Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

There was a very special time at Wayne Manor between five and 7 o’clock when the atmosphere was perfectly quiet because the inhabitants were actually sleeping; unfortunately, this was also the only time when Tim could not sleep. It was the overall silence and stillness that kept him alert, rather than it doing anything to help him doze off. So instead he found himself working on his laptop in the darkness of his room, his legs crossed beneath him and his back hunched as he leaned over the keyboard, waiting for an alarm to go off on his phone that told him it was time to switch over into his daytime mindset. 

This early morning was no different than many of the others that Tim had spent this way since he had started living at Wayne Manor after becoming Bruce Wayne’s third adoptee, but what was different was his attention span on working through the file of pilfered police cold cases on his laptop. It was annoying and mind numbing, but he could not for the life of him get his brain to focus on the evidence files and case pictures on the screen in front him, instead his thoughts kept running over how much he did not want to be around for breakfast and how there had to be some reason to leave earlier than usual. 

 With a huff and grunt, Tim shoved himself back from his desk so that his office chair rolled backward toward the middle of his room, his arms falling to his dangle limply from his shoulders and his head pressed back against the back rest as he gazed up at the ceiling, his chair slowly spinning as it stopped rolling. He lifted his hand in front of his face and flicked his wrist to wake up the screen of his digital wrist watch: 4:45 am. 

 Meh… that’s close enough.

 Tim unfolded his legs from their cross crossed position and stood, giving his chair a little shove to send it back toward his desk, then crossed his room to enter his attached bathroom; because of course all the bedrooms in Wayne Manor were masters. After running damp hands through his unruly black hair, he smoothed it back with a palmful of mousse and combed it back, knowing full well that by lunchtime it would be sticking out in likely ridiculous directions, but at least he would know that he had put in the effort. 

Once dressed in a coal gray suit jacket and matching dress pants with a dark maroon button up underneath and finished off with a matching gray tie, Tim grabbed his black leather shoes, briefcase, and keys before slipping out of his room, making extra sure that he locked it behind him. 

Every loose wooden floorboard, every tile that might squeak, and each creaky stair were perfectly mapped out in Tim's mind, making his path through the dark manor silent. Once outside on the top step, he blew out a deep breath and pulled on his shoes, tucking the laces into the sides with the purpose of tying them later so he didn't have to kneel on the stone step and risk dirtying his pants. 

 “Mission accomplished.” He smirked as he trotted down the steps and clicked one of the buttons on his key fob, unlocking his sixteenth birthday present from Bruce: a satin black Lamborghini with red tire rims and leather interior. He had thought it was a little bit of a cheeky nod, since those were the colors of his night-time alterego, but neither one of them had brought it up except for a wink and a nod before they went on a slightly illegal highspeed drive through the outskirts of Gotham together to break it in; that was back when Bruce was not so preoccupied.

Tim got in and turned the key in the ignition, smiling a little to himself at the roar and hum of the engine starting before clicking his seatbelt into place and pulling up the gravel driveway toward the arched gate at the entrance of the estate. He lounged back in the seat, resting his left elbow against the window so he could lean his cheek onto his loosely held fist while his right hand rested casually on the top of his steering wheel, knowing his shouldn't but allowing himself to zone out as muscle memory took over the drive to Wayne Enterprises in the heart of downtown Gotham. 

Before six o'clock in the morning, Wanye Enterprises was nearly as silent as the manor Tim had just left, but the faint hum of the air conditioning systems and the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights in each room filled the air just enough to be slightly more comforting. Once parallel parked in his personal space, he slid his key card through the reader on the front door then made his way to the glass elevator just past the vacant welcome desk, punching in the numbers for the fiftieth floor and leaning back against the railing as the elevator started to ascend. 

Tim’s office was set up almost identically to Bruce’s, which was right next to his and connected by a door, except it also had a nice futon couch that Bruce had put in there after finding Tim zonked out at his desk one too many times. His desk was in the center of the room and set up with not one, not two, but three computer monitors, and was a veritable disaster of papers, reports, HR manuals, standards of operation procedure documents, and envelopes containing letters and proposals in varying stages of being opened. 

Tim spun his office chair around and sunk into it, reaching out to press a button on his desk that opened the automated shades on the windows that made up the entire back wall of his office, staring out over the barely awake cityscape for a few minutes; just until the sun began to peak up over the tops of the skyscrapers and turn the sky hues of pinks and oranges, then he swiveled around toward his desk and started sorting through the mess of papers.

The work of being co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises was nothing in comparison to solving criminal cases and getting his hands dirty tracking down thugs and crime rings, but it was busy work that kept his overactive mind from going into hyperdrive and effectively shutting down entirely. It had not seemed like long at all before a knock on his door made him start slightly, and glancing over at the corner of his center monitor found with surprise that it was a ten after seven and more surprising than that his desk was cleared. “Come on in.” 

The door opened and a young woman with blonde hair, pink rimmed oval glasses, and dressed in a tan pant-suit stepped in with a bright smile. “Good morning Mr Wayne!” 

“Good morning Marsha, how are you?” Tim replied, smiling politely as he closed the filing drawer to his left. 

“Oh I’m just fine as usual,” Marsha returned lightly, pushing her glasses up a bit on the bridge of her nose, “I figured you’d be here before anyone else, so I got you your usual on my way in this morning: a large double cappuccino, extra hot, no sleeve, double cup.” 

“Thanks Marsha, I was itching for a cup this morning.” Tim smiled a little brighter as he reached out and accepted the cup from Marsha. “You’re the best.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, I mean, I try.” Marsha replied, blushing a little across her cheeks and nose as she always did when offered a little praise. She cleared her throat and straighted, taking the pen from the spirals of her notebook and clicking the end to ready it for writing. “Is there anything you need from me right away this morning Mr. Wayne?” 

“I don’t think so Marsha,” Tim replied, pausing to sip carefully at the hot, bitter cup of coffee, “I’m working on the quarterly expense and revenue reports for our meeting today; what time was it again?” 

“Two o’clock, sir, in room 232 B,” Marsha replied, taking a few papers from the back of her notebook and sliding them across Tim’s desk, “here’s this week’s schedule, and today’s board meeting agenda.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” Tim said as he picked up the papers to scan through them. “That’s all for now, thanks again Marsha.” 

“Anytime! Give me a buzz if you need anything!” Marsha quipped cheerfully as she turned toward the door. 

“Oh, Marsha?” 

She stopped and turned as she opened the door, her hand resting on the knob. “Yes sir?” 

Time took another sip of his coffee, swallowing slowly as he tapped his finger against the edge of the lid. “Is, uh, is the other Mr. Wayne here yet this morning?” 

“No sir, but I think he’s probably dropping your little brother off at school. It is Wednesday after all.” 

Tim winced inwardly, but nodded. “Right, thanks Marsha. That’s all.” 

His little brother. He was the whole reason Tim wanted to be anywhere but the Wayne breakfast table. Damian Wayne, Bruce’s only biological son through a freak theft of DNA and experimental artificial womb growth by the crafty and cruel Talia al Ghul, of course no one outside the family knew that part. The Mistress of the Assassin's League had raised the little creep up nice and proper before dumping him into Bruce’s lap for some fatherly upbringing. The problem? Besides Damian being raised to be an emotionless, sociopath little lethal weapon, he also believed that to move up in rank in Bruce’s eyes was to get rid of the competition, and in his unfortunate case, this happened to be Tim. Even though Damian was no longer trying to actually kill Tim, his favorite pastime was cutting remarks, jabs at any and all of Tim’s weaknesses, glaring daggers at him through those beady little green eyes that were painfully alike to Bruce’s aside from color, and finding any and all ways to make him look bad in front of their shared father figure. 

Tim frowned and took a long drink from his coffee, wincing as it burned his tongue when he forgot to blow across the sip lid before taking his drink, and set to losing his thoughts once more in the massive numbers in the spreadsheet in front of him. 

The next time a knock interrupted his calculations, it was on the door that connected his office to Bruce’s, and the one who knocked did not wait for an answer before pulling open the door. 

Bruce Wayne: philanthropist, billionaire, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and Gotham’s most elite playboy by day, and crime fighting, detective, vigilante by night. Today though, he looked a little more like the Bruce that fit neither of those descriptions, the Bruce that Tim had gotten to know over the past several years that only a few had ever really gotten close enough to meet; a softer, more reachable version of himself, a version that at times got on Tim’s nerves because it really made him want to gravitate toward Bruce even when he would rather keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. 

“Morning kiddo,” Bruce greeted gently, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks as he crossed the room to lean his hips against Tim’s desk, “am I interrupting anything?” 

Tim clicked his mouse over the print icon on his right hand monitor and sat back in his chair with a smile as the printer behind him whirred to life. “Not really, I’m just finishing the revenue and expense reports for our two o’clock today. I know that each of the board members like their own copy, so I just have to get those printed and we should be good to go. Good morning to you too, by the way.” 

Bruce nodded, his keen steel-blue eyes doing what they did best, taking in every minute detail of Tim’s face, appearance, and surroundings in search of clues of his mood and current circumstance. “You weren’t at breakfast.” He finally stated. 

Tim swallowed hard as he shook his head, trying to keep his expression level and cheerful, but knowing exactly what Bruce was trying to get at. “No, I know. I wanted to get here a little early and get the reports finished.”  

“How early is ‘a little early’ Tim?” Bruce asked, reaching out to nudge Tim’s already empty coffee cup. 

Tim shrugged flippantly, swiveling his chair around to stand and collect the printed and stapled reports from his printer, taking his time to thumb through them and make sure they had printed correctly. “Early. No big deal.” 

“Am I to assume that your not being at breakfast also means you haven’t had breakfast?” Bruce pressed further, starting to cross his arms over his chest then thinking better of it and resting them on the desktop on either side of his hips instead. 

Tim gathered the reports and tapped them into a neater stack on the top of the printer before turning and placing them on the side of his desk. “I’m fine.” 

Bruce sighed and shook his head. “Tim, that’s not what I asked; I asked if you had eaten.” 

Tim leaned on the back of his chair and lifted his right foot to tap the toe of his shoe against the floor, sighing through his nose as he gave in to Bruce’s consistent pressure. “Not since yesterday.” 

Bruce’s lips pressed together in a slightly unimpressed frown, leaning forward a bit to catch Tim’s gaze. “Tim, we’ve talked about this; you can’t skip meals.” 

“I’ll eat something later, I wasn’t hungry this morning anyway.” Tim attempted to brush off the topic as he sat in his chair again and turned his attention to clicking through the files he had open. 

“Tim.” 

Tim’s hands remained in a typing position for a moment even after his chair was swiveled away from the desk, find himself looking up at Bruce as he leaned forward over him slightly with a hand on the back of his chair. 

“Is there something we need to discuss?” Bruce asked, his voice going all gentle and low in tone as it did when he was trying to crack through Tim’s resolve. “This isn’t the first morning you’ve slipped out before breakfast and come to work before anyone else. I don’t think I’ve seen you at the table in nearly two weeks, for breakfast or dinner.” 

Tim averted his gaze under Bruce’s arm and out the window so that he did not have to meet his searching, insistent stare. “I’ve just been a little busy, that’s all, with balancing quarterly reviews here at the business and school, not to mention our night gig. So I’ve just been a little more on the go than usual.” 

“I really don’t think that’s all that’s going on here.” Bruce let go of Tim’s chair and pulled up his slacks just a bit to allow him to squat down on his heels so he was now looking up slightly into Tim’s face. “Come on kiddo, talk to me, tell me what’s going on. You know, it’s really starting to feel like you’re avoiding me entirely the way you’re constantly two or three steps ahead of me, and I know you aren’t doing it by accident or fluke.” 

Tim chewed on the inside of his cheek as his fingers fiddled with the edge of his suit jacket. “I’m not… avoiding… you… per se…”

Bruce sighed, his shoulders slumping forward a little. “It’s Damian, isn’t it? You’re avoiding Damian.” 

Tim frowned and finally met Bruce’s gaze. “Can you really blame me that much? It seems like any time I’m in the same room with that little creep something unpleasant happens… unpleasant for me, that is.” 

Bruce winced and shook his head. “Don't call him a creep, please.”

“Why not?” Tim challenged lightly, folding his arms across his chest and sinking down in his chair slightly, not caring that he probably very much looked like the picture of a sulking teenager that he usually tried very hard not to emulate. “He's creep-y, the correct grammar usage would be to call him a creep. I mean I can think of lots of other words to use if you would prefer…” 

“Tim, buddy,” Bruce interrupted with a hand on Tim's knee, “I know you two didn't get off on such a great foot…” He paused and sighed deeply as Tim uncrossed his arms to strum his fingers across his side, an area that they both knew held the scar of a katana blade, while staring at him with wide, poignant eyes. “Okay, fair, a really bad foot, but I would hope that the two of you might start working to get past your differences and at least find some similar ground to stand on.” 

“Bruce, there could not be less similar ground for two people to stand on if we were on separate land bodies altogether! The last time I actually attended dinner with the two of you, you both started speaking in Arabic,” Tim reminded, his frown deepening a little as he remembered the awkward evening, “I only picked up maybe every third word you two were exchanging, and you didn't even seem to notice that I was out of the loop!” 

“Well,” Bruce smiled a little and drummed his fingers on Tim's knee, “maybe that's just a good reminder for you to brush up on your Arabic.” He raised his hands quickly in surrender as Tim shot him a hot glare. “Joking, sorry, that was supposed to be a joke” 

“As usual B, your comedic ability is severely lacking.” Tim grumbled, his gaze traveling back out the window and across the cityscape. 

Bruce nodded his head side to side in acceptance of Tim's scolding. “I know, I'm sorry. My point is, I know that Damian’s personal skills are… abysmal, at best, and that he has mistreated you in the past, but it's also hard for either of you to move on if you just flat avoid him constantly.” He reached up and chucked Tim gently under the chin with a small smile. “Besides, I miss you Timmy.” 

Well, that did it. Tim could only hold his resolve so long when Bruce got like this; it pulled him back to the times they had before Damian came into the picture, back when it was just the two of them figuring out their relationship and new dynamic after Tim found himself orphaned, when things were surprisingly easier somehow. 

Tim softened and let his arms fall from their terse, crossed position, sitting forward in his chair a little and laying his hand over Bruce's on his knee. “I miss you too Bruce, I hope you can understand that it hasn't been you I've been avoiding, but the problems that seem to arise when I stick around that kid for too long. I want things to smooth out too, but I'm also a little… gun-shy, I suppose, whenever I'm around him. Anyway, he’s kinda an attention hog.”

Bruce chuckled and stood, cupping the side of Tim's face in his hand. “Funny, he says the same thing about you,” before Tim could protest, Bruce moved his thumb over Tim’s lips for a moment and continued, “but I will admit he's been taking up quite a bit of my time, and I'm sorry if that's made you feel like I was ignoring or neglecting you; with that part, I can do better, if you’re willing to promise that you'll try to at least make an appearance during family meals.” 

Tim sighed and let himself lean into Bruce's hand for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'll try. I can't promise miracles, but I'll try.” 

“I'm not asking for miracles, Tim, just effort, that's enough for me.” Bruce replied, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind Tim's ear. He smiled as he tucked his hands back into his pockets. “Are you hungry now? I can order you something from the restaurant and have it sent to your office.” 

“Naw, I'm fine B,” Tim replied with a wave of his hand as he turned back toward his computer, “I'll eat lunch at noon.” 

“Are you sure?” Bruce insisted, walking around to the front of Tim's desk and leaning against it with a smile. “I could go up to the restaurant with you instead and keep you company while you eat breakfast.” 

Tim smiled and used his foot to swivel his chair back and forth thoughtfully. “Well… maybe…” 

Bruce smiled and straightened as he held out an inviting hand. “Come on, I could use some coffee, and I'll turn a blind eye if you decide to drink another cup after that monstrosity that I know you finished a few minutes ago.” 

Tim stood and stepped around the desk to fall into step next to Bruce as they started toward the door, leaning gratefully into his side as Bruce draped a comfortably heavy arm across his shoulders. “Oh come on, that wasn’t nearly as bad as some of my own coffee and caffeine concoctions, and you know it.” 

Bruce shook his head as he squeezed Tim closer with a chuckle. “Oh trust me, I know it kiddo.” 

Effort. Just effort, that's all Bruce had asked of him, yet here Tim stood in the hallway of the dining room of Wayne Manor with his hand frozen on the doorknob, his heart pounding in his ears and stomach turning uncomfortably. 

Tim frowned and swallowed hard; it was ridiculous that a four-foot tall eleven-year-old was holding him in such a limbo of apprehension in his house. He had been here first after all, regardless of what the baby assassin insisted. He took a deep breath and put on his carefully curated and crafted face of ease and pleasantness and opened the door to step into the dining room. 

 Bruce was sitting at the head of the table, his arms folded in front of him on the table as he engaged in a rather determined manner with the person occupying the chair to his right. 

This person was Damian Wayne-al Ghul: mini assassin, lethal weapon in a child sized package, and absolute emotionless menace to Tim's existence. As much as Tim hated to admit it, Damian truly was the spitting image of Bruce in his features, albeit a little more melanated from his mother's DNA and his eyes were bright green rather than Bruce's steel blue. He was leaning forward as he spoke instantly, his voice taking on that slightly whiny tone that made the hair on the back of Tim's neck stand stiff. 

“I have had a perfectly good education up to this point, Father! This ridiculous ritual of leaving me with simpleton children, and pathetic excuses for instructors every weekday is absurd! I know more than everyone in my so-called grade combined!” Damian insisted, his perfect pronunciation of each word making Tim want to roll his eyes. 

“Going to school isn’t just about education Damian, it’s also about appearances.” Bruce responded, his tone level but somewhat tense and low. They had been going at this for a while before Tim had come downstairs he figured. “You are the son of Gotham’s most powerful businessman, if you didn’t go to school there would be questions. Besides, you need the social interaction the school day brings if nothing else.” 

Tim slipped into his chair at Bruce’s left, a new seating arrangement that had taken place since Damian had insisted that the place on Bruce’s right should be reserved for ‘his actual blood son’. That was a hill Tim and Bruce both had decided not to die on, even though Tim had considered it for a moment. He watched with growing annoyance as the argument continued as if he was not even there. 

“I do not need anything of the kind!” Damian spat, his brows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrowed slightly. “I thrive off of solitude! As should the son of the Bat! I have no need for those simple minded, frivolous focused children at that second rate institution!” 

“There are some things I will pay every mind to agree with you or compromise with you on Damian, but this is not one of them.” Bruce stated firmly. “If I say you are going to go to school, then you will go to school and you will like it!” 

“So you are insinuating that I don’t get a say in my existence here at all? That is completely unfair!” 

A light hand on Tim’s shoulder pulled his attention away from the little pulsing vein on Damain’s forehead and made him look up into the kind face of Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler and for all intents and purposes Bruce’s adoptive father. 

“Glad to see you joined us tonight Master Timothy,” Alfred greeted in a quiet tone, squeezing Tim’s shoulder fondly, “I have missed you greatly at this table.” 

Tim smiled and reached up to pat Alfred’s hand. “Sorry if my absence has bothered you at all Alfred, but I’m sure you can imagine why I haven’t been attending.” 

Alfred glanced over at the mini battle that was still raging between Bruce and Damian, giving them his typical, judgmental, British, stare down the nose. “Yes, I’m afraid I can imagine.” He cleared his throat sharply and successfully brought silence to the room. “Well sirs, if you can manage to sit properly at the table,” He paused and stared at Damian who had been standing on his knees on his chair and waited until he slumped down into the seat correctly, “and can hold the peace for a few moments,” a pointed look at Bruce, “I will bring dinner in forthwith.” 

Bruce cleared his throat and forced the tightness from his brows. “Thank you, Alfred, that would be appreciated.” 

As Alfred left the room to go about his task of serving dinner, a tense, thick silence fell over the room until Bruce seemed to finally notice that Tim was even in the room with them. 

“How’d that last interview go this afternoon?” Bruce asked, reaching out to tap his knuckles gently against Tim’s. “Sorry I had to leave it to you, but one of our shareholders called and I had to take it.” 

Tim smiled and shrugged lightly. “No big deal, you know I like taking the interviews whenever I can. It went fine actually; I think he’s a nice fit for the summer internship, but then of course you and I will need to compare notes between him and the other candidates.” 

 “We can work through that tomorrow or Friday.” Bruce offered, running his fingertip around the rim of his water glass. 

 “Tomorrow maybe, but Friday we have quarterly employee reviews,” Tim replied, “we had planned to split them fifty-fifty, if that still works.” 

 “I see no reason why it wouldn't, we'll get through it a lot faster that way. I could do one o’clock tomorrow to look through the candidates.”

Tim nodded and took a drink from his water glass. “That works for my schedule. It’ll be nice to get it decided and processed earlier rather than later.”  

 “Tt…” 

 Damian's signature scoff from across the table made Tim flinch, his gaze cutting over to the sulking tween. 

 “Honestly Father, I am surprised that you would trust such things to someone as scattered as Drake.” Damian quipped, his arms crossed firmly over his chest and eyes narrowed into a sharp glare as he stared across at Tim. 

 “Tim is more than capable, Damian,” Bruce defended, his tone going back to that tight, curt level that it had been a moment ago, “I couldn't ask for a better business partner than him. Half the time he runs the company more than I do.” 

 The glow of warmth in Tim's chest at Bruce's words quickly faded as Damian was quick to cut back. “Perhaps because you simply settled for what you had to since you had no other better options. I certainly would not wish to have a partner who cannot seem to even regulate his own sleep schedule without a ridiculous amount of supplements.” 

 Tim frowned, his hand balling into a fist as he met Damian's frustratingly steady gaze. “Our lifestyle doesn't exactly make for a normal sleep schedule, you should know that. At least I have the ability to admit when I need a little help.” 

 “The fact that you need help at all makes my point perfectly, Drake,” Damian huffed with a smirk, “I can get all the rest I need after forty-two hours of wakefulness from an hour of shut eye.” 

 “Damian, Tim…” Bruce started, cutting his eyes from each of the boys as the tension between them grew thicker and tighter, like a rubber band about to snap. 

 “Congratulations, you're even more of a robot than I thought you were,” Tim shot back, “was that your point?” 

 Damian stood abruptly and leaned on the table as he glared daggers at Tim as his hand closed around the actual knife beside his plate. “My point is that you and your weakened constitution should not be trusted near as much as Father does! Trusting a multi-billion dollar enterprise to your feeble hands is one thing, but trusting the safety of this city to the likes of you is something altogether different!” 

 “Damian, sit down.” Bruce warned, his face growing hard. 

 “I'll remind you that I have been a pivotal part of this city’s safety long before you even showed up!” Tim insisted, knowing that he was raising his voice, but feeling unable to keep himself from doing so as he leaned forward with his fists pressed to the table top. “You act like you know everything, but you know what? You don't! You don't know half of what I'm capable of or what I've done for our cause!” 

 “Tim, take it easy…” Bruce tried again, lifting a hand toward his older son in a gentle signal to stop the back and forth.

 “I do not have to know the past, what I have seen of the present is perfectly sufficient for me to draw the conclusion that you are wholly inadequate." Damian spat.

 “That's enough!” Bruce demanded, reaching out and pushing Damian back into his chair. 

 Damian's gaze did not waver from Tim's for a moment in spite of Bruce's firm hand on his shoulder. “You can make as many paltry excuses that you wish, Drake, but even you must admit that you are more of a liability to than anything else.” 

