal to die in the process of protecting him.”

Damian stiffens, but he doesn’t look surprised—only sad.

“It was necessary,” Talia says, her gaze fixed on her only son. “I hoped you would survive.”

“Survive what?” Dick snaps.

“The only way forward is for my father’s loyalists to see what he’s become,” Talia states calmly. “A demonstration was needed. A seed of doubt to shake the blind loyalty of the zealots. Half the League already follows me. The other half needed to see how far Ra’s has fallen—how he would sacrifice his own blood, commit heresy to cling to power. ”

“The ritual,” Damian breathes in understanding, his face cut in stone. 

Talia’s gaze snaps to him, her shock evident. “...how do you know of this?” 

Bruce tenses. He’s heard of the mysterious ‘ritual’ only in scant whispers during his time with the League. It’s the stuff of legends, practically folklore—the League's equivalent to dark magic.

But from Talia’s reaction, it’s knowledge she didn’t expect Damian to have—presumably a byproduct of his reclaimed memories. 

Damian clamps his mouth shut, however, his eyes fiery with anger, betrayal, and a willful stubbornness Bruce knows he inherited from him. 

He won’t be giving Talia an inch. 

Talia’s expression softens, seeming to see for once the consequences of her actions, the trust she may never regain. “Damian…” 

“You wouldn’t contact us without a reason,” he cuts her off coldly, reiterating Bruce’s point. “What do you want?”

Talia closes her eyes for a fraction of a second, the only hint of weakness in her perfect facade—a quiet acceptance of what her choices have wrought. 

“Cardinal,” she states. “You must retrieve him.” 

“Oh, now we must ?” Jason’s voice drips with venom. “Why? He’s just another casualty for your supposed greater good, isn’t he?”

Talia’s eyes flash dangerously. “Because Cardinal knows too much. He helped me establish an essential piece of leverage against my father.” Her expression hardens. “If Ra’s breaks him, and he will try, my leverage, my power over him will be forfeit. I’m on the precipice of finally overtaking him. I will not lose it.”

For a moment, no one speaks, and yet the judgment against her is loud. The priorities of a so-called ‘mother’ left out in the open for everyone to see. 

Bruce steps forward, fists tight. For years, he’s fought to find some measure of empathy for Talia. He’s wanted, with all his might, to find some semblance of understanding—for Damian’s sake if nothing else. 

But not anymore. 

“You know where they’ve taken him?” He asks, voice deathly low.

Talia inclines her head. “Pru tracked Ra’s into northern Turkey before I lost contact with her. I’ve been monitoring the surrounding areas since. He hasn’t moved. There’s only one possible location he could be.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, “Schematics?” 

“I have them,” she says evenly. “But the base has been abandoned for centuries. They may be outdated.”

“We’ll make due.”

He steps closer to the monitor until his shoulders and silhouette block Talia’s view of the rest of his children, his family. 

“We will retrieve Cardinal,” Bruce says, each word deliberate. “But in case it wasn’t clear, we are not doing this for you. When this is over, you better hope we never see each other again.” 

Talia bristles, “You will not keep me from what is mine, beloved.” 

“I might have agreed with you yesterday.” His voice drops to a quiet, lethal edge. “But you have officially forfeited any claim you once had over my son.” 

Talia’s jaw tightens.

“Do you understand?” 

She studies him for a long moment, unreadable. Then—calmly— “Tell Cardinal to contact me when you retrieve him.” 

And with that, Talia’s face vanishes from the monitors—gone as if she’d never been there at all.

“Like hell, ” Dick scoffs. 

Bruce’s eyes find Damian almost immediately. He watches him stand frozen, shoulders tense, hands almost trembling at his sides. He can see the silent battle Damian is waging within his head to process the sheer callousness of his mother’s words. 

He grimaces, pained for Damian, even though he knows this wasn't his fault, that there’s nothing he could’ve done to spare Damian from it.

 But he wishes he could. 

“Well, she’s the worst mom in history,” Stephanie mutters under her breath into the stifling silence. 

Damian exhales sharply, the edge of humor helping him reclaim some footing. Dick steps closer to his younger brother, not touching, but grounding him all the same. Bruce watches Damian draw a deep breath, his posture slowly regaining control, grief tucked away behind his determination to be dealt with another time. 

“Tim needs us,” Damian says definitively, voice steadying. His eyes lock onto Cass. Bruce notes the subtle shift in her expression—a twitch of her lips, a spark of recognition that she’s reading from more than words, sensing the resolve in his stance.

“The last time he went up against your grandfather,” she reminds him softly, “He went alone.”

Damian straightens further, a quiet steel settling into him. “But not this time.”

Bruce’s eyes follow Cass as she nods once, an unspoken agreement passing between them. “Not this time,” she echoes.

Jason straightens, his face equally set. “Then what the hell are we standing around for?” he demands. “Let’s get to work.”

The air is cool, laced with the scent of incense and ancient stone. 

Tim wakes slowly, his body aching painfully but intact. He keeps his eyes shut, his face relaxed, and his breathing steady. He’s in enemy territory now, that much is obvious. 

Tim takes in his surroundings using every sense but his sight. From what he can feel, he’s lying on a cold, carved stone surface. His hearing tells him he’s in a large chamber, the sound of his own shallow breathing swallowed by the cavernous space. The air is stale with the smell of mildew as the distinct sound of dripping water bounces off the walls incessantly. 

Tim takes in his own state. His Cardinal suit is gone, replaced but the soft feeling of a fine silk robe. 

Dammit, his mask is gone. 

So much for staying off of Ra’s radar. 

His mind feels a tad bit floaty, a good enough indicator he’s on some sort of pain killer, but nothing too serious to impede his mental capacities. Still, he can tell he has a multitude of injuries, maybe a few broken ribs, a sprain here, a laceration there, probably a concussion if the hit he took before is any indication and— 

“You can cease with the performance, Protector,” A low voice cuts through the silence. “I know you are awake.”

Tim opens his eyes and just stares at the ornately carved ceiling for a moment, mentally reviewing every decision he’s made that got him here, to this moment, facing off against Ra’s once again. 

Alone. 

He feels Ra’s creeping ever closer to his side. Tim moves to sit up—only to immediately become aware of straps crossing his chest, hips, and legs. They’re not uncomfortably tight, but firm enough to remind him he’s restrained. A bony hand clamps down on his left shoulder and pushes him back down flat against the stone. 

“I’ll have to ask you to not strain yourself,” Ra’s sings softly. “You’re still recovering for surgery after all.” 

A massive wave of deja vu hits Tim straight in the chest, remembering a time when Ra’s whispered almost exactly that same sentence to him once before, right after he lost his spleen. 

Tim glances down at the large V-neck opening of his robe revealing just enough for him to see  his side— bandaged and binded securely. Fuck. 

“Your spleen was an unfortunate casualty of your… scuffle with my soldiers, but we’ve stabilized you,” Ra’s informs him. 

Tim slumps back with an annoyed sigh. He really enjoyed not being immunocompromised for the last 9 years, but apparently losing his spleen to a Ra’s Al Ghul related incident is a part of his unchanging destiny.

Ra’s cocks his head curiously, undoubtedly observing his annoyance. “You seem…oddly calm at learning you’ve lost such a vital organ.” 

Tim knows he ought to act intimidated, scared even, and deep down he is. He knows better than anyone that Ra’s Al Ghul is not to be trifled with. But he’s also a bit high on painkillers, just lost his spleen for the second time, and more than a bit pissed off he has to deal with this man again. 

So Tim huffs, giving a casual one shoulder shrug as best as he can under his restraints, “I have it on good authority there are pills you can take for that. I’m in the medicine business, you know?” 

“Oh indeed I do,” Ra’s drawls with a slow smile. “Timothy Jackson Drake,” he says in a tone oddly akin to reverence, and Tim recognizes how easily it could be turned to obsession. 

Ra’s gazes at him like he’s trying to dissect him, tear him apart until he can find the very foundations of his soul. “Who would have thought the Drake heir would turn vigilante?” he murmurs almost to himself. 

Tim boldly meets his lazarus green eyes, unflinching, but doesn’t react beyond that, keeping his expression neutral. 

The corner of the demon’s mouth twitches, amusement flickering across his face. He hums softly, circling Tim like a predator, his hand a constant hover over him, occasionally brushing just barely against his exposed skin.

Tim can’t quite suppress a flinch at the sensation. 

Ra’s smile widens. “Now, now, Protector, or do you prefer Cardinal? ” he purrs, as if tasting both names. “Is Timothy too intimate? We’ve only just met, after all.”

Tim breathes in and out steadily. He’s dealt with this creature many times before, even if it has been a while. He knows Ra’s games, knows his skills in mental manipulation. He won’t be so easily played with this time, even if his skin crawls just from being under his gaze. 

“To you, Cardinal is fine,” he speaks again, his voice firm.

Ra’s hums, “An interesting choice of name. The Cardinals of Catholicism are known to be great leaders, yet you’ve not placed yourself in a position to command. Your self assigned duty is to shield, is it not? Though, I suppose if you know your histories, the connection isn’t so far off from that.” 

“Do I seem like a God fearing man to you?” Tim poses. 

“Not as such,” Ra’s admits. “But I suspect you enjoy a good allegory.” 

Tim doesn’t respond. 

“More likely you chose the name in association with the Cardinalis cardinalis,” Ra’s continues. “ Also known as the Common Cardinal, or simply… red bird. An obvious homage to the other birds of Gotham.” Ra’s cocks his head thoughtfully. “Curious, seeing as you have been so adamant to keep yourself separate from them.” 

Ra’s turns away from him. 

To anyone else, it would seem careless—sloppy even—to give your back to an enemy. But Tim knows better. Ra’s’ every movement is deliberate. The gesture isn’t a mistake; it’s a statement, a demonstration of Ra’s’ control, a silent reminder of Tim’s own defenselessness.

“Cardinals are also known to be highly territorial,” he continues. “Not unlike the resident Bat of Gotham himself. They rarely leave their habitats, choosing instead to endure the very worst of winter rather than abandon their dominion.” Ra’s tilts his head over his shoulder to look back at Tim. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Tim would roll his eyes if he didn’t know the disrespect would be met with a swift and painful punishment. Still, he can’t quite hold back the snark from his voice as he sighs, “Let’s just skip this part and get to the bit where you tell me what you want from me.” 

The amusement drops from Ra’s face all at once, he turns around properly and steps closer to him again. “You presume to know my methods?” 

“It isn’t exactly a difficult deduction,” Tim covers quickly. “Why else would you want me alive? Why go through the trouble of treating me?”

Ra’s stops at Tim’s side, tilting his head as gazes down at Tim’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed, as if contemplating some great puzzle. “You’ve never been in my presence before, Protector. And yet… I cannot help but feel I know you.”

Tim stays completely still, giving absolutely nothing away. 

He resumes his circling. 

“You are a fascinating creature. One of Gotham’s long shadows. Whispered of but rarely seen. A figure whose name and reputation, curiously, emerged while you were still a child.”

“Guess I’ve always been gifted,” Tim says shortly.

Ra’s tsks. “Come now, surely you must know I can read deeper than what you won’t tell me. You placed yourself repeatedly between blade and the boy.” He stops pointedly. “Damian.”

Tim avoids his eye. 

“Not out of duty,” he resumes his pace. “No, you fought valiantly, intentionally, personally . You saved him because you care for him. You care for all of them. And yet, when you first interfered in my plans, they did not recognize you. You might as well have been a stranger to them.”

He leans down closer. “Why give your life for a stranger?” 

Tim doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing as he fights the chill crawling down his spine.

“I’ve done my research,” Ra’s continues, the amusement in his tone sharpening to something colder. “For nearly a decade, you’ve appeared and disappeared from Gotham’s awareness. Not as a symbol. Not as a general. But as a hand—guiding, yet unseen. A helpmeet to the Bat and his little soldiers. A ghost who can predict the next strike before it falls. You are a paradox. An echo before the voice.”

“Flattering,” Tim snarks, but Ra’s ignores his cheek. 

“I would assume you had the gift of foresight, if you hadn’t begun failing more frequently as the years passed,” Ra’s says softly.

He dips down suddenly to whisper into Tim’s ear.

“Afterall, why could you not save Barbara Gordon?” 

That lands. Tim keeps his breathing even, but Ra’s sees the crack of tension in his jaw.

“You should have had the means. Your prescience rarely, if ever failed you before…but perhaps your once-crystalline precognition has grown… stale.”

Tim clenches his fists beneath the sleeves of his robe, fingertips digging into his palms.

“Yes, Protector. I know your secret,” Ra’s steps back with deliberate calm. “Your intel isn’t the result of networks or satellites, though you know how to utilize both. No. You walk through history as though it were already written. Your movements are not learned…they are remembered.”

Tim keeps his face still.

“How else would you fight like a soldier trained under my very hand? And now you sit here, bound yet unbroken, and speak to me like an equal.”

He leans in close again, his voice a whisper, “Tell me, Protector. Where did you learn me ?”

Tim swallows as Ra’s steps around him, out of sight. 

“But meddling in history has its consequences, no?” His voice echoes through the chamber. “You have altered reality enough to not be able to predict the consequences of your actions, the ripples flowing far beyond your control…”

Ra’s steps into view again, studying his face. His movement stops altogether, like a predator with its prey in sight, inhumanly still and ready to pounce. 

“But you still know enough, don’t you?”

Tim shuts his eyes as the true object of Ra’s desires finally descends on him. 

“Yes,” Ra’s nods, pleased. “You do. You possess knowledge others could scarcely dream of. At the very least, you must know some of the plans of my dear daughter.” 

Tim opens his eyes and glares back at the demon, refusing to submit on any front. But his defiance only seems to amuse Ra’s further. 

“I must say, I have fought many enemies in my centuries,” he says softly, almost reverent. “Some noble. Some fools. But very few... fascinate me. You are one such case.”

It wouldn’t be the first time, Tim doesn’t say aloud. 

Ra’s smiles again and it is a terrible thing—fond, curious, patient. Like a scholar before a caged beast he intends to study.

“You wear your silence well,” he murmurs, circling again. “But I’ve learned the mind—even yours—can be far more pliable than the body. I’ve no interest in torturing you, Cardinal… not yet. I wouldn’t want to damage such a rare prize.”

He stops near a small table that Tim hadn’t noticed before, cloaked in shadow. A servant emerges silently from a side alcove, bowing with precise deference before placing a small tray at Ra’s’ side. On it, a delicate crystal vial gleams in the torchlight, filled with something faintly opalescent.

“Besides, you are still wounded,” Ra’s continues, lifting the vial between two fingers. “I would hate to hinder your recovery time,” He leans down, eye-level with Tim. “And I want you lucid when you start answering my questions.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, the reality of his situation cementing. “You’ll get nothing from me,” he grits.

Ra’s chuckles softly, uncorking the vial. “Your friend said something similar. Admittedly, it took much longer than I anticipated for her to speak, but speak she did.” 

Tim freezes, the implications of his words hitting him like a train. 

Pru. 

“You- What did you-?”

Ra’s hums, “I said I did my research on you. Any good researcher knows you need multiple sources to reach a definitive conclusion.”

“Where is she? What have you done to her?” Tim demands, struggling against his bonds properly for the first time. 

“Never you mind, Protector,” Ra’s sighs soothingly, though Tim is anything but. The servant returns—this time with a fine silver syringe already prepped. Ra’s places the vial into it. The contents shimmer faintly as the light hits them. 

Tim struggles harder, but Ra’s just takes his shoulder in an iron grip and pushes him back down again. Tim gasps, his head swimming in a mix of panic and the painkillers already in his system. 

“Truth, in its purest form, is not spoken. It is drawn out,” Ra’s says, almost teacherly, as the servant swabs Tim’s arm. “The drug I’m about to give you is a truth serum of sorts. To put it simply, it will make you more… pliant , while your ability to lie becomes practically non-existent.” 

The needle pierces flesh.

Tim flinches—but not from pain. From fear . 

Because Ra’s isn’t wrong, even now Tim has so much knowledge stockpiled in his head, secrets that can and will hurt the people he loves if exposed.

“Prudence held her tongue for over three days before she broke. I’m curious to see how long it will take you to speak.” The demon smiles wide and wicked. “Let us see what truths you bleed, Protector.”

The drug is warm. He can feel it flooding into his system like lukewarm water through his veins. Almost immediately his vision begins to blur at the edges, the faintest hum rising in his ears, lulling him into a false sense of security. 

He blinks hard, clenching his fists, focusing on the cold stone beneath him, the bandages around his ribs, the sound of his own heartbeat.

Ra’s just watches from above him, hands folded patiently. “Do try not to disappoint me.”