 “I said that's enough, Damian!” Bruce barked, tugging Damian toward him a little to break his gaze from Tim and make Damian look at him instead. “If you can't be civil you can just go to your room for dinner, and if that's your choice you can hang up the idea of going out on patrol tonight, or the rest of the week!” 

 Damian huffed heavily and sat back in his chair with his arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze set firmly on the table in front of him. 

 Tim's molars squeaked uncomfortably as he clenched his jaw, the annoying prickle of the tears he was fighting back making his eyes sting. How? How was the little brat so good at finding the exact places to poke to force a reaction from him? He always seemed to know the deepest parts of Tim's psyche that were sensitive and uncertain, the places that he himself questioned and doubted. Brat. Horrid, self-righteous, self-important, hateful, freaky little...

 “Tim?” 

 Bruce's touch on the back of his hand was light, almost not a touch at all, but it was enough paired with his voice to bring Tim back to the present and realize that he had been staring a hole through his quickly cooling plate of untouched dinner. After Alfred had brought in their plates he had slipped into a distant state of zone out with his unused fork and knife held tightly in his hands. He blinked a few times and looked up to find Bruce watching him with eyes of concern. 

 Tim cleared his throat as he set aside his utensils and pushed his chair back as he stood. “I, uh, I'm going to go take an hour or so nap before patrol tonight. I'll meet you downstairs at the usual time.” 

 “But you haven't even touched your food, are you sure you can't eat just a little first?” Bruce pressed, reaching out toward Tim's hand that was moved quickly as Tim stepped away from the table. 

 “Sorry B, I don't seem to have much of an appetite this evening.” Tim replied as he started toward the door. “I'll grab a PowerBar or something later.” 

 Tim could hear the moment he closed the door that Bruce started quietly lecturing Damian, and while this brought him a little satisfaction, it was not enough for him to stand around and try to listen in to the tongue lashing Damian was receiving. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants and started down the hall, but not in the direction of the stairs that led up to his bedroom, but instead to the grandfather clock that was the hidden door to the lower level of Wayne Manor. A level that only a few select people even knew existed. 

 Tim turned the hands of the clock to the combination that caused the wall to slide away to reveal a steel elevator, then stepped in and pressed the downward facing arrow, leaning back against the wall as it started lowering into the depths of the earth below the Wayne Estate. 

 There was something oddly comforting about the drastic change in temperature and the almost deafening silence that was only broken by the hum of the enormous computer system and the high pitched squeak from the bats that filled the crevices in the vast underground cavern that was the Bat Cave. 

Tim stepped out of the elevator and walked down the metal stairs toward the computer, pausing at a mini fridge under the stairs and grabbing a coffee flavored Monster, cracking it open one handed as he sat in one of the chairs in front of the massive computer. He took a sip of the energy drink and laid his right hand on the scanner pad. 

Finger print verification accepted, voice activation required. The very Alfred-esque computerized greeting echoed out throughout the otherwise quiet atmosphere. 

“Red Robin.” Tim replied before taking another swallow of drink before setting the can in the cup holder in the chair..

Voice activation accepted. Welcome, Red Robin. Would you like to pick up where you left off during your last session? 

“No, start a new session, Computer.” Tim commanded as he pressed the button on the left arm rest of the chair that brought it closer to the extensive keyboard. 

Of course. New session started.

Tim used the scroll pad to select and open a few files, only feeling slightly guilty that he was soothing his throbbing ego and feelings by trying to find something on the Demon-Brat upstairs. He had been through these files before, several times actually, and rationally he knew that something embarrassing or telling was not just going to just magically appear from the last time he looked, but somehow reading the notes that Bruce had entered into his Damian’s file was satisfying.

Volatile, emotionally inept, and prone to outbursts of uncontrollable anger through violent action. Unsure of stability or trustworthiness at this time. 

Tim smirked up at the screen. He was quite aware that he had some less than glowing notes in his own file, he knew because he had hacked through the protective locks that were in place to keep the Robins’ from reading their own files, but at least he was not noted as volatile, unstable, and untrustworthy. 

It was not much, but reading Bruce's notes served their purpose in soothing Tim's stinging pride. It was petty, Tim knew that all too well, but sometimes a person just has to give in to their pettiness a little to move forward and keep from spiraling into a very dark place of self-doubt. 

Tim knew. 

He'd been there before.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

It was not as bad as the first time, but every time Tim saw Damian decked out in the Robin uniform, a sick feeling of jealousy and frustration rose a bad taste in his mouth. The worst part? Damian seemed to know that; parading around and always seeming to stay in Tim’s line of sight whenever they were in the Batcave together. 

Since that first night that Tim came downstairs to see Damian in his place at Bruce’s side in the Robin uniform, it had not taken long for Tim to pull himself up and get to work crafting a new persona, uniform, and place in this strange double life they all led. It wasn’t the same, it would never be the same, but at least he hadn’t let Damian shove him completely out of the picture. 

Tim even kind of liked having the freedom to become something different, to give himself a new name and design a new uniform, watching as Gotham adjusted to the presence of a new vigilante and seeing his new image showing up in newspapers and the evening newsreels. Yeah, there was a part of him that liked it, but also a part that would always stubbornly miss his life pre-Damian. 

Tim unplugged a microchip from the port in the Bat Computer and loaded it back into his communicator, standing and putting it into the pouch on his utility belt, pausing as he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of one of the powered-down monitors. 

It was a work in progress, he wasn't completely satisfied with the look, but Fox had done his sketches justice. Black Kevlar leggings and knee-high boots were paired with a red Kevlar short tunic with crossed belts that held various pellet bombs for different purposes. The uniform was finished off with a black utility belt that held a shocking number of gadgets around his waist, a black knee-length cape, and as soon as he left the cave, a black domino mask that obscured his eyes and by default his identity. Certainly, a work in progress; a cowl might be nice, an effective way to tuck back his hair, and functional wings wouldn't be out of place with the Red Robin mantle either… 

A hand landed heavily on the back of his head and ruffled his hair fondly, making Tim stumble forward with a laugh. “Ah! Bruce! Cut it out!” 

Bruce smiled as he walked past, pulling on his gloves. “Come on, night’s falling fast. We better get out there.” 

Damian looked up from putting his green domino mask on, scoffing lightly and pulling open the door to the front seat of the Batmobile. “I thought you would never say so, I have been ready for the past hour.” 

Tim paused, his lips tightening slightly as he watched Damian step into the Batmobile and pull the door shut behind him. He pulled his gaze to his right as Bruce laid a hand on his shoulder, hating the empathetic sort of smile he found waiting for him. 

“Is the back okay? I can have you switch on the way home.” Bruce offered gently, seeming to understand exactly how Tim was feeling yet could not seem to understand just how deeply. 

Tim sighed and put on his mask, pulling his shoulder out of Bruce’s grasp and heading toward the passenger’s side backseat door. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.” He muttered, unable to completely keep the bitterness from his tone. 

The ride into Gotham was quiet; quiet, and too tense for Tim’s liking. It was causing a sort of creeping tension headache between his temples that he wanted so badly to be rid of, especially since this was only the beginning of their night. Maybe he should have actually taken that power nap that he had told Bruce he was going to take. Maybe he should have taken his bike...

As soon as Bruce pulled the Batmobile into a dark, unlit alley, Tim threw the door open and stepped out, more than willing to be out of the confines of the vehicle.
“Alright, I’m taking the North C Quadrant patrol tonight,” Bruce said, stepping out with his cowl now pulled on; the eyes of his mask glowing in the low light and completing the nerve-tingling look of a batshaped shadow. 

“I will join you,” Damian stated flatly, crossing around the hood of the Batmobile to stand by Bruce’s side. 

Bruce looked up from Damian toward Tim, who was walking away down the alley prepping his grappling gun. “Red? Where are you…?” 

“I’ll cover the South B Quadrant,” Tim answered without turning back, looking up and firing his gun to wrap around the top of the fire escape ladder of the building in front of him. “I haven’t been through that area in a week or so, I should probably check things out and make sure it’s quiet.” 

Bruce paused, then nodded slowly. “Alright then. Don’t go further South-V on your own though, and keep your comm line open, okay?” 

“I know the drill, B. I’ll check in with you in thirty,” Tim replied, pressing the button on the side of his grappling gun, zipping up through the air, and climbing neatly over the side of the building to walk across the rooftop. Any other night he might try to force his way along to stay with Bruce, but tonight, he had all the goading he could take from Damian, and any more might just make him say or do something he might regret. 

Tim strode across the rooftop and fired his grappling gun once more, this time aiming for the signal tower on the top of a skyscraper and taking a jogging leap off the building he was on, pressing the recoil button at the same time as swinging out above the street. He still remembered the first time he had taken a leap off a rooftop, a feeling that could not be duplicated by the platforms in the Cave no matter how many times he practiced; he had been terrified, his stomach seeming to trade places with his heart and his mind going blank and numb as he sailed through the air. He had slammed hard into the side of the building he was grappling to and had to slowly recoil his line and clamber awkwardly up over the edge of the roof, out of breath and trembling, to find Batman standing stoically over him and shaking his head with a sigh. 

Nothing could ever hurt like the silent disapproval or disappointment from his dark-clad, cowled companion, something that Tim would struggle through a lot their first few years together; but Tim had never been a quitter, so even though every piece of his being had screamed not to, that doing so was literally the most idiotic thing he could do, he kept jumping. 

Now it was a place where his mind, which so often stubbornly buzzed and ran to the point of overload like an overheating mouthboard, actually went silent. The wind through his hair and whistling past his ears, the intense focus of looking for his next target for his grappling line, watching where he was going while at the same time losing himself to the flipping, running, flying exhilaration placed a constant smirk of satisfaction on his face. 

Yeah… he might need some wings eventually. 

Tim flipped over the edge of the skyscraper's rooftop, neatly detaching his line from its anchor point at the same time, landing lightly on his feet and trotting to a stop. He lifted one foot to rest on the raised edge of the roof, leaning forward to lean his elbow against his thigh and look out over the city, taking in a deep breath that was pleasantly free of the smog that typically hung lower in the air. Deep down he missed Bruce, and he missed the feeling of being at his side as they swung through the city together, but tonight after the day he had, this was nice. 

A steady beeping sounded from his left gauntlet, interrupting the silence in Tim's mind and sending him back into vigilante, crime-is-everywhere mode. He held up his left hand and tapped the top of his wrist to open the hologram screen where a red blip on the screen blinked rapidly over a spot on the grid map of the city.

“Alright… looks like a convenience store alarm system trip. I can handle that.” Tim mumbled to himself, tapping his wrist to shut off the hologram screen and stepping off the side of the roof, sailing down several floors in swan dive fashion before firing his grappling line and swinging down into the lower areas of the south side of Gotham. 

These were not quite the slums, but just on the edge of what would be considered the ‘safer’ side of the city. The buildings were older, and shabbier, the street lights dimmer, and the alleys were rougher; a prime area for petty crime and shady dealings. 

Tim perched on a street light in a deep squat, balancing on the balls of his feet as he assessed the situation. 

A small convenience store and gas station, the glass front door was busted in, and four bulky, thuggy-looking individuals were inside surrounding the front desk with an array of bludgeons and one of them had a pistol. Cowering behind the desk was the only tenant of the store, a sixteen-something girl with a pepper spray clutched in her trembling hands. 

Tim reached up and tapped the earpiece in his left ear in a Morse code sort of pattern. “GCPD, this is Red Robin reporting in. Robbery in progress at 406 Philips Street Gas'n'haul. Pickup will be needed, back up unnecessary."  

“Okay sugar, this is how it's goin’ work.” One of the thugs grinned wolfishly, waving the gun in his hand around as though it were a plaything, his hold loose and unconcerned on the grip, “Yer gonna open up that register there and let my friend here clean it out, an’ yer gonna put that cute little thing away so no one gets hurt.”

“You first pal.” 

All four of the thugs whirled toward the door to find Red Robin leaning laxly against a rack of chips, twirling his collapsed bo staff back and forth between his fingers like a baton. 

“I mean, as long as we're talking about putting ‘cute’ things away,” Tim smirked, "I hope you were also including yourself since you'll certainly be getting put away for quite a bit.” 

“Cripes, I told you guys we might run into one of the Bat's birds!!” One of the men groaned, taking a step back away from Tim, his hand gripping the piece of pipe in his hand nervously. 

“Don't just stand there! He’s alone! Let’s pluck this little bird’s feathers!” The leader of the gang snapped, pointing his gun toward Red Robin and reaching for the girl behind the corner at the same time, who responded by letting out a high pitched screech and spraying a cloud of capsaicin into his face, earning herself a cry of pain as he fell to his knees scrubbing at his eyes and coughing roughly. 

Tim pressed a button on the side of his bo staff, giving it a quick twirl and shooting out in a lunge, catching one of the charging thugs in the stomach and sending him stumbling back with a winded grunt before hitting the back of his head against the counter and falling limp and still. 

“Ah come on now, I think you fellas need to cool off!” Tim quipped before spinning lightly in a turning sidekick and sending the second man into one of the drink coolers.

Dick would be so proud if he were here right now. 

The third assailant came at him with a yell and swing of a baseball bat that had been altered with nails hammered crudely into the end. Tim ducked under the bat, dropping down into a one-legged squat with his other leg extended and turning quickly to sweep the man's legs out from under him. Tim stood and swung his bo staff into the side of his head as he struggled to sit up with a crack!  knocking him cold. 

The pair of arms of the man he kicked into the cooler wrapped tightly around Tim's arms and chest in an effort to pin his arms and hold him still, but Tim had already seen him coming in the reflection of a drink cooler and was ready to transfer the energy of his attack. Tim pitched back his hips and neatly flipped the man over his head and sent him crashing into a rack of snack cakes as if he were tossing a bag of flour. 

Tim brushed off his shoulder as if to remove traces of filth as he sauntered over to the leader of the break-in who was still whimpering and crying out as he rubbed at his burning eyes. “Yup, breaking and entering, attempted assault, theft, you cuties are going to be put away for a good while for sure.” 

The only answer he got was a pathetic whimper and moans from the barely stirring petty criminals. 

Tim put each of them in a pair of cuffs and sat them outside on the curb, brushing off his hands as he reentered the frankly wrecked convenience store, peeking over the counter and smiling when he saw the girl crammed under the counter hugging her knees to her chest with her hands covering her eyes. 

“Hello.” Tim greeted gently as he went around and knelt in front of her. He quickly held up a hand to cover the nozzle of the pepper spray as the girl yelped and jerked her head up to deliver a spray if needed. “Whoa! Hey, easy now, I'm on your side.” 

The teen stared at Tim with a look that could only be described as star-struck, her mouth opening and closing as she fought to find words. 

Tim grinned and closed his hand lightly over the spray and her hand, gently lowering it from eye level. “Good thing too, you've got good reflexes with that thing.” 

“You're… You're Red Robin!” The girl exclaimed finally, her eyes glinting with excitement now instead of fear. “I got saved by Red Robin!” 

Tim chuckled and stood, holding out a hand to help her up. “That's the name, can you tell me yours?” 

“Oh, um, I’m Kathrine! Katherine Coolidge! And you're Red Robin !”

Tim nodded and led her out from around the counter and carefully over the shards of glass and scattered convenience store food. “Yep, that's right, we went over that part. I would take you home Katherine, but the police will be here soon and they'll need to take a report from you. But don't worry, they'll make sure you're safe and give you a ride home, and I'll stay with you until they are on their way. They didn't hurt you at all, did they?” 

“Oh no, I-I'm fine! Really!” Katherine assured, her face nearly glowing with blush, grinning at Tim as they stepped past the cuffed and gagged thugs and under the light of the awning over the gas tanks. “I mean, just wait ‘til all my friends hear about this! I really got to be saved by the Red Robin! Not every girl gets ta say somethin’ like that!” 

Tim shrugged and scratched the back of his neck as his own blush made his face warm at Katherine's gushing. “Yeah well, no big. I mean, all part of the gig.” 

Katherine pulled her phone from her pocket and grinned as her shoulders pinched up in anticipation. “Can I… would you mind if we took a selfie? Pics, or didn't happen, right?” 

Tim chuckled and nodded. “Sure, no problem, I'm kinda a picture guy myself. Do you want me to be serious or smiling?” 

“Oh, I don't care!” Katherine insisted as she turned on her camera and posed next to him, grinning almost wildly up at her phone. “Say cheese!” 

Tim leaned into the frame of the selfie camera, holding up his fingers in a peace sign, and smiled, rolling his eyes behind his mask as he watched her thumb hit the shutter button over and over as if expecting him to disappear at any moment. Just as his attention was pulled slightly toward the road where sirens and flashing red and blue lights were turning the corner, Katherine turned and planted a kiss on his cheek. 

“I-hey…” Tim blinked in surprise and stepped back to find her grinning and batting her lashes at him. 

“I'd let you save me any time, Red Robin.” She gushed, making a kissy face and winking. “Hopefully sooner than later.” 

Tim smirked and started backing toward the alleyway. “For your sake Katherine, let's hope not, but thanks for the compliment. Take care of yourself out there Katherine. Don't forget to get yourself a new pepper spray; they lose their power and potency after being used.” He shot his grappling gun straight up and clicked his tongue as he shot her a finger gun before pressing the recoil button and zipping up to the rooftop. 

Tim knelt and watched for a few minutes as three police cars pulled up, the officers piling out quickly with guns in hand. They quickly apprehended the thugs and took Katherine to the side, talking to her for a few minutes before helping her into one of the cars. He smiled as he stood and walked a few paces over to sit on the top of an air conditioning unit, opening his wrist computer and typing up a report of the incident. 

Just as he was starting to finish it, the hair stood stiff on the back of Tim's neck and a shudder threatened to travel down his spine. He knew this feeling, had felt it many times before, and had become trained to its presence: he was being watched. 

Tim stood, glancing around slowly so that he did not look at though he were actually looking for anything in particular, and disturbingly, he truly did not see anyone or anything. 

Red? Check-in, please.

Tim reached up and tapped his earpiece once. “Red Robin here, all's well.” 

Your stats are elevated, are you alright? Bruce's voice was slightly tense, and Tim remembered one of the many reasons why he hated that Bruce had all of their uniforms bugged with heart, heat, and stress monitors. 

“I'm all good Batman. Handled a minor break-in and attempted theft.” Tim replied as he strolled to the edge of the roof. “No civilians were harmed and the perpetrators are on their way to spend an unpleasant night in a GCPD holding cell.” 

You said you’d check in with me in thirty minutes, you didn't. 

Tim huffed and fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I was in mid-situation at the thirty-minute mark, checking in while punching is a little difficult you'll admit.” 

*Tt* I could have done both easily. Damian's haughty voice made Tim set his jaw hard, nearly biting the side of his tongue. 

“The adults are talking at the moment, Robin ,” Tim growled, his hands clenching so hard the leather squeaked between his fingers and palms. 

Irresponsible and ineffective. All is usual, at least you aren't trying to surprise us.

Hush. Bruce's command was short and curt, and it did the job of ending Damian's commentary. I see your report now Red Robin, continue on your patrol as planned. Nice job.

“Yeah, copy that,” Tim replied, checking his grappling gun before firing it off toward a building across the street from him, “over and out B.” 

Over and out Red. Keep me posted. 

Tim took a tighter grip on his gun, letting out a long sigh, grunting out a higher-pitch-than-he wanted-it-to-be noise of frustration as he kicked the raised bit of wall on the roof. He had split up to escape Damian's incessant nerve-tromping, and still, the little brat popped up. He stepped off the edge of the roof, swinging down low across the street, his heart leaping into his throat as he just narrowly pulled himself up out of the way of a semi-truck. He tripped on the edge of the roof he pulled himself up onto, huffing a heavy breath as he tried to right his breathing before Bruce noticed the spike in his heart rate and checked in again. 

Boy, the little demon was in his head tonight. He hated it when it was like this, it made him sloppy, distracted… ineffective…

“Dang it!” Tim growled, turning and punching a ventilation pipe, immediately regretting it as he pulled his fist from the dent and shook the pins and needles of pain from it as he winced hard and limped around in a little circle. “Ow! Ah! Biscuits! Flippin’, flamin’ crap!” He was throwing a tantrum, he was fully aware, but he was alone, at least twenty stories up, and in desperate need to vent. He kicked an empty soda can, sending it clattering across the flat rooftop. 

Tim froze, still holding his aching hand squeezed under his armpit, but his attention was fully on the can as it rolled to an awkward stop due to the dent his boot had left in it, but also because of a different kind of dent. He looked around and then back to the can. 

On some rooftops, it was not unusual to find cigarette butts, drink cans, and other litter since the tenants of the apartment buildings would at times hang out with friends in the fresh air without having to leave the building, but this building was an office building, with no way to access the roof except the crawl space manholes. 

Tim walked over and knelt by the can, picking it up and feeling his heart drop as he found a bullet hole straight through the can. He looked up and saw a pile of similar cans, all Nitro Pepsi and all with bullet holes through them. The return of the prickling feeling of being watched made him stand and whirl around… but there was nothing, not even the scanners in the eye lens of his mask picked up any signs of body heat or movement. 

“Yeesh Red, you're losing it tonight,” Tim mumbled as he dropped the can and started out across the city once more, determined to shake the feeling of uncertainty that had been building throughout the day. 

Thank goodness that water bills were not a concern for the Wayne household. Tim did not do it often, but every once in a while he liked to spend just this side of an obscene amount of time in the showers after patrol. Usually, remembering to shower and actually taking the time to do so was the last thing on Tim's mind; Bruce even had to point out at times that his hair was looking a little greasy and just how long had it been since he last showered? But every once in a while, especially when his stress levels went up, Tim liked to just stand under the almost too-hot stream of water in the large Batcave showers; eyes closed, head tilted back as far as it would go with the water streaming right in his face, arms dangling from his shoulder joints, and hands loose at his sides as he swayed on his feet. 

Tonight was one of those nights. 

The rest of his patrol had been fine, nothing too much out of the ordinary for the south side of Gotham; a few carjackings, another convenience store robbery, an apartment break-in, and a pickpocketing incident with a twelve-year-old who had been dared to do it by a group of older boys. 

What had been hard was the constant little snips from Damian every time Tim and Bruce checked in with each other. It was stupidly maddening, all his muttered little cutting remarks and quips about how he could have done something better or achieved better results than Tim had. Bruce of course had told him several times to stop, but as threatening and imposing as everyone else seemed to think Bruce was, Damian just seemed to have an annoying immunity to it and so continued his commentary throughout the night. It had made Tim feel tense, frustrated, and just simply off his game. Not enough that anyone outside his head would or had noticed, mind you, but enough that he knew it, and that was enough to rattle him. 

The ride back to the Batcave had been quiet, and Tim had not even tried to argue for the front seat when Damian had claimed it with a silent glare and haughty sniff of dismissal as he stepped into the vehicle; Tim just did not have the patience or the ability to fight in a way that would do anything but make him look even more pathetic than he already felt. 

Tim sighed and reached out blindly to switch off the water, knowing he was only prolonging the inevitable of facing the world outside the shower, then wiped the excess water from his face and shook his head back and forth, water droplets flying from his hair. He opened the door enough to reach out for his towel, frowning as he felt around and finally found the hook, but no towel. 