Tim bites down hard on his cheek, grounding himself in the pain, gearing himself up for a long and vicious struggle against his own mind. 

I won’t fail them, he vows. 

Not again.

Chapter Text

The Batcave hums with anxious energy. The glow from the Batcomputer’s main monitor casts a harsh blue light across their faces as they pore over schematics, maps, and grainy satellite images of the desolate mountain range in northern Turkey.

It’s been a day of restless study and research, with an anxious bout of mandated rest required by Alfred. The schematics Talia provided are old, worn, and hardly reliable—but still better than nothing. The compound is a complicated amalgamation of architecture, far too intricate to even attempt a blind rescue with any sort of success. 

The fortress is literally carved into the mountainside, its origins stretching back centuries. The most detailed blueprints date to the early 1900s, with incomplete records of renovations attempted in the 1940s. Beyond that, the trail goes dark. The base has almost certainly changed in the decades since—but they have no way of knowing just how much.

Bruce leans back slightly, letting his eyes move from the fading blueprints to the people gathered around them. Barbara hasn’t looked away from her monitor in hours, her hands moving quickly over the keyboard as she pulls up every cross-reference she can find. Bruce can see the tension in her shoulders, the frustration growing in her frame.

Their success will hinge on preparation—on how well they understand the situation they’re walking into. Yet the more they search—or more accurately, the less they’re able to uncover—the less realistic it is they’ll be able to anticipate what they need to. 

“He could be in any part of that compound,” Barbara repeats, fingers flying across her keyboard. “The mountain must have some sort of natural defense against scanning, it’s shielded from everything I’ve tried. And whatever software they have in there, it’s old-school. No electronic signature to trace, no signals to intercept.”

“So, we’re still flying blind,” Dick surmised, arms crossed. “Even if we get in unseen, we won’t know where to look for him.”

Jason leans forward from his perch on the debrief table, tension coiled in every muscle. “Do we at least know what kind of numbers we’re looking at?”

Damian lifts his chin. He’s barely stopped pacing since Talia’s call. “My grandfather has, wisely, become very selective of those within his inner circle,” Damian says. “My moth- Talia has spies among the ranks of those who act in his name, but none close enough to be in his physical location. That is a small circle—three dozen at most—but they are the very best the League has to offer.”

“Well that’s not so bad, then,” Steph mutters. 

Damian throws her a sharp look, “Do not underestimate them. We would be wise to avoid any sort of confrontation if possible. Stealth will be our primary ally.” 

Bruce studies the monitor in silence, arms folded behind his back. His gaze doesn’t waver as he works through the problem piece by piece, pros and cons, risk and rewards, stacking possibilities into something that might hold.

They don’t have any more time to search for more information, even if there was more out there to be found. Bruce doesn’t know what Ra’s has planned for Tim, but the longer he stays, the worse the consequences become. 

They need to move, and soon. 

“We’ll need to search the entire base,” he finally decides. 

His children turn to him with wide eyes. 

“We won’t be getting more information from Talia,” he explains. “And the longer we make Tim wait, the more likely he doesn’t come home at all. We need to get in, scour the facility, find him, and retreat.” 

“We’d be discovered,” Dick shakes his head. “It would be over before it’s even begun.”

“Not if we draw them out,” Bruce corrects, unfolding his thought process. “Ra’s doesn’t know Talia has his location, he’d have moved immediately if he did. If his plans for Damian are any indication, he needs both isolation from the rest of the League and access to a Lazarus pit,” 

Bruce points to the schematics towards the bottom depths of the facility. “Which this location has.”

Dick nods along slowly, “The League is careful with who knows about the pits, right?”

“Careful is an understatement,” Damian interjects. “The knowledge is sacred. There’s only a handful at most who are privy to it.” Damian’s eyes widen a bit, understanding entering his eyes. “If grandfather thought the compound was under siege, he would have to defend it. He’d never give up a pit that easily.” 

“Exactly,” Bruce confirms. “If we can convince them an attack is imminent, the compound itself would be left mostly empty. Ra’s doesn’t have enough soldiers to maintain numbers within and without. He’d put all his resources into maintaining control, keeping invaders out of the compound.”

“Giving us the chance to actually search it with little to no interference," Jason mutters. 

“Precisely.” Bruce steps back, allowing the others to digest his proposal. 

Steph cuts him a sideways look, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Duke straightens, folding his arms across his chest. “You want a distraction.”

Bruce’s lips twitch. “I want a show. And between the two of you, I think you can put on a good one.”

Duke smirks. “Sick.”

“Hell yes,” Steph laughs. They say it in unison, high-fiving over the table.

“An illusion won’t last long,” Barbara warns. “You could draw them out but it won’t take long for Ra’s soldiers to realize the attack is a fabrication.”

“We’ll need to be quick,” Bruce agrees. “But if we plan it right, I think we can manage a solid 15 minutes before they become aware of our game.”

“That isn’t long,” Cass mutters. 

“Which is why each of us will need to play our parts to perfection,” Bruce gestures back to the schematics. “The compound is more tall than it is deep into the mountain, carved just a few dozen meters into the cliffside. During the last round of upgrades, they installed a maintenance elevator. It runs from the upper levels down about three-quarters of the way to the base. If we can access it, we can divide and conquer, searching the entire facility in sections.” 

Dick hums in agreement. “It could work,” he acknowledges. “But our timing will need to be impeccable.” 

“Good thing we’re trained for that,” Jason quips, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He meets Bruce’s gaze. “Where do you want us?”

“Stephanie. Duke.” He starts. “You’ll deploy near the south perimeter. Draw their attention, make them believe your numbers are larger than they actually are. Then push east, keeping their focus on the valley. If they think the attack is coming from there, they’ll divert eyes from the interior of the compound.”

Steph and Duke nod, absorbing the instructions.

“Once your diversion is complete,” Bruce continues, “you’ll circle back to the Batplane. Once the interior team has Tim, we will rendezvous here,” he points to an upper-level balcony overlooking the valley, “and we’ll signal you for extraction. Keep the engines running and be ready the moment we give the call. You are our exit. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” Duke says.

“Got it.”

“Cass,” Bruce turns to her. “You’ll infiltrate from the base of the cliffside, the lowest entrance Oracle can pinpoint—likely a maintenance or catacomb access point. You’ll make your way upward, covering the levels the maintenance elevator can’t reach.”

Cass nods solemnly.

Bruce turns his two eldest. “That leaves us to scour the base starting from the top down.”

He steps closer to the monitor, gesturing towards the surrounding mountain range. 

“Jason, Dick—you’ll come in with me. We’ll land a few miles out of range and hike in from the top of the bluff. Once inside, I’ll search the topmost floors making my way down.”

Bruce turns to them. 

“That’s where Ra’s will most likely be,” he says. “If I come across him, I’ll keep him distracted while you both take the maintenance elevator down to search the central levels. Dick, you’ll take the floors below mine, Jason, you’ll cover the floors above Cass. Work through your areas methodically. Cover one another’s gaps when possible.”

Dick gives a firm nod. “Understood.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Jason agrees. 

Damian frowns, tension etching his features as he narrows his eyes at Bruce suspiciously. “What about me?” 

Bruce swallows tightly, turning his full attention to his youngest, gearing himself up for the inevitable protests. 

“Damian…” he starts.

“No.” Damian shakes his head instantly with a stubborn sort of conviction. “You are not leaving me behind.” 

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Ra’s is after you, Damian,” he says sternly. “A sacrifice Talia was more than willing to let happen. I won’t play into their hands.”

“I. don’t. care.” Damian growls. 

Dick exhales, stepping up beside Bruce. “He’s right, Dami,” he says gently. “If something goes wrong, we could lose you both. It isn’t worth the risk.”

“I’m coming with you,” Damian insists, straightening to his full stature. “It isn’t your choice. Drake has now saved my life at the expense of his own twice. I won’t leave that debt unpaid.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Damian,” he says gently, his gaze locked with his youngest. “This wasn’t your fault,” he insists, repeating his words from the other night. “Tim did what he thought was necessary. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but for better or worse you are now safe.”

“Don’t say that!” Damian snaps. “My safety is not above his!”

Bruce places both hands on his shoulders in a firm grip. “Of course it isn’t. But I would have done the same thing in his place. He chose to protect you, whatever the cost. I’m not throwing that away.” 

Damian clenches his jaw hard, his face a mural of intensity and fluctuating sentiments. His fists tighten at his sides, knuckles whitening.

“I’ll stay on the Batplane,” he finally manages. He looks up through his brows at Bruce, his eyes pleading. “I won’t engage. I’ll monitor your progress. I’ll only step in if things go wrong.”

Bruce stares, his resolve wavering. 

“Please, father,” Damian whispers. 

Bruce closes his eyes, weighing the compromise against the risk. He’d much rather Damian stay here with Alfred where there is no possibility of Ra’s getting his hands on him. But after so many years raising young vigilantes, Bruce knows better than to think Damian would actually stay put. 

At least this way, he knows where Damian is. 

He exhales after a long moment. “You will stay put and follow my orders.”

Damian nods solemnly, “I swear.”

Bruce lets out a slow sigh. Out of all his children, Damian is the least likely to break his word. “Then, fine,” he concedes. 

Damian shuts his eyes, breathing out in relief.  

Bruce steps back, taking in the group as a whole.

Their faces hold a mix of commitment, resolve, and determination. They are no longer children, any of them; they’ve taken every ounce of his training in stride and become some of the finest warriors he could have hoped to shape.

Dick, with his ever-present leadership and innate goodness; Barbara, with a mind sharper than anyone in the room; Jason, passionate and loyal to a fault; Stephanie, his restless girl, so all-consumingly bright; Duke, steady, analytical, yet reckless and brave when it matters most; Damian, one of the most passionate and empathetic of them all beneath his bravado, with more emotion than he knows what to do with; Cassandra, compassionate, with so much love in her heart to give.

And Tim. 

Tim who’s proving more and more every day his willingness to give all to those who’ve won the honor of his regard. 

Bruce’s not-so-little family.

Each of them came into this life differently—some born to it, others dragged in, others choosing the fight for reasons only they fully understand—but all have shown time and again they are more than just soldiers, more than warriors.

They are the light he never could be. 

Shining now like beacons in the dark.

They’ve had their trials with each other, their disagreements, their rivalries. But when they come together like this, when something truly matters, when the stakes are at their highest—this is what they become: focused. Relentless. Unified.

And nothing matters more than family. 

“Oracle, is the Batplane ready?”

Barbara nods, “Fueled and on standby.” 

“I want you all suited up and equipped in 15,” Bruce orders. “Even at supersonic speeds, we’re looking at a 5 hour flight. Use the time to study your roles,” he instructs.

A chorus of nods and quiet affirmations fill the cave. 

“I’ll need the interior team to carry malware USB-drives with you,” Barbara adds, glancing between Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Cass. "I'm locked out of whatever systems they have, but if you encounter a computer or console, plug it in. I should be able to access the base’s database, maybe even their security from there.” 

“But don’t count on that assurance,” Bruce warns, his gaze sweeping the team. “Study the schematics. Know the layout. We get in, we get out. Clear?”

They nod, faces set with determination.

“Good. Wheels up in twenty.”

“Come on, Protector,” Ra’s sighs, voice smooth but edged with impatience. “I’m not asking much.”

Tim scoffs under his breath. Not asking much? Noooooooooo. Not at all, if you define not much as the most guarded secrets he’s ever held. 

Tim doesn’t know how long he’s been flying high on whatever concoction Ra’s put into him. Hours at the least, maybe a day? It took a while for it to really settle into his bones until now…now he’s fighting his every impulse to talk.

Tim is still in his right mind…kind of. Sorta. Just absurdly loose to a point he can barely control anything. There’s hardly any filter on his mouth, and no ability to speak falsely. 

Tim was trained as Robin to resist such methods, of course, but every drug has a different effect. In this case, the longer he stays silent, the harder it is to hold anything back. It’s like a dam holding back pressure. If it’s not released in increments, the dam will break.

So Tim’s been talking alright, just without giving anything of actual value away. He can’t manipulate his speech the way he normally would to mislead, but he can still dance around the truth. 

So he talks, carefully, giving Ra’s answers that are technically true but utterly useless. And yes, it’s also a form of subtle revenge: Ra’s has been questioning Tim for at least an hour now and his patience is finally starting to fray, his green eyes twitching with irritation. 

A truly delightful sight.

It’s still difficult though, and fairly risky. The drug’s influence is getting stronger the longer he’s on it, pushing him to speak before he knows whats going to come out. But Tim is still a master at compartmentalization, putting away his thoughts into carefully organized boxes within his mind. 

Ra’s continues to circle him.

“Why did you come back in time?” he asks for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“Eh,” Tim shrugs a shoulder. “Just thought I could do it better a second time around, you know? Made a lot of mistakes last time. Lots and lots of mistakes.” 

Ra’s hum curiously, like he hasn’t heard the same variation of that answer multiple times. He’s trying to gleam any sort of bits from him. “Such as?” 

“Meeting you for one,” Tim jibes, dragging the words out lazily. He shakes his head, exaggeratedly slow. “Reeeeally tried to avoid that this time, but noooo. You’re just soooo obsessed with me. Like honestly, get a hobby. Ever tried knitting?” 

Ra’s glares down at him. “You would be wise not to trifle with me.” 

“Yaaaah,” Tim nods solemnly. “I never much liked it either. I’ve heard crocheting is more fun but who has the time for that?”

“I know what you are doing, Cardinal.” 

“Do you?” Tim tilts his head, smirk pulling at his lips. 

“I concede you are clever, but that won’t save you forever.” 

“It seems to be working pretty well for me so far,” Tim replies, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Pretty, pretty well.”

“Let's change the subject, shall we?” Ra’s ignores him. “How did you come to know my daughter? How did you gain her trust?”

Tim hums, dragging the sound. “Trust is a strong word,” he says lazily, repeating what he told Damian the other night. 

Damian…

Did he make it back to the cave? He must have. Ra’s wouldn’t be wasting his time with Tim if he had Damian in his custody already. 

He’s safe, he tells himself. He must be.

“Her confidence then,” Ra’s amends. Tim blinks, already half forgotten what they were talking about. Right. Talia. 

“Uhhhh,” Tim squints, his thoughts just so fuzzy. “The enemy of my enemy….”

“Oh?” Ra’s’ voice perks up in obvious pleasure. “You consider me your enemy, do you? Flattering. We must have once been well acquainted then.”

“Ugh, unfortunately,” Tim cringes. “Terribly, terribly unfortunate.”

Ra’s halts his steps, leaning over Tim’s form. “What has Talia been up to then, hmm? She hasn’t behaved the way I anticipated. What is she plotting?”

Tim rolls his eyes at the monotony of it all, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “To take over I imagine ...defeat you, blah blah blah. It’s all a bit boring the second time around, you know?”

“How?” Ra’s asks sharply.

Tim frowns in mock confusion, “I don’t know Ra’s. You’ve been around for like a thousand years, you’re not bored yet?”

Ra’s glowers down at him. And Tim should be afraid. Oh, he should be terrified. But all he can feel is smug tearing down that legendary control. 

“How. does she plan. to defeat me?” Ra’s grits out. 

Tim’s mind flashes to the weeks it took for Pru and him to travel the world, tracking down every known Lazarus pit from the last thousand years, even discovering a few Tim had missed the first time. 

Tim opens his mouth, but he catches himself just barely, clamping his jaw shut and leaving Ra’s with only silence. 

Ra’s sighs, almost disappointedly. “Why do you protect her?” he asks with a shake of his head. “You owe her no loyalty. She couldn't care less if you lived or died.”

Tim snorts, letting out a lazy chuckle. “Obviously. I’m drugged, not dumb. I don’t care about Talia.”

“Then why hold your tongue?”

Tim shakes his head, blinking his eyes sluggishly. “What can I say? It's a pretty good plan. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”

“What is it?” Ra’s presses, leaning forward, eyes narrowing.

Tim blinks again, mind suddenly blank. “What is what?”

“The plan,” Ra’s growls.

Tim cocks his head, “The plan?”

“The. plan.” he grinds out. “Talia’s plan to defeat me.” 

“Ohhhhh, that plan.” 

“Yessss. What is it?” 

“Hmmm, well you see….” Tim lowers his voice to a near whisper, as if he’s about to impart a secret. Ra’s leans in closer, a spark of hope in his eyes. “...it’s a pretty good plan.”

Ra’s pulls away, frustration and growing anger apparent in his stance. “You are being purposefully vexing,” he snarls. 

Tim scoffs dramatically, “Oh I’m being vexing? Have you met you?”

“I grow tired of this, Timothy.”

“You know what? Me too. Let's call it a night.”