“Where in the- Hey!” Tim cried as he peeked out and saw Damian standing outside the shower with his towel and his clothes in hand, an evil little smirk plastered across his face. 

“You really should not leave your things lying all over the floor, Drake, quite slobbish of you.” Damian quipped, carefully folding Tim's shorts and shirt over his arm and tossing his towel over his shoulder. 

“Damian, leave my stuff alone, and gimme my towel,” Tim demanded, leaning out around the shower door a little and reaching out for the towel, only to have Damian take a step back. “Damian!” 

“You really should try to be less of a mess, you know.” Damina scolded, acting as though he had not heard Tim at all and grinning in a way that showed his teeth, a rare sort of expression for Damian that reminded Tim of a wolf baring its teeth. “It would keep me from having to pick up after you.” 

“Damian! Give it back!” Tim cried as he leaned a little further out and made a grab for the edge of the towel, to which Damian responded by stepping back further. “You little pest, gimme my towel!” 

Damina sniffed with mild amusement as he turned and strolled down the hallway of the shower room, waving over his shoulder lightly. “I'll help you this once, Drake, but do not expect this to become a habit. You are welcome.” 

“Damian! Come back here!” Tim yelled, slamming his fist down on his wet, bare thigh. “You little brat! Don't you dare walk away from me! Damian!” 

The shower room was cast into pitch-black darkness as a loud click sounded as Damian flicked off the lights and closed the door. 

“You rotten little demon!” Tim all but screamed, unfortunately, to no effect as he found himself in steamy, silent darkness with no towel and no clothes. 

Tim let out a groan of frustration between gritted teeth as he let his head fall forward against the shower door, trying to harness his anger so he could start thinking clearly. 

Okay… think Tim, think. The towels are in the next room over, that's not that far, and everyone is probably upstairs by now. I should be able to slip over and get a towel, then find my spare set of gym clothes in the locker room. 

Tim took a deep breath and stepped out of the shower, being extra careful to not slip on the tile, and made his way through the dark by muscle memory and feel down the hallway of shower stalls. 

Why do we have so many flipping showers?! There's never more than two people at a time in here! This is so stupid… and humiliating… at least I'm the only one-

Tim’s eyes smarted as light flooded the space, making him wince and blink rapidly as he tried to regain his vision, then the realization hit him that he was no longer alone. “Gah! Bruce!” He turned slightly to the side and pulled up his leg a little as his hands flew to cover himself. 

Bruce blinked out of his dazed stare at his strange discovery after flipping on the light and turned his face away while holding up a hand to hide Tim from his sight line. “Tim?! What are you- where- why ?! Why are you standing in here, in the dark, without your clothes?” 

Tim frowned deeply, flushing from his collarbone to his ear tips in both embarrassment and anger. “Because Dam-i-an took my clothes and towel !” He gritted out between clenched teeth. 

“He what?” Bruce asked, forgetting for a moment and turning toward Tim with his brows drawn in confusion before quickly closing his eyes and looking away again when Tim exclaimed his name indignantly. “Sorry! Sorry. Why… Why did he do that?” 

“You expect me to be able to read the little demon’s mind?” Tim scoffed, still covering his pride and glaring at Bruce in annoyance. “He’s evil!” 

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not evil Tim, and I’ve asked you to stop calling him ‘demon’.” He held his hands out to his sides in a helpless shrug as he once more seemed to forget that Tim was standing in front of him in nothing but leftover water droplets from his shower. “Maybe it was just a misunder-” 

“Bruce!” Tim interrupted, widening his eyes pointedly and jutting out his head as he shrugged his shoulders a little as if to make his situation more obvious. “Still indecent here!” 

Bruce turned his back on Tim to avoid looking at him. “Oh, jeez, sorry! Okay, just, hang on Tim; stay right there, I’ll go get you a towel.” 

Tim groaned and slumped against the wall as Bruce left, reaching up to rub his hand over his face and back through his still-sopping hair. “I could die right now… just fall down dead and be perfectly happy for the escape.” He mumbled to himself, stepping into the dry empty shower to his left and pulling the door closed, a little harder than he normally would, and stood there with his arms crossed tightly against his chest waiting on Bruce to save him from his predicament. 

“Tim?” 

“First stall.” Tim supplied shortly, seeing Bruce’s hazed figure appear outside through the textured glass door. 

“Here, a few to dry with and one to wrap up in. Do you want me to go get you a pair of clothes?” Bruce asked as his hand holding the towels appeared at the top of the door. 

Tim took the towels and dropped them onto the shower bench in front of him. “No, it’s fine.” He grumbled and he roughly wiped down his body and scruffed the water from his hair.

The blurred outline of Bruce did not move or seem to be leaving, and after a couple of minutes, he spoke again, his voice echoing a bit in the mostly empty room. “Did you see him take your clothes?”

Tim rolled his eyes as he took another towel and paid more attention to his hair, scrunching it into the towel to sop up the water. “No, you know what Bruce? No, I think I was totally hallucinating watching him take my clothes and towel; that’s why I was outside the shower buck naked, in the dark !” He sniped sarcastically.

“I didn't say you were hallucinating or making it up,” Bruce assured quickly, “I just wanted to get some details, that's all. I believe you, Tim… I do, really.” 

Tim wrapped the third towel around his waist and tucked the edge in so it would stay in place, then pushed open the door, getting a little wicked satisfaction in watching Bruce step back quickly to avoid getting smashed in the face. When his eyes met Bruce's for a moment, a hot flush of rekindled embarrassment crept up from his chest and crawled up to settle heavily in his cheeks. He set his jaw and walked briskly past Bruce, dropping the towels he had used to dry off in a hamper by the door. 

The chilled air of the cave made his drying skin prickle with goosebumps as he crossed the cold metal floors to his locker near the padded training area, spinning the nob on his combination lock back and forth brusquely until it clicked open, then pulled the door open and let out an exasperated sigh before letting his head fall forward so that his chin rested against his chest. Besides several empty water bottles, packages of half-eaten protein bars, grungy sweat rags with questionable stains, and a few mismatched pairs of socks, his locker was void of anything helpful. 

“Tim, can I…?” 

“No,” Tim huffed, turning and striding toward the elevator, keeping his gaze down and as far away from Bruce’s as possible as he gripped the place where he had his towel tucked so that it wouldn’t slip, “I’ll just go to my room. I’m probably not coming back down tonight, so you don’t have to keep the computer on for me.” 

Bruce stepped forward and held out a hand as if he wanted to do or say something, but his mouth closed as he nodded, watching Tim stalk up the stairs, leaving behind damp, foggy footprints on the metal floors in his wake. “Alright Tim, that’s probably for the best. I’ll be up in a minute.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Tim grumbled as he punched the up arrow on the elevator and stepped inside, grateful for the doors that closed him off from the world for a minute so he could let out a frustrated, humiliated, fed-up yell of exasperation. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

A while later Tim sat in one of the several living room areas of the manor, now fully dressed if not overly so in a pair of lounge pants, a too-large hoodie with ‘Bludhaven University’ on the front and the hood pulled up on his head, and a pair of crew socks that were baggy and crooked from walking on carpet. He was sitting crammed on the far side of a large leather couch against the padded arm with his knees pulled to his chest and his nose resting in the divet between his knees, staring into the fireplace at the flames, ignoring a little voice in the back of his vigilante mind telling him that he was completely killing his night vision capabilities. 

After a long time of silence broken only by the crackling of the wood, a polite cough from the doorway alerted him to a presence that he had already been aware of. 

“Could I interest you in some form of refreshment Master Tim?” Alfred asked as he walked across the room to stand at Tim’s side, looking down at him with that earnest, gentle expression that made it hard for Tim to deny the older man anything. 

“I’m fine at the moment actually, thanks Al,” Tim replied, not breaking his staring contest with the flames. “I’m just trying to wind down before giving sleep a try tonight.” 

“Are you sure? By my calculations, it has been nearly twenty-four hours since your last proper meal.” Alfred insisted gently. 

“I had a protein bar before patrol,” Tim corrected with a one-shouldered shrug, “so maybe more like six to seven hours.” 

“I said a proper meal,” Alfred chided, shaking his head and reaching out to place a white-gloved hand on Tim’s shoulder, “but I supposed that you would not be in the mood for anything heavy or elaborate, so I took the liberty of making you a protein shake.” At that moment he supplied a shaker bottle and held it at Tim's eye level. 

Tim straightened a little and pushed his hood back, looking up at Alfred hopefully. “The coffee-flavored mix? With a scoop of the caramel one?” 

Alfred held it down further and gave it a little shake, the wire ball inside rattling lightly against the sides of the plastic cup. “And made with actual milk, instead of water,” He winked with a smile, “did you think I would forget?” 

Tim smiled back and took the bottle, popping open the lid. “Thanks, Alfred, you really are the best.” He took a long drink and licked a stache of the thick drink from his top lip, looking up at Alfred with a grin. “It’s perfect, even better than when I make it.”

“Naturally,” Alfred replied as he tucked his arms behind his back, straightening his already perfect posture, “that might be because I did not add espresso on top of it; a little note you might make for the future.” He softened and reached out to ruffle Tim’s hair fondly. “Do call if you need anything, Master Timothy, and try to get some sleep if you can.”  

“Thanks, Al, I’ll try later,” Tim called over his shoulder before taking another drink of his protein shake, wrapping one arm around the front of his shins and holding the shaker bottle in his other hand as he rested the bottom of the bottle on the top of his foot. 

Tim had maybe made it through about half the drink when he felt yet another presence behind him, this one announcing himself with a rough clear of his throat.

Tim sighed as he drew his legs impossibly closer to his chest and pulled his hood back over his head, wishing very much that by some magic, or nuclear explosion, he would simply disappear.  

“Hey kiddo, can we talk for a minute?” Bruce asked as he walked cautiously toward the couch, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was as dressed down as Tim ever saw him; dark grey sweatpants, a navy blue cotton turtleneck, and brown houseshoes, looking like an actual normal guy for once. It was not often that Tim saw him like this much anymore; he was almost always in either his CEO garb or in some variation of his Batsuit, sometimes just the bodysuit and boots, sometimes the whole thing except the cowl and gloves. However, Tim had to admit that it was partially his fault for avoiding anywhere that Damian might be, so by default, avoiding Bruce.   

Tim swallowed hard and buried his nose into his knees, trying to further pull into his baggy clothing. “Only if I can do so without looking you in the face. Sorry, but I'm still a little burned from that stupid little fiasco downstairs.” 

Bruce stood at the back of the couch, looking down at the huddled couch creature that was his son, a small smile pulling at the right side of his face. “I can manage that.” He stepped forward and sat on the floor so that he was leaning against the back of the couch, with one knee drawn up so that he could rest his forearm atop it and the other bent so that his foot was hooked around the ankle of his drawn-up leg.

Tim looked up in surprise as he felt the backrest of the couch shift, glancing over his shoulder to see the top of Bruce's head. He fought the smile that sprang to his face at Bruce's solution to working through his bruised pride from the shower escapade in the Cave.

“I spoke with Damian, he won't steal your clothes again, just so you know.” Bruce started quietly, tilting his head back to rest it against the couch and listening carefully for a reaction or response from Tim. “I made it clear that such behavior is unacceptable.” 

Tim took a drink from his shake just so that he could have his mouth full for a moment and an excuse for the silence while he tried to think of a response. “Whoopdie.” He said flatly after a moment. “I'll be eagerly awaiting to see what he comes up with next in replacement of that ‘unacceptable behavior’.” Tim lifted his hand from his shin to make air quotes even though he knew that Bruce would not see them.      

Bruce sighed and shook his head. “Tim, I know things are rough between you too, and I realize that’s an understatement, but you can't just walk around on eggshells expecting him to do something to you at every turn. That'll just make you sensitive to anything and every thing that could even be slightly construed as offensive or hurtful.” 

“Do you really blame me that much, B?” Tim huffed, frowning at the fire that was beginning to burn down to coals and a few flicking flames. “I mean, come on, he hasn't let up on me since he walked through the front gate. If it isn't direct attempts on my life, it's constant humiliation, insults, and judgment. Heck, don't even get me started on the one-upping every chance he gets.” 

Bruce chewed the inside of his lip as he listened, nodding and picking a piece of lint from his knee. “I get that. I understand.” 

Tim threw his head back against the cushion of the couch and let out a long, tired sigh. “I don't want this Bruce. I hope you know that. I don't like the feeling of being on guard, I don't like the arguments, I don't like feeling so…” He caught himself before he said ‘inferior’, but it was certainly on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell Bruce exactly how he felt; that he felt that he was having to once again scramble for Bruce's approval, that he was constantly being shoved to the side in favor of Damian, but it felt impossible to even form the words in his head much less his mouth. It all threw him back to a time before the name of Wayne had been added to his own. “But I think you know that a relationship is a two-way street, and all I've gotten from that kid is roadblocks and tire spikes.” Tim finished finally, grateful for Bruce's patience even when he got lost in his thoughts midsentence. 

“I do know that kiddo, I promise I do. I hope you know that I'm not blind to his behavior. I really am trying to teach him, to show him what is right and wrong; especially where you are concerned. I hate seeing you so frustrated, and I do see it Tim, and I see that you're trying too. Your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, and I’m proud of you for putting up with all that you have, that I can promise you.” 

Tim swallowed hard as a knot threatened to rise in his throat as Bruce's words landed in all the places that his mind and heart needed so badly, but he was never brave enough to ask for or seek them out. He set aside his bottle and slid from his seat, walking on his knees around to the back of the couch, catching Bruce's slightly surprised gaze for a moment before laying down on the rug and resting his head on Bruce's thigh. “I know.” He sighed as he curled his arms under his neck and shoulder and settled down on the floor. 

Bruce smiled and laid a hand on Tim's head, gently massaging his fingertips through his dark hair that was still slightly damp in the underneath layers and was curling slightly on the ends as it dried. “Don't give up on me, okay? I'll keep trying if you will; I know we can lick this, just like everything else we've beaten together.” 

Tim nodded against Bruce's leg, unable now to keep the smile from his face. “You know me well enough to know that I'm no quitter, Dad.” 

A warm feeling rose in Bruce's chest along with his widening smile at the familial term that Tim only tended to use sporadically. “No, you're anything but a quitter. It's one of the things I admire so much about you.” 

Tim snorted lightly in amusement, his eyelids starting to drift uncontrollably as Bruce continued to massage his fingers into his hair, his blunt nails scratching his scalp every once in a while and sending happy little tingles of dopamine down his spine as he started relaxing further into Bruce's lap. “Admire? Or annoys the snot out of you?”

A chuckle rumbled through Bruce's chest as he looked down at Tim's face and felt a swell of pride that he was able to lull Tim into such a lax state, watching Tim's eyes drift closed and flutter open again over and over with longer stents in between each time. “Well, I won't deny that it can be annoying, especially when you get one-track-minded and stubborn.” He changed up his gentle massage so that he was running his fingers from the nape of Tim's neck to the crown of his head and down again. “But that doesn't mean I don’t still admire your tenacity.” 

“Mmm…” Was Tim's only answer as his thoughts were quickly melting into mush as the heaviness of no sleep for thirty-six hours began to pull him further from consciousness with the help of Bruce's head massage. “Hm… Bruce?” 

“Mm-hm?” Bruce responded calmly, tilting his head to look down into Tim's face, pleased to see that stubborn little pucker between his brows had smoothed out. 

“I know whatch’er doin’.” Tim mumbled, finally able to get his eyes to open again, albeit only to half-mast.

“Oh? I don't know what you mean.” Bruce replied, switching which hand was rubbing Tim's scalp so he could lay a hand on Tim's bicep and give it a light squeeze. 

“Yeah, ya do… You know I can't stand-” Tim's words were lost as he yawned broadly, not even bothering to cover it. “I can't… when you…” 

“Shh,” Bruce hushed gently, “you're fine. I've got you kiddo; new day tomorrow.” He watched as Tim's face relaxed to the point that his cheek was smushed against Bruce's thigh and his mouth was slightly agape, listening carefully as Tim's breathing became even and shallow, smiling as he began to pet Tim's hair to smooth it out from his massaging. 

When he was completely sure Tim was sleeping, and a warm little trickle of drool began to darken a spot on his pants leg, Bruce carefully scooped him up in his arms and stood, shushing him as Tim twitched in a hypnic jerk and standing still until he relaxed again and rested his head against Bruce's chest, sighing deeply as he settled. Then Bruce slowly and smoothly started carrying Tim through the manor, taking extra care as he started up the stairs, then turning as he passed through Tim's bedroom door to avoid bumping his head or feet on the frame. 

Bruce leaned forward and carefully lowered Tim into his messy, unmade bed, easing his arms out from under him and pulling Tim's comforter up around his shoulders and tucking it in gently.

Tim rolled over onto his side and snuggled into his oversized pillow, his hands gripping the corner as his lips moved in sleepy, incoherent mumbles, his eyes darting behind his eyelids for a moment before he relaxed deeper into his sleep.  

Bruce smoothed back Tim's hair, his thumb petting over one of his dark brows a few times, then straightened and stood watching Tim sleep for a moment. It was a skill he had developed early, getting his kids from practically precarious sleeping locations and into an actual bed without waking them, and he was rather proud of it. He nodded in satisfaction before making his way around the chaotic mess that was nearly all of Tim's belongings strung out in piles around his room, then carefully pulled the door closed behind him, turning the knob so that the catch would not click. 

The moment he turned the knob back into place, he turned with a firm stare and folded his arms across his chest. “Is it too much to ask that I not be spied on and watched constantly in my own home?” 

Damian stood glaring up at his father with his fists clenched at his sides. “I will never understand why you coddle him so.” He gritted out between clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed and glinting in the low lights of the nightlights plugged in every few feet in the hallway.

“I don't coddle him, I care for him, Damian. There's a big difference.” Bruce replied, starting down the hall to lead the conversation away from Tim's door so that they did not disturb him. 

“I see no difference!” Damian insisted, trying to fall into step beside Bruce, which was more or less impossible given their vastly different stride lengths. “You pander to him constantly! The way you allow his pathetic weakness to continue is-” Damian stopped and jumped backward to avoid Bruce's elbow catching him in the nose as his father turned abruptly. 

Bruce's face was shadowed in the darkness of the hall and his hand fell heavy and firm on Damian's shoulder, and even though his stony little face didn't show it, Damian’s heart sank hard into his gut. 

“Listen. To. Me. And listen well Damian,” Bruce started, his voice low and hard, sounding much like it did when they were on the streets, “Tim is not pathetic , and he is not weak . If you could drop your stubbornness and pride for even half a moment, you could learn a great deal from him, Damian. He is one of the most determined and intelligent people I know, and his sense of duty and right is unparalleled. What I see standing in the way of you finding the most dedicated and helpful ally in Tim is your own blind jealousy.” 

Damina jerked his shoulder out of Bruce's grasp and scoffed. “Jealous? Of that inadequate, fatuous, vacuous…?”

“Yes, jealous.” Bruce interrupted sharply. “I can see it all over you in the way you watch him and constantly vie for attention and credit, and I promise you, it will eat you alive if you continue this way.” 

Damian huffed and brushed past Bruce, opening the door to his bedroom and stepping in halfway so he was still glaring down the hall at Bruce. “I am not jealous of anything that second-rate fill-in has or is barely capable of. In my opinion, you should have shaken him from your coattails long ago and moved on .” 

“Your opinion does not hold any weight in this regard,” Bruce responded bluntly. “And I will warn you again, Damian; shape up in your behavior toward your brother or there will be consequences.” 

Damian scoffed again and stepped into his room. “He is no brother of mine. No matter what you have decided for yourself in your collection of pathetic excuses for partners or false offspring.” He pulled the door closed firmly behind him, a click sounding from the lock as he flicked it over. 

Bruce stared at the closed door for a moment, then sighed heavily and looked back over his shoulder at Tim's door. Why is this not getting any easier? I thought parents were supposed to get better at their jobs with each one. He walked back down the hall and paused with his ear close to Tim's door, listening for any signs that his and Damian's argument had woken him, and nodded in satisfaction when he could not pick up even the slightest out-of-place-sound before walking to the next door; his own room. He crossed the room and sank down on the end of his bed, running his hands through his hair and sighing again. I've got to find some way to bring those two together… before they rip each other apart… again…

When Tim woke up, he lay there in bed trying to sort through his vastly mixed-up senses and feelings. He was warm, almost too warm under his comforter to the point that his skin prickled now and then against it, but his body was as relaxed as he had been all week. His head was surprisingly free of the headache that was always plaguing him to one extent or the other, but his mind felt fuzzy and drowsy, almost as if he were waking up out of an anesthesia-induced sleep even though he knew that he would have probably noticed if Bruce had slipped him something or injected him with a sedative. 

Bruce. Huh...

The longer Tim laid on his stomach with his face buried into his pillow the more his memories from the previous night fell into place. Tim knew that it was not, nor had it ever been, easy for Bruce to be vulnerable, heck, it really wasn’t for Tim either, so the fact that the two of them had managed to actually communicate some frustrations and emotions in the same space of time without one of them leaving or getting frustrated or angry was quite impressive.  It had felt like a small weight had been taken off of Tim’s chest to voice that he really was not happy with the way things were going, and it seemed to please Bruce as well to know that Tim was not purposefully setting out to make things harder between himself and Damian. The only real question was how to move forward on that roadblocked street Tim had pointed out. 

Tim sighed and pushed himself back so that he was sitting back on his heels, scrubbing the sleep crust from his eyes, stretching an arch into his back until at least three places in his spine popped, then yawned. It was far past morning, Tim could tell that from the amount of light that was behind his blackout curtains, it looked more like it was past noon…

“Ah, garbage!” Tim exclaimed as he tried to jump out of bed, grumbling as his comforter tangled around his legs and nearly sent him crashing face-first to the floor. He hurried through a sloppy morning routine of rinsing the sour flavor of sleep out of his mouth with a cupful of Listerine, passing a comb haphazardly through his hair a few times, and pulling on a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt that was in a questionable state of cleanliness. He did not take the time to put his dress jacket on, but just slung it over his arm after standing from tugging on and tying his shoes. 

Tim trotted down the stairs still fumbling with the buttons at the bottom of his shirt, his heart catching as he skipped a step and felt as if he were falling through time for half a second. 

“Master Tim? Where exactly is the fire that needs extinguishing?” Alfred quipped as he stepped into the hall, his right brow rising as he took in Tim’s disheveled and rushed appearance. 

“I overslept Al,” Tim explained as he grabbed his briefcase and started rifling through it, “I was supposed to have a meeting with Bruce at one, and it is currently twelve forty-five. Now I’m going to be stinking late, which means I will be keeping Bruce waiting, which means we-gah!” Tim dropped his briefcase and instead started digging through his backpack that was hanging on one of the hooks in front of him. 

“Is there anything I can do to assist? I am sure Master Bruce will understand that you were catching up on a little sleep this morning, in fact I’m sure that he will.” Alfred offered, watching Tim with that incredulous look with which he usually watched Tim. “What on earth are you searching for?” 

“My keys!” Tim cried as he practically ransacked his own belongings. “I was sure I put them in my briefcase, but they aren’t there, and now I’m going to be even further behind if I can’t-” His words drifted off as he watched Alfred reach forward calmly and pull his keys out of Tim’s pants pocket and held them out for him with a small smile. 