Ra’s slams his hands down on the stone altar Tim is laid out on, getting into Tim’s space. “How will she try to stop me?” he demands. 

Tim smiles slowly, leaning in closer as much as his bonds allow, his expression the epitome of smug. “The same way I defeated you the first time,” he admits haughty. 

Ra’s narrows his eyes, “Which was?”

Tim’s smile sharpens to a point. “I. outsmarted. you.”

Tim slumps back down, as if that really is all there was to it. Like that’s all he has to say on the matter. 

And it is. 

“How?!” Ra’s demands again. 

Tim hums dismissively. “Pure intellect. I’m very smart, you know?”

Ra’s snaps his hand forward faster than Tim can even track, landing a sharp backhand across his cheek. Tim’s head jerks to the side from the impact, the sting immediate. He blinks once, slowly turning back. When his eyes settle on Ra’s again, Tim’s expression is perfectly blank, completely unbothered.

“It’s frustrating when your plans don’t go as you expect, isn’t it?” Tim says with a casual, almost empathic smile.

Ra’s scowls, turns on his heel, and marches away with rigid, deliberate steps. “Give him another dose!” He commands the servant silently observing from the shadows.

Tim snorts, voice rising with exaggerated mirth. “It’s not going to woooork,” he practically sings.

The heavy door slams shut behind him, echoing through the cavernous chamber. Tim lets his muscles go completely slack, staring up at the intricately carved ceiling above. The faceless servant glides forward, syringe in hand, ready to administer the drug again. Tim doesn’t waste his energy resisting.

He’s doing remarkably well, if he does say so himself. At this rate, he figures he can hold his tongue long enough for Ra’s to kill him out of sheer annoyance before he lets anything important slip. 

There are far worse ways to go.

Duke crouches behind the ridge, scanning the treeline below through the fog of early dawn. The forest is dense, but with his powers—the way he senses and bends light—he can see flashes of movement threading between rocks and underbrush like strands of a web: rabbits, a fox, and, in the distance, an incoming patrol.

“We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the patrol starts moving toward this quadrant,” he murmurs.

Beside him, Steph is settled against a low boulder, unpacking the last of their gear. Her hands move quickly—arming mines, sound decoys, flash emitters— a small bundle of bat-branded chaos. “Plenty of time to start making some noise,” she mutters. 

Duke smirks. 

The compound clings to the side of the mountain, almost invisible to the untrained eye. Its walls are made of the same gray stone as the cliffs embodying it, streaked with moss and dirt, blending in perfectly with the natural rock. From a distance, you can hardly tell mankind has even touched the mountainside.

The structure juts slightly from the cliff face, giving the illusion of it floating above the valley below. Narrow ledges lead to hidden entrances, some covered in thick vines, others carved so cleanly into the stone they disappear in shadow. There are no windows, no movement—just cold, sharp walls and a deep silence.

Above them, the others—Batman, Nightwing, and Bluejay— are still on their way in, trekking across narrow ridgelines toward the peak of the compound. Black bat left Duke and Steph’s company about a half hour ago, steadily making her way towards the fortress's base. 

Meanwhile, he and Steph have their trail mapped from the false incursion point, where they will lead their pursuers into the forest on a wild goose chase and then slip away to the evac zone where Damian is waiting—all with classic Spoiler flair: loud, almost obnoxious, but still real enough to be believable.

“Comms check,” Batman’s voice suddenly breaks the quiet. “Oracle, do you read?”

“Loud and clear,” Barbara replies through their earpieces.

“Ground team?” 

“All set, Boss man,” Spoiler responds. 

“Heard,” Duke acknowledges. 

“Robin.”

“Secured and waiting,” Damian replies, a slight twinge of annoyance in his tone. Duke doesn’t blame him, he’d hate to be stuck waiting on the plane while the others went on without him. 

“Black Bat?” Bruce calls next. 

Silence. 

Duke frowns, quirking an eyebrow at Steph in confusion. 

“Black Bat,” Batman repeats. Still, no answer.

“I have eyes on her feed,” Oracle soothes. “She’s already moving in, currently slipping past some guards. She’ll breach the lower vent system momentarily.”

Duke and Steph share a look of surprise. While Cass is known to exercise her independence from B’s orders from time to time, she generally sticks to the plan, especially when it comes to a group operation like this. Cass going early doesn’t necessarily hinder them, but it does show her anxiety to see the mission finished. 

Duke squints slightly, eyes glowing as he uses his x-ray vision to scan the base of the mountain. “I see her,” he confirms. “Bottom northeast quarter. She’s inside.”

“Better not keep her waiting then,” Bluejay quips. 

Batman sighs deeply, but doesn’t comment. “5 minutes out.” 

The channel clicks off.

Duke’s eyes drift toward Steph again as she arms another device, her focus narrowed and absolute. The purple of her suit stands out against the muted forest tones—a bold streak in the gray.

She hands him the contraption along with a remote trigger. “Plant this near the riverbed,” she instructs. “It’ll mimic glider deployment noise. Make it sound like someone’s coming in hot.”

Duke nods.

“I’ve got three sonic mines rigged to trigger in a cascade,” She adds, checking the screen on her vambrace. “One south of the clearing, one near the riverbed, and the last halfway up the false entry path. It’ll sound like a whole damn squad’s charging his front door.”

Duke smirks. It isn’t often he gets to use his powers purely to deceive, crafting illusions so convincing they could fool even Ra’s’ best. And paired with Steph’s brand of chaos? He’s honestly a bit excited.  

With everything in place, an uneasy quiet settles over them. The forest seems to hold its breath, the minutes stretching longer than they really are. From the corner of his eye, Duke catches Steph fidgeting, though she’s obviously trying to tamp it down.

“You know,” Duke starts lightly, trying to distract her. “I think you’re the only one who could pull off that much purple and still look like you belong in a covert op.”

Steph raises an eyebrow at him. “Coming from the man who fights crime in bright fucking yellow.”

Duke smirks. “It does take a certain level of confidence.”

She scoffs.

Duke chuckles. “Still...  I think I could rock purple. If you ever want to trade outfits, I’d be amenable.”

That gets her to snort. “Nobody wears yellow like you do, sunshine.”

They fall quiet again, but the moment lingers in a familiar way. Comforting. The calm before the storm. 

The comm sounds off again with a small ping. 

“Top team’s getting close. Spoiler, Signal—be ready for Batman’s que,” Oracle’s voice crackles in their ears.

Steph rises, securing the last trigger on her belt. “Aight, we’re all set.” She turns to Duke. “You ready?”

Duke rises in turn. He adjusts his gloves and extends a hand in front of him. The light bends around his palm like liquid sun, the intensity of it quickly dispersing throughout his whole body, shimmering as he nearly completely disappears, vanishing into the surrounding shrubbery.

“Let's bring this wayward brother of mine home, shall we?” 

Spoiler smirks, drawing her hood up over her head.

Batman’s voice comes through the comm a second later, low and commanding.

“Ground Team is a go.”

“First round of explosives,” Spoiler says through the comms, “Detonating in 3…2…”

Batman nods to Bluejay.

“...1.”

A resonating BOOM echoes across the rock walls of the valley. The ground seems to shake from under them. At the exact same moment, Jason triggers his own charges—carefully placed along the hinges of a small hatch concealed in the upper cliff face. With a concussive crack, the metal door bursts inwards, leaving behind a ragged opening and the sharp scent of scorched iron.

Batman, Nightwing, and Bluejay slip through the breach fluidly. 

Once inside, Bruce wastes no time repeating instructions.

Bluejay moves with precision, boots silent on the stone as he heads for the maintenance elevator, keeping his head low. Soon, he’ll be deep in the colder sections of the compound, where the mountain starts reclaiming the stone—likely crossing paths with Cass as she works her way up. Bruce suspects that’s where they’re holding their prisoners, though they can’t assume anything.

They’ll search every corner of this place if they have to—they aren’t leaving without Tim. That is, of course, assuming Cass hasn’t already found him. With how single-minded his daughter is behaving, Bruce wouldn’t put it past her.

Bruce turns his eyes toward a nearby set of stairs that will lead to the upper corridors. 

Nightwing pauses just behind him, waiting for any additional instruction, ever his loyal second-in-command.

Bruce meets his eyes beneath the cowl. “Check-in in ten,” he reminds him. 

Nightwing nods in acknowledgement, quickly following his brother down into the dark stone corridor. 

Then he’s gone, melting into his environment with the same speed and grace he’s always had—a shadow in a den of them. 

Bruce listens for a second. Once he’s sure they're on their way down, he heads for the stairwell. 

The steps are narrow, uneven, and steep, worn smooth by generations of tread. He climbs quickly and silently. His cape brushes the wall but even that sound is barely a whisper. 

“B.” Cass’s voice suddenly crackles over the comms for the first time. “I found something,” she tells him.

Bruce halts mid-step. “Is it him?”

She pauses. 

“Not exactly.”

The mountain breathes around her.

Cass had planned to wait. She had tried. Forced her limbs to still. Closed her eyes and commanded herself to Wait. But the tension coiled in her like wire—hot and tight. She couldn’t do it, not when she knew her brother was inside. 

So she moves.

She slips past the first pair of guards, barely a heartbeat between their steps and her passing just as Batman called for a comms check. Cass can’t give away her position, and even if she could speak, she’s not sure she’d be able to bring herself to at the moment. 

“I have eyes on her feed,” Oracle soothes. “She’s already moving in, currently slipping past some guards. She’ll breach the lower vent system momentarily.”

Cass lets out a silent breath in relief. Oracle has eyes, she’ll update the others if needed. 

Cass climbs up the rock about 10 feet before she finds her entry. She slinks through the narrow shaft, stone pressing against her shoulders on both sides. The passage is barely more than a carved air vent—no room to stand, just crawl, press, move. She’s the only one in the family who could even hope to fit, let alone navigate the passage. The air is cold and thin the further she goes, damp with the weight of centuries. 

While the others are still getting into position, Cass steadily creeps deeper and deeper into the mountain. It isn’t long before the shaft slowly begins to widen, the stone giving way to smooth floors and curved corridors. 

“Ground Team is a go,” B gravels. 

“First round of explosives,” Spoiler says a second later, “Detonating in 3…2...1.”

The answering boom shakes the very foundations of the place. The walls tremble and dust fills the corridors, but the explosives are more bark than bite. The place is sturdy, it would take a lot more than that to bring it down. 

With the plan officially underway, Cass doesn't waste her head start. She darts down the corridors, navigating the twists and turns with ease. The levels are smallest down here so it doesn’t take long to clear 3 empty floors. 

She rounds a corner and stops dead in her tracks. She knew it was down here of course, but seeing it in person is something else. It's not guarded. Not lit, except for a small window that lets in the barest amount of natural light. 

The unnatural green glow the water emits lights up the room well enough on its own though.

Cass swallows down the uncomfortable lump in her throat at the sight of a Lazarus pit, her mind flashing to all the harm and evil it has caused. 

She presses forward. 

In just the next room over, Cass finds a long corridor of cells. She slows her approach, anticipation fluttering in her gut. Metal bars line one side of the chamber, rusted but still strong. Eight cells in total. The first three she passes are empty. The next four contain literal skeletons, bodies long dead for decades at the least.

Then she smells it.

Blood.

Cass rushes to the final cell, squinting in the dim light to see a figure curled in on themselves. 

She can see immediately that it’s not Tim, though. They’re too tall, skin too pale, hair too short. Whoever they are, they’ve clearly had a rough time of it recently. 

Cass slips through the lock—a rusty, ancient thing that gives way with barely a fight—and drops silently to one knee beside the figure slumped against the wall. A woman, she thinks. Probably a few years older than Dick, give or take. One of her eyes is swollen shut, ribs jutting sharply beneath torn, tattered fabric, the skin stretched thin. Her breathing is shallow, yet stronger than Cass would have expected given her battered state.

“Hey.” Cass says, barely more than a whisper. She rests a hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder.

The woman flinches hard, a low gasp escaping her throat. She tries to pull away, instinct and fear driving her—but her strength is gone. Her good eye flutters open, bleary and half-focused.

“Shhh,” Cass soothes. “It’s alright. I mean you no harm.”

Her focus lands on the bat symbol stitched across Cass’s chest and her whole body slumps, the panic bleeding out of her limbs in an instant. Not gone. But lessened.

“You’re a Bat,” the woman says hoarsely. “I didn’t- I didn’t think—” her voice dissolves into a rough coughing fit. Cass keeps a hand on her back supportingly, as her mind makes a few rapid connections. 

“Are you…Pru?” Cass asks softly. 

The woman blinks slowly, surprise flickering faintly across her bruised face. “Prudence Wood,” she introduces. A beat passes. “You didn’t… expect me?”

“We thought you were dead,” Cass admits. “We’re looking for-”

“Red,” Pru breathes, her voice cracking on the name. She squeezes her eyes shut, her face twisting, as if the word itself wounds her. Cass reads waves of grief and regret crashing over her. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to- to- I would never betray him.” 

“Shhhh,” Cass calms again, reaching out and grasping her hand. Whatever she’s referring to won’t do either of them any good right now. “We’re going to get you out of here,” she promises.

Pru’s eyes flutter again, barely holding focus. Cass presses two fingers to the side of her neck—weak pulse. She’s fading, and fast.

Cass moves quickly, sliding her med kit off her belt and snapping it open. Her fingers dart over the supplies until she finds a stim shot, the small vial catching the faint light of the flickering overhead torch. She kneels closer, carefully injecting it into Pru’s arm. 

Almost immediately, the woman shudders, gasping as awareness floods back, eyes snapping open wide and scanning the room with rapid, chaotic intelligence. Cass leans back slightly, giving her space but keeping a watchful eye, waiting for her to settle into whatever lucidity she has left.

Cass taps her earpiece, opening the comm channel.

“B,” she says. “I found something.”

“Is it him?”

Cass’s eyes flick over to the empty cells across from them sadly, knowing full well her responsibilities for this mission have changed. 

“...not exactly.”

Chapter Text

Dick moves swiftly down the narrow hallway, pressing close to the cold stone wall. The flickering sconces overhead barely illuminate the path, throwing long, twisted shadows that seem to crawl along the floor.

He listens to the comms attentively as Batman instructs Cass to stay with Pru and keep her conscious, treating what she can. 

“Nightwing. Bluejay,” Bruce continues. “First one to locate Cardinal stays on extraction. The other drops down and supports Black Bat.”

“Copy,” Jason answers. “I just have a few floors left. No sign of movement down here.”

“Eyes open,” Batman orders lowly. “Ra’s is still unaccounted for.”

There’s a soft burst of static across the comms—and then the brief, unmistakable sounds of some sort of scuffle, but it’s over fairly quickly. 

Dick stops and listens for a moment. “That you, Bluejay?”

“Negative,” Jason denies. 

Dick’s heart clenches, “Robin?”

“Handled,” comes Damian’s clipped reply. “One straggler. Possibly a scout.”

Dick swears under his breath. 

“Lock the Batplane down,” Bruce orders. “Do not leave under any circumstance. Wait for Signal and Spoiler, am I clear?”

“Yes,” Robin grits.

Dick glances down at the time readout blinking on his gauntlet. They have eight minutes left— maybe —before the League realizes the chaos at their perimeter is nothing but smoke and mirrors. Steph and Duke have bought them time, but it won’t last.

They need to find Tim now. 

He quickens his pace, checking every door he passes. Sparse interiors. Storage. Some kind of old training room, its mats long since rotted. 

Still nothing. 

“Bluejay,” he calls over the comm. “How far down are you?”

“Lower mid-tier. Eight floors beneath you. No sign so far, this place is a maze. You?”

“Going down to the next,” he says as he races down another spiral staircase. “I’m only about 3 floors from where you started.” 

“He has to be here somewhere,” Jason murmurs. 

“He is,” Dick insists, rushing down the next corridor. “Just keep-” 

Dick stops dead as the scent of fresh incense hits his nose. 

“...Nightwing? What is it?” 

“Hold on,” Dick follows the scent around the corner of another hallway and comes upon a large wooden door under a complex archway. The door is carved intricately with images Dick doesn’t have the time to interpret.

He takes one step forward, just enough to test the door’s latch—when the air behind him shifts. 

He pivots fast, but not fast enough. A blade slices across his bicep. He grits his teeth, ducking low as another assassin lunges from the left, sweeping a hooked blade meant to catch him in the side. Dick blocks with his escrima sticks. A third figure drops from the rafters, slamming into his back and sending them both crashing to the ground.

The breath rushes out of him. He rolls, kicking the attacker off, but the first two are already on him again—blades flashing in the dim light. Dick barely gets to his feet before one clips his leg and another sends him staggering back into the wall.

He takes a hit. Then another. It doesn’t do much but irritate him.

“Okay,” he mutters as he gets a second of reprieve, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. “Let’s dance.”

He dodges the next incoming swing, grabs the attacker’s arm, and uses it to flip thee assassin straight into his partner. Their heads crack together with a satisfying thunk . The third is still recovering from the earlier throw—too slow. Dick leaps, both feet striking center mass, sending them sailing backward into the opposite wall.

One tries to rise. Dick drops them with a clean elbow to the temple.

The other’s already out cold.

He stands up straight in the dim corridor, chest heaving, three bodies sprawled around him, breathing but unconscious.

“Nightwing, report,” Bruce says in his ear, voice tight.

Dick exhales slowly. “Three of Ra’s’. Handled.”

He turns back to the door. “I think I’ve found him,” he says grimly, reaching for the handle. “Standby.” 

As soon as he goes in, the quiet is total , almost reverent, like stepping into a forgotten cathedral. His boots barely make a sound against the smooth floor, the sound swallowed by high ceilings and carved pillars that rise like ancient sentinels along the walls.

It feels sacred here. Not holy, but something older—ritualistic. He doesn’t like it.

Light pours in through narrow windows carved high into the stone, slicing the room into long, stark beams. Dust dances inside them like ash. In the center of the chamber, beneath those shafts of pale sunlight, is a raised platform carved in stone.

And laid across it is Tim.

Tim is draped in loose, fine robes—silken, almost ceremonial, the fabric falling awkwardly over his frame. His skin gleams with sweat. His chest rises and falls in a shallow, uneven rhythm. He’s secured to the platform by thick straps of leather at his chest, hips, knees, and ankles, keeping his arms firmly at his side. 

Dick moves forward quickly, crossing the space with long, quiet strides. His eyes scan Tim’s body. The bandages are heavy around his side—clean, but bulky, evidence of real internal trauma. 

“Report,” Batman growls in his ear. 

“It’s him, I got him,” Nightwing rushes. 

“Bluejay, go assist Black Bat.” 

“Copy.” 

Dick taps his comm twice to put himself on mute for the moment and then takes Tim’s wrist to check his pulse.The skin is cold, clammy. The pulse beneath his fingers is strong but unsteady, hammering out a rhythm that speaks of strain. Dick swallows hard and forces his hands steady as he works on the bindings. 

“Tim,” Dick murmurs softly, as he works. Tim’s eyelids flutter. “Come on, Timmy. You with me?”

At that, Tim’s eyes shoot open, wide, but lucid enough. He swings his head to his left shoulder and gazes at Dick blankly. 

“Oh great,” he mutters to himself. “Now I’m hallucinating.” 

A breath of relief escapes Dick in the shape of a short laugh, “You’re not hallucinating. We’re gonna get you out of here.” 

For some reason, that only makes Tim laugh—a broken, ragged sound, edged with something far too close to despair. “Doubtful,” he mutters with a shake of his head. 

Dick frowns, eyes scanning over him, taking the tremor in his muscles, the glassy dilation of his pupils, the way his words slur slightly at the edges. “You’re drugged,” he realizes. “Do you know what with?”

Tim lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, “Ra’s said it was some kinda truth serum. He didn’t say anything about hallucinations though, which, rude. At least warn a guy, right?” 

Dick’s eyes widen, his gut turning. A truth serum?

“Ok. Ok, we can deal with that,” he says quickly, pushing past his rising dread. His hands move to the bindings on Tim’s legs, jaw set. “Do you think you can walk once I get you out of this?”

Tim just hums absently, completely ignoring the question, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above him. “I used to have this dream a lot, you know?” 

Dick falters slightly, “...what dream?” 

“That you’d come for me,” Tim says simply. His voice is flat, almost offhand, but the weight in it drops like a stone into Dick’s chest. “You know, before. When I was with Ra’s the first time. I used to hope…maybe you’d realize I needed help, realize that I couldn’t do it alone.”

The last words fall to a whisper, fragile, as Tim blinks hard, fighting tears that shine wetly in the corners of his eyes. “…That I needed you.”

Then, with a laugh that doesn’t reach his face, Tim shakes his head slightly. “So it isn’t exactly surprising I’d hallucinate you now.”

Dick finishes with the bindings even as his chest feels like it’s being torn open. His fingers work mechanically, muscle memory guiding him, but inside, he’s crumbling. 

He doesn’t even have the memories for context, no clear picture of what Tim endured “the first time,” but the words still hit him hard. A chasm of guilt splits wide within him, raw and merciless. He doesn’t know what he did—or didn’t do—that left Tim waiting, hoping, dreaming of a rescue that never came. He only knows he has the result of those choices right here in front of him: a boy who should never have had to doubt him, who speaks of rescue as fantasy instead of expectation.

And Dick hates it.

The last of the restraints fall away with a dull clatter, but Tim doesn’t react, doesn’t even glance at his freed limbs. His eyes are far away, caught in some fog of drugs and memory.

So Dick does the only thing he can—he reaches out and takes Tim’s hand firmly in his own, grounding, real, and gives a steady pull. At the contact, Tim’s brows knit together, confusion flickering over his expression, gaze zeroing in on the place where their hands connect.

“Easy,” Dick murmurs, slipping his other arm behind Tim’s shoulders to help him sit up. Tim winces at the shift, pain flashing across his face as the movement tugs at half-hidden injuries beneath the bandages. Dick steadies him, hating how fragile he feels under his hands. 

“Can a hallucination do that?” Dick challenges softly, his eyes boring into Tim’s pleadingly.

Tim slowly shakes his head. He blinks, confusion still firmly rooted on his face before his eyes settle—really settle—on Dick. There’s a long pause, and then—

“...Dickie?” he whispers, pure disbelief in his tone. 

Dick swallows hard, a tight knot rising in his chest. His smile is thin and watery, lips twitching despite the sting behind his eyes. “Yah,” he says shakily. “Yah, it’s me, Baby Bird.”

He doesn’t know where the nickname came from—just that it feels right. Like something they used to say. Like something he used to say.

Whatever it is, it hits Tim hard. His face twists, a wave of raw emotion flashing through his features too fast for Dick to read. Grief. Relief, maybe. Recognition. Loss. It all blurs together. His throat works around a sound he doesn’t make.

“Come on,” Dick says softly, pulling Tim’s arm over his shoulder and rising with him. “We need to go now.”

Tim’s legs hold—barely. He’s upright, but the tremor running through him betrays just how much effort it takes. Dick shifts, instinctively carrying part of his weight, matching his faltering pace as they move out of the chamber and into the narrow, shadowed corridor.

The silence only lasts about 30 seconds before Tim seems to really come to terms with what is happening.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He suddenly demands, the sharpness in his voice catching Dick off guard. There's a protective edge to it that almost sounds like B.

“Rescuing you, of course,” Dick answers, forcing a note of lightness into his tone as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world…because it is. “You didn’t really think we’d leave you to Ra’s, did you?”

Tim stops in his tracks, pulling them both to a halt. Dick instinctively tightens his grip, steadying them both.

Tim’s gaze flicks up to his, wide, searching, disbelief tangled with something softer, rawer. His voice comes out in a broken breath—stunned.

“We?” Tim breathes.

Before Dick can answer, static crackles in his ear, followed by Damian’s urgent voice. “I demand an update,” he snaps. “Do you have him?”

Dick raises a hand to his ear, glancing sidelong at Tim. “Yah, Robin, I have him. He’s a bit, uh… talkative. Some injuries that need seeing to, but he’s stable for now. We’ll meet you at the rendezvous point.”

He barely lowers his hand when, without warning, he finds himself slammed backward—his spine hitting cold stone with a thud.  Air punches out of his lungs. Tim’s fingers knot into his uniform, grip tight and angry. The drugged haze in his eyes has burned away, replaced by fire.

“You brought Robin here?!” Tim snarls, his voice hoarse and cracking. His whole body shakes with it, with panic.

“Tim-”

“What the hell were you thinking!?” Tim all but shouts. “Do you have any idea what Ra’s wants to do with him?!”

Dick grits his teeth, forcing himself to meet that desperate fury with steady eyes. He doesn’t shove him off, doesn’t fight back, just absorbs the storm.

“You think we didn’t try?” he asks roughly. “You try telling that kid to stay home when his brother’s in danger.”

Tim’s grip falters. His arms drop, his body suddenly sagging in surprise. Dick catches him before he can fall and guides him gently back upright. But Tim won’t meet his eyes. His voice drops to a whisper, shattered and hoarse:

“I— I’m not… I’m not-” His face is crumpled, devastated. Tim can’t quite get the words out, but Dick knows what he’s trying to say.

Dick feels his heart break just a little, especially knowing the nature of the drug Tim is under. Tim doesn’t believe the words, can’t force himself to lie, but oh how he is trying. 

How long has he been doing that? Forcing down a truth only he could still remember.

But he doesn't have to. Not anymore. 

“Try telling him that,” Dick says firmly. 

Tim’s expression just goes terribly confused, still either unaware or unsure about the changes to the status quo, the drugs in his system not helping his clarity. But Dick can’t exactly explain everything now, not in the midst of all this. Instead, he ducks slightly and pulls Tim’s arm over his shoulders again. 

“Wait- wait.” Tim breathes as they start moving forward again. “There- there was a woman being held here too... I-I don’t know if she’s still alive but-”

“Pru,” Dick fills in. “Black Bat found her. Bluejay is helping get her out now.” 

Tim slumps just that much deeper into Dick’s hold, relief pouring off of him. “Good. That’s good.” 

Dick’s comm cracks to life again. “We’re finishing up down here. We’ll get to the plane soon,” Spoiler says. 

“Ready to receive you,” Robin acknowledges. 

“We’re 2 minutes from the ship,” Signal says. “Standby.”

“Be advised, I think we’ve been made,” Spoiler adds. “We’ve lost nearly half of the party chasing us. They must have dropped back.” 

Dick curses under his breath, the sound sharp enough to make Tim tense beside him.

“What?” Tim demands, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

Dick swallows, forcing calm into his voice as he shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Tim’s glare sharpens. “You’re lying.”

Dick lets out a scoff, “Why would you think that?”

“I know you’re tell,” he mumbles. 

Just then, Dick spots movement—a flicker of shadow at the far end of the corridor, someone closing in from the opposite direction.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Tim stiffens at the word, but Dick doesn’t waste a second. His grip tightens, and he pivots them hard, dragging them both through the nearest door.

They slip into a small, dimly lit chamber. The air hums faintly with electricity. A wall of monitors glows in the dark, shifting from one feed to another: the fortress perimeter, the chamber Tim had been chained in, corridor after corridor. A surveillance room.

Dick’s lips twitch upwards. 

He doesn’t hesitate. Dick eases Tim down into the nearest chair, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder before moving to the console. He pulls Oracle’s malware drive from his belt, slides it into the nearest port, and starts typing.

The monitors stutter. Static ripples across every screen before the image blinks out entirely. For a breath, the whole room is swallowed by darkness—then cascading lines of code race across the glass. The feeds snap back to life exactly as they were, nothing to betray the breach.

Perfect.

Dick taps his comm. “Oracle, I’ve got a surveillance hub. You should have access any second.”

“Copy. Pulling feeds now. Stand by,” Barbara’s voice answers,

The rapid clatter of keys jolts Dick’s attention back around. Tim has slid his chair up to the nearest terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard with sharp precision. The fog in his eyes has burned off a little, his gaze clearing as he starts doing…something. 

“Tim?” Dick asks carefully. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to need your spare comm,” Tim replies instead, voice clipped, eyes never leaving the scrolling code. Even sitting down, he’s still wobbly, Dick notes. His body can’t quite find its center, but his mind appears to be clear enough if the determined glint in his eye is anything to go by. 

Dick doesn’t question how he even knows Dick has a spare comm, just fishes it out from his belt and hands it over. 

Tim stares down at the device for a moment, thumb brushing over it in something almost reverent, then slots it into his ear. He taps three times to sync to their frequency—like he knows exactly how their tech works, like he’s done it a hundred times before. 

Because he has, Dick realizes. 

Tim swallows, a beat of hesitation, and then his voice comes steady and cool: “This is Cardinal, checking in.”

The silence that meets his introduction is tense, like no one is quite sure how to respond.

“Black Bat, do you read?” Tim prompts.

There’s a small pause, then Cassandra’s voice breaks through, warm and edged with a smile. “Hello, little brother.”

Tim’s hands falter over the keys. He freezes for a solid three seconds before he shakes himself, ignoring his emotions for the sake of the mission like any other Bat would do. 

“Pru. Is she- is she conscious?” he pushes on. 

“Conscious, but not entirely lucid,” Cass responds. 

“I’m fine!” a voice protests faintly in the background. “Give me the damn comm.”

There’s a scuffle, muffled cursing, and then Pru’s voice cuts through, steadier. “You okay, Red?”

A small, fleeting smile tugs at Tim’s lips. “Fine. But I need information.”

“Shoot.”

“Ra’s. He told me he… questioned you.”

Pru exhales sharply, guilt bleeding into the sound. “Red, I’m sorry—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tim dismisses instantly. “But I need to know. Does he know about Talia’s failsafe?”

“No,” Pru answers without hesitation.

Tim blinks. “No? But he—”

“He never asked about it directly,” she explains. “The effort nearly killed me, but I held back.”

Tim’s lips twitch upward, a flicker of glee across his face. “Well done, Pru.” He pivots immediately. “Oracle, be advised. I’m going to piggyback off your network to access mine.”

“...Fine,” Oracle drawls haltingly, “But why? What are you trying to do?” 

“I’m instigating the failsafe,” he says simply—like the meaning should be obvious, his mind completely narrowed to his task, his fingers flying across the keyboard at a lightning pace. 

“Bluejay, status?” Batman interrupts before anyone can question Tim further. 

“Just got to Black Bat,” Jason answers. “We should be able to get her to the maintenance elevator without much trouble. Maybe 5 minutes out from rendezvous. Any sign of Ra’s?” 

Bruce sighs, “None.” 

“Standing by for retrieval,” Signal adds. 

Dick freezes as he suddenly catches the faint echo of passing footsteps. It’s subtle, barely there, the most sound a company of ninjas would ever make in their rush. Dick would bet money he knows where they’re heading.

“Dammit,” he curses. 

“Nightwing?” 

“A company of soldiers just passed us,” he responds. “They’ve probably realized Tim is gone.” 

“There’s another elevator close by,” Oracle tells them. “It wasn’t on the original schematics, but it is only a corridor over from your location. It should take you fairly close to the upper balcony.” 

“Copy,” Dick responds. “Think you can guide us there?” 

“Of course.” 

Dick nods to himself, turning back to Tim who's still typing away at the computer. “Tim, we have to go.” 

“Just another minute,” Tim mutters.

Dick shakes his head, firm. “We don’t have a minute.”

“Bossy,” Tim murmurs under his breath. It makes Dick falter from the sheer audacity. 

Jason lets out a surprised laugh, “He’s not wrong, Big Bird.” 

“Bluejay, focus.” Batman admonishes. “Cardinal, I don’t know what you’re doing, but time is up. Get to the rendezvous.” 

Tim grits his teeth and Dick can practically see him holding back some sort of snarky retort. He continues for another 10 seconds before finally hitting the enter key. 

“We have 7 minutes,” he says as he rises shakily. Dick is quick to steady him, putting his arm around him, and pulling him flush to his side.

Dick frowns, “Until what?” 

“Until we need to be out of here.” 

“...what happens then?” Jason asks, a hint of unease in his voice.

“Well-” 

“Nightwing, you’re gonna have company in 30 seconds,” Oracle interrupts. “If you move now you should be able to make it.” 

“Copy, where am I going?” 

Barbara guides them through a series of sharp turns until they come upon a wall that opens to a small, rickety-looking elevator.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t look very safe,” he deadpans.

Dick exhales sharply. “It’s what we’ve got. Come on.”

Dick loads them onto the lift, the two of them barely fitting in the cramped space. The elevator lurches, shuddering slightly, but begins its steady ascent. Tim leans more heavily against him as they rise. A spike of concern hits Dick—he’s been so focused on getting them out, he hasn’t considered the severity of Tim’s injuries.

“You okay, Timmy?” he murmurs, voice thick. 

Tim shrugs one shoulder, “Nothing I haven’t experienced before.”

Dick is not reassured by that answer. 

Seconds later, the elevator shudders to a halt. Dick pushes them forward as Oracle guides him through a series of corridors toward the rendezvous. Soon enough, they enter a grand room draped in finery and silk. Sunlight pours through a massive opening carved into the stone, illuminating the space like a spotlight, and revealing the large oversized balcony—their one way out.

Everyone else is already there. Batman supports Pru’s near dead weight beside Cass. Bluejay sees them coming first and rushes forward to help support Tim on Dick’s other side. 