“Are these the keys in question?” Alfred asked with an all-knowing sort of smile that for a moment almost made Tim forget his frustration with himself as he realized that he had ambushed himself by putting his keys in his pocket rather than his briefcase like he usually did. 

Tim smiled in relief and took the keys, then stepped forward to wrap his arms around Alfred’s middle. “Yeah, thanks Al, I think I’m still half asleep on my feet today.” He pulled back and grabbed his briefcase from the floor as he waved the hand that now held his keys on the way out the door. “Gotta go! Bye, Alfred!”

Tim hated going to work when everyone else was already there; if it wasn't the constant ‘hello Mr. Wayne, can I help you, Mr.  Wyne, let me scrape and grovel Mr. Wayne’ it was the jealous glares and smug, judgmental looks that people think they are so good at disguising. He stepped into one of the enclosed elevators instead of his typical route using the glass one at the front of the building to escape all the eyes, slumping back against the wall and sighing, dragging his fingers back through his hair, realizing that he had not styled his long, nearly shaggy, highly unruly locks at all. 

Tim had always had his hair cut short usually with just a little length on top; his parents had always insisted that it was a cleaner, more proper look and had never given him the option of forgoing his monthly hair trims. It was not until after he had become orphaned and Bruce had taken him in permanently in a way that was past that of just a partner in anti-crime that he had gone without them. Then in one of those rare quiet, comforting moments, Bruce had told him that he liked that he was growing his hair out, even though Tim did not consciously have any plans or thoughts to do so; it had just been a symptom of a massive life change. Ever since Tim let it grow, occasionally letting Alfred trim the dead ends; although there were times like today that he missed the ease of his short hair, it made it a lot easier to appear that he had not just rolled out of bed or skipped a shower. 

Tim found himself standing outside Bruce's office with his hand hovering in position to knock, his stomach twisting as he tried to think up a believable excuse for why he was so late. Finally, as if prepping for leaping from a building, he took a deep breath and knocked calmly but firmly twice, waiting for Bruce's usual polite invitation before opening the door and stepping inside. 

Bruce was sitting at his desk, his chin resting in the palm of his hand while he scrolled through some document on his computer. Unlike Tim's desk, Bruce's only held a single monitor. He glanced up from his screen and then straightened in his chair with a smile when he saw Tim walking cautiously toward his desk. “Oh, hey Ti-”

“I am so sorry!” Tim interrupted, his hands pressing to each side of his head as he pressed on before he lost his nerve. “I know I am stupidly late, and I've kept you waiting and I didn't even remember to call to tell you I was on my way.” 

Bruce's eyes widened in surprise at the rush of words leaving Tim's mouth, and for a moment he didn't seem to understand quite what they meant. 

“My daily alarm must've gotten shut off on my phone, cause it didn't go off, and I didn't set an earlier alarm ‘cause I think I must've fallen asleep on you last night in the den.” Tim's hands traveled from pressing over his temples to gripping the back of his neck, his eyes closing to escape the choice of avoiding Bruce's gaze, or worse, actually meeting it. “I don't know why I slept so long, I'm usually up at least by the time the sun comes up, but that was totally not okay. I completely left you hanging, and I'm so sorry, Bruce, really I am-”

“Hey, whoa, Tim. Wait a minute.”

Tim’s frantic explanation and apology were halted by both the gentle interruption and a hand on each of his shoulders. He opened his eyes and found Bruce standing in front of him, leaning forward just slightly to meet his gaze. 

“Are you really apologizing to me for getting a few hours of actual quality sleep?” Bruce asked, one of his brows quirking upward slightly as he smiled. “Because if you are, you need to stop.” 

Tim swallowed hard, his hands falling to his sides and his head lowering as he chewed the inside of his lip. “I'm apologizing for being irresponsible and standing you up for a meeting that we agreed on.” 

“Tim, meetings can be moved or rescheduled.” Bruce insisted, moving one hand from Tim's shoulder to cup his chin and lift it a little. “What can't be changed is when you need rest. You and I both know that your body and you are not always… copesthetic, shall we say; that you can't always control when you need to drop everything and get the rest that your body needs because it just simply doesn't give you a choice.” 

Bruce released Tim's chin and swept his hair back behind his ear, smiling and laying his hand against the side of Tim's neck and giving it a light squeeze. “I'm not mad at you kiddo, and you didn't stand me up. I knew full well that you were still sleeping this morning, and I told Alfred to not bother you before you woke up on your own. So, deep breath, stop spiraling, and give yourself a break. Okay?” 

Tim took a deep breath through his nose and let out a long exhale. “Okay, yeah, okay.”

“Good.” Bruce encouraged, straightening and cupping Tim's shoulders in each of his hands. “Now, have you had breakfast, or even given yourself the chance to wake up fully?” 

Tim smiled lopsidedly and shook his head. “No, it's kinda a miracle that I got here in one piece.” 

Bruce sighed hopelessly but chuckled as he shook his head, stepping back to lean against his desk with his hands settled on his hips. “Okay, here's what I want you to do: go wherever you want and get yourself something to eat. Take an hour or so just to relax and breathe. My afternoon is practically clear and anything I need to reschedule I can so we can fit our meeting in whenever it works best. Does that sound okay?” 

Tim sighed and reached up to run the back of his neck. “I don't need to take an hour or so, B. I'm fine right now, really. Besides, my appetite has been pretty nil lately; even the thought of chewing bothers me this morning.” 

“I'm not saying you have to go out and eat a three-course breakfast, Timmy, just go get something on your stomach,” Bruce insisted, “remember that bout you had last year with bleeding ulcers?” 

Tim wrinkled his nose and tilted his head back and forth in consideration. “Yeah, I remember: not a fun experience.” 

“Right.” Bruce agreed as he stepped forward and started leading Tim toward the door with an arm around his shoulders. “So, let's not do that again, okay? If you don't feel like actually eating, go down to that shake and smoothie shop down the street that you like and get something with a lot of protein. Take your time and actually enjoy it, then come back and we'll see about that meeting. Deal?”  

Tim sighed as he gave up the argument, more just because he was relieved that Bruce had not been upset or annoyed with him. “Yeah, okay, deal. I should be back in an hour.” 

Bruce tugged him close to his side and winked. “I don't want to see your face back here for at least an hour and a half, I'd be happier about two.” 

Tim grinned up at him as the last of his angst slipped. “Well, you're the boss, I guess I kinda have to do what makes you happy.” 

Bruce chuckled and lifted his hand from Tim's shoulder in favor of ruffling Tim's hair. “I don't think I ever have or ever will be the boss of you: you're too stubborn.” 

Tim stepped out into the hall then turned and looked back with that little pucker of question in between his brows and his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth. 

Bruce smiled as he leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “Okay, what's the look?” 

Tim chewed on the inside of his bottom lip a moment before raising his eyes to meet Bruce's as a blush darkened his cheeks a little, his hands fidgeting with the buttons on the front of his shirt. “Bruce, um… can I… would you mind if I maybe…?” 

Bruce’s smile broadened a little as his eyes softened further with understanding as he straightened and held out his arms. “Come ‘ere kiddo.” 

Tim sighed with relief and stepped forward to wrap his arms around Bruce's waist, his cheek pressed the Bruce's chest as Bruce enveloped him in a comfortable embrace, with one hand firm against Tim's back and the other cradling the back of his head. All the times that Tim could not stand his lack of height and breadth, he could not help but enjoy it at times like this when it felt like Bruce really could hide him from anything and everything that might be outside those ridiculous arms. 

By the time Tim finally pulled back and Bruce sent him on his way with a little shove and words of encouragement and assurance, the anxious fluttering in Tim’s stomach had finally subsided and the tension in his neck had lessened. Bottom line, Bruce was not mad at him, and he had not messed anything up or permanently set back their relationship: everything was going to be okay. 

Tim could have driven, but he chose specifically to walk in order to further clear his head. It did mean that more people recognized him and turned to stare and point and take unsolicited pictures, but Tim was used to it and willing to put up with it for a moment of normalcy and time outside in the sun. He stepped into a little corner shop under the sign of Take a Shake  and smiled warmly at the teen behind the counter. 

The young man looked up at Tim in a bored manner at first, then blinked in surprise when familiarity set it. “Whoa, aren’t you that kid that runs Wayne Enterprises?"

Tim smirked a little and shrugged. “I don’t run it on my own , but yeah, I’m Co-CEO.” 

“Cool! They said that you make an appearance here every once in a while, but I didn’t think I’d actually get to take your order!” 

Tim looked up at the menu even though he had his order memorized by heart. “Well, today’s the day then bud. Can I get a large caramel coffee shake with extra protein, made with whole milk, no whipped cream?” 

“Yeah, sure! That’ll be eight dollars, and I’ll call it out when it’s done.” The teen replied brightly, taking the twenty dollar bill from Tim and counting out his change. 

Tim waved him off and started for a corner table. “Keep the change; add it to your tip jar.” 

Tim slid into the chair and leaned back against the wall so his head was resting against the cool glass of the window, watching the traffic and pedestrians with unfocused interest. 

Come on Tim, you gotta get with it. You are totally off your game and out of sync. You can’t let a few slip-ups continue to push you backward. Get off your sorry rear and push back… like you always do… like you have to… If you don’t, Bruce might really think… He might actually… You are pathetic. Why can’t you just snap out of it? You’re going to let him down, you’re going to lose what you’ve fought so hard to gain. You’re going to…

Tim squeezed his eyes closed for a moment as he struggled to shut off his internal monologue as the negative self-speech started to grow louder in his head. He didn't mean to be so self-deprecating, and it was something that Bruce and Dick had always tried to pull him away from in the early days, but there were times when he slipped into the habit of berating his every little move, slip-up, perceived failure, and shortcoming. What started out as thoughts about whatever situation was bothering him always seemed to slip further into that dark little chasm in the deepest part of his mind that whispered that he was not enough, that he was pathetic, that he could not keep up, that he was inferior, that he…  

Hm. Interesting. Maybe that’s why Damian bothers me so much. It isn’t the things he’s saying, it's the things I’ve heard before… in my own mind. It’s like he’s an embodiment of my insecurities. Yikes… I wonder if Talia did something to make him come out that way on purpose… 

“Large caramel-coffee protein shake, extra protein, whole milk, and no whip?” 

Tim stood and walked to the end of the counter as he heard his order get called, accidentally bumping into a solid shoulder and hand that reached for the cup at the same time as him. “Whoops, sorry, I…” 

Tim’s apology died on his lips as he turned and found himself staring into a pair of wide turquoise eyes beneath thick, dark brows, one of which had a split from a scar dividing it in half, and above it was a thick stripe of shock white among black waves.  

“J-Jason?” 

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne: former Robin number two, died, brought back, Red Hood, criminal to anti-hero, and now Tim didn’t really know what. For the first year of being back in Gotham after somehow being brought back to the land of the living by Ra’s al Ghul, (though unknown and frankly likely illegal and inhumane means), he stopped at nearly nothing to wipe Tim’s existence off the face of the earth. It was only when Tim was faced with the chance to end Jason’s chase and life (again), but chose not to and instead tried to talk Jason down that it seemed like something snapped in his poor, twisted head. After that, he avoided anything that had to do with Batman or the Wayne family completely, and for the past year, had also dropped off the radar. Tim had not personally been in his proximity since that night on the roof of Wayne Enterprises, nor had he heard much about his alter ego on the news or police reports, which had made Tim come to the conclusion that he had skipped town entirely.  

Now, here the two once bitter rivals stood; in civilian clothes, in broad daylight, reaching for the same protein shake. 

Tim wondered if his heart could take the speed and strength in which it was pounding in his chest, and honestly did not think a massive heart attack would be the worst way to go given his circumstances. 

“I… we must’a ordered the same shake.” Jason finally mustered after staring blankly at Tim for what felt like an eternity, his thick Gothamite accent clinging off his every word. 

Tim stepped back suddenly as his soul finally decided to return to his body and cleared his throat before he even tried to use his voice. He offered up a weak smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “Y-yeah. I guess so.” He cleared his throat again as his voice still cracked embarrassingly. “Th-that one is probably yours though.” 

Jason stepped back too, seeming uncertain and slightly uneasy, but not angry or hostile. “Depends on who ordered first, I guess. I mean… you, uh, you can ‘ave it.” 

“No, I mean, thanks, but um, I bet it’s not.” Tim insisted, stuffing his hands into his pockets to hide the tremble he was sure was visible in his fingers. “What I mean is, I uh, I just ordered a few minutes ago, so, it’s most likely yours if you think about it.” 

The prominent Adam’s apple in Jason’s throat bobbed hard, the only real sign of his discomfort as he held out a hand toward the finished drink and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I really don't care. You can ‘ave this one, I’ll jus’ wait for the next one.” 

Tim was taken completely aback now, as this was not at all the Jason he had last encountered: angry, vengeful, broken, desperate, and spoiling for blood. Tim’s blood specifically and preferentially, although there was certainly other blood involved in the wake of Red Hood’s wrath. This Jason was calm, a little withdrawn, and actually somewhat polite. He looked different too; his eyes had toned down from the sharp green that they had been a year ago and morphed into a compromise between that and his pre-incident blue into a bright, teal-toned turquoise. His face was relaxed in the absence of gritting teeth and glaring eyes and furrowed brows, and he was dressed in a pair of black jeans and combat boots, and a t-shirt with what looked like some band name on the front, but it was partially hidden by his signature brown leather jacket, the only piece of clothing that was the same from the last time they had met. He looked… normal. 

Jason seemed to also be inspecting every aspect and inch of Tim, those sharp eyes taking in every feature as his lips twitched thoughtfully every now and then. His expression, for all Tim’s careful training, was unreadable; he didn’t look angry, and he didn’t look upset, but maybe thoughtful, a little annoyed, a bit judgemental, yet none of those either. 

A nervous cough next to them broke their apparent staring contest, and the server behind the counter shrugged with a smile and moved the cup closer to Jason. “Actually, you did order first. So…” 

Tim shrugged and backed up another step. “See? All yours.” 

Jason paused for another second and finally took the drink from the counter, his thumb sliding up and down the slightly fogged side of the plastic cup absentmindedly, his face turned slightly away from Tim but his eyes never wavering from Tim’s face. “I’sa good order.” 

Tim chuckled, sounding far more uneasy than he had meant. “Yeah, it’s kinda my go-to. Whenever I come here, that is. I mean, I have different orders at different places.” Shut up you idiot, you’re just running your head now!

Jason stood sipping his drink from the paper straw with his free hand in his jacket pocket, still staring Tim down like a predator watching prey, but with a little less intensity. A little. 

Tim cleared his throat, desperate to fill the silence with something, anything ,  that might not result in a Red-Hood-hunts-down-Tim-and-tries-to-murder-him-spree again. “You, uh, you look good.” 

Jason huffed through his nose, and Tim could not tell if it was out of amusement or offense. He sipped his drink again and swallowed thoughtfully, a slightly cold smile lifting the corners of his mouth, especially the right side where a light pink scar interrupted the curve of his bottom lip. “Hm. Wish I could say the same for you.” He turned and started toward the door, only glancing over his shoulder a moment before leaving. “See ya on the streets, Replacement.” 

Tim stood staring after Jason long after he had crossed the street and disappeared from sight, his heart pounding in both his chest and his head, filling his ears with a constant woosh, woosh, woosh . 

“Here’s your shake Mr. Wayne, sorry about that.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. Not your fault.” Tim answered robotically, taking his shake and returning to his seat in the corner. He set his drink down in front of him on the table, staring out the window at the corner of the building where Jason had disappeared. 

Tim was slightly surprised that he had not felt more triggered than he had; he had felt some panic and unease, but he mostly just felt slightly numb. Although maybe that was that nasty little thing called shock setting in. That was a possibility. But the one thing he had not felt was out-and-out fear, which was what he thought he should have felt, but seeing Jason looking so normal and causal had somehow placed him in a different box inside Tim's head that was not the same as the Red-Hood-Gun-Weilding-Vengeful-Killer box that he had placed Jason in before. No, this new box was very much like the other box he had set aside for Jason long before they had ever met, long before Tim had ever dreamed of becoming Robin, when Robin was Jason… and also Tim’s hero. 

Tim finally reached out and picked up his drink, sipping on it and admitting to himself that it did feel good to have something gently filling his stomach, and did wonders for smoothing his buzzing nerves. 

I wonder where he's been the past year… he seemed so different… so calm… 

Tim absentmindedly took a long drink from his shake, holding the thick liquid in his mouth a moment before swallowing it in small increments, trying to focus on the flavors as a method of grounding himself and slowing his heart rate. 

He didn't seem mad at me… he wasn’t even glaring. Maybe his mind is finally pulling back from where it was before. I wonder if… uh oh… Bruce…

Tim gulped as a nervous heave in his stomach made him pause in drinking any more of his shake. Did Bruce know? He had not acted differently at any point that would have indicated that Bruce was hiding something from Tim, and Tim was quite used to picking up on that. 

Should I say something? Should I tell him that he's back in town? I don't want to send him down the spiral of panic that the mention of Jason usually sends Bruce down. Nothing bad has happened… no news stories… no new police reports of any law-breaking Red Hood encounters or behaviors. Maybe he really is different. Maybe something actually has changed… 

Tim was slightly surprised when he took another drink and his straw only slurped up a little at the bottom of his cup. He glanced down at his watch and raised his brows when he saw that it was nearly three o’clock: he had been sitting lost in his thoughts for almost two hours now. He stood and dropped his cup in the trash can by the door, waving over his shoulder at the servers as they called out a “goodbye” and “come back soon”. He tapped a few buttons on his digital watch to send a “on my way” message to Bruce, then shoved his hands in his pockets and started down the sidewalk with his body on autopilot, his mind still busy as ever; running like the enormous CPU in the Batcave’s computer: analyzing, filing, and sorting. 

This is fine… maybe he's hung up the Hood. Maybe things will be different. Maybe I won't have to see him again. Maybe I am really delusional…

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Unlike Bruce, who could do a fairly good job at masking his feelings and concealing his expressions when something was troubling him; Tim, for all his effort, was actually pretty bad at it. At least, as far as Bruce was concerned, other people surely did not pick up on the same things he did. 

At first, Bruce wrote off Tim's slightly standoffish, uneasy behavior as a side effect from being slightly off from the way his day had started, but as the day went on and night fell, sending them down into the bowels of the Batcave, Bruce began to reason that there was something more to Tim's behavior. So, like any mystery Bruce had ever been faced with, he started carefully observing the subject of said mystery and began meticulously searching for clues.

Tim was far more fidgety than normal, bouncing his right leg incessantly as he sat at the computer looking through recent police reports and downloading the information onto his wrist gauntlet computer, mumbling incoherently to himself as pulled on his uniform: all indicators of unrest or nerves. It took him longer than normal to suit up because he tried to pull his gloves on the wrong hands and his boots onto the wrong feet before finally getting himself situated in his uniform, indicating that he was distracted, lost in his own speeding thoughts. He was also uncharacteristically quiet, even though he had never been particularly chatty, only responding with a few words when necessary and hums of consideration when he did not have to speak. Even after Damian made a particularly cutting quip about the unnecessary amount of belts on his Red Robin suit, Tim had not even tried to quip back or defend his uniform design. 

“Father? I am ready.” Damian announced as he walked up to stand beside Bruce’s chair at the computer, tugging at his green gloves to settle them firmly on his fingers. Damian stared questioningly at Bruce's expression for a moment when his father did not answer him, then followed his gaze before scowling when he found that Bruce was carefully watching Tim insert the updated computer chip into his wrist gauntlet. “ Father . Are you ready or not ?” 

Bruce blinked a few times as he pulled out of his thoughts, glancing over at Damian and nodding as he stood. “Yes, I'm ready Damian.” 

“Good, then let us get going already; the night will not be young forever, and neither will I.” Damian insisted as he strode over to the Batmobile, not even pausing as he claimed the front seat. 

Bruce reached out and laid a hand on Tim's shoulder, feeling the young man start slightly under his touch even though his face did not show signs of being startled. “Tim? Pal, are you feeling alright tonight?” 

Tim smiled for the first time that night, just a quick little quirk of his lips that seemed more polite than sincere. “Sure B, I'm good.” 

“Are you sure?” Bruce pressed, leaning back against the counter and watching Tim’s face carefully. “You seem to be a bit… distracted.” 

Tim shook his head and started checking his belt in a quick inventory of his gear. “I’m not distracted. I’m good, really.” 

Bruce made Tim pause and meet his gaze by reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “If there’s something wrong I’d like to know about it. You’ve not been yourself tonight.” 

“Maybe that’s just what a few hours of sleep does for me.” Tim quipped with a wink, pressing on his mask and smiling. “Maybe you just aren’t used to seeing me somewhat rested.” 

“I really don’t think that’s it.” Bruce countered walking after Tim as he started toward the vehicle bay. “I actually have seen you rested, and this is not that . You seem more… out of sorts… a little nervous maybe. Did something happen after our meeting today that you need to get off your chest?” 

“Nope, I told you Bruce, I’m good.” Tim insisted, waving his hand dismissively without looking back. “I am ready to get started on patrol though; I’ll take South Q4 tonight.” 

Bruce paused at the door of the Batmobile, tilting his head to the left a little in surprise as Tim walked past the car without even hesitating. “Where are you going? Are you going to get in?” 

“Naw, I’m taking a bike tonight. Thought it’d be a good change of pace.” Tim replied, swinging his leg over said bike and starting the engine before pulling on a helmet and flicking Bruce a little two fingered salute. “I’ll check in with you in thirty.” His voice promised through the communication piece in Bruce’s ear before Tim revved the engine and tore up the exit road, the bike’s engine sending roaring echoes through the cave and disturbing several groups of bats. 

Bruce stood watching the tail light of the bike disappear, then sighed as he stepped into the driver’s side of the Batmobile. 

“This is the start of a good night; at least I will not be subject to his blabbering all the way into town.” Damian scoffed as he buckled himself in and crossed his arms over his chest. 

Bruce’s eyes hardened as he pulled up the hood of his cowl before starting the Batmobile. “Damian, if this is the attitude with which you intend to start the night, you can get out now. Understood?” 

Damian glanced over at Bruce and swallowed hard at the sight of his set jaw and the narrowed eye slits of his mask. “Yes, Father. Understood.” 

As Bruce pulled out of the Batcave his thoughts remained heavily on Tim as he followed far behind in his wake. Tim; his anomaly, his disaster case on legs, the reason for quite a few of his headaches and certainly for a few of his grey hairs that had shown up recently… his stubborn little savior. 

Bruce could still remember the first time he met Tim; the boy was just four years old…

Bruce sighed and pulled a little on the neck of his tie, feeling that Alfred had tied it just a little too tight tonight. It was nearly eight o’clock, but he had only been here for an hour and half, not quite long enough to be able to leave without bothersome questions. He had spoken to almost every inch-shallow, deep-pocketed individual here, and he was fairly certain that the donations to the new substance abuse rehabilitation facility would be substantial. 

Bruce wished Dick was not home right now with the flu, the energetic boy made these functions so much easier, teasing and talking his ear off until the time just slipped by unnoticed.

“Why Bruce! How nice to see you this evening!” A woman's bright and cheerful voice to his left made him turn and perk up his plastered on polite smile. 

“Hello Janet! I'm glad to see you back in Gotham,” Bruce greeted brightly as he took the offered gloved hand and shook it gently, “I thought you and Jack might still be in Greece.” 