“Ready for extraction,” Batman barks into the comms. 

“Incoming.” Signal responds. 

Tim tilts his head just enough to take in nearly half of the Batfamily, his eyes wide like he doesn’t know what to make of it, like he isn’t entirely sure if it’s real. But then his gaze focuses on Pru, her eyes open even as her body is nearly entirely limp. 

“Pru..?”

She forces a weary smile. “I’ll be fine, little Red.”

Relief washes over Dick for a heartbeat, the slightest ease in his shoulders, until the faintest echo of movement from the shadows pricks at his instincts. 

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” a voice cuts through the quiet of the vast room. 

​​They all spin as Ra’s al Ghul steps forward from the far entrance. Two dozen assassins emerge from the shadows, weapons drawn, circling them in a heartbeat.

Ra’s exhales, as if pleased by the spectacle.

“Clever,” he muses. “I admit, I didn’t expect my daughter’s treachery to run quite this deep. But her desperation is telling—sending all of you here to retrieve dear Cardinal…well, I can’t possibly let you take him now.”

Dick and Jason move in perfect sync, pushing Tim back behind them for Cass to catch while they close ranks in front of him.

Batman steps forward in front of them all, his cape rustling softly, shoulders squared. “You’re not touching him,” he growls.

Ra’s raises a placating hand, “I understand, I do. But I fear you’ve placed yourself in quite a predicament, Detective.… you cannot possibly protect all of them.” 

The assassins shift subtly, those with throwing knives and arrows taking precise aim on each of Bruce’s children.

Bruce glares at Ra’s fiercely, but Dick sees through the bravo, sees as clearly as he knows Bruce does that the demon is right. They can fight, yes, but ultimately it would prove useless. 

Ra’s smirks. “But I am not unreasonable,” he says gently, as if offering them a kindness. “I know my grandson is nearby—quite kind of you to bring him to me. My offer is simple… a son for a son.”

They all tense. 

“Give me Damian,” Ra’s entreats. “Give me my grandson and I will let Timothy and all your others go unharmed. A more than generous agreement, I'm sure you'll agree.”

“That’s not happening,” Bluejay growls. 

Bruce doesn’t move, but Dick can feel the tension radiating from him like heat. Bruce would never trade one child for another— never. But that only leaves fighting as their final recourse, a fight that may very well be their final stand. 

It’s a sentiment Dick can feel the others accepting as they each fall into their opening stances, weapons drawn and ready—

When Tim somehow manages to free himself of Cass’s grip and stumbles forward, his hand cradling his side protectively. Jason and Dick both reach out instinctively, but Cass holds them back, shaking her head slightly, eyes silently telling them to trust him.

Despite being unsteady on his feet, injuries visible and the lingering haze of the serum tugging at his mind, Tim stands before Ra’s with an unnerving calm. His posture is loose, almost casual—but every inch of him radiates quiet menace, a dangerous confidence that belies his condition.

He smirks, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not actually the one holding the leverage here, Ra’s,” he states, voice smooth, measured, almost teasing.

Ra’s raises a brow, curiosity flickering across his face. “No? Do enlighten me, Protector.”

“Oh, you’ll find out in approximately…” Tim squints, casting his eyes up in thought. “Mmmm a minute? Give or take.”

Ra’s narrows his eyes.

“You know, you weren’t wrong about me, Ra’s,” Tim says thoughtfully, stepping forward slightly. “I did learn you once, learned your mind, your methods…how you operate. But more importantly…I learned what you value.” He lets the words hang, an amused smile rising in his voice. 

“You value your power, unquestionably. You value the League only as far as it serves that power. And your family…only inasmuch as they can uphold your legacy.”

Ra’s just stands there, seemingly captivated despite himself.

Tim’s smirk sharpens, voice cutting. “Yet you are inherently selfish. Narcissistic to the core. Deep down, you don’t honestly believe anyone could ever fill your shoes—not even your own daughter. Not even your grandson. You’d rather wear his skin then see him sit on the throne in your stead.”

There’s a slight shift in the air at that pronouncement, Ra’s’ ninja’s shifting just slightly.

Tim pauses, letting the truth of it press. 

“And so…” he drawls. “There is nothing you value so much as your own life.”

BOOM.

A deep, thunderous tremor shakes the chamber from far below. Stone grates beneath their boots, dust cascades from the vaulted ceiling, and a low, echoing rumble rolls through the air like a living thing.

Ra’s stiffens, his calm vanishing like smoke in the wind.

“What have you done?” he whispers in shock. 

Tim straightens, chest lifting with grim satisfaction, a small, controlled smile tugging at his lips. “I think you know,” he says, voice even, cold.

Ra’s doesn’t speak. He just stares, his Lazarus-green eyes wide, his mask of composure shattered.

Then another rumble hits—stronger this time. The floor tilts, ever so slightly. The fortress groans around them, a terrible sound of ancient stone protesting centuries of weight. Ornate columns shudder. 

The assassins begin to shift, unease rippling through their ranks. And then all at once, Ra’s’ warriors turn and flee—slipping back into the passageways, vaulting over the balcony, disappearing into grapples and gliders. They know the sound of a collapsing stronghold when they hear it. Only three guards remain at Ra’s’ back now, his most loyal sentinels, standing rigid and alert as the chamber trembles around them.

“Shit,” Oracle curses over comms. “The foundations are crumbling. You have to get out of there now.”

Cracks spiderweb across the mosaic floor. Chunks of carved stone rain down, one narrowly missing Bluejay as he ducks with a shout.

“We’re coming in!” Duke yells. The Batplane drops into view, hovering just above the balcony as the back ramp lowers.

“Go!” Batman orders, hauling Pru along as the others rush toward the ramp.

Dick moves only two steps before realizing Tim isn’t following. He’s frozen in place, eyes locked on Ra’s’ unwavering gaze, the demon’s fists trembling at his sides, his face drained of color.

And Tim just stands there, calm, unflinching, every bit the storm Ra’s was foolish enough to underestimate.

“I have other pits,” Ra’s snaps, seemingly unbothered at the collapse happening around them.

Tim just tilts his head tauntingly. “After today?” he shakes his head. “Not as many as you may think.”

Ra’s goes deathly still.

“And make no mistake. I know where every. last. one. of them is,” Tim finishes, voice hard as steel. “You and Talia can have your war, but I—we will have no part in it. If you ever come for mine again, if you ever come for Damian again, mark my words: the legacy of the League, your empire, your very existence… will be forfeit.”

Another giant rock falls loose from the ceiling. Dick lunges forward, grabbing Tim around his midriff and pulling him away. An enormous plume of dust obscures their sight and by the time it clears, Ra’s and his guards have disappeared.

“Tim! We’re going! Now!” Dick orders, grasping his forearm tightly. 

That finally seems to reach Tim. He nods, returning Dick’s grip for balance as they rush toward the Batplane. They leap together, landing in perfect sync just as Duke begins pulling away from the crumbling mountainside.

For a second, Tim loses his balance, dropping to one knee, but Dick’s grip on his wrist is ironclad. He yanks him up hard, arms encircling his side again. Jason and Cass reach out to them, anchoring them both as they scramble fully into the plane, the hatch thudding shut behind them.

The following stillness as they pull away from the fortress and ascend into the sky is a stark contrast to the chaos they just fled from. Dick’s breath is ragged, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He doesn’t expect the wave of pure relief that comes over him, knowing Tim and all of his siblings, the entire family is safe.  

“Set course for Gotham,” Bruce orders from the front of the plane. Duke nods, adjusting the controls while sneaking a few furtive glances behind him. Steph doesn’t even try to be subtle, swiveling her chair fully to study Tim, eyes sharp with curiosity and concern.

Dick barely even registers Damian before he’s suddenly colliding into Tim’s chest, arms locking around him in an almost desperate embrace. Tim winces slightly but otherwise freezes, staring down at the familiar black hair pressed into his collarbone in confusion.

Confident Damian has a hold on him, Dick slips his arm away and takes a step back. 

“Dami?” Tim breathes, his voice only just above a whisper. 

Damian just nods. 

Tim frowns, gazing down at him in complete bafflement, “I know I’m not exactly in the best headspace right now, but… I could've sworn you remembered…me. Remembered…everything?”

“I do,” Damian confirms, voice muffled against Tim’s chest. 

Tim huffs, his eyebrows raised high in surprise. “And you’re still hugging me?”

“Of course I am,” Damian scoffs, as if Tim is being particularly dense. “You’re my brother.”

Tim swallows, his expression softening into something so vulnerable, Dick almost feels like he should be looking away. 

Tim finally lifts a timid hand, cupping the back of Damian’s neck, and leaning into the embrace.

Dick watches the two of them fondly, the faint sting of tears pricking at his eyes. The brothers cling to each other for a long moment until Damian finally starts to pull away. Tim, though, makes no move to release him. If anything, he seems to be leaning into him further, slumping more and more—

“Shit.” Dick lurches forward and catches Tim on his other side before he can tumble down fully. “Come on Timmy, let's lay you down,” he says, helping Damian gently maneuver Tim onto the other med cot beside where Pru is already laid. 

Cass is already treating her, hooking her up to an IV, but from the looks of it, the assassin has already passed out. 

Tim strains his neck from his cot to get a good look at her, “Is she-?” 

“She’ll be fine,” Cass answers. “Injuries are minimal, just severely dehydrated and malnourished.” 

Tim nods, slumping down completely like his strings have been cut.

“How you doing, kid?” Jason asks from where he’s watching a good few feet away. . 

“Bad,” Tim replies bluntly. 

Dick raises his eyebrows, momentarily shocked by his honesty, somehow knowing Tim isn’t known to be the most forthcoming about his health. Damian too frowns down at him while Tim himself looks perturbed by his own answer. 

Truth serum, Dick remembers suddenly. 

Bruce is there the next second, already pulling off his gloves and cowl. Dick and Damian take an obedient step back to give them space, but neither go further than that. 

Bruce begins examining Tim with practiced precision while Tim watches him with what can only be described as awe.

“…Hi, B,” he murmurs softly.

Bruce glances up from his examination, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, fond smile. “Hello, son.”

Tim exhales shakily, leaning his head back completely and blinking against the moisture rising in his eyes. “Is this a dream?” he asks anxiously. 

“No,” Damian replies instantly, taking a step closer. “This is real, I promise.” 

Tim furrows his brow at him, his expression holding a terribly fragile look of both hope and fear, as if he isn’t entirely sure he can trust Damian’s words, but wants to. 

Cass is on Tim’s other side in an instant, gently carding her hands through his hair. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t have to, just continues stroking his hair and face softly, letting him feel it, feel that she is there with him in reality. 

Tim flinches suddenly as Bruce finally begins to probe at the bandages on his side. 

“Shhh,” their father soothes. “Do you know what happened here?” 

“Splenectomy,” Tim responds automatically, then winces, as if he didn’t mean to actually tell them that, as if he had any hope of hiding such an extreme injury from them. “It’s fine though,” he rushes. 

Bruce frowns, “It’s very far from fine, Tim. That’s a very serious operation.” 

“Yah, well. At least Ra’s didn’t get to keep it this time,” Tim says almost conversationally. “Well, I assume not, you know with the building collapsing and everything.” 

Bruce stops, “This time?”

Tim winces again. 

“Somethings not right,” Cass observes, cocking her head. “He’s not acting like himself.” 

Dick clears his throat. “Ra’s gave him some sort of Truth Serum,” he supplies, voice low. “Pru too. I think…I think that's why he wanted Tim. He knew about his...history.” 

Bruce hums thoughtfully. “What did you tell him?” he asks gently, his tone nonjudgmental, merely inquisitive.

“Nothing,” Tim answers instantly, sounding almost offended. “I know how to fight off mental coercion, even if it is chemical.”

Steph snorts, “Hate to break it to you, but you aren’t exactly a steel trap at the moment.” 

“Because I know I’m safe,” Tim responds quietly, almost to himself. He stops, seeming to actually consider the words now that they’ve been spoken. “I am…safe. Aren’t I?”

For at least the third time that day, Dick feels his heart break for this boy that was once his brother. How long has he been in this timeline? Utterly and completely alone? Only ever being able to depend on himself for aid. 

How long has it been since he was absolutely sure he was secure? Protected? Safe? 

…in this timeline or the last? 

Dick feels himself rush forward without a thought, kneeling beside Bruce near Tim’s head. Tim turns towards him and just stares. Dick reaches down and takes his hand in his, squeezing it comfortingly. 

“We’ve got you, Baby Bird,” he says firmly. “You’re not alone anymore…you won’t ever be again.”

The vow comes from his lips as easy as anything, as if he were just speaking a fact, not promising a reality. He knows there is so much more to it than that. There is so much for them to dissect and deconstruct. Tim’s decisions that have affected all of them, changed the very course of their lives without any sort of knowledge or consent on their part.  There’s a whole life of memories waiting to be unpacked, good times and bad that Dick hopes he’ll remember soon.

It won’t be that easy. It won’t be simple. But this? This promise? 

That is the simplest thing of all. 

The sky is blue. The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west,

And Timothy Drake will always be a part of their family.

Chapter Text

“Hold still, Drake!” Damian orders him for the fifth time. 

Tim rolls his eyes from his spot at the Batcomputer. The two of them have managed to share the same space for over twenty minutes now without an insult or altercation—a small miracle in Tim’s book.

He’s been so absorbed in this case, the intrusion barely phased him at first. But of course, the little demon couldn’t let the peace last.

At Damian’s first order to ‘stay still’, Tim threw him a questioning glance only to find Damian hunched over his sketchbook at the debrief table. 

Damian looked up from his work and met Tim’s eye with a silent, yet insistent ‘do as you’re told’ look. 

Tim scoffed but didn't protest. 

He’d really like to preserve some measure of goodwill between them. They’ve been doing better the last few months—far better than Tim ever expected. Besides, it isn’t like he moves much while doing his research anyway.

Fifteen minutes of this proves otherwise, however, with Damian admonishing him every few minutes for each small adjustment.

Tim’s patience with it is starting to run thin.

"You know a please wouldn’t kill you,” Tim mutters under his breath, not expecting a response. But after a moment of contemplative silence Damian speaks again…

“Please,” he mutters.

Tim turns his head towards him, not quite believing his ears. 

“What?” he manages, confounded. 

Damian tightens his jaw. “Would you please hold still?” he asks rigidly, like it’s hard for him to get the words out. “...I would appreciate it.” 

And Tim… Tim can’t do anything but nod. His throat feels strangely tight, but he masks it with a neutral expression. He turns back to his work, this time conscious of every minuscule twitch in his muscles. When he needs to type or move his mouse, he’s careful to return to the exact same position he was in before.

After about another 30 minutes of this, Damian glances up at Tim again. “Thank you,” he says, sounding honest. “You can move now.” 

Tim immediately rolls out his shoulder and stretches out his neck, ridding himself of the tension that’s been steadily building up. He looks over at Damian and finds him slumped back in his chair, staring down at his work with a critical frown.

“Can I see?” Tim asks haltingly. He knows Damian is passionate about art, of course, but he’s only seen a few of his pieces—the ones Damian was particularly proud of, the ones that inevitably ended up hung somewhere in the manor.

Damian hesitates, chewing at the side of his cheek, before nodding once. Tim stands and makes his way over. There’s a tension in Damian's frame that isn’t quite anxious or nervous, he notes. Anticipation, maybe? 

He stops behind Damian and gazes down over his shoulder. 

He smiles slightly. The drawing is good, especially for someone Damian’s age. It shows Tim sitting in the large spinning chair, his profile backlit by the wall of monitors that make up the Batcomputer. Damian drew it in charcoal, allowing a larger range of values—from the dark shadows surrounding them to the light shining over Tim’s form, a chiaroscuro effect that makes the whole scene feel more dramatic than the everyday sight it truly is.

The lighting situation makes Tim’s face barely discernible, and yet his profile is still distinctly him. The sharp line of his jaw, the tilt of his head—details Damian has captured with surprising precision. It’s a good likeness, which Tim knows isn’t easy to capture, even for exceptionally skilled artists.

Tim inclines his head once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well done,” he says honestly.

Damian lifts his gaze, studying him with sharp eyes. “You like it?”

“I do.”

Damian hesitates, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of his sketchbook. “Why?”

Tim narrows his eyes, tilting his head. “Why do I like it?”

“Yes.”

Tim lets out a short breath through his nose, half a laugh. “You fishing for compliments now?”

“What? No, I just-”

“Just what?”

“I want feedback,” Damian says, his voice clipped but serious.

“I gave you feedback.” Tim says, gesturing at the page. “I said it was good.”

“But why is it good?” Damian presses. “How can it be improved?”

Tim squints as he realizes what he’s really asking. Damian isn’t looking for vapid compliments.

He wants a critique. 

“...Why are you asking me?” Tim asks haltingly.

“…I’ve hit a stall in my progress,” Damian admits slowly. “My research has taught me that critique is an artist’s most valuable tool, identifying strengths and weaknesses. It’s just like training.”

Tim follows his reasoning with a slow nod. “Ok. So why don’t you just ask B or Dick? I’m sure they’d be more than willing to help.”

Damian shakes his head, lips flattening with annoyance. “They refuse to give me actual criticisms. It’s exhausting.”

Tim hums sympathetically. He went through that stage once, before he had online acquaintances he trusted enough to be brutally honest about his work. Criticism is necessary for growth—it forces you out of your own tunnel vision, helps you see through someone else’s eyes.

“But you think I will?”

Damian shrugs a shoulder casually. “I think we’re past sparing each other’s feelings, Drake.”

Fair enough.

So Tim pulls out the chair beside him and sits, reaching toward the sketch pad. “May I?”

Damian narrows his eyes but gives a small, reluctant nod. Tim slides the drawing closer, glancing between it and the glowing Batcomputer screens, comparing scale, shape, proportions, and value with quick, practiced sweeps of his gaze.

After about a minute, Tim turns back to Damian. “You have a perspective issue here,” he says, pointing to the corner of the desk he’d been sitting in front of. “You’re trying to do it in one-point perspective, but from this angle it needs to be in two-point.”

Damian furrows his brow in thought, lips pressing together before he gives a slow nod. “What else?”

Tim shrugs slightly, unsure how far he should push this. “I don’t know. Everything else is to scale, and you made good value choices. Overall it reads well.”

Damian’s eyes narrow into a sharp glare. “What else?” he repeats, clipped and impatient.

Tim huffs, holding up a hand in mock surrender before leaning forward again. “Alright. Well, if you want to elevate your work going forward, you might consider your composition more carefully. Where is your focal point? Why is it there? How can you draw your viewer’s eye to it? What would make someone stop and study the image rather than just pass it by?” 

Tim points around the edges where Damian has carefully shaded the darkness of the shadows. “You have some interesting textures going on, but what’s their purpose? How do they contribute to the overall image? Realism is good, but a camera can capture that. What is the intention of your medium?”

Tim clamps his mouth shut, realizing that was probably more information than Damian was looking for. But when Tim glances back at him, he doesn’t seem bothered. His eyes are intent on the image, his posture taut with focus. He looks back over at Tim when he stops, expression openly curious.

“How do you know all this?” he asks pointedly. 

“Uh—” Tim clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “To be fair, I don’t know much about traditional art. But… well, photography isn’t terribly far off. It’s just a different medium, really.”

Damian’s brow creases further, his voice sharpening. “You’re a photographer?”

Tim shifts in his chair. “I dabble,” he mutters.

“Since when?”

Tim lets out a short chuckle, eyes flicking upward as if counting back. “Uhhh, I don’t know. I think I got my first camera when I was six?”

Damian stares, unblinking. “And you’ve been doing it all this time?”

“Off and on,” Tim admits with a small shrug. “It’s hard to find the time, you know?”

“…Why didn’t I know this?”

Tim chuckles again, though this time the sound is quieter, edged with restraint. A dozen biting replies press against his tongue—comments about how Damian couldn’t have cared less whether Tim lived or died until recently (he still isn't quite sure he cares), and how that might explain the lack of interest—but he holds them back.

“It never came up,” he says instead.

Damian swallows, breaking his gaze almost sheepishly, as if understanding the words Tim consciously held back.

The silence stretch for a long awkward moment, Damian lips parting and closing again like he’s searching for the right words.

“Could I…could I see?” he eventually manages.

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “See?”

“Your work,” he clarifies. 

Tim hesitates. 

Photography is one of the few things he has left that feels wholly his. The thought of sharing it stirs something raw in his chest. He’s never tried to show Alfred or Bruce because, as he learned from his parents, there wasn’t much to talk about. Besides, B already has enough on his plate with all his children; Tim’s little hobby hardly seems worth his attention.

But… well, Tim would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to see what they would think. Especially since his primary focus has always been capturing the family—more than just the masks and mantles. 

He doesn’t answer Damian directly, unaware he's even made a decision before he's turning back to the Batcomputer, fingers quick and sure as he navigates his personal database. Everything lives here: his casework, mission reports, and yes, his photographs. It would be dangerous to store them anywhere less secure.

Once the files are pulled up, Tim just takes a step back and gestures for Damian to ‘have at it’. 

Damian moves forward almost too quickly, a glint in his eyes, and for a split second Tim questions his own sanity.

Why on earth would he give Damian access to his photos—the one person who has historically and consistently found joy in prodding at his most vulnerable parts?

Tim takes a steadying breath, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. Damian may still be a little demon child, but he has gotten better. And Tim can’t expect anything to change between them if he doesn’t give him chances to show it.

Still, he really hopes he doesn’t regret this.

Damian scrolls through the dozens of folders, each sorted and labeled in a way that probably only Tim could ever make sense of—classified by year, season, subject, and location. His eyes flick quickly over the screen, cataloging the strange but meticulous system with a faint crease of concentration on his brow. Finally, he seems to just pick a folder at random, selecting the first file available.

It’s a picture of Batman and Robin leaping across the gap between two buildings. More specifically, it’s Jason—his identity clear from his iconic Robin suit and the wide, reckless grin spread across his face.

Damian falters, his hand stilling on the mouse in open surprise, though he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he clicks through a few more photos before moving on to a different file.

This one focuses mainly on Nightwing, his first year after leaving Robin behind by the looks of it. Dick was almost never in Gotham then, so Tim would take the bus all the way out to Blüdhaven before sunset. He would spend the night out there, snapping photos from shadowed rooftops, before catching the earliest bus back to Gotham at sunrise. 

He only managed it a handful of times before almost getting caught once and stopping altogether, not wanting to risk Nightwing discovering him. 

He’s glad he did it though. These might be the only photographs of Nightwing that exist from that period. 

Damian keeps moving through the files, his pace steady, deliberate. He scrolls, clicks, lingers for a breath, and then moves on, his expression unreadable. This goes on for nearly ten minutes before he finally stops on a picture of himself.

In the photo, Damian is mid-grapple, soaring through the air with his cape whipping high behind him, a smirk tugging at his lips. He looks young, and impossibly light. 

Just another happy Robin spreading his wings.

“When did you take this?” he asks.

Tim glances at the label. “About six months ago, looks like,” he says as neutrally as he can.

“Hn.” Damian grunts, and Tim has to fight down a smirk at how much he sounds like Bruce. “You’ve been doing this a long time,” he observes. “Is this why Richard calls you a ‘little stalker’?”

Tim cringes. “Yeah, that about sums it up. After I figured out B and Dick’s identities…well, let’s just say it’s a hyperfixation that stuck.”

“How did you find out?” 

“Quadruple somersault,” Tim says simply.

Damian stares.

“The Flying Graysons were the only people in the world who could do that trick,” Tim explains. “Once I saw Robin do it…it wasn’t that difficult of a deduction.”

Damian hums thoughtfully, turning back to the screen. After another few minutes, he closes out of the files and stands.

He hesitates. “…If you are amenable…I would like to see more of your work in the future.”

Tim blinks. “Really?”

“Yes,” Damian nods. “And…if you are not otherwise occupied, I’d appreciate it if you could look at more of my work as well.” He stops, looking suddenly unsure of himself. “You…evidently have an eye for artistry, and I would be foolish not to seek advice from someone…informed on these things.”

The words are stiff and overly formal, more like an official request than the olive branch Tim is fairly certain it’s meant to be.

But Tim still smiles slowly.

He’s long since looked past their initial rivalry. Even if they still fight like cats and dogs, Tim can’t really blame Damian, knowing what he knows about his upbringing. He isn’t sure Damian will ever truly like him, but…he’s clearly trying.

And Tim can work with that.

“Yeah,” he finally answers. “Sounds good, Baby Bat.”

Damian’s neutral expression vanishes in an instant, replaced by a fierce scowl. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Too bad.” Tim smirks, plopping back down in his chair.

“You are a child,” Damian mutters, though with a lot less bite than usual.

Tim just chuckles. Damian rolls his eyes, grabs his things, and storms out of the Batcave without another word.

Tim shakes his head good-naturedly as he leans back in his chair thoughtfully. Things could certainly be worse between them. But maybe… maybe this could be a step towards something better.

Now if only Damian could start cooperating with him in the field.

Tim wakes with a gasp, his eyes flying open. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s still dreaming because he’d know the ceiling of the Batcave anywhere—the ribbed rock and steel beams arching above him like a cage. Not to mention the accompanying familiar sounds—the ruffle of batwings echoing across the walls, the quiet hum of technology, and that same maddening drip-drip of water they’ve never been able to trace.

And then the pain hits him. 

It isn’t so bad in comparison to what he’s dealt with before, but it certainly isn’t nice and takes away the possibility of this being a dream in an instant. 

Tim scours his memory for an explanation. He remembers… the League taking Damian, the confrontation at the docks, getting stabbed and waking up with Ra’s….

Tim instinctively cradles a hand to his side, the main source of his pain, pressing against the ache right where—

“Son of a bitch,” he curses vehemently, realization hitting him. That goddamn accident toad took his spleen. 

Again. 

He lets out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Now that’s just embarrassing," he mutters to himself. 

A quiet chuckle answers him. “Yeah, I’ll say.”

Tim jerks his head toward the sound, body tensing defensively as he spots figure leaning into the medbay entrance, posture loose and easy…

Jason?

Jason raises his hands up where Tim can see them, “Woah, woah. You’re alright kid. Same side, remember?” 

Tim relaxes, but only just. He flounders for a second, mind still foggy on what exactly happened and why he’s here. He raises his hand up to his face to check, hoping despite himself that maybe he’s still somehow wearing his mask. 

Jason’s mouth twitches, clearly amused. “You didn’t really think that was still an option, did you?”

Tim slumps back against the pillow, groaning. “A guy can hope.”

Jason’s amusement dims, replaced by something steadier as he takes a cautious step forward. “How much do you remember?”

Tim considers that. After his initial conversation with Ra’s, things get…cloudy. He remembers the serum, bits and pieces of the interrogation, ragebaiting Ra’s. Ha that was good. And then…Dick. Was that real?

Tim looks to Jason blearily, “Did you- did you all-?” 

“Save your ass from Ra’s Al Ghul himself?” Jason smirks. “Hell yes, we did.”

Tim stares.

“Though I supposed you did a fair bit of the saving yourself in the end,” Jason continues, shifting his weight onto one leg. “You know… blowing the place up and everything. Which, just so you know, B is definitely going to want an explanation for. Actually…” his mouth quirks. “You’re gonna have a hell of a lot of explaining to do in general. Messing with the timeline, Timmy?” He tsks. “Pretty sure Bruce taught you better than that..”

Tim freezes, his brain finally starting to boot back up. “What?”

Other memories surge back in a rush: Damian calling his bluff at Drake Industries before the attack, Ra’s demanding answers about the other timeline, Cass’s voice over the comms, undeniably calling him little brother.

Tim’s heart kicks into overdrive. He tries to sit up, but pain tears through his side, tugging at the fresh stitches.

Jason closes the distance in an instant, pressing a steady hand to Tim’s shoulder as he gently but firmly pushes him back down.

“Shit,” Jason mutters, voice low but not unkind. “Relax man, you got a death wish or somethin?” 

But Tim can hardly hear him, his thoughts spiraling out of control. It shouldn’t be possible. It is quite literally impossible. How could they know? Not just know, but remember. The things Damian said to him at the office…he knew things about him as if he lived the other life just like Tim did. 

They remembered. 

A low ringing fills his ears, muffling the sound of Jason’s concerned voice, the distant hum of the cave’s computers, even the thunder of his own pulse. His vision begins to tunnel—darkness closing in like a vignette creeping into the edges of his viewfinder. Belatedly, he recognizes the signs of an oncoming panic attack. 

But then a hand settles at the nape of his neck, firm yet lithe fingers kneading the tight muscles there. Tension begins to slip away from him in increments. The hand drifts lower to work at the junction between his neck and shoulders, then slides back up, gently tangling into his hair. The touch is familiar, the motions almost ritualistic, practiced—and yet it’s been years since Tim has felt it.

It takes about a minute of this for Tim to truly come back to himself, letting go of the momentary panic. Tim evens out his breathing again, and tilts his head upwards, opening his eyes to the person sitting at his side— the only person it could possibly be. 

“Cass,” he whispers, shaikily.

Cass just smiles back softly, “Tim.”

He stares at her in wonder, her hand never breaking its steady soothing rhythm at the nape of his neck. That wretched little creature inside him—the one that’s always ached for human touch, starved for it—practically preens under her care and he can’t help but lean into it. 

They just sit there for a while, both content to just be in each other’s presence. They’ve never needed many words between them. Cass reads him like an open book and Tim… Tim trusts her in a way he’s rarely trusted anyone. 

“Do… do you..?” Tim can’t quite get the words out, but he needs to know for certain. 

Cass nods once, her gaze steady, understanding the question without it needing to be spoken. “Yes. I remember. I remember everything.” 

Something deep inside Tim bursts open at that and before he knows it, he has a hand over his eyes, trying in vain to hide the tears and the near silent sobs shaking their way out of him. Cass says nothing, only lets him cry, her hand still threading gently through his hair.

It takes several minutes before the storm passes and his breathing steadies again. Cass remains by his side, patient, constant.

Jason, though—Tim glances around for him and spots him near the medbay entry, his back turned. Tim can’t tell if it’s his attempt to give them privacy or if he’s acting as guard.

Maybe it’s a bit of both.

Tim swallows, his analytical mind slipping back into place now that the storm of emotion has ebbed—at least for the moment.

“How- how is this possible?” 

Cass exhales, the sound soft but heavy. “I don’t completely understand it myself,” she admits. “You’ll have to ask Damian. He seems to have the best grasp on it.”

Tim shakes his head in confusion, “Grasp for what?” 

She tilts her head, shoulders lifting in a small helpless shrug. “To put it simply, our minds may have forgotten, but our souls help us remember.”

Tim frowns, that sounds like a whole bunch of nonsense to him but- “So… you all…everyone remembers?”

Tim tenses at the answering silence, Cass’s expression going sad.

The sound of footsteps interrupts them—three sets, one quick, the other two more measured—echoing down the stairs. A moment later, Dick bursts into view at the medbay entrance and moves to step inside, but Jason gently stops him with a hand on his arm.

Dick’s gaze darts between Jason and where he can see Tim resting. His eyes are wide, his hair slightly tousled, as if he hasn’t bothered taming it since his shower.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was awake?!” he demands, pushing against Jason’s hand, his voice breathless, pitched somewhere between relief and exasperation.

Jason braces and shoves back. “It’s been all of five minutes, Big Bird.” He rolls his eyes. “Give the kid a second.”

Dick ignores him, shouldering past to the monitors. He immediately starts checking and double-checking Tim’s vitals to appease his overactive brain, hands moving with restless precision. The sight makes Tim’s lips twitch upwards fondly.

Jason follows him in, though he hangs back, keeping a modest distance.

A second later, Steph and Duke come into view at a much more calm pace. 

Duke throws both arms up in the air. “He lives!”

Tim lets out a soft huff of laughter.

Steph gives him a quick once over and nods, smiling softly, "Glad to see you in one piece, Tim.” 

Tim’s smile dims.

The words hang oddly in the air. Not cold—but careful. Polite in a way that feels foreign, distant and not at all accusing like Tim would expect after getting himself into this situation. And the way she says his name—just “Tim”—feels…wrong. 

In all the years he’s known Steph, she’s always had one nickname or another for him and for the other important people in her life. She’s never been one for formality. Sure, she’d call him Tim sometimes, but more often it was Boyfriend, Timbit, Boy Blunder, Bird Brain, etc.

Tim analyzes her body language. She’s isn't exactly stiff, more...uncertain. Awkward, even, like…like she doesn’t know how to behave around him. 

Tim turns back to Cass, already finding her eyes on him, sad and knowing.

“She doesn’t-”

“No,” Cass says gently. “Not yet.”

Tim shakes his head, “Yet?” 

“So far, it’s just Damian and me,” Cass admits softly.

The room stills at her words and Tim feels his chest crack open all over again.

Oh. 

Tim looks around at the others. Their faces are full of various levels of concern, kindness, even empathy… but not recognition. Despite clearly wanting to be a support to Tim… they have no idea who he is…not really. 

Cass’s phrasing catches up with him, and he narrows his eyes. “…So far?”