“We would have loved to be, but something came up with the charity and we had to come right back,” Janet explained, her dark eyes closing for a minute as she offered up a doll-like grin, “isn't that right Jack?” 

Jack Drake stepped up beside his wife, smiling at Bruce and extending his hand for Bruce to shake. “Certainly, and we wouldn't have missed your fundraiser Bruce; it's a great cause, and the Drake Charity Foundation will be more than willing to donate.” 

“I appreciate that Jack, I feel it's an area of need that has not been covered nearly enough.” Bruce shared, one hand fiddling with his forgotten drink glass and the other finding a home in his pocket. “At any rate, I think construction of the building will ... Oh.” His words petered off as his gaze fell on movement near Jack's leg. 

Standing stiff as a board and silent as a mouse, a little boy gripped the side of Jack's pants leg as he stared up at Bruce with large, bright blue eyes and a pale face that appeared quite white framed in jet black hair that was gelled and combed down neatly. He was a solemn little thing, with an expression of perfect neutrality in spite of the curiosity sparking in his eyes. He was dressed in a tiny little black tuxedo, with a tiny vest, a tiny white button-down, a tiny clip-on black bowtie, and tiny shiny black dress shoes. 

“Is this your son?” Bruce asked, aware that the Drakes had a child, but never having seen him out with them before. 

“Oh, yeah, this is Tim,” Jack replied, bending down to pick the boy up and set him somewhat stiffly on his hip, almost leaning back from the little boy. “Our little Timmy boy.” 

Janet sighed and reached out to untangle Tim's fingers from her husband's tie. “Timothy, don't wrinkle Daddy's tie.” She looked back at Bruce with a smile and a flippant sort of hand wave. “We decided it was about time to start bringing him to some of these functions so he can start getting socialized.” 

Bruce almost winced at the way Janet's words had made the little boy sound like a puppy. He smiled and extended his hand toward the silent little boy, who now looked even more awkward in Jack's arms since his little arms were now hanging by his sides to avoid wrinkling his father's wardrobe. “Hello Tim, I'm Bruce.” 

Tim stared at Bruce's hand like it was a foreign sort of thing for a moment before his eyes slowly made their way to meet Bruce's with keen interest and obvious uncertainty.

“Tim. Don't be rude. Say ‘hello’ to Mr. Wayne.” Jack chided, his voice curt and tense as he looked at Tim disapprovingly. 

In spite of being annoyed with Jack for forcing Tim, Bruce could not help but smile at how tinee-tiny Tim's hand was as it disappeared within his own. “Well, you're a quiet one, aren't you? You're not scared of me are you?”  

“Oh you won't get an answer out of him Bruce dear,” Janet assured, waving her hand toward Tim, “he can't talk.”

Bruce looked at her with a raised brow. “Can’t? How old is he?” 

“Four.” Jack replied, seeming unbothered as he set Tim back down and brushed off his jacket. “He'll be four in June, that is.” 

“He's four, but he can't talk?” Bruce pressed, knowing even with his limited knowledge of children smaller than eight that a non-verbal four-year-old was strange. “Have you taken him to a pediatrician?" 

“Oh more than once,” Janet sighed with a shake of her head, the decorative beads that hung from the chopstick-style pins in her bun clattering together at the movement. “His hearing is fine, and physically doesn't seem to be malfunctioned or deformed, he just doesn't talk. He's in therapy though, and he will use some sign language that they've been teaching him.” 

Bruce perked up at this and looked back down at the little boy, hitching up his pants legs a little so he could squat down on his heels and bring himself closer to Tim's level. “Do you like cake?” Bruce asked as he signed the question as well. 

A smile almost too small to be noticed curved Tim's still very baby-looking mouth, his little hands coming out from their place behind his back to sign ‘yes’.

Bruce smiled and glanced up at Jack. “Can I take him for a treat? I'll keep him where you can see him, or you can come if you feel more comfortable.” 

“Oh Bruce, you don't have to do that!” Janet insisted, looking surprised. “I'm sure you have more important things to do than spend time with a toddler.”  

“Nonsense,” Bruce replied, looking back at Tim with a smile, “I'm sure you and Jack would like to have the chance to dance tonight, and I don't mind spending time with young Tim here in the slightest. What do you say Tim? Can I pick you up?” 

Tim nodded and held out his arms as he stepped away from Jack's leg, the serious expression loosening a little from its place on his round face in anticipation. 

Bruce scooped Tim up and placed him on his hip, wrapping a hand around Tim's back to steady him and winking as he offered Tim his tie to clutch to for balance, which Tim accepted with gleaming eyes. “Really, I don't mind if you don't. Go dance with your wife Jack, your son is safe with me.” 

Jack nodded now without the least bit of hesitation, taking his wife's hand and already starting to lead her toward the dance floor, and Janet did not try to protest any further either. “Alright then Bruce, I'll take you up on that offer. Be good Timothy, behave for Mr. Wayne.” 

Tim nodded as his parents walked off, then looked back to Bruce, releasing his tie long enough to sign ‘cake please’, just in case Bruce had forgotten.  

Bruce nodded as he started walking. “You bet kiddo, let's go get you some cake.” 

It was a strange thing, but there was something ridiculously satisfying about carrying Tim around. He was light, almost shockingly so compared to some of the things Bruce lifted on a nightly basis, and lighter than Dick had ever been even as an eight-year-old. It was also doing something odd to Bruce's brain chemistry, he was sure of that; it almost felt like little bubbles were popping in his brain. 

Bruce stopped at the dessert table and looked over at Tim as he gave him a little upward heft. “Well, what will it be? Chocolate? Vanilla with berries? Or maybe coconut?”

Tim looked over the spread of small squares of cake, his little eyes gleaming with excitement and mouth finally fully smiling. He looked back at Bruce and said, with perfect clarity in spite of a heavy baby voice: “Choc-wet.” 

Bruce blinked in surprise and shook his head. “I… I thought your parents said you couldn't talk.” 

Tim shrugged his little shoulders nonchalantly, his fingers fidgeting with the silk of Bruce's tie. “I can.” Came his simple answer as he turned to look back at the table of sweets and snacks. 

“Then why don't you?” Bruce asked, watching the little boy's face with great interest. “Don't you want to talk to your mom and dad?” 

Tim shook his head. “No. D'ay don't wike noise. D'ay always tell me to shh .” He emphasized this with a finger to his lips and a little furrowing of his dark brows as he shushed. “D'at's why I sign instead. Can I pwease have the choc-wet cake Missah Wayne?”

It was unfortunate, but Tim's explanation for his silence around his parents made perfect sense; why would a child speak if he was constantly being hushed? And even more unfortunately, he could completely believe that Janet and Jack Drake would be the type to shush their son at every turn and then wonder why he would not speak, and simply put him in therapy to try to solve it. It was just a little shocking that no one had discovered that Tim was actually quite capable of speaking. Bruce's shock wore off as a smile crept across his face as he took a plate with the requested cake and nodded. “Of course you can. Come on, let's go sit over here so you can eat it.” 

The rest of the night was spent with Tim sitting in Bruce's lap, eating his cake with manners far and above his age, and talking to Bruce about the people around them, why chocolate was the best cake flavor, and why he liked trains better than cars, both in toy and actual form. Bruce listened and added his thoughts when needed, finding a great amount of joy in discussing things with the child, many times shocked at his intelligence and manners. 

By the end of the gala, Tim was fast asleep on Bruce's shoulder, his hand still gripping Bruce's tie, and his little cheek smushed against Bruce's jacket, leaving a small darkened spot of drool beneath his slightly agape mouth. 

“Well, we hope you did not mind getting stuck with Tim all night Bruce,” Jack offered up as they walked out to where their respective limos were parked and waiting, “I didn't expect to get pulled into such a long conversation with the mayor.” 

“I already told you that it wasn't a problem at all Jack, Tim's a good boy.” Bruce cut his eyes to gauge the reaction of his next statement. “I'm sure you're proud of him.” 

Janet laughed and paused at the bottom of the steps of the convention center. “Oh, he's a good boy when he wants to be. I assure you that your opinion would be different if you had to live with him.” She reached out and tapped Tim's back with a few fingers. “Come on Timmy, time to go home.” 

Jack stepped forward and held out his arms for the sleeping toddler. “Here Bruce, I'll take him.” 

Bruce's hold tightened for just a moment, and the overwhelming urge to say ‘no’ and walk away with the child stunned him, but he offered up the sleeping boy in spite of himself. 

Tim let out an unhappy whine, the hand holding Bruce’s tie tightening until his pudgy knuckles were white and the other hand was making little grabby motions. 

“Come on Tim, time to go.” Jack insisted as he continued to pull the boy away from Bruce with little success. 

“Here, wait a second.” Bruce reached up and loosened his tie until he could untie it, letting it fall away in Tim’s hands and untethering them as Jack pulled him away. Bruce shrugged at Janet’s questioning look. “It’s just a tie; I won’t miss it.” 

Bruce watched the Drake limo pull away, sighing and finally turning to climb into his own limo. 

“Taking up babysitting for the Drakes, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked from the driver's seat, his eyes watching Bruce in the rearview mirror.

Bruce slumped against the door and stared slightly despondently out the window. “I wish Dick was little. I mean… little-er… Tim sized…” 

Bruce’s thoughts were interrupted as his communication piece crackled in his ear. 

Red Robin checking in. Do you read me?

“I read you Red, go ahead with your report,” Bruce replied after tapping the communicator once to respond. 

All’s quiet so far. Nothing drastic to report besides a carjacking, it’s taken care of though. 

“Thanks for the check-in, Red Robin. Batman out.” 

I’ll check back in another half hour. R.R. out.

Damian glanced up from where he was crouched on the rooftop, looking as though he wanted to say something, but decided differently considering the mood his father had been in the past few hours. “Are we going to check on that report of suspicious drug activity in that Main Street complex?” He managed finally. 

Bruce nodded, pulling out his grappling gun and aiming it carefully. “Yes, we’ll take care of that first tonight. Let’s head out, Robin.” 

Damian nodded and shot his grapple, swinging out in front of Bruce as they left their current perch. 

Bruce knew that it was not the best thing, but he found that in his travels swinging across the city, his mind traveled too; although, usually to places his physical body could not. 

He and Tim had struck it off well that first meeting, and ever since they always seemed to find each other during events. Tim did eventually start speaking more, only because he had noted that his parents seemed to be getting annoyed with sign language now, but he spoke to no one as much as he spoke to Bruce. 

But it was not until a few years later that Bruce really began to notice and think of the reserved, quietly cheerful little boy as someone who might need his further attention in some way. He was nearly eight, and Bruce realized just how little the Drakes were truly concerned about their child’s wellbeing… 

“Bruuuce! Come on! I could do half a night!” Thirteen-year-old Dick whined as he leaned on the back of the couch with his head on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“We’ve been over this Chum, no patrol before test days,” Bruce replied, not looking up from his paper but reaching up to ruffle Dick’s hair fondly. 

Dick let out a long, exasperated sigh and practically melted down the back of the couch to sit on the floor. “If I don’t get to go with you tonight, I won’t eat dinner.” 

“That’s too bad since Alfred is making spaghetti.” Bruce quipped, a smile pulling at his mouth as Dick sprang to his feet at the mention of one of his favorite meals. 

“Really? With garlic bread?” Dick wilted after his exclamation when he realized he had lost his pathetic front. “Well… I still won’t be happy about it.” 

“Don’t you have homework and studying to do?” Bruce asked, finally folding his paper and standing from the couch. 

Dick moaned as he followed Bruce with dragging feet. “I learned it in class, why do I have to go learn it again in my room?” 

“Because there will be elements on your test that were not covered in class,” Bruce replied as he leaned on the banister at the bottom of his stairs. “Now get up there and get to it, no more arguments.” 

Dick sighed helplessly and started up the stairs in nearly slow motion, pulling a huff of amusement from Bruce as he watched him. 

“If you get your homework done, I’ll let you come down to the cave to do some training for an hour or so before I go on patrol.” Bruce offered temptingly. 

Dick let out a whoop and did a somersault onto the banister, holding his arms out to his sides for balance as he ran up the slippery wood. 

“Dick Greyson! Get off the…” Bruce sighed as realized his order was pointless as Dick had already made it upstairs, flipping off the banister and running down the hall at a sprint for his room. 

Bruce sighed and shook his head, starting to walk into the living room to finish reading his paper when the musical chime of the doorbell caught his ear. 

“I can get it Alfred!” Bruce called as he started down the entryway hall toward the door, pulling it open and looking out with a practiced smile of greeting. “Yes? Who’s-” His question dropped off as it appeared that he was talking to thin air, until a young, but raspy, voice spoke up from nearly below his belt buckle. 

“Hiya Mr. Wayne.” 

Bruce looked down and found eight-year-old Tim looking up at him with a sheepish smile on his face, his hands tucked politely behind his back. 

“Wha- Tim?” Bruce looked up and looked around outside, instantly bothered by the lack of cars that might have transported the boy to his front door. “How did you get here?”

“I walked,” Tim replied nonchalantly, seeming completely unbothered by the fact and even a little surprised that he had to supply an answer to such a question.  

“All the way here?” Bruce exclaimed, a little mental math and calculations coming up with an answer that it was far too far of a walk for an eight-year-old from the Drake estate to the Wayne Estate, almost thirteen miles in fact. “Where are your parents? Why are you here?” Bruce regretted the insistence of his questions instantly when Tim cowered back a bit, his chin dropping as he avoided Bruce’s gaze. 

“I, uh, Mom and Dad are still in Poland,” Tim replied, his voice holding an unmistakable croak. “I tried to call Mrs. Mac, but she didn’t answer, and I-” Tim’s explanation was cut off by a hard, wet cough into his elbow. 

Bruce knelt instantly, reaching out to lift Tim’s head with a hand under his chin, just now noticing his red-rimmed eyes and rashy-looking nose and upper lip. “Tim, are you sick?” 

Tim nodded and sniffed hard to keep a little droplet of snot in his left nostril from rolling down his raw lip. “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Wayne, but I’m out of Robitussin, and my throat really hurts if I don’t take it on schedule.”

“Tim, are you telling me that you are sick, your parents are out of town, and they didn’t leave you with a babysitter?” Bruce asked, his heart dropping into his stomach as he realized without Tim’s answer that was exactly what had happened. 

Tim wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and straightened a little. “I don’t need a baby sitter, Mom and Dad said I’m big enough to take care of myself. And I am.” He coughed into his sleeve again and sniffed hard, wilting a little. “And besides, Mrs. Mac is at the house cleaning until noon, and she normally helps me with stuff I can’t do, but I ran out of Robitussin this morning and she didn’t answer her phone when I called.” Another hard cough. “And I called twice.” He croaked, his voice seeming to get worse by the moment.

Bruce reached out and laid a hand against Tim’s forehead, alarmed by the radiating heat. “You’re burning up! Tim, you shouldn’t have…” Bruce cut himself off as he shook his head, thinking better of what he was about to say. “No, you did the right thing Tim. Come on inside out of the sun, we’ll get you some Robitussin and see what else we can do.” 

Tim stepped in and looked around nervously as Bruce shut the door behind him; he had been in Wayne Manor before, for small parties and personal gatherings that his parents had been invited to, but never on his own. 

Bruce laid a hand on the back of Tim's head and led him into the living room, pulling on a butler cord by the door, then sitting on the couch and patting the seat next to him. “Here kiddo, sit with me and let me have a look at you.” 

Tim hesitated a moment then hopped up on the couch, wriggling back so he was resting against the back of the couch, his short legs sticking out on the seat. “I really just need some Robitussin Mr. Wayne, then I can go back home and not bother you.” 

“You are not bothering me Tim, and you are not going back home,” Bruce replied, sweeping Tim's hair back and laying a hand on his forehead again as he inspected Tim's splotchy, pale face. 

Tim's eyes widened at this announcement and he pulled back away from Bruce. “But Mr. Wayne, what if my parents call and I'm not home? What Mrs. Mac comes back and finds me gone? I gotta go back home Mr Wayne, I don't want to get in trouble.” 

Bruce shook his head and reached out to take one of Tim's hands from where it was clenched in his pants leg. “You're not going to get in trouble. I'll call your parents and let them know you are here, but Tim, you can't be at home by yourself when you are sick like this.” 

“Well well, what have we here?” Alfred asked as he stepped into the living room, smiling gently at the boy sitting stiffly on the couch. “Am I to assume we will have a guest for lunch?” 

“Alfred, Tim’s not feeling well,” Bruce explained, “and there isn’t anyone at home with him right now. So would you mind bringing me a thermometer, Robitussin, and possibly some tea?” 

Alfred’s shock was only shown through a quick upward tick of his brows, but he quickly nodded and stepped forward to pet Tim’s head with a gloved hand. “Very good Master Bruce. Perhaps I can suggest that while I am away you try to make Master Timothy here a bit more comfortable?” 

Bruce nodded as Alfred left to gather the things needed to care for a sick little boy. He slid off the couch to kneel in front of Tim and started untying his sneakers. 

“Mr. Wayne, I really need to be at home.” 

The tremble in Tim’s voice denoted much more than just his stuffy nose and sore throat, and it made Bruce look up quickly, his heart sinking as he caught sight of tears trickling down Tim’s cheeks. 

“If my parents find out I bothered you, they’ll be really upset. I just need some cough syrup so I can go back home.” Tim insisted, his bottom lip trembling as his hands twisted in the hem of his hoodie. “Please Mr. Wayne, I need to go home. I really didn’t mean to be a bother. I shouldn’t have come, I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” 

Bruce reached out and cradled Tim’s face in both his hands, forcing the watering blue eyes to meet his gaze. “Tim, you don’t have anything to be sorry for; you haven’t done anything wrong. You needed help and you came to someone you knew, that is exactly what you should have done. I will deal with your parents, I will tell them that it is my fault that you stayed here. You won’t get in trouble, and everything will be okay. But you really are sick, and you’re only a kid, you shouldn’t be alone like this.”

More tears slipped from Tim’s eyes even though Bruce did his best to smooth them away with his thumbs. “You… you aren’t mad?” 

“Of course not,” Bruce promised, going back to untying Tim’s shoes and pulling them off to set them on the floor by the couch. “I’m glad you felt you could come here and ask for help.” Bruce smiled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away a little dribble of snot from Tim’s nose, then offered it to him for him to blow his nose. “Now, what would you say if I told you that Dick is home today, and might really like to keep you company for a little while?” 

Tim’s eyes lit up at the mention of the older boy and a wobbly smile crossed his face. “I’d like to see Dick. Do you think… maybe we could watch a movie?” 

“I think that might be in order,” Bruce replied as he stood, waving off Tim’s offer of the handkerchief. “Keep it, you might need it again until Alfred can bring you a box of tissues. Stay right here, and I’ll be right back.” 

Dick, of course, leapt at the chance to get out of his homework, and more than willingly settled in on the couch next to Tim after building a nest of pillows and blankets around the sick little boy, talking cheerfully and making Tim feel completely at ease as they settled in to watch ‘The Lion King’. 

Bruce stood leaning against the doorframe as he watched them, his stomach knotting and twisting over the whole situation. The Drakes deserved to come home and find their son missing. They deserved to panic. 

“If your face grows any degree redder, Master Bruce, I would not be shocked by steam coming out of your collar.” Alfred quipped as he came to stand at Bruce’s side, watching as Tim’s nervous resolve melted as he snuggled into Dick’s side with a drowsy smile on his face as he watched the movie. 

“They left their eight-year-old child home, alone, without a babysitter.” Bruce practically growled, his fists clenching where his arms were crossed over his chest. “They left him alone, sick, and with no way to contact them. Wherever they are, they are out of network. Not even I could reach them when I called. What if he had gotten seriously ill? What if they came back and found him-” Bruce squeezed his eyes shut at the thought, unable to finish verbalizing it. “And through it all, Tim was worried about getting in trouble for ‘being a bother’. Those two don’t deserve that little boy. They don’t deserve his patience and unwavering understanding for their neglect.” 

“I am afraid that I am inclined to agree with you Master Bruce.” Alfred sighed. “The poor boy was surprised that I brought him a dose of child's cough syrup and not the full strength variety.” He shook his head heavily as he continued watching Tim sadly. “Jack and Janet Drake never struck me as the nurturing kind, but I did not suppose that they were outright neglectful.” 

“It’s almost worse than that.” Bruce added bitterly. “Not only are they neglectful, but it seems they’ve convinced Tim that this is completely normal. You should have heard him defend them when I asked if they leave him alone often, which was enough for me to figure that it does in fact happen a lot.” Bruce took in a deep breath and set his jaw. “In any case, Tim is staying here until his parents come and get him. Will you make sure he has a room set up near mine in case he needs me?” 

“Certainly Master Bruce. I will also find some of Master Dick’s outgrown clothes for him to wear during his stay.” 

That was not the only time that Wayne Manor housed Tim during his parents' frequent ‘charity mission and fundraising trips’ around the globe. In fact, the room Alfred had prepared for Tim became his permanent guest quarters, and was in fact the very room that was his now. 

Bruce scrolled through a new debrief report on his gauntlet computer, smiling a little to himself at the oh-so-detailed report that was written up in a way that only Tim’s mind was capable of creating. 

Tim had always been smart, there was no question of that, but Bruce was indeed slightly shocked to realize that he was not only smart but a strange sort of genius. 

Thirteen. Tim had only been thirteen when he stood before Batman with a fearless sort of confidence that was only cheapened slightly by the trembling in his clenched fists. Even as a teenager, he had looked so small, his clothes were as always too big, and his neck had to crane backward as he met the white eye-slit glare of a man who had no business being around a child in his current state… 

“What did you say?” Batman growled as his fist clenched at his side as he stared down the bold but terrified teen. 

They were standing in a dark alleyway, where Bruce had dropped down to face the boy when he had noticed he had been following him, but even in the dark Tim’s pale face seemed to glow whiter with fear that he was rather bravely shoving to the side.  

Tim swallowed and seemed to be working up enough lubricant in his mouth to be able to use his words. “I said that I’m sorry about Jason. I’m sorry he died.” 

Beneath the cowl ,Bruce’s eyes were wide and unbelieving. It was a public fact, that the ward of Bruce Wayne had died in a horrible accident at only fifteen years old, even though the actual facts of his passing had been concealed to hide the boy’s secret. So Tim would know that, but he should not be addressing these condolences to Batman, he should not be making the connection… 

“Why are you saying this to me?” Batman asked, trying to find a way to edge around the creeping suspicion of the answer, but also wanting to hear it directly if he was right. 

Tim gulped again, his fingers clenching the camera that hung around his neck until they were white. “Because I know he was your son. I know that Jason was Robin, and I know that you…” His eyes glanced to the left and right as his voice dropped to a whisper. “I know that you are Bruce Wayne.” 

Bruce stared for another silent, tense moment, his head a flurry of frantic questions. They had done so much to hide the truth. Through the burning pain in his chest he had stripped Jason’s limp body of the Robin uniform so that the authorities would find him in civilian clothes, they had crafted the story that Jason had been tragically taken hostage by the Joker and had been caught in an explosion before he could be saved… that part of the story was painfully close to the truth. So how? How could he have…?

“I’ve known for a while.” Tim supplied finally, seeming to be unable to stand the silence a moment longer. “I just haven’t said anything ‘til now.” 

“How long is a ‘while’?” Bruce asked, his voice starting to lose the roughness of Batman’s voice as his mind began to accept the fact that Tim really did know who was under that mask. 