”Best we can tell, it has to do with exposure,” Jason explains gently. “The more time we spend with you, the more the memories return. But it’s… unpredictable to say the least.”

“It took Damian months,” Dick adds quietly. “And he only just remembered a few days ago. But Cass remembered after the night she first met you… well you know, this time around.” 

Tim’s thoughts slip in and out, unable to keep hold of everything they’re saying. His mind is still stuck on that fact that-

“You don’t know who I am,” he says aloud. The words come out raw, his throat tightening even as he tries to force himself to relax. 

Dick’s head snaps toward him. Tim is only half aware as he circles the bed quickly and drops into the chair at Tim’s side. 

Tim avoids his eye, already reconstructing the walls he keeps around his mind to keep him a part, to keep him safe. 

Dick raises a hand as if to put it on his shoulder, but stops himself, seeming to sense his increased anxiety at the movement. 

 “…We know enough, Tim,” he says softly. “And the rest… we’ll know soon.”

Tim just stares at Dick with a hard expression, mind suddenly replaying words he scarcely remembers, yet are imprinted on his mind. “We’ve got you, baby bird,” he had said. “You’re not alone anymore, you won’t ever be again.”

How could he promise that? 

“Hence our little family dinner the other night,” Duke says, stepping closer. He grimaces a little. “Sorry for the ambush. We didn’t want to spook you, but… well.”

“We’re all pretty eager to get our memories back,” Jason finishes. “And they will come back. We’re… reasonably sure.”

Tim blinks, then blinks again, the implications of everything finally beginning to register.

Cass remembers.

Damian remembers.

But no one else does.

…And yet—they want to.

“Why would you want that?” Tim blurts, barely aware of the words before they leave his mouth.

Dick frowns, a deep crease between his brows. “…Why wouldn’t we?”

Tim’s lips part, then press shut again. Words choke at the back of his throat, useless. How could he explain how catastrophically bad of an idea that really is? They think they know enough? His head gives a small, sharp shake. They don’t know anything.

“That isn’t-no. You don’t want that,” he says resolutely, his voice firm even as his chest tightens. 

Dick’s frown deepens, “Tim-”

Tim ignores him, eyes snapping to Cass instead, “Did you tell them anything? Did Damian-?”

“They know some,” she cuts in quickly.

“But not enough,” Tim fills the gaps. His thoughts knot together too fast to untangle, yet the words come anyway. “Not enough for them to know what they’re getting into.”

“The fact that we forgot a whole ass member of the family says enough, don’t you think?” Steph pushes back.

“No- No. You don’t understand,” Tim shakes his head insistently. 

“What don’t we understand?” Dick asks lowly. If Tim was in a better state physically, mentally, and emotionally, he’d probably pick up on the edge creeping into his tone.

“That life…” Tim’s breath hitches, his voice faltering. “It wasn’t good. Not like this one is. You all—” He forces himself to meet each of their eyes, one after the other. “You’re happier now. You don’t want—you don’t need to remember all of that pain. You shouldn’t have to.”

“And who are you to make that decision for us?” Dick cuts in, his voice rising, his words thick with suppressed anger and…saddness?.

Tim blinks blankly, “What?” 

Dick takes a breath and pulls his ire back in, like he didn’t mean to let it slip. He drags his gaze away from Tim and toward Cass, something pleading flickering in his eyes.

She sighs, voice heavy. “Tim, we know you think what you did was right—”

“It was right,” Tim corrects, cutting her off without hesitation.

Dick’s eyes narrow, a scowl hardening across his features. He pushes on like he can’t stop himself. “You made a choice that affected all of us, the world even, but us personally.”

“I did what I had to!” He defends himself. 

Jason sighs, raising a placating hand. “Dick’s right, Tim,” he says cautiously. “You took our lives as they were away without consulting anyone-”

“Took-?” Tim echoes. “I gave you your life back! All of you!”

“Against our will,” Dick counters, a forced calm about him. “You didn’t exactly give us a choice in the matter.”

“You don’t—there wasn’t time!” Tim insists desperately. “I didn’t have a choice. Damian—”

“Damian was already dead,” Steph states matter of factly. “Yah, we know. He told us.”

Tim stops short. “He-he did?”

Jason shrugs, “Yah, least what he remembers about it. Cass filled us in on the rest.”

Tim tenses further, the feelings of inadequacies and failure, failure to protect his family, the feelings he’s been dealing with for years rear their ugly head in an instant. 

But then Cass’s hand clamps onto his shoulder, steady and unyielding. The touch halts his spiral before it can fully take him. He doesn’t want to look at her, but her grip doesn’t relent until he does. When their eyes lock, her gaze bores into his—calm, insistent, unwavering.

It wasn’t your fault, her eyes seem to say.

“I know you were in a difficult position, Tim,” Dick mutters, taking on the tone he uses when he’s trying to be patient—key word, trying. “But you don’t get to make those kinds of decisions on your own.”

“What should I have done, then?” Tim snaps back, heat rising in his voice.

Dick meets his glare head-on with an equally stubborn one of his own. 

“I had to come back. That wasn’t negotiable for a second,” Tim presses on, words tumbling out faster now. “I wasn’t going to let Damia—” he flinches, the words catching sharp in his throat. “Can you really say you blame me? Would you have done any different?”

Dick shakes his head, jaw tight. “You should have come to us—”

“And what?” Tim cuts him off, his voice sharp with bitter laughter. “Manufacture a place for myself in the family? Manipulate you until you thought you wanted me here? Because believe me, I could’ve. But would you have wanted that? It wouldn’t have been real.”

Dick opens his mouth, then closes it again, no answer coming. The silence feels like vindication. 

Tim scoffs and shakes his head bitterly, mumbling to himself, “You barely wanted me here in the first place-”

That ignites the fire in Dick’s eyes instantly. “That is not true-” 

“How would you even know?”

“I think that’s quite enough,” a calm stoic voice interrupts. 

Tim whips his head toward the source—and finds Alfred standing in the doorway, Damian a step behind him. Relief crashes over him at the sight of him, whole and uninjured as far as Tim can tell. 

But Damian’s face is stormy, eyes blazing. 

For an instant, Tim braces himself, more than familiar with being on the wrong side of that glare—

…only to realize his gaze isn’t on him. 

“Out,” Damian states to the room at large, eyes jumping from Dick, Jason, Duke, and Steph. 

Dick bristles, “Dami-” 

“This isn’t helping anything,” he says, surprisingly calm despite his expression, a touch cold maybe. “Timothy needs to rest. If all are incapable of allowing that, you will leave.” 

Dick has a look on his face that says he wants to argue, but Alfred is faster. “Master Damian is quite right,” Alfred says sagely, his voice brooking no debate. “Upstairs, all of you. I will inform you when he is ready for visitors.”

Dick glances at Tim. Whatever he sees there makes the stubbornness drain from his face, replaced with guilt—and a fair amount of regret. He swallows hard, nodding once.

Rising to his feet, Dick lingers a moment longer by Tim’s bedside. He reaches out and gives his hair a small ruffle with a light, almost tentative touch—like he’s testing the gesture out, seeing how Tim will respond to it. 

Tim doesn’t rebuff it, but nor does he lean into it… no matter how much he might want to. 

Dick looks down, then back up again, his expression softening. “I… I know I don’t know everything, Tim. But that doesn’t change the fact that we want you here… I want you here.”

Tim swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat, but he doesn’t have a single word to respond to that with even if he wanted to. 

He doesn't know anymore.

Dick sighs deeply and turns to go, ushering the others with him. 

Tim watches them go, distant, as if he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes—like it’s happening on the other side of glass.

Cass’s slight touch at his shoulder brings him back again. She meets his eyes and Tim is present enough to discern the concern in her eyes. 

“Give them a chance,” she instructs gently. 

And then she stands, following her siblings out—leaving just Tim, Alfred… and Damian.

Alfred steps forward, his movements brisk yet steady, a tray of medical supplies balanced in his hands. The faint clink of glass vials and metal instruments punctuates the otherwise low hum of the Batcave. He sets the tray down beside Tim, slips on a pair of gloves with practiced ease, and exhales slowly through his nose.

“Well,” he breathes, as he looks Tim over. “I imagine that was rather overwhelming. My apologies, Master Tim.”

Tim shrugs it off stiffly. He sits still as Alfred draws a sample of his blood, and shines a small penlight into his eyes to check his pupils. 

Damian steps back, posting himself against the far wall. His arms fold across his chest, his gaze sharp, observing the proceedings like a little guard dog. 

Tim looks from him to Alfred, curious as to why the butler isn’t also dismissing him too, but if Alfred notices his inquisitive gaze, he doesn’t comment.

Alfred finishes his examinations and takes a step back. “How are you feeling overall?” 

Tim lifts one shoulder, noncommittal.

Alfred arches a single unimpressed eyebrow.

 “Sore all over,” he admits before he can stop himself. “Pounding headache. Stichets on my left side keep pulling, and might be torn.” 

Alfred hums, “We’ll have to take a look at that.” 

Tim lies back at Alfred's urging and allows him access to his side. Tim’s mind drifts as he methodically unwraps the bandages, trying to reconstruct his memory from the time Ra’s administered the serum. 

Interrogation. Silence, long and confusing, it felt like his mind was playing tricks on him. A flicker of Dick’s voice—coming for him. A hazy memory of sitting in front of a monitor, pulling information from Pru, activating the failsaf—

Tim tenses, the thought snapping him back. His eyes fly open.

“Where’s Pru?” he demands suddenly.

“Just over there,” Alfred says, gesturing toward a nearby partition. “She’s still unconscious. Her body went through a great deal, but we expect she’ll make a full recovery.”

Tim exhales, his shoulders loosening. “Good. That’s good.”

Alfred eyes him, “How much do you remember, exactly?”

“Bits and pieces,” Tim admits. “I remember the stabbing, a conversation with Ra’s… things come and go after he gave me the serum.”

Alfred nods once, unsurprised. “There are still traces in your bloodstream,” he informs him. “In case you find yourself feeling particularly… honest.”

Tim lets his head fall back against his cot, mentally scolding himself for not picking up on the subtle signs sooner. 

“And then there’s your spleen—or lack thereof—to be concerned about. You recall that much, I assume?”

Tim gives the barest lift of his chin, jaw tight.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain on a specialized blend of antibiotics for the rest of your life,” Alfred continues, his voice tinged with regret. “And you’ll need to be more cautious of wounds and illness. Any sort of infection could prove disastrous.”

“I know, Alfred,” he sighs tiredly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with this.” 

Both of Alfred’s eyebrows climb. “Indeed?”

Tim nods. “Apparently Ra’s has a weird obsession with it,” he huffs. 

Alfred’s mouth thins. “He took your spleen the first time as well?”

He nods again. 

“When?” Damian’s voice cuts in suddenly from across the room.

Tim raises his head enough to look at him. “What?” 

“When?” he repeats, his face betraying nothing, expression carved from stone.

It reminds Tim of the Damian he knew before. Is that who he's dealing with now? All the work and goodwill they built between them over the weeks...does it mean nothing next to their history? 

Tim narrows his eyes but answers, voice steady. “When I was getting Bruce out of the timestream.”

Damian swallows hard, his throat working. “Why—why was I not aware of this?”

Tim frowns, caught off guard. “Come again?”

Damian’s gaze sharpens into something dangerously close to a glare, his voice dropping. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell any of us?”

“Cass and Steph knew,” Tim corrects him. But Damian’s stare doesn’t waver, the question still hanging heavy between them.

Tim holds it for a beat, debating how he should answer, before finally shrugging—too tired to even try to soften the blow.

“It never came up,” he says bluntly, his tone hard and unyielding. 

Damian’s expression falters—cracks wide enough for Tim to glimpse something raw before it shutters again. His jaw works, like he wants to speak but can’t force the words out. Fingers flex restlessly at his sides, curling into fists and loosening just as quickly, his composure unraveling by degrees.

Whatever he’s feeling evidently becomes too much, because the next second, Damian pushes off the wall and leaves without another word, his steps sharp against the cave floor.

Guilt and annoyance war inside Tim’s chest as he slumps back down into the cot. He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have spoken with such unfeeling coldness, but he is emotionally drained and he hasn’t even been awake that long. 

He was only being honest—couldn’t help but be honest.

He hates that the guilt is winning. 

The silence that follows is long with a distinct edge of disappointment in the air. 

“That could have been handled better,” Alfred says at last, his tone dry as he preps a fresh needle and thread to restitch Tim’s side.

“You said it yourself, the serum is still working. It’s not my fault I can’t sugarcoat things right now.” Tim grits his teeth.

Alfred sighs, "I know you are having a trying day, so I won't hold it against you. But do try and consider Master Damian's feelings. He's been quite worried about you." 

Tim scoffs defensively, "Damian? Worried about me?" He shakes his head. "Unlikely." 

Alfred gives him a sharp look, “Do you really believe that?”

Tim grimaces slightly. He…he doesn’t know what he believes anymore. 

“Let me enlighten you on a few things,” Alfred continues when he doesn’t respond. “That boy has put more faith in you these past months than I have ever seen him place in anyone outside this family. When he regained his memories, he was adamant that the others know—without question—that you are their brother every bit as much as he is. He defended you even when he did not yet know it was you he was defending.”

Tim frowns, taking that in as best he can. It doesn’t line up with the Damian he knew for years, the one who met him with barbed words and cold disdain, who seemed to take every chance to remind him he didn’t belong. 

Then there’s the Damian he’s gotten to know recently—not all that different from before, just… kinder. Kinder to Tim specifically. Respectful, even. More than Tim could have ever imagined. But it never felt real. Wasn’t real, not truly. Because how could Damian claim to respect him when he didn't know anything about him?

But then Tim’s mind flickers back, unbidden, to the batplane. The memory is foggy—the rush of air, the pain radiating from his side through his entire body—and then Damian. Running straight to him, throwing his arms around him without hesitation, calling him his brother.

He doesn’t know how to reconcile the two versions in his head: the boy who seemed to hate him and the boy who clung to him like family. The harder he tries to make sense of it, the more his head throbs, a dull pounding behind his eyes courtesy of the concussion.

“I don’t know the extent of your history, but he cares about you Tim,” Alfred says with finality. “And I know you care about him. It’s about time you both acted as such.”

Tim lets out a deep sigh, letting the matter drop for now, and simply lies still. 

He’s so tired. 

Alfred works in silence, steady hands stitching him back together while Tim focuses on breathing through the ache in his body, letting the cave swallow the rest.

The minutes pass slowly, each one stretching longer than the last, and Tim spends the entire time trying to keep his mind clear, his anxieties at bay. He tells himself he should be able to relax—logically, he is safer now than he’s been in years—but the thought doesn’t settle. His body remains tense. 

His chest tightens, a dull rhythm of unease pulsing with each breath, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t quite convince himself to be at ease.

“You seem quite perturbed,” Alfred observes at last, his voice calm and deliberate as he begins to tie off the suture thread with practiced precision.

Tim consciously relaxes his face, realizing he’s been in a deep frown all this time. The tension clings to him like a second skin. He forces his shoulders to drop, jaw loosening as he tries to shake it off.

“I suppose I am,” he admits wearily. 

Alfred’s hands remain steady, but his brow creases ever so slightly. “What has you so unsettled, sir? I would think you’d be glad to be home after all these years.”

Home.

Tim thinks about the gaggle of siblings upstairs who, despite meaning well, have no recollection of him, of his life here among them, of the place he used to hold in the family. As controversial as it sometimes was… it was his.

“Am I, though?” The question slips out before he can stop it, soft and sharp at the same time. “Am I really home?”

Alfred pauses in his work, then looks up at Tim with quiet curiosity. There is no judgment in his expression, only a patient attentiveness— open and willing to listen to him. 

Oh, how he’s missed Alfred, his steady presence, the way he offers space to speak without demanding it, his constant willingness to be there for his pseudo-grandchildren.

Even one he doesn’t remember. 

“I suppose that depends on you,” Alfred says sagely, his voice carrying that same gentle gravity Tim has relied on since he was a teenager. “They say that home is where the heart is… Is that here for you?”

Tim makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, gaze fixed on the cave ceiling above as he wrestles with the question.

As a child, Tim never considered the idea of home as anything more than the place where one lived. In his case, that was Drake Manor. Home, to him, meant literal shelter, a safe place… no matter how quiet and haunting that space would become.

That was until, of course, he first saw the way Batman smiled at his Robin.

It was like finding a hole in his heart he didn’t know was there. Suddenly, he understood the idea of home and family more than anything his parents had ever shown him. It was being cherished, loved, wanted… a place to belong. And Tim had never wanted something so much in his life.