Tim nervously scratched the back of his neck, one shoulder shrugging. “Since I was nine or ten? It’s been a few years.” 

Bruce’s heart slammed hard in his chest. That long? How could he have figured out Bruce Wayne’s greatest secret that long ago? And at such a ridiculously young age? 

“Come on. We need to talk.” Bruce commanded shortly as he walked down the alley toward where the Batmobile was parked, not having to wonder if Tim was following him because he could feel his presence close at his side. 

Once inside the safety of the impenetrable windows of the Batmobile with Tim sitting stiffly and nervously in the passenger seat, pressed up against the door to make as much space between them as possible, Bruce sighed and pulled back his cowl, not missing the quick expression of smug validation that flew across Tim’s face. 

“Alright, I am going to drive, and you , you are going to talk.” Bruce ordered, pressing a few buttons before pulling out of the alley, unbeknownst to Tim, recording every word. 

Tim shrugged again, a nervous habit he had developed early. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How did you figure it out?” Bruce pressed, only gripping the wheel to give himself something to hold onto and a reason to stare straight ahead since the car was now in autopilot. 

Tim pulled in a deep breath through his nose, picking at a small scab on his palm. “Well, that goes back a ways, before Jason even. When I was little, really little, my mom and dad took me to see a circus performance that had come into town; we were really just there to see the Flying Greysons.” 

The mention of the name and the connection to that particular night made Bruce slightly sick to his stomach, but he didn’t interrupt, he just kept gripping the wheel and staring down the road as he listened. 

“Dick Greyson was the coolest kid I had ever seen, and he could move in ways that I didn’t think were humanly possible.” Tim continued, his face growing somewhat wistful as he thought back. “I even got a picture with him and his parents before the big top show. Well, I guess you know how that show ended.” Tim’s voice grew smaller as he glanced over to gauge Bruce’s reaction and saw nothing but stony neutrality. 

“Anyway, one night a few years later I was watching a live news broadcast of Batman and Robin fighting the Penguin downtown,” Tim resumed after a moment, “and I saw Robin pull off a quadruple somersault that ended in some goon getting trashed, and that’s when it hit me; I had only ever seen that flip in one other place and that was in Dick Greyson’s portion of the show that left him orphaned.” 

Now that Tim was talking, he seemed unable to stop, his confession tumbling out of his mouth like a torrent of secrets held back for years. 

“It just started to make sense, Dick Greyson was orphaned, adopted by Bruce Wayne, and then suddenly at the same time Batman got a sidekick that seemed to know how to fly. I started watching all the recordings of Batman and Robin and Bruce Wayne and Dick Greyson that I could, and that’s when I started noticing similarities in your voices, the way you walked, how you stood, heck, even the way you looked at each other. 

Then Bruce Wayne adopted another kid, a boy called Jason Todd, and Batman had a new Robin; a Robin that moved differently, talked differently, and fought differently from the Robin before. And suddenly the voice I recognized as Robin was coming from some new crime fighter called Nightwing. If it wasn’t already, it was obvious to me after that.” 

Tim paused, swallowing hard as if uncertain if he should finish his story. “Then… then Jason Todd was declared dead on the news… and Batman… no longer had a Robin.” 

Bruce cut his eyes at Tim, his heart throbbing with the memories that this little punk dared to drag up, but his anger softened slightly when he saw tears swimming in Tim’s eyes in the light of the monitors and illuminated buttons inside the cab of the Batmobile. 

Tim looked up for the first time and out the window, his brows puckering in nervous concern. “Bruce? Where are you taking me? Am I in trouble?” 

Bruce didn’t answer, he just pulled a small aerosol bottle from his belt and misted Tim’s face, not even a heartbeat going by as the boy slumped over in the seat unconscious.

“Are you quite certain Master Wayne? He knows who you are in and out of the cowl without a doubt?” Alfred asked as he stared in shock at the boy sprawled in a chair in front of the Batcomputer. 

“Without a doubt Alfred. The crazy kid had it all pieced together.” Bruce replied as he tapped a report quickly into the description of the recording from the Batmobile. “I have it all here in his own words, you can listen to it later if you want to, but there’s no question about it: Tim knows our identities. 

A soft moan from behind him made Bruce turn, taking a deep breath to steel himself, and knelt in front of Tim as he started to come out from under the effects of the knock-out gas. 

Tim blinked owlishly, staring down into Bruce’s face for several long moments before he started looking around, his face going slack with awe. “Whoa. Oh whoa. No way…” He muttered, his eyes finally finding Bruce’s gaze again, a small smile perking up his expression. “This is the Batcave, isn’t it?” 

Bruce nodded in response. 

“ The Batcave? Seriously?” 

Bruce nodded again, watching with a flicker of amusement as Tim fidgeted in his chair with excitement. 

“I only ever dreamed of what this place might look like!” Tim mumbled with a shake of his head, then a spark of devilish glee glinted in his eyes. “It’s under Wayne Manor, isn’t it? You get down here somehow with the clock.” 

Bruce’s eyes widened a little, his mouth opening to ask a question that did not come immediately. “Why would you think it had to do with the clock?” 

“Because the hands are always stopped at 10:47,” Tim replied, like it was easy, “that’s the time Thomas and Martha Wayen were killed in Crime Alley when you were eight.” 

Bruce sighed and hung his head a moment, then looked up sternly, watching as his stare wilted the boy’s enthusiasm a little. “Tim. I hope you realize how serious this is. How serious what you know is, what it could mean .” 

“I know, trust me, I know.” Tim replied, his voice far more serious than Bruce expected out of a kid his age. “But you can trust me Bruce, because I’m the only one that knows. I haven’t told my parents, Mrs. Mac, nobody.” 

“Not even your friends at school?” Bruce pressed, just knowing how tempting a secret like that might be for a teenager. 

Tim’s face fell into a smirk, but his eyes held just a little sadness. “I don’t have any friends. Besides, why would I tell a bunch of kids something like that?” 

Because you’re a kid? Bruce had thought, but he just shook his head and asked a different question. “Why did you come to me tonight? You’ve known this for years, so why now?” 

Tim sat up in his chair, his fists clenching on either side of his thighs as he pressed them down into the seat. “Because I know you need my help. I know Batman needs help.” 

Bruce stood suddenly, taking a step back from Tim and frowning deeply. “No.” 

“Bruce, listen, please!” Tim insisted, springing from his chair as though it had been hot. “I’ve been watching you since you lost Jason, and I don’t like what I’m seeing! You’re getting reckless, careless, out of character, like you don’t care what happens to you. You’ve had several severe injuries in the past few months; if I can see all that, so can any criminal on the streets.” 

“ The answer is no, Tim, no . I will not do this again.” Bruce growled, his face turned away from Tim’s pleading eyes. “Never again.” 

“You need a Robin, not because I can save you, but because you will want to save me.” Tim insisted, his shoulders squaring as if ready for a fight. “You need a purpose, you need something to focus on, you need me ; and I am ready to do whatever it takes to make it work.” 

Bruce whirled back toward Tim, his face reddened as his voice rose. “I said no! There will never be another Robin! I will not put a child at stake again!” 

Tim didn’t flinch. He just stared. After a long, silent moment of him seeming to carefully scan Bruce’s face, he spoke evenly and clearly. “You might as well give me a chance, because I am not going to give up. I won’t leave you alone. I’ll just keep bugging you until you have no other choice. Besides, you have to do something to hold me to an oath of silence, right?” 

Tim hadn’t given up. He had been stubborn and pushed all of Bruce’s newly set boundaries. He had kept coming back to the cave until Bruce had started training him just to shut him up and hopefully scare him off. Somehow, it hadn’t, it had only made him stronger and more resilient. He had become a Robin unlike Dick or Jason, he became the reason Batman had not just melted into the shadows and disappeared for good. 

A steady beeping pulled Bruce once more from his thoughts, and his heart dropped when he saw it was Tim’s heart monitor, reading far beyond normal. “Red? Check in, where are you? Red Robin? Answer me!” 

Nothing. No answer. Just static and a sinking feeling of dread in Bruce’s stomach.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Tim swung across a street and took a few running steps up the side of the building to propel himself to the rooftop, pulling in his grappling line and holstering the launcher. He knelt by a pile of cans on the roof, the same pile from the night before, but now it was bigger. He picked one of the cans up with his middle finger and thumb on the top and bottom rim and pulled a small handheld scanner from his belt before scanning the surface. 

Fingerprint: Match. DNA: Match. Results: Jason Peter Todd, AKA Red Hood, AKA Former Robin. Current status: Unknown

Tim stared at the results on the screen, swallowing hard as the reality of Jason being back in Gotham sank deeper. There was no mistaking what had happened earlier at the drink shop for a dream or stress-induced hallucination now. (Yeah, he should probably be concerned that he was even considering that as a possibility, but it is what it is after years of vigilante work.)

Tim stood and dropped the can, turning and holding a hand straight out in front him, one eye closed as he used it as a means to level his gaze. Straight across, three streets and several buildings over was a building with a window that would be at the right height for target practice on this roof. The thought of it made him step back once, his mouth going dry and his tongue thick. 

“Calm down, calm down. You don't know that he is even holed up there specifically. Could be a coincidence.” Tim mumbled to himself as he considered his options. He could easily leave it alone, just wait to see what might happen, if anything; although Tim had never really been the wait-and-see type, he would much rather know if unpleasantness was about to hit the fan before it happened rather than try and clean it up afterward. 

At least for now, his mind was made up for him when a desperate yell from down below caught his attention. Tim leaned over the rooftop and scanned the area, just barely seeing a kid dodge into an alleyway with a rather large, ex-WWE-looking thug close behind. 

The kid tripped halfway down the alley, winding himself slightly but still trying to crawl away from the mass of muscle that was stalking toward him. The boy pulled out his phone, frantically thumbing through his screens, letting out a vaunted yelp of pain and fear as a boot in the middle of his chest pinned him to the ground. 

“Think yer gonna call the cops on me, huh?” The thug growled, bending down to pluck the phone from the boy's hand and crushing it in his fist like it was nothing but a used soda can. “I don't think so, punk.” 

“Didn't your mom ever teach you that bullies never prosper?”

The tattooed menace turned to see who had dared speak to him and caught a gloved fist in the jaw, sending him stumbling back off the kid and into the side of a building with a heavy grunt and growl of frustration. 

Tim reached down and pulled the trembling boy to his feet and pushed him back behind him so that he was standing in between the boy and the threat. “I'm gonna guess not, considering you're picking on someone less than half your size.” He continued on as though there had not been a break in his commentary. 

A blood-stained grin spread across the thug's face as he cracked his knuckles and pushed himself forward off the building. “Red Robin, you're a little far from yer nest, don’tcha think?” 

“Eh, I was never one for sticking to where I'm expected.” Tim quipped as he pulled his bo staff from his belt and clicked the latch on the side to extend it. “You gonna make this easy? Or are we gonna do it the fun way?” 

“Oh, there will be fun, for me!” The thug exclaimed as he rushed forward, fists ready and jaw clenched. 

Tim spun his bo staff once and planted it into the ground so he could use it as support to deliver a spinning kick to the side of the goon's head, his heart skipping a beat as the thug stumbled to the side from the blow but managed to grab onto his ankle ( crapcrapcrap! ) and pull Tim with him. 

Tim felt himself catch several feet of air as the thug used the momentum of his fall to fling Tim down the alley. He tucked his shoulder and rolled as he hit the ground to soften his fall and ended up on his back, wrenching to the side to avoid the fist that was sailing down toward his face so that it cracked into the cement instead. 

Tim brought his knee up forcefully into the larger man's groin, pulling a breathless, pained groan from him and making him arch his back at the sickening pain, giving Tim just enough room to pull up his legs and kick him away with his boots in his chest. Before the thug could recover and move, Tim stood and delivered a heel strike to the side of his head that left him sprawled out, limp, and the best part, silent.

Tim gritted his teeth together as he stepped forward and felt a twinge of pain in the ankle that he had been thrown by, but masked it as he made his way to the boy cowering against the wall. 

“Hey kid, you're gonna be okay. You’re safe now.” Tim encouraged with a smile and a light hand on the boy's shoulder. “What was that gorilla chasing you for?” 

“Th-they're stealing f-from my mom and dad. I… I ran to c-call the police, but-” 

Tim's stomach twisted as he added his other hand to the boy's other shoulder. “They? There was more than one? Where? Which way?” 

The boy pointed down the street, his hand trembling like a leaf clinging to a branch, and a surprised yelp left his throat as Tim scooped him up and took off running down the sidewalk. 

A woman's scream made finding the hold up easy, and after depositing the boy behind a parked car and giving him a police tracking beacon and a command to stay put unless someone started coming after him, Tim bolted toward the sound. 

Three of them, just as large and just as tattooed as their unconscious friend, each holding a gun as they cornered a man and woman in a blind alley. 

Tim let out a shrill whistle to gain their attention, letting three Batarangs fly and grinning as each found their intended marks in the backs of their gun-wielding hands, wringing pain-filled cries from their throats as they dropped their weapons. (Thank you, hours of target practice.)

One of the men muttered a filthy curse as he yanked the blade from his hand. “When did the bats start caring about the south side? Get rid of him!” 

Tim grinned tauntingly and twirled his bo staff in a fancy combo. “Yeah, you heard him boys, come get me!” 

The thug closest to Tim let out an angry yell as he ran toward him, pausing just long enough in surprise for Tim's clean vault over his staff to land a boot in his face. 

Tim kicked off the goon's face and somersaulted over him to strike out in a split kick that made the other two stumble back nursing sore faces and bleeding noses. Tim landed in a crouch with his staff held back behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder at the cowering couple and jerked his head toward the open end of the alley. “Go on, get out of here! Your son is just across the street!”

Tim stood with his staff readied in front of him as he backed up along with the civilians to keep himself between the two still-conscious thieves and the frantic parents. 

“Hey Red, catch!” 

Tim whipped his attention from the retreating couple just in time to see an old crate flying toward his head. Although he was able to lift his arms in a block to keep it from smashing into his head, the force of the blow sent him stumbling backward off his feet. “Crap!” He gasped out as two hands grabbed the same stinking ankle and pulled him from the ground, over the attacker's shoulder and slamming down into the ground. 

Winded, but still conscious, Tim shot his bo staff out and caught the thug in the throat, making him release Tim's leg and stumble backward, choking and gagging. Tim rolled to his feet, his molars grinding as the weight on his ankle sent hot, stabbing pain spiking up his leg. 

The thug on the ground gripping his throat grinned up at Tim in spite of the pain. “Ya know, I woulda thought the freak-in-ears woulda been here by now to haul your sorry self outta trouble. Don't tell me you twos are on the outs?” 

Tim huffed, starting to answer but having the air forced from him as a pair of rock-hard arms closed forcibly around his middle, pinning his arms at his sides and lifting his feet from the ground. Dang it, don't let them talk you into distraction you idiot! Oldest trick in the book…

“You haven't had a nose job lately have you?” Tim grunted, not even bothering to squirm out of the unyielding grasp. “Cause you’re gonna need one now !” 

“Wha-?” 

Crack!

The thug dropped Tim and fell back as Tim dropped his head forward only to bring it back hard and smash the back of his head into the thug’s nose, landing flat on his back out cold with blood streaming from both nostrils of his broken nose. 

Tim landed on his feet and held up his fists in a block as the other man came at him with a series of hard, wild punches. “Yeesh, what are you guys on? You just won't quit…” He muttered as he ducked under a too-wide right hook and returned several jabs to his attacker's ribs. 

“It's not every day we get the pleasure of takin’ on one of the Batfreak clan, at least not here on the South side wit' out Batman ta back ya up.”

Tim was beginning to wonder if he should call in backup, but then again, there was only one mugger left on his feet, and he really did not want to hear the nerve-grinding commentary from Damian on his inadequacy. 

Tim landed a good square punch on the mugger’s jaw, but only before he took a sharp knee to his gut, raising the unpleasant sting of bile to his throat. He stumbled to the side, willing himself to swallow back the bitterness and not vomit, then let out a small gasped cry as the crack of a fist on the side of his head sent him spinning to the ground. His ears immediately started ringing and his head felt as though it had been split open, his vision was blurred and shifting as he tried to pull himself up on his hands and knees, more bile rising in his throat as the pain now made his stomach heave. 

“Let's put ya where ya belong, Bat-trash!” 

This is just not my night… Tim felt rough hands grasp the back of his neck and his belt, lifting him bodily from the ground and up into the air which made his head spin wildly, only to send him body-slam-style back down, right into a large metal dumpster with a loud thong! as the back of Tim's head hit the half closed lid on the way down and whump ! as he crashed to the bottom of the unfortunately empty metal can.

Okay, not only is this not my night, this is the worst night… Tim moaned, fighting unconsciousness as his vision faded between spinning and black fog, pain making it hard to force his mind on anything except the aching, stabbing, and sharp flares traveling up and down his body. He started to raise his hand to open his wrist computer to send out an S.O.S. when two gunshots close by made him jump within his skin. A yell filled the air outside the metal walls and was followed by several smacks indicative of punches and the slam of a body against the dumpster, followed by thick silence, then boots on gravel and crushed glass.

Tim propped himself up on his elbow and looked up at the opening of the dumpster, his heart both stopping, leaping, and quickening all at once as a red helmet with glowing white eye lens and expressionless face gazed down at him. 

“Well, I can't completely disagree with the goon; ya look pretty good among the refuse.” The quip that came from behind the helmet was deepened and slightly digitized, but beneath it, Tim would know that voice anywhere. 

Tim shook out of his shock (and maybe a little bit of terror paralysis, don’t judge; that helmet was freaky), glared up at the faceless-face and huffed with frustration, and forced his limbs to move even though the pain screamed for him to stay still, and pulled himself to his feet. “Your humor is the thing that deserves a place in the trash. Move.” He ordered curtly, gripping the edge of the dumpster and bracing a foot to the metal wall so he could propel himself out of the can. The moment his feet hit the ground his left ankle buckled as if refusing to bear his weight another step, sending him stumbling to the side and against the brick of the building in front of him with a pained grunt.

“Whoof, that looked like it hurt. Leg busted?” Red Hood asked as he stayed leaning against the dumpster that had once held Tim. 

“I'm fine,” Tim grumbled, reaching for his grappling gun after looking around and finding all of the thugs in different stages of unconsciousness or nursing painful body parts and hearing the nearby wail of sirens on the way to pick them up. He fired the grapple and pressed the recoil button and zipped up to the rooftop of the building he had been leaning against, stumbling to his knees as he reached the rooftop. 

“Seriously, ya look rough. Are you good?” 

How did Red Hood get up there so fast? He probably had a grappling gun as well, but it still seemed weird to Tim's blurry mind. 

“I said I'm fine .” Tim insisted shortly, pulling himself to his feet and limping a little further away from the taller, much bulkier man, feeling uneasy to be so close to him. It was so different seeing him like this, bulked and armored and sauntering boldly across a rooftop, instead of relaxed, in his civvies, and in a cafe in broad daylight. Tim tried not to think about how hard his heart was beating in his chest and how sweaty he was under his suit. That wasn’t fear though, right? He was just tired from the fight, right? Riiiiight…

“Really? Cause it kinda looks like ya can't walk and ya have blood seeping outta the pores of yer face.” Red Hood pointed out, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leaned against a brick chimney stack, crossing one ankle over the other so that the tip of his boot was resting against the rooftop. 

The shrill squeal of busted audio equipment in Tim's ear made him wince heavily and reach up to pull the destroyed piece from his ear canal. “Ah, crap.” He swore lightly as he pocketed the ruined earpiece and started to turn on his wrist computer when he reached up and held a hand to the side of his head as a sharp, dizzying pain traveled between his temples and made him sway on his feet. 

Just as Tim realized that he was falling forward far too close to the edge of the roof, a strong, gloved hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back quickly, lowering him at least somewhat gently to the rooftop. 

“When I said ya look rough, I meant it.” Red Hood insisted, squatting down on his heels with his elbows braced against his knees. “So why doncha just take a minute and assess?”

Assess. That was something Tim could do. In fact, it was what he did best, just maybe not when he was sitting next to a ruthless, Pit-madness-induced, skilled killer that had once (twice) had Tim firmly in his crosshairs. 

Tim tried to circle his ankle and found that doing so sent pain radiating up his leg in sharp stabs, he was able to do so, so maybe nothing was broken. Good news. He then reached up and gingerly felt the side of his head, wincing as his gloved fingertips found broken skin and a nick in his ear. Not good news. This was going to be hard to cover up for his day job. 

“What the heck was that guy's fist made of?” Tim muttered as he lowered his hand to see his glove covered in blood. 

“Brass.” Came the short reply from his helmeted companion, who up to this point had been squatting quietly next to him on the roof. “Those weren't just flesh and bone knuckles ya caught with that head of yours; that goon had brass knuckles on and those things can do some hefty damage. Think ya might have a concussion?”
Tim shook his head, and even that hurt. “No, I don't think so, just a headache of the usual kind. Well, usual for being punched in the head.” 

“If it makes ya feel any better, I think ya had ‘em on the run before he broke out the face-crackers.” Red Hood offered while also offering up what appeared to be a clean handkerchief. 

Tim slowly accepted the cloth, trying to decide if it was weirder that he was being offered a handkerchief or that it was being offered by Red Hood , and held it to the side of his face, watching Red Hood's expressionless face even though he knew he would not see anything indicative. “What are you doing here, Hood?” 

Nothing. No flinch. No sigh. No change in stance or breathing patterns. 

“Pulling yer sorry a- rear out of dumpsters, apparently.” Finally came the answer, his voice sounding slightly annoyed, but not angry or offended either; the surprising control on his usual colorful language only intrigued Tim further. 

“No, I mean, in Gotham.” Tim reiterated. “You’ve been completely radio and radar silent for almost a year. I figured you had skipped town for good.” 

Again, nothing. At least for a few uncomfortable moments, then Red Hood shifted so that he was sitting on the roof next to Tim, reaching up and pressing a few buttons on the sides of his head that released the pressure seal on his helmet. He pulled it off, revealing a simple, rounded-edge domino mask over his eyes, then shook out his hair, the white patch in the front seeming to stand out bright in the street lamp-lit atmosphere. Jason. He was more like Jason without the helmet, not an unapproachable mask of anger and ill-intent, but a person of flesh and blood just like Tim. This was better, at least a little. 

“So, what? I can’t come home now?” Jason asked flatly as he set the helmet down between them and cocked his head curiously as he looked at Tim. 

Tim did not feel like he had an adequate answer to that, especially since he had been fairly sure that Jason felt like Gotham as a whole could kick rocks, he had not considered that Jason felt that Gotham was actually his home. 

“I just meant… what brought you back?” Tim tried again, lowering the handkerchief for a moment and wincing at how soaked it already was before putting it back to the wounds on the side of his head. 

Jason stared at him a moment, a slight twitch in his upper lip almost making Tim think of a scowl (hadn’t there been a scar on his bottom lip the day before… and where was the one on his lip?) then turned to look out over the streets below them where the police cars were now pulling out with their newly arrested thugs. “I don’t have ta tell you nothin’.” 

“Anything.” 

Jason turned slowly, his face a mask of how-dare-you even though Tim could not see his eyes. “What?” 

Tim stared back blankly, the grammatical correction having just slipped from his mouth without a single thought preceding it. Hm. Maybe he did have a concussion. 