Sure, Batman and Robin were undoubtedly the coolest vigilantes to ever exist, but Tim’s true obsession with the duo was cemented in the fact that they were family. They cared for one another, would do anything for each other, even when he knew full well Bruce wasn’t blood-related to either of his sons.

And then… Jason died. For the first time, Tim saw the strength of grief—the perfect counterpart to love, the consequence of joy.

He watched Bruce fall to pieces, and he couldn’t bear it.

So Tim fixed it the best he could. He knew he was a poor replacement, knew he wasn’t Bruce’s son, not really. But that didn’t matter, because even if Bruce never saw Tim as his, Tim had long decided Bruce was his.

Bruce never picked Tim. Tim had chosen him. Nothing else mattered. Even if the others never saw Tim as one of their own, they were his family and always would be.

It made the distance Bruce maintained between them all the more painful. Tim understood it. He did. Bruce was grieving. He could barely accept the idea of having another Robin, let alone another son. That was fine. Tim could live with that, even if it was painful, even if he had to numb himself to it for the rest of his life.

And thus, Tim learned for himself the way that family could hurt you, unintentionally, unknowingly, but undeniably.

It was a lesson Tim learned and re-learned many times over the years.

And yet, it never made him waver.

Perhaps it should have, given all the pain he endured. But for every hardship, Tim also had understanding. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian… they all had gone through things no one should. How could Tim not have empathy for them? Their reactions weren’t just understandable. They were human. Lesser people with their means and abilities would have become far worse, would have broken entirely.

But not them.

Not Tim’s family.

And so, Tim had a family—one of his own choosing—but he never had belonging.

Still, he dreamed of it. He fantasized about the day Bruce would look at him with pride the way he did at Dick, smile at him with genuine joy the way he would for Jason, never give up on him the way he never would for Damian, believe in him the way he always believed in Cass, trust him like he trusted Barbara, love him like he loved Duke unapologetically.

He dreamed of the day he and his siblings could actually stand one another, trust each other completely, on the field and off.

He dreamed of the day his family would become his home.

And he almost had it too.

In the six months leading up to Tim altering the timeline, their family was actually starting to heal. Tim had hope for something deeper and more complex than he had ever known— hope that his patience would finally be rewarded.

That hope would have died with Damian had he not done what he did.

To this day, Tim has no regrets. Not a single one.

…But now?

For once in his life, Tim has the chance to have everything he’s ever wanted.

And he’s terrified.

His family claims they want him here, seem eager and excited to remember him… but what happens when they do? What if it’s all for nothing? What if they remember everything, go through the trauma and pain of that, only to realize Tim wasn’t worth it?

What does he do then?

Love is a double-edged sword, he recalls telling Damian...

Tim doesn’t respond to Alfred’s question— he doesn’t know how. 

But the butler doesn’t seem to mind. Alfred cleans the re-stitched wound with methodical care and re-bandages his side. By the time he’s done, Tim’s eyelids are heavy, his body finally giving into the bone deep exhaustion. 

Alfred tidies up the rest of his supplies, then pauses at Tim’s side, looking down at him with such affection that, if Tim didn’t know better, he’d think Alfred already knew everything that once was.

“What do you remember, Alfred?” he murmurs softly, unable to help his curiosity.

Alfred smiles sadly. “Nothing, as of yet,” he admits. 

Tim’s eyes drift shut, barely catching the words as he drops off to sleep. 

“But I look forward to changing that.”

Chapter Text

Cass stays a distance behind the others as they climb the stairs from the cave. Silence clings to her siblings, tense and uncomfortable. 

They reach the grandfather clock and slip through one by one, spilling into the study. The sun is low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the room. 

“That went well,” Steph says sarcastically, breaking the quiet. 

Dick exhales hard, his shoulders collapsing inward as he sinks into the sofa. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Jason says flatly, dropping into the chair opposite with a heavy slump, legs sprawling. “But I get why you did.”

Duke lingers at the edge of the group, arms crossed, posture tight. His voice is quieter when he mutters, “He only did what he thought was right.”

“Did you see the way you looked at me when he realized I didn’t remember?” Steph mutters, eyes distant. “Like a kicked puppy, god.” 

Jason lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t last though, did it?” His lips twitch into something almost like pride. “The kid’s got fire in him.”

“Of course he does,” Cass says, stepping into the conversation fully. “He’s a Wayne.”

Dick gazes at her searchingly. “Will he be alright?” 

Cass exhales through her nose, weighing her words. “I think so…eventually.”

Cass watches Dick’s jaw tightens, the muscle twitching there as he looks away, his shoulders tense with guilt. 

“Does he…” Dick’s breath stutters out. “Does he really think we didn’t want him here before?”

Cass holds his gaze and lets her answer come slowly. A small nod.

Duke frowns, his brows knitting together. “But that isn’t true…is it?”

Cass shrugs slightly, not a yes, but not a no.

“What the hell happened back then?” Dick mutters helplessly. 

“Small and large circumstances that built on one another,” Cass says evenly. “His introduction to the family was precarious at best, and it clashed with his upbringing in the worst ways. He was taught to be independent. But he has needs, like anyone else. Needs he likes to pretend don’t exist.” 

“Jesus,” Jason mutters. “We’re getting that kid into therapy ASAP.” 

Cass inclines her head in agreement. 

The sound of measured footsteps cuts across the room. Bruce steps in, eyes moving over each of them, searching, reading the unspoken tension in the air. “He’s awake?” he gathers. 

They nod.

Bruce makes for the cave, but Cass raises a hand, stopping him. “Give him some space,” she advises. Her tone leaves little room for argument. “He’s having a hard time… coming to terms with everything.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow, voice dropping. “What happened?”

“He doesn’t want us to remember,” Dick surmises, voice tinged with bitterness. 

Cass shakes her head immediately. “That isn’t it.”

Jason leans forward, elbows on his knees. “No? He seemed pretty damn adamant.”

“He’s scared,” Cass corrects. 

“Of what?” Bruce asks.

Cass exhales deeply, the sound drawn from somewhere in her chest. It isn’t easy, always being the one with the answers—the only one with the insights to navigate this minefield. But right now, she’s all they have. Damian may remember, but he never truly understood Tim, not with all the baggage between them.

“Believe me,” Cass says softly, “Tim wants nothing more than to be part of this family. But from his—admittedly warped—perspective, he thinks he doesn’t belong. He’s scared he’ll be rejected.”

“Why?” Dick demands again. 

Cass shakes her head, a bit frustrated. “I can’t summarize years of history for you. And I won’t break Tim’s trust. But…needless to say, Tim is at a crossroads. He’ll have to decide whether he wants to stay or go.”

The room tenses as one. 

“That isn’t up for debate,” Bruce says firmly.

Cass throws him a sharp look, “I guarantee you, it’s exactly what he’ll be debating. I want him here as much as you do, but we can't force it on him.” 

“What happened to ‘he’ll be coming home one way or another’?” Jason presses.

“I did say that,” Cass allows. “And he is home. But whether or not he stays? That’s up to him.”

A contemplative silence falls over them.

“What do we do, then?” Bruce practically pleads. “How can we…how can we convince him to stay?”

Cass looks down at Bruce sadly. She sees his desperation—desperation to help, to control the situation in a way that would benefit everyone, to make his loved ones happy and safe. But Bruce can’t control everything, least of all his children.

Least of all Timothy Drake. 

“Tim has only ever valued himself as others valued his usefulness,” Cass tells them haltingly, navigating her words carefully. “He needs to know we want him here for no other reason than that he is our family. Nothing else.’

Bruce takes that in with a calculated expression.

He frowns after a moment. “How can he believe that when I—we—don’t remember all he’s been through? All we’ve been through together?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cass whispers. “Not really. Tim is worried that when everything comes back, you won’t want him.” She huffs, “And while I can agree it won’t be easy…I know you all. Complicated as things were, you all cared about him. It isn’t the issue he’s making it out to be. But he won’t believe that until you can tell him yourself.” 

“Then what do we do in the meantime?”

“All he needs to know is that he’s wanted—not for what he can do, but for who he is. Be yourselves. Show him you care.” Cass sighs. “That’s all we can do. The rest…is up to him.”

The family doesn’t look satisfied, but it’s the only answer Cass can give them.

Just then, Damian steps out of the grandfather clock, his posture rigid, his expression stormy. He doesn’t pause, just stalks toward the door.

“Damian?” Dick straightens, voice wary.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Damian snaps, quickening his pace. But Jason is faster, moving to block the doorway, his broad frame filling the space.

Damian narrows his eyes at him, fury flashing. “Move, Todd, or be moved.”

“No,” Jason replies flatly, arms crossed.

Damian growls. 

“Damian,” Bruce says gently, placing a hand at his shoulder. Damian throws him off. 

“What happened?” Bruce asks instead, his tone calm, controlled.

Damian grits his teeth, blinking hard. His chest rises and falls too quickly, too sharply. He isn’t angry so much as unraveling, Cass realizes. No wonder he wanted to get out of the room quickly. He’s barely holding himself together.

“I don’t know what to do,” Damian finally manages, voice raspy, desperate. 

Dick and Bruce exchange glances, both equally as clueless on how to address the situation. They don’t know anything about the situation, not really. 

For as much as Cass sees and tries to mediate for the family when she can, it isn’t usually her central role. Bruce has never made it feel like it was her responsibility to cater to everyone's emotions simply because she can read them. Bruce is a good parent, if imperfect. He does right by his kids even if it takes him a few tries to get there. 

But right now?

The family needs her. 

Cass crosses the room, slipping an arm around Damian’s shoulders. He stiffens, but doesn’t shake her off. “Come on, little brother,” she says, her voice firm yet kind. “Let’s go for a walk.”

She steers him out of the study, through the manor, and into the cooling summer evening air, the sun starting to set in the distance. They walk the garden paths aimlessly, their steps crunching over gravel, neither paying much attention to where they end up. Slowly, Damian’s breathing steadies, his hands unclenching at his sides. Only when Cass feels he’s gathered himself does she speak.

“What did he say?” she asks softly.

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Damian mutters after a moment.

Cass doesn’t respond, letting the quiet stretch as they continue to walk. 

“Why didn’t he tell us about his spleen… before?” Damian asks suddenly.

Ah, Cass thinks. She can see why he’d be upset about that. 

She shrugs. “Tim didn’t want the family to see him as weak. As… lesser.”

“That’s idiotic,” Damian snaps. “He could have seriously injured himself, and we would’ve been none the wiser. Besides, having a disability doesn’t make someone weak.”

“You know that now,” Cass agrees. “But you didn’t always.”

Damian’s expression shutters, deep lines of regret creasing his features.

“I didn’t hate him,” he states suddenly. “At least…not at the end. He never…” Damian trails off.

“Never what?” Cass pushes slightly. 

“He never knew how much I came to respect him,” he says, barely discernible. 

Cass smiles softly, “Then you should tell him.” 

Damian scoffs, “I don’t think he’d be willing to hear it.” 

“He needs to hear it,” Cass tells him. “With your memories back…Tim may think you’re back to how you were before.” Cass stops walking and turns to face him. 

He’s nearly her height now. 

“But he’s wrong,” she says firmly. “You aren’t who you were.”

His shoulders tense instantly, “I am exactly who I was,” he bites, bitterness and self-loathing coming off of him in waves. “The only difference is circumstance-”

“Exactly,” Cass cuts him off. “I am not who I was in that life. I made choices then based off my circumstances, learned from them in ways I never have before. Here? My circumstances were different, so I made different choices. I am different.”

Damian studies her, listening.

“And now that I do remember,” She continues. “..I’m not the same person I was a few days ago either. And neither are you. Both lives are a part of us now.”

She waits a beat, then goes on, “You can recognize you made mistakes without tearing yourself up about it. Learn from the experiences of before, do better now. That’s what’s important. It isn’t productive to be caught up in the what was, or more accurately, what could’ve been.” 

“But it did happen,” Damian insists, his voice breaking slightly. “Timothy lived it…”

“That’s true,” Cass concedes. “And I'm not dismissing that. It may take him time for Tim to come to terms with how much everything has changed...but we can help with that.”

Damian’s eyes lower. “What do I do?” he breathes. “How can I… how can I be his brother after all that?”

Cass considers the question.

“I’m a firm believer that actions speak louder than words,” she says. “But in the case of Tim…I’ve learned that sometimes words are necessary.” She nudges him gently. “Talk to him, tell him the truth. He won’t turn you away.” 

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“He came back for you Damian,” Cass reminds him. “You weren’t dead for more than a few minutes before he turned back the clock. He loves you…he just…doesn’t believe you love him too...not yet.” 

Damian swallows hard, his gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the garden path. 

None of them are very good at this— emotion, communication. But for Tim? They’ll have to be.

“I’ll try.” 

Tim wakes to the cave in darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the emergency lights embedded along the floor. They cast thin lines of pale blue across the stone, enough to keep someone from tripping, but not enough to banish the shadows. It’s late, well past even patrol hours—more like early morning. The cave feels almost hollow.

It only takes him a second to realize he isn’t alone. His body goes tense on instinct, breath hitching—

“Oh, calm down, Red,” a rough voice cuts through the silence. “It’s just me.”

Tim exhales and forces his shoulders to relax. He sits up carefully, blinking against the dim light, he makes out Pru slouched in the chair across from him, the one Damian had occupied earlier. Relief flickers in his chest. If she’s still talking, even if it’s to snark at him, she must be doing alright.

A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “You say that like it’s supposed to be a comfort.”

“Shut up, smartass.”

Tim chuckles quietly. For the first time since they last spoke, his anxieties surrounding Pru and her wellbeing ease.

“How are you?”

“Peachy,” she says dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “A month with the Demon’s Head really does wonders.”

“…I can imagine.”

Pru huffs, crossing her arms. “We both know you can do more than imagine.”

Fair enough, Tim concedes.

The silence that follows hangs heavy, a weight pressing down on the usually easy air between them. Pru shifts in her chair, throat working as she swallows.

“I’m sorry,” she says at last, her voice rough. “I’m sorry I—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tim cuts in, dismissing the words as firmly as he had the first time. “I don’t blame you.”

Pru lets out a long breath, shaking her head. “Yeah, well… I know how hard you worked to protect your secrets. You trusted me with them, and I just—”

“It wasn’t. Your. Fault.” Tim enunciates each word, steady and deliberate. “I know you did your best. I never doubted you. Not for a second.”

That silences her. Pru doesn’t argue, doesn’t deflect. She just sits with his words, letting them settle.

Finally, she speaks again, softer this time. “I’ve never known someone as loyal as you. Never. Not in all my years in the League…”

Tim huffs a short, dry laugh. “Well, I don’t think the LOA is exactly known for their team-building exercises. Pretty low bar.”

“…The League does what is necessary,” Pru says, her tone flat, almost reciting. “There isn’t room for the individual. Just the cause.”

Tim’s gaze drifts away, unfocused. He thinks about Bruce, about those hollow years after Jason’s death when everything narrowed down to the mission. Nothing more or less — no space for grief, or love… or family. Just the cause.

“That’s no way to live,” he breathes.

Pru turns her head, studying him properly now. There’s something sharp in her eyes, something knowing. “A little ironic, coming from you, don’t you think?”

Tim frowns. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, casual on the surface, but her words are cutting. “That’s all you’ve had for years now, hasn’t it? The cause, your cause. Your need to sacrifice everything for it…for your family”

Tim shakes his head, “That’s different.”

“How?”

“What I do isn’t for me…it’s for them.”

“Is it? Is it really?” 

Tim just stares, confused by the quiet challenge in her tone.

“You’re afraid,” Pru says softly. “You always have been. You’d rather deprive yourself of something you want—something you need—than risk it being taken from you instead. And what’s worse is you’re depriving them too.”

Tim scoffs, though the sound lacks conviction. “I wouldn’t say my lack of presence is depriving them of anything,” he deflects. 

“No?” She leans forward, eyes sharp. “What about their memories? What about their past lives?”

Tim’s frown deepens. He’s told Pru about the past timeline, sure—but he never told her there was a chance the memories could return. He didn’t know himself until now. (He still needs to ask more about how that was possible, because what the actual hell?)

But as far as he knows, Pru was unconscious when the others were down here…

“How… how do you know about that?” Tim mumbles.

Pru smirks conspiringly, like she knows something he doesn't. “Didn’t you ever wonder how I knew you were Cardinal?”

Tim did wonder. After taking down the Council of Spiders, Cardinal and Pru parted ways, likely to never see each other again. When Pru confronted Tim at Drake manor, he couldn’t help but spill the beans about everything, there was no other way to earn her trust. Pru believed him, admittedly far easier than Tim would’ve expected. 

But she never told him how she found out Cardinal and Tim Drake were one and the same. 

Tim blinks, realization dawning on him. “Pru…do you-?”