Before he had to think of an answer or excuse, or worse yet an apology, a high-pitched deet ! deet ! deet ! pulled Tim’s attention to his wrist gauntlet, suddenly remembering what he was going to do before nearly taking a swan dive off the roof. 

“Ah, biscuits!” Tim exclaimed as he reached down and pressed the receive button on the incoming panic call. “Hey, B! I’m here!” 

Where are you? Why have you not been answering my calls? Bruce’s growled Batman voice was enough to make both of the former Robins wince. 

“I got into a little situation with a small hold-up gang. It’s handled, perpetrators are taking a flashy ride at the moment.” Tim answered, trying to give Bruce as much information as quickly as possible before he spiraled into further panic. 

Are you injured? Your readings are all over the place. 

“I’m… not…in great shape,” Tim answered carefully, “but I’m in one piece. I think my ankle is pretty screwed up, and I took some brass knuckles to the side of my face. That’s why my earpiece wasn’t working. Nothing urgent, please don’t panic.” 

Do. Not. Move. I’m coming to you. Do you hear me Red? Stay right where you are and I will come pick you up. 

“Loud and clear Batman,” Tim agreed, accepting that any argument or protest would be pointless, “over and out.” He pressed the button to end the call with a moan and reached up to rub the place between his brows. 

“Boy, the old man hasn’t changed much, has he?” 

  Tim looked up and back to Jason, who was staring down at the street with a somewhat blank expression. “No, not much.” He agreed, swallowing hard as he prepared his next words. “Hey, uh, thanks.” 

Jason glanced over at him and shrugged. “It’s just a handkerchief.” 

“No, not that,” Tim insisted, taking in a deep breath, “I mean thanks for taking care of that goon for me. I was… in a rough spot.” 

Tim could barely see Jason’s eyes move behind the white film of his dominion, and so knew that Jason was looking him eye to eye for several terrifying heartbeats. Finally, he shrugged, standing and brushing off the backs of his black tactical pants, shoving a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I didn’t do it for you. Those blockheads have been causin’ trouble on this street for a couple of weeks. You jus’ came in handy ta do the brunt of the work for me.” 

Tim immediately felt insulted, but at the same time he could recognize a cover-up when he saw one, so bit back the terse come-back. “Well, regardless, you did keep him from bashing my head in further. So whether you want it or not, thanks.” 

Jason bent down and snatched his helmet from the rooftop, his brows pinched in an angry frown. “I don’t want it, so keep it.” He glared down at Tim, and for a moment, Tim started to feel a little worm of fear creep its way to the forefront of his mind. “What the heck are you doin’ on this side of town anyway? This is my turf, and I really don’t appreciate you thinking you can just barge in on it whenever it suits ya.” 

Tim returned the glare as he struggled to his feet, fighting against the spinning in his head, the pain in his ankle, the tiny voice screaming at him to sit down and shut up in the back of his head, and shifted most of his weight onto his right leg. “ Your turf? You talk as if you own the place, or even care about it.” Danger Will Robinson, danger! Dang it, Dick…

“I do own it.” Jason spat back, pulling himself to his full height to further tower over Tim. “The south side has always been mine , and now that I’m back in town, I would appreciate it if I saw as little of your sorry self as possible.” 

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t see you here a year ago breaking up a kidnapping and trafficking ring; that was me actually, not you! And how about that drug deal eight months ago that was using street kids as mules? Again, I cleaned that up, not you .” Tim shot, his voice tense and his words calculated. Where all of this defiant courage was coming from, Tim had no idea, but he could definitely feel a panic attack was just on the other side of this adrenaline rush. “So maybe you should be the one thanking me if you feel any connection to this place at all.” 

“In your ffff -...” Jason paused on the drawn-out consonant, his jaw clenching as he stepped forward and closed the gap between them as he glared down at Tim, the breath coming from his nose hot and fast against Tim’s face as Tim very much felt as if he had just been physically shrunk somehow.  

Don’t pass out, don’t pass out…

“In yer wild-est dreams, Pretender. I don’t owe you anythin’, and ‘thanks’ will be the last words comin’ from my mouth in regards to a pathetic piece’a trash like you. That goon really was right; you belong in a dumpster.” 

“Then why don’t you take the shot now that you didn’t before?” Tim challenged quietly, ignoring his ankle entirely now and standing firm and solid, staring the taller man down (up) instead of backing down himself, something that he had learned to do quickly in a world where it seemed like most threatening people around him were always at least twice his size. 

Jason stood frozen in the wake of the question, and after a moment, stepped back, one hand clenching his helmet and the other held in a fist at his side. A huff left his lips as he relaxed a bit, then he turned and stalked toward the opposite side of the building, pausing once more to look over his shoulder. “Stay outta my way, Replacement .” He growled between clenched teeth before stepping off the side of the building and disappearing. 

The roar of the Batmobile’s engine pulled Tim’s attention toward the street; a shudder passed over him as, just as he assumed it would, the adrenaline quickly started to wear off. He shot his grapple down into the roof and stepped off the building, keeping his left knee bent so that his injured ankle was tucked protectively beneath him as he used his right foot to rappel down the wall and step down carefully onto the sidewalk. He limped to the curb as the batmobile screeched to a stop in front of him, leaving dark tread marks on the pavement. 

The driver’s side door was flung open as Batman stepped out and jogged the few steps to stand in front of Tim, his hands reaching out to grasp his biceps to steady him. 

“B, it’s alright. I'm good, don’t freak- Bats !” Tim's explanation and attempt at diverting Bruce's panic was cut off with a yelp as Bruce hooked his hands under his armpits and plucked him from the ground to set him on the hood of the Batmobile. 

“Talk to me,” Bruce asked, his hands running down Tim's limbs with even pressure as he searched for anything that might feel unsound beneath his trained hands, “where are your injuries?”

“Mostly my head and my ankle.” Tim was finally able to verbalize, a little taken back by Bruce's careful examination even though this was the usual process that happened whenever he got injured in the field. Even after several years, it still always caught him off guard. “I'm okay, really Bats. It wasn't as bad as it could have been.”

“Looks to me that the precious bit of brain you actually have is leaking down your face.” Damian quipped with a disgusted curl of his lip as he stood on the other side of the car and leaned against the open door. 

“Robin, get in the back,” Bruce ordered gruffly, “ Red, let's get you inside so I can check for concussion and get you back to the cave.” He knelt and ran his hands down Tim’s left calf. 

“You don't have to cut your patrol short because of me, I can take the bike back.” Tim insisted as he remembered suddenly that he had left the bike parked several blocks away, a rise of panic blooming in his chest at the thought of Bruce having to go out of his way because of him. “You can keep-ow!” He winced hard and pulled his foot up and out of Bruce's touch when Bruce carefully flexed the foot of his injured leg. 

“Mm-hm. You aren't going anywhere on your own with a head injury, and you aren't going to be able to drive the bike with your ankle like this.” Bruce replied as he stood, somehow having obtained the keys to Tim's bike from his belt with Tim noticing and pitching them to Damian. “Change of plans. Robin, take the bike back to the cave, and don't think I won't be watching your progress. Straight to the cave, got it?” 

Damian huffed heavily and spun the keys once of his finger before gripping them in his fist. “Yes sir, straight to the cave.” He glared at Tim for a moment before stalking away from the Batmobile. “At this point, you would think I would have grown used to Red Robin disrupting everything because of his incredible ability to be completely useless.” 

“I didn't ask you for your opinion, Robin, I asked you to follow a simple order.” Bruce shot over his shoulder, weaving his right arm under Tim's left and wrapping it around his back to support him as he helped him slide down from the hood. “Come on Red, let's get you in the car.” 

Tim’s headache had shot up at least three points on his personal pain scale and with it his ability to argue or protest that he was fine –he was quickly realizing that he was unfortunately not fine– had completely dissipated, so he just leaned his weight on Bruce and limped around to the passenger side of the Batmobile. 

Once Bruce had settled Tim into the passenger side, he climbed in himself and started the car in autopilot toward the cave, turning slightly in his seat and reaching out to turn Tim's face toward him. “Look at me Tim: I need to check your eyes.” 

Tim laid his head back against the headrest and turned his body so he was facing Bruce a little more squarely as Bruce gently peeled off his mask and tossed it aside. 

“Symptoms kiddo, start telling me what we're working with.” Bruce encouraged as he pulled out a small pin light, covering Tim’s eyes with his hand then lifting it and flashing the light across Tim’s eyes as he watched his pupils. 

Tim winced as the light caused stabbing pain in his head, but forced himself to keep his eyes open and tried to stare past the light point. “Headache, stabbing headache with some throbbing, I'm a little dizzy, and the light is making the headache so much worse.” 

“Mm-hm, nausea? Have you thrown up?” Bruce asked as flashed the light across Tim's eyes once more before clicking it off. 

Tim opened his mouth to answer, then paused. Was he actually nauseous from the injury to his head? Or was it just the stress, overall pain, and tension? “I'm… maybe a little nauseous. I haven't thrown up though, and I’ve not really felt like I needed to… yet.” 

Bruce nodded and pulled out a thick gauze pad and held it to the still-bleeding wound on the side of Tim's head. “If you have a concussion it's a small one. Your eyes look good, no speech slur, and no GI distress so far. I think you're going to be okay.” 

Tim sighed hard through his nose and let his eyes slip closed, nauseated now because of the pressure Bruce was putting on his temple rather than just the constant headache. “I told you that already.” 

“True, but you look anything but okay, and I think your ankle is pretty bad, your boot is getting tighter by the moment,” Bruce replied, carefully wiping blood away from under Tim’s eyebrow to keep it from leeching into his eye. 

The longer Tim sat in stillness, the faster his heart started beating as his brain was given a chance to process everything that had happened in the past few hours. Chillchillchillchill… He swallowed hard, fighting to lift his eyes and meet the white gaze of Bruce's cowl. 

“B, I'm… I'm sorry. It was going really well, honestly, it was, then I guess I slipped up once and things went downhill from there.” Tim gulped as he tried to think back over the fight and figure out when things went south. “I mean, I had it, I had them taken care of, but I… I mean I wanted to have it, but I…” 

“Tim, stop.” Bruce pulled back his cowl, then raised his other hand to cup Tim's cheek while still holding the gauze to the other side of Tim's head. “I'm not worried about any of that right now, we can talk about that later if you want to analyze it. But that’s really not what’s important at the moment. Are the civilians that were under threat safe?” 

Tim swallowed again, his eyes prickling with tears now that he was being forced to look Bruce in the eyes rather than the white film of his cowl’s eye slots. “Yeah.”

“And were the perpetrators arrested?” Bruce pressed, his thumb starting to rub a gentle circle into Tim's cheekbone. 

“Yeah, yeah they were.” Tim hated that his typical reaction to an adrenaline high leaving his body was shaking limbs and eyes prone to watering, like he needed any more help looking pathetic. At least, that’s where he was telling himself those reactions were coming from. 

Bruce's gloved thumb caught a tear that slipped from Tim's eye before it could get far, his face softening and his lips curving into a small smile. “And did you give as good as you got?” 

Tim let out a gasped sort of laugh as he nodded against Bruce's hands, refusing to believe that he was, in fact, very much so, crying and still blamed the lack of adrenaline coursing through his body. “I tried. I busted one of their noses pretty good, and I think I knocked out more than a few teeth.” 

Bruce nodded, pressing a button that lowered the middle console so he could slide over closer to Tim, lowering Tim's head onto his chest so he could keep the gauze in place and wrap his arms around Tim the best he could in a comforting embrace. “Then you did good. You did really good . You're okay Tim, I'm not mad.” 

Tim sucked in a breath that turned into a hiccup as an ugly thought rose to his mind: maybe if Bruce knew the other part of the story that Tim wasn’t telling, he would not be as concerned with Tim's condition. If he knew that Jason was somewhere close by, his priority might have not been getting Tim back to the cave. 

Bruce rubbed a hand gently over Tim's back, still not sure where all his sore places were and not wanting to make them worse. “It's okay Tim, you did good.” 

“I'm n-not cry-ing!” Tim exclaimed suddenly, his voice thick and choked, which heavily noted the contrary of his statement, as he lifted a hand to grip the edge of Batman’s cape near Bruce's shoulder. “I-it’s just the a-adrena-line! I'm fine ! I’m f-fine…” 

Bruce pulled Tim closer, his brows furrowing as he started to recognize the clear signs of one of Tim's panic attacks. Even though he'd been injured, he didn't usually react so emotionally afterward, not unless something deeper in Tim's psyche had been triggered. He usually had to have a pretty bad concussion to have emotional symptoms besides irritability, which just made Bruce more convinced that there was something else to the shuddering young man in his arms dropping his guard and sobbing into his chest. 

“Tim? Did something else happen?” Bruce asked, resting his cheek carefully on the top of Tim's head, ignoring the smell of blood and sweat and something sort of rotten, maybe the heavy, acrid scent of garbage. “Did you…?”

“I-I’m fine! I ha- had it!” Tim insisted as he pulled himself closer into Bruce's chest, frustrated that his head was beginning to hurt worse as his body seemed to be fighting against itself. “I’m not cr-crying! I had it h-handled! I'm s-sorry I couldn't… so s-sorry…” 

Bruce swallowed hard, hating the confusion he was feeling, and almost angry that he could not do anything about it. So he tried, and tried hard, to shut off the detective, must-solve-everything side of his brain and lean further into the father, just-be-there side. 

“Hey kiddo, breathe for me. Slowly, not gasps, slow breaths.” Bruce encouraged rubbing his hand up and down Tim's spine. “You're right, you are fine. You didn't do anything wrong, and you handled yourself just fine, and I've got you, Son. Take it easy, breathe with me, okay? In, and, out.” 

Tim gulped and shuddered as he tried to focus on the rise and fall of Bruce's chest under his head, the flutter of Bruce’s exhales through his hair, and started to match his breathing to the rhythm. He had been right before, he had been feeling the beginnings of a panic attack when he was back up on the roof squaring off against someone who definitely could have mopped the floor with him. That's why he felt like he was out of control, unable to keep the shaking from his limbs and the tears from falling. Stupid-pathetic-usless-burden-idiot…

That all too familiar heaviness was beginning to set in –dark, self-deprecating inner thoughts, uncertainty, doubt, fear– all setting in like a crushing stone dropped without consent on Tim's shoulders.

If this was what having Jason back in Gotham was going to be like, Tim wished he had just stayed away. 

And Tim had thought Damian had been hard to cope with…

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

By the time they had reached the cave and the Batmobile rolled to a stop on the parking pad, Tim had gotten through to the other side of his panic attack, which included wading through a mental mire of embarrassment, shame, and exhaustion. He was leaning practically boneless against Bruce's chest, his hand still gripping the edge of the black Kevlar cape, fighting his warring thoughts of wanting to push away from Bruce and hiding from him or clinging to him tighter and hiding from the world outside the blacked-in windows of the Batmobile. 

Bruce stroked the hair on the back of Tim's head, his hand (when had he taken his gloves off?) was light enough that he was barely touching him at all, just in case there was a hidden cut or sore knot hidden beneath his black locks. “Tim? Son, did you fall asleep on me?” He asked after a moment of stillness even after the car had stopped and the engine had turned off automatically. 

“No, ‘m awake.” Tim mumbled, blinking after a long time of staring blankly at the dark outline of the bat on Bruce's chest, but making no move to sit up or leave Bruce’s arms, in fact he seemed to cling on just a little tighter. 

“Can we get you out of here and look you over good?” Bruce asked, leaning back and craning his neck to try and get a look at Tim's face. “I want to double check you for concussion now that I have better lighting and we really need to get that boot off before I have to cut it off.” 

Tim swallowed hard and summoned up the strength and motivation to push himself back with his hands braced against Bruce's chest, nodding with a head that felt too heavy for his neck. “Yeah, I… I don't wanna have to do that. Lucius would flip if I called him up needing just one new boot.” He looked up slowly, feeling his face grow hot as he met the searching gaze of his mentor. “Um… Bruce?” 

“Mm-hm?” Bruce hummed as he reached out and carefully picked a blood matted lock of hair from Tim's forehead and moved it over and off the clotting wound. 

Tim’s eyes drifted to where Alfred and Damian were standing by the computer talking and waiting on them, his throat feeling dry and prickly while a wave of nausea made his mouth too thick, too wet. “I… I kinda lost myself back there.” 

“Yeah, a little, but you held together until you knew you could safely let go; I couldn't ask for more than that.” Bruce encouraged, carefully watching Tim's face as it seemed to be morphing through a plethora of emotions. 

“Right. I know. But Bruce, could you…” Tim sighed and brought his gaze back to Bruce's, his eyes lidded and heavy, and pretty severely bloodshot from his ‘definitely-not-crying’ episode on the way home. “Can we keep that whole thing just between us?” A half hearted smile pulled at his lips as he shrugged one shoulder. “You know, what happens in the Batmobile stays in the Batmobile?” 

Burce huffed through his nose and shook his head, his hand transferring from Tim’s back to his bicep and squeezing gently. “We can do that, sure, but only if you promise me something.” 

Tim nodded, realizing that the blood from his head wound had left a large, dark splotch on Bruce's chest. “Is it that I have to cover the dry-cleaning bill this month?” He asked as he reached out and touched the quickly stiffening stain with two gloved fingers. 

“No.” Bruce chuckled, reaching up and taking Tim's hand firmly in his and gently chucking Tim's chin with the other. “It’s if you promise me that you understand, really understand , that there was nothing that you did, said, or felt that was anything to be ashamed of or needs to be hidden from anyone, okay?” 

Tim swallowed hard and nodded with a little bit more of a genuine smile. “Okay, I can do that. Deal.” He was slightly relieved at both Bruce's understanding and lack of pushing to find out the reason that he had experienced a bit of breakdown. While they had gotten less over the years, Bruce had gotten used to the fact that Tim was prone to panic attacks and had done everything he could to help Tim through them when they occurred. 

Bruce patted Tim's thigh with a smile before getting out and circling around to help Tim out of the Batmobile, wrapping his arm under Tim's and around his back so he could lift him just enough that he was barely putting any weight on his throbbing ankle. 

“Goodness sake Master Timothy!” Alfred exclaimed as he stepped forward as Bruce and Tim made their way off the parking pad. “Master Damian informed me that you were coming back injured, so I took the liberty of preparing the first room in the medical wing. Dear me, you look an absolute fright.” 

“Thank Al. It's a head wound, you know they always bleed more than necessary, so it probably looks worse than it is." Tim supplied his best attempt at a smile, although he was worried it came off as more of a grimace as he limped along beside Bruce, his hand clutching the back of Bruce's cape as he tried to not focus too hard on the pain and discomfort of limping on his injured leg.

“I think you bleed more than necessary regardless of the location. It must be your thin blood.” Damian sniffed, still dressed and with his mask on even though he had beaten them back to the cave by at least fifteen minutes. “Father, are we going back out to finish patrol after you drop Drake off or not?” 

“We're in for the night unless something big comes up that GCPD cannot handle. You can take monitor watch if you don’t want to call it a night yet, Damian; as long as you get to bed in the next few hours and call me if anything comes up. No solo patrols.” Bruce replied, readjusting his grip on Tim so that he was holding onto Tim's utility belt and used the leverage of his hip against Tim's so he could lift him off his feet completely as they stepped up the set of stairs leading to the medical wing.

Damian let out a groan and reached up to rip his mask off. “Pennyworth is more than capable of looking after Drake and his ridiculous self-inflicted wounds! Why should we alter our entire schedule for him when this is his doing?” 

Bruce turned, still holding Tim close as he narrowed his eyes at Damian. “Tim's injuries are anything but self-inflicted Damian; he was doing his job tonight and saved lives in the process. It’s a well known fact that our line of work has risks that catch up to all of us eventually. If you are going to insist on being so negative and snide, you can change out of your uniform and go upstairs for the rest of the night.”

Damian's mouth fell open slightly before his teeth ground together as his glare drifted from Bruce to Tim. “That is completely unfair! Are you really saying that I am incorrect to point out that your coddling of Drake has altered our plans and patrol schedules?” 

Tim swallowed hard, wanting very much to leave and escape this impossibly uncomfortable moment, but also feeling locked into Bruce's firm hold. His face was burning with frustration and anger at Damian's comments and accusations, but also from pleasant surprise and embarrassment at Bruce's willing defense of him. 

“Upstairs Damian. Now. I'm not asking your opinion, I am telling you what you are going to do.” Bruce replied, his voice low enough that Tim could feel it rumbling through his chest. “We will discuss this more when I come up to see you in your room. Alfred, make sure he gets there before you come back down please.” 

“Certainly Master Bruce. Understood.” Alfred agreed, turning a stern gaze on Damian and making shooing motions with his hands. “Off we go now Master Damian, you heard your father’s last word on the subject.” 

Damian threw his mask down on the ground with a hard slap and turned on his heel. “I do not need you to escort me Pennyworth. Unlike some people, I do not need a babysitter.”

Bruce did not bother to watch Damian stomp off nor comment on his last remark, but instead turned them both and started back toward the medical bay of the cave, one of the few areas that was actually enclosed to keep up sanitation and a constant temperature. 

“Okay kiddo, let's get some of your gear off, then we'll see about patching you up. Here, lean on the bed if you need to and keep that foot off the floor.” Bruce encouraged as he pulled carefully away from Tim and reached up to unclasp Tim’s cape and gather it up out of the way. His tone was light and his voice a little less deep now, almost as if nothing had happened on their way here. 

Tim nodded quietly and followed Bruce's directions, leaning his hip against the side of the hospital bed for balance and removing his belt, handing it off to Bruce before pulling off his gloves and pitching them toward the chair where Bruce was piling his discarded uniform pieces. 

Once he was stripped of all his extra gear and was only in his boots and Kevlar-woven body suit, Tim pressed his hands into the mattress and lifted himself up to sit with his legs dangling off the side. “If we don't have to cut it off, I'd prefer we didn’t.” Geez, his voice was rough, like he’d gargled with gavel…

Bruce nodded stoically as he knelt and started untying the laces of Tim's knee high boots. “I hardly think your injury warrants an amputation, but I'll keep that in mind when considering the best treatment options.” 

Tim stared down at Bruce blankly for a moment in slightly-concussed-confusion then kicked Bruce lightly in the ribs with his good leg. “That isn't what I meant! I meant my boot!” He laughed as Bruce's deadpan joke settled in his mind, moaning and reaching up to cradle his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Ow, Bruuuuce… laughing bad.”

Bruce chuckled as he continued his job of loosening the laces from the top all the way down to where they ended at the top of Tim's foot to make the next part of his job a little easier. “Well, laughing is actually good, just maybe not with a head injury.” He pulled off Tim's right boot and set it aside then gripped the heel of Tim's left boot in his right hand and the back of Tim's knee in his left, smiling up at him apologetically. “Alright Timmy, this is not likely going to be very comfortable. Tell me to stop if it hurts too much and we'll take a break or try something else.” 

Tim nodded and gripped the side of the bed, setting his jaw and making sure his tongue was not in the way so he did not accidentally bite it. “Go for it, I'll just kick you in the chest if it gets too bad.” 

“I'd prefer if you didn't, but given the circumstances, I think I'll allow it.” Bruce agreed as he started working the boot off Tim's swollen ankle and foot. 

Tim ground his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his hold on the mattress as pain shot up his ankle and into his calf. “Frick… ow… ah!” 

“Need me to stop?” Bruce asked as he paused at Tim's sudden yelp, looking up with furrowed brows as he saw a tear trickle from the corner of Tim's left eye. 

“No,” Tim groaned out, his eyes still screwed shut, the tendons in his neck flexing out from the tension, “just get it over with. I can handle it. We probably should have taken it off before we started back.” 

Bruce nodded and started back up the steady pressure and slight back and forth movement on the boot. “Probably, but I think we were both thinking of other things. Hang in there, I think I almost… ah, there we go!” Bruce said triumphantly as Tim's foot finally slid free from the tight confines of the boot. “Seems we won’t have to cut it off after all, the boot I mean.” 

Tim let out a long sigh as he relaxed his shoulders and opened his eyes, blinking to clear his blurry vision and leaning over a bit to look at the damage after Bruce relieved him of his socks and tossed them toward the corner of the room with the rest of his discarded uniform. 

A dark, angry, red-tinged bruise of blue, black, and purple was spreading quickly from the top of his foot, up his ankle, and into the leg of his suit, the skin looking tight and puffy with swelling that was quickly making it hard to tell where foot ended and ankle began. 

“Boy Tim, that looks rough.” Bruce tutted as he rolled up the leg of Tim’s suit a little in effort to see how far the bruising and swelling was spreading. “We should get an x-ray, maybe an MRI to check the ligaments. What exactly happened? Did you land badly?” 

Tim's face flushed as he thought back to being flung by his leg like a rag-doll, loath to admit the fact since it so handily pointed out one, of his many deeply hidden, buried, and largely ignored, insecurities. 

“I, uh, I got thrown. Twice.” Yuck. Even saying it was painful. To throw Batman around, the thug would have to be Bane level of strength or freaking Superman (he was not going to think about how funny that image was), but he somehow could be picked up and yeeted by just about anybody. Stupid genes and ridiculously high metabolism (because it definitely had nothing to do with his eating habits… he would die on that mountain).  

“Why didn't you call in back up?” Bruce asked, carefully moving Tim's foot to test the range of motion. 

“I was going to, but Re-…” Tim cleared his throat hard as a coverup when he almost let the name of his impromptu backup slip, his heart rate jumping a little as he hoped Bruce had not noticed. “I guess I got a little caught up in the rush of it all and didn't do it soon enou- ouch !” 

Bruce stopped his examination and held Tim's foot still as he glanced up. “Sorry kiddo, I'll stop. I was just seeing if I could tell if there might be any bone issue. We'll get a scan to be sure and try to get you settled down for a good rest as soon as possible.” 

“Might I suggest we change him into something more comfortable first, Master Bruce? Laying still in an MRI machine for any amount of time requires one to be as comfortable as possible, after all.” Alfred pointed out as he stepped into the room with a pair of Tim's pajamas laid over his arm. 

Bruce stood and nodded with a smile. “Good idea Alfred, I think that would be best. We also need to take a look at your head. and double check your concussion symptoms.”  

Tim allowed Bruce and Alfred to help him out of his suit and into the red, oversized “Got Coffee?” t-shirt and a pair of black and red plaid lounge pants, starting to drift into his thoughts as he laid through the scans Bruce decided to run and the cleaning and bandaging process of the wounds on his head. 

Jason's face was as clear in his mind as it had been inches from his own, and even though there was anger, resentment, and sharpness there, Tim had to admit it was not the same as it was before. That, and his eyes weren't glowing in the shade of bright, unnatural, soul piercing green that they had been before. Tonight, he had helped Tim, regardless of the spoken motives behind it or the attitude in which it was done, he had helped; which never would have happened before. Some things had changed, and changed quite a bit, to be sure, but then there were the things that were painfully constant. 

Stay outta my way, Replacement.

Replacement. Pretender. Just sounds formed into words, just words… yet they cut just as deep as the knife that Jason had used to try and rid the world of the plight that was Timothy Drake. The timing had been utterly unfair; Tim’s parents had decided to die on one of their stupid ‘business trips’, he was taken in officially by Bruce (which had been hard enough to deal with mentally and emotionally), Jason came back with nothing but hate and murder in his eyes, Tim had nearly met his end at Jason’s hands twice only for Jason to disappear afterward, and then, thanks to Talia, Damian showed up with every intention of finishing what Jason had started without even knowing he had picked up the baton. All within a few short years. It had given Tim mental whiplash and a hefty dose of existential crisis and trauma. And after all this time, those words that Jason had spoken once again tonight, they had never left Tim’s mind, and more painfully and harder to shake loose, his soul.

“Timmy, are you okay kiddo?” Bruce asked quietly as he finished taping a gauze pad over one of the cuts the brass knuckles had left on the side of Tim's face, reaching out to carefully wipe a tear trail from Tim’s face with his thumb. 

Tim blinked for the first time in several moments, then blinked rapidly as he realized that his eyes had been watering without his consent for a while now. He shrugged and gave Bruce a small smile. “Oh, yeah, I’m okay. Tired, and I kinda feel like I got hit by a bus, but I’m okay.” 

“You sure?” Bruce pressed gently, “I can’t help but feel like you're a little further in your head than usual tonight.” 

Tim swallowed hard and reached up to rub at his eye, then groaned lightly and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket in effort to relieve the throbbing that had settled behind his eyes and radiated between his temples. “I wish I wasn't in my head; my head hurts , so it's really not a pleasant place to be right now.” 

“I bet it does.” Bruce agreed with a nod. “You’re going to have a pretty nice shiner tomorrow, it’s already starting to bruise. Do you want to sleep here tonight, or do you want to go upstairs?” 

Tim shook his head at the thought of sleeping in the too-clean, too-white, too-clinical room, then winced when he did so too hard. “Upstairs, for sure. Bed actually sounds pretty good.” 

“Come on then, I’ll help you.” Bruce offered, handing Tim a pair of crutches and standing by to steady him if needed as Tim slid off the bed. 

Tim was good on crutches, a little too good to be considered normal. Slick metal floors, stairs, carpet, the vacuum of chaos that was his bedroom, long distances, he could handle them all as well on crutches as he could on his own two feet; unfortunately, sometimes better. 

Bruce didn’t try to take over when he saw Tim pause to consider his approach to certain obstacles, he just hovered nearby in case he saw Tim lose his balance or stumble. His hands were held out in a permanent ready position in front of him, ready to reach out and grab Tim around the waist if needed, which of course it wasn’t since Tim was fairly stubborn about getting around on his own no matter how badly injuries inconvenienced him. 

Once in his room, Tim transferred his crutches into one hand and hopped around so he could sink down on the bed in a one legged squat so that he could keep his bandaged ankle lifted, wincing as a sore spot in his hip he had not realized was there twinged heavily.

“Easy,” Bruce encouraged as he pulled back the blankets and stacked up some of Tim's many pillows to prop up his tightly bandaged ankle, “I couldn't even count the dark spots I saw when we got you out of your suit; you're likely to be one big bruise by morning.” 

Tim laid back and let out a sigh that was a little more of a groan. “It’s not so bad. I've had worse, plenty worse.” 

Bruce pulled Tim's comforter up over him, careful to not cover his elevated foot to avoid the pressure on his ankle but pulled it over to cover the rest of his leg, then sat on the bed next to him. “I know you have, but that doesn't negate what you're dealing with right now.” He paused for a moment then reached out for one of Tim's hands, forgoing his usual habit of rubbing Tim's knuckles with his thumb since Tim's knuckles were slightly reddened and angry looking from punching. “How’s your head?” 

“It hurts,” Tim replied as he stared up at the ceiling, though his fingers tightened a little on Bruce's, “it's throbbing and stabbing at the same time, and the cuts freakin’ sting.” 

Bruce nodded and scooted over a little closer. “That's to be expected; but what about your mental head? I have to point out that you were uncharacteristically… bothered … when I picked you up. I'm more used to you being irritable and angry after being injured, but you and I both know that wasn't your reaction tonight; you had a full on panic attack on the way home.” 

Tim kept his gaze straight, more so that he did not have to strain his neck, head, or eyes and thereby conveniently avoiding Bruce's gaze. “I… I guess…” He swallowed hard, trying to dig deeper than just his interaction with Jason. “I guess I wanted to handle it, and realized that I didn't have it as handled as I wanted.” 

Bruce frowned and shook his head. “We've been over this before Tim, calling for backup is just part of the job; it doesn't mean anything about your ability. The point is to keep people safe and bring criminals to justice, not doing so all on your own every time.” 

Tim’s lips pressed together in a frown that did not engage his brows, finally turning his head and looking at Bruce fully. “Let me put it this way; you might feel that way, but I am personally tired of the constant commentary from the peanut gallery at my every slip up.” 

Bruce sat in silence for a moment, his face unreadable as he processed what Tim had just said, his grip on Tim's hand tightening suddenly when things clicked into place. “You're talking about Damian.” 

“You can't tell me that you haven't noticed.” Tim insisted as he pulled his hand from Bruce's so he could prop himself up on his elbows. “It doesn't matter what I do, he always has something snide, snippy, and cutting to say about it; and frankly, I've gotten sick to death of it.”

“Oh kiddo,” Bruce shook his head again, his brows furrowing as he reached out to lay his hand on top of Tim's, leaning forward a little to close some of the distance between them, “you can't let him get in your head so much that you start making decisions based on whether or not you have to hear from him. I know he's… unkind…” 

Tim snorted and rolled his eyes, flinching as the action caused a twinge of pain in his head. “ That is the understatement of the century, B.” 

Bruce sighed and tilted his head back and forth in resignation. “Yeah, yeah you're right; Damian has every capability to be downright cruel. Regardless though, Tim, you have to remember: they're just words from a kid that hasn’t learned the difference between inside thoughts and outside thoughts. You can't let them take hold, especially if it is affecting your decision making.”

Tim stared blankly at Bruce for a moment filled with several heart beats and a few emotionless blinks then shook his head as he laid back and let his eyes slip closed. “Just words. Right.” Weird how even hearing Bruce say it did not make it any easier to take Damian’s words as just that and nothing more any more than Tim was able to do so in his own head with Jason’s. 

“I know they can still hurt,” Bruce offered, scooting closer still so he could reach up and smooth back Tim's hair, “I’m not negating that, trust me, but you have to find a way to not let them sink in here.” Bruce encouraged as he laid his hand on Tim's forehead for a moment. “I want you to call me, any time you need help, and I don’t want you hesitating or putting yourself at risk just because you want to avoid Damian’s scrutiny.” 

Tim didn’t answer, he just laid there with his eyes closed fighting to keep his expression neutral as he felt a knot growing in his throat and tears stinging his closed eyes. He must have done a fairly good job because Bruce laid a questioning hand against his cheek. 

“Tim?” 

“I’m okay.” Tim replied as he let his eyes open again, and mustered up a little smile when he saw the concern on Bruce’s face. “Just… fighting this stupid headache.” 

“Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?” Bruce pressed carefully. 

“I really don’t, at least not tonight.” Tim sighed after a moment, shaking his head and wincing, starting to get frustrated that he kept forgetting that moving his head like that caused further discomfort. “My head hurts too much to really put together an organized thought, so what I say probably wouldn’t make sense anyway.” 

Bruce nodded and produced a prescription bottle, from out of where Tim wasn’t really sure since Bruce was still dressed in the body suit of the Batman uniform and did not even have his utility belt on, and gave it a little shake to rattle the medication inside. “What would you say about taking something to help you really sleep tonight? Because I highly doubt you’ll be able to rest much with the amount of discomfort you’re experiencing right now.” 

Tim cocked his right eyebrow as he eyed the bottle in Bruce’s hand. “Which one is that?” 

“It’s one of the pain-reducer sedative combos Doctor Thompkins prescribed you a year ago.” Bruce explained, unscrewing the child-safe lid and pouring out two of the small, slick coated capsules. 

“That’s the one that knocks me out for twenty-four hours, isn’t it?” Tim asked with a frown as Bruce reached over and grabbed the bottle of water that was on the nightstand next to Tim’s bed. 

“Yeah, it is, but the longest I’ve ever actually seen it keep you down is twelve. It’s one of the few that ever seems to work well for you besides straight up morphine and propofol. Which is a little overkill for tonight.” Bruce replied, holding out the pills and water with a smile. “Trust me Tim, you could use a good twelve hours or so.” 

Tim stared at the offered medication for a moment then sighed and propped himself up on his elbow, accepting the water bottle first and taking a long drink of the rather stale water before taking the pills and tilting his head back to drop them into his mouthful of water to swallow them. He really needed to remember to change out his water from time to time; it probably wouldn't hurt to rinse the bottle out with some soap either. He sighed and laid back again with a shrug. “Now we wait for the drugs to kick in.” 

Bruce chuckled and set the bottle back on the nightstand, shaking his head a little as he smiled. “You don’t have to say it like that; there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help sleeping when you’re in a lot of pain. It’s not like you’ve been poisoned or something.” His smile faded a little as he reached out to take up Tim’s hand once again. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help, period. I hope you know that.” 

Tim tightened his grip on Bruce’s hand and swallowed hard. “I know that in at least half my brain, it’s the other half I keep arguing with.” 

“I know, believe me, I know that fight far too well.” Bruce agreed, giving Tim’s hand a little shake to jostle his arm. “Even I had to be convinced that I really did need the help.” 

Tim couldn’t help the grin that took over his face as looked up at Bruce a little sheepishly. “Well, you really should listen; Alfred knows what he’s talking about most times.” 

“I wasn’t talking about Alfred, although he has tried to beat the concept into my head many times.” Bruce admitted. “I was talking about a scrappy, stubborn little teenager that refused to be refused.” He smiled and reached out to pull Tim’s blanket up a little more. “You had to convince me once that no man is an island, I guess it’s only fair that I’m in a place now where I have to return the favor.” 

Tim’s smile was still there, but it was getting droopy, wobbly almost, as the effects of the fast acting sedative were starting to take place. “I’d say s’only fair.” 

Bruce nodded, smoothing back Tim’s hair by running his fingers from Tim’s hairline to the crown of his head. “I’d say you’re right.” He huffed a small laugh and pinched Tim’s chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger as he watched Tim’s eyes drift closed even though he was still fighting the sleep that was pulling at him. “And you’re still a scrappy, stubborn little teenager, you’re just my scrappy, stubborn little teenager.” 

“‘M not little.”

“Sure you’re not, kiddo.”  

“Bruce?” 

“Mm-hm?” 

Tim reached out drowsily and tugged on Bruce’s hand. “Will you stay here? With me? ‘Til I fall asleep?” His words were already beginning to slur, denoting that sleep would not be that far off in coming, and he wasn’t even trying to keep his eyes open now. 

“You know I will if that’s what you want.” Bruce stood briefly so he could switch his position and sit at the head of Tim’s bed, reclining back so that he could wrap his arm around Tim and let him cuddle into his side with his head tucked under Bruce’s armpit. He reached down with his free hand and took Tim’s, carefully running his thumb over the back of it in a steady pattern. 

Tim snuggled tightly into Bruce’s side, as if greedily seeking out more warmth, sighing as he started to settle in and let the sedative and pain reliever work their magic and carry him off into that wonderful, numb bliss that he did not experience often. He hated taking any medication, especially one for little problems such as sleep and discomfort, but he had to admit he loved the effects they had on him and the wonderful escape they offered.  

After sitting silently like this for a moment, listening to Tim’s breathing grow shallow and his pulse even out in his wrist, Bruce leaned down and pressed a kiss to Tim’s forehead, eliciting nothing more than a sleepy hum in acknowledgment. “Sleep tight, Son.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

When Tim finally started coming out of the numb, fuzzy cloud of dreamless sleep he had been floating in, he was annoyed to find that the pain had not decided to just leave while he had slept and was in fact still there. It wasn't as bad as it was the night before; that was a relief; his headache was far more manageable and truly felt more like surface pain in the healing gashes, and his ankle was only throbbing unless he tried to move his foot. But he was annoyed about its presence anyway

He opened his eyes after lying there fully conscious for an unknown amount of time, staring up at his ceiling for a while before turning his head carefully and staring at the two clocks on his nightstand: one digital and one analogue. Both told the same time, but it took Tim a moment to register what time that really was.

Tim sat up suddenly, letting out a small exclamation of discomfort as the dull pain he had been feeling exploded into sharp pain from head to foot; his muscles sore and tense, and his injuries screaming at him for moving too quickly. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his phone before falling back into his pillows and flipping to the speed dial page. He turned the phone on speaker so that he would not have to hold the phone and let it drop onto his chest so he could relax his arms. 

After no more than two dial tones, the call was answered.  “Tim? Are you okay?” Bruce's voice asked, but it was free of annoyance, more just slightly tight with concern. 

“Where are you?” Tim asked, his voice thick and croaky with sleep and hours of misuse. 

“I'm at the office. What is it, Tim? Are you okay?” Bruce asked again, his voice growing tighter now. “I can come home, but I'll be a minute getting there. Alfred is home, though. Do you need…?” 

“Bruce! Um, Dad, I'm so sorry!” Tim cut in, clamping his hand over his eyes as his mind grew more lucid and he realized more fully why just now waking up at one-thirty had sent him into such a panic. “I had four in-house investor meetings today, and three on video call. And I was supposed to finalize the expense reports after the quarterly meetings, and they need to be filed before the end of the month! I'm so slow this morning, well afternoon now, but I might be able to get around by three-ish. Maybe Alfred could drive me, my eye is a little swollen, so I don't think I should…” Tim fell silent when he realized that there were no responses to his rambling from the phone resting on his chest. “Bruce?” 

“I'm still here, Timmy. I was just messaging Alfred that you’re up.” Bruce's voice answered, and if Tim was not still under the influence of his sedative, it sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Kiddo, I want you to listen to me, okay?” 

Tim nodded even though he knew that Bruce could not see him, but hearing his voice was comforting, and he felt okay with just lying back and listening. 

“I took care of the commitments on your calendar through to the end of the month. You don’t have any meetings, you don't have any reports to finalize, you do not have to come to the office for anything, nor are you going to. You have all the time you need to rest and get back on your feet without worrying about work. I didn't want you to worry about a cover story for your injuries, so I took care of it. Okay? I took care of it. I don't want you thinking about anything except what you need at the moment; whether that's rest, food, or making yourself comfortable, those things only, okay? And don't you dare spiral into making yourself feel guilty about it, you hear me?”

Tim huffed a laugh and nodded again, unsure why Bruce's words elicited the tears that were trickling from his eyes and down his temples, but he chalked it up to his usual overly emotional reaction to sedatives and painkillers. “Yeah, I hear you.” 

“Good. Now, Alfred will be in soon to check on you, and I want you to eat a good breakfast. Can you do that?” 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Tim agreed, reaching up to wipe the tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

“Atta boy. I'll be home in a few hours, but someone's going to come see you long before then, okay?” 

“Who's coming to see me?” Tim asked, frowning up at the ceiling curiously as he tried to imagine who Bruce might be talking about.

“Someone who heard you were laid up and wanted to check on you. Get some food in you and then see if you can take a nap. I'll be home soon, okay, Son?” 

Tim smiled and continued his pointless nods. “Okay, Dad, I'll do that. Oh, hey?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks. For taking care of everything.”

“No problem, kiddo. Talk to you soon?” 

“Yeah, talk to you soon.” 

Tim picked up his phone and smiled at the fact that he had to be the one to end the call, then reached over to put his phone back on his nightstand just as a polite knock sounded at his door, widening his smile. “Come on in, Al, I'm decent.” 

Alfred opened the door and stepped in with a tray balanced expertly against his hip, a smile on his face and a little twinkle in his eye. “Good afternoon, Master Timothy, glad to see you awake and for the most part cheerful.” He placed the tray on the nightstand and then reached out to pat Tim's shoulder. “And just for the record, you are never not decent, simply dressed or not dressed. Do you think you have it in you to sit up a little and eat something?”

Tim nodded and slowly propped himself up on his elbows. “I think so, that bacon smells good.” 

Alfred helped Tim slowly and carefully work his stiff body into a sitting position, fluffing up pillows to stick behind his back and head so he could settle back against the headboard comfortably.

“There we are,” Alfred said with satisfaction as he transferred the tray of food into Tim's lap. “Now I don't expect a clean plate from you, but try to eat as much as you can. And while I did make the executive decision that coffee was not the best option considering the head injuries, I did fix you some grape juice, and that thermos has hot peppermint tea, which might help the headache a little. Will that be acceptable?” 

“More than acceptable, thanks, Al,” Tim said gratefully as he picked up the fork to start into the scrambled eggs, smiling at the ketchup that was squirted in uniform lines over them, even though nothing bothered Alfred's sensitivities more than ketchup on scrambled eggs. 

“Is there anything else I can fetch for you? There's a dose of ibuprofen there in that little cup, but don't take it until after you've eaten your fill.” Alfred instructed as he watched Tim start to eat. 

Tim shook his head, chewing his mouthful and swallowing before answering so as not to prickle Alfred's other sensitivity of bad table manners, even if he was not currently at a table. “This is great, really. I think I'm set if you need to go do something else, I don't want to keep you.” 

“You aren't keeping me, Master Tim,” Alfred replied, smoothing his gloved hand over Tim's sleep-mussed hair. “Would you like me to stay and keep you company while you eat?” 

“That's okay, Alfred, you don't have to do that. I'm sure you have other things you would rather do than watch me eat.” Tim smiled up at Alfred before taking a long drink from his juice.

“Any of my other tasks are certainly a pale second in comparison to looking after you, my boy. But if you are sure you have your meal quite in hand, I should go check in on Master Damian.” 

Tim froze at the mention of Bruce’s youngest and looked up pensively over the edge of his glass. “Damian’s home?” 

“Indeed, it is Saturday afternoon after all,” Alfred responded, winking as he looked around the door. “Never fear, Master Tim, I will be sure that he has plenty to occupy himself, so bothering you is not on his agenda.” 

Tim relaxed a little as Alfred closed the door, still not completely pleased with the idea that he was at home with Damian in the house without Bruce anywhere around, but he was confident that Alfred would follow through with his promise. 

The next few hours after Tim had eaten were spent with a wireless earbud in, listening to one of his Spotify playlists and drifting in and out of dozing. During one of these drifting moments, a knock sounded at his door, but this one definitely did not sound like Alfred. It was rhythmic, almost musical, to the tune of “Shave and Haircut, Two Bits”. 

Tim propped himself up on his elbows, grinning as the one person he knew who knocked to that tune came to mind. “Dick?” 

The door opened and revealed a tall, lithe young man in khaki joggers and a dark blue Nike t-shirt with “Just Do It” on the front; his wavy black hair framing his light olive-toned face, wide, bright smile, and dark blue eyes. Richard Grayson: the first Robin, now Nightwing by night, in-training Bludhaven policeman by day, Tim’s hero, and older brother. His first real friend.

“Hey Timmy!” Dick greeted warmly, stepping into his room and closing the door behind him before crossing the room to lean down and plant a rather mushy kiss in between Tim’s eyebrows. 

Tim sat forward a little to throw his arms around Dick’s neck, grinning as he pulled him forward so that Dick had to sit on the edge of his bed to avoid falling forward onto his little brother.“I didn’t know you were in Gotham! Why didn’t you text me?” 

“Well ‘cause I wanted to surprise you, that's why!” Dick sat back and cupped the side of Tim’s neck with his hand, his face growing just a little more serious. “Okay, let me see the damage here; Bruce told me you had a rough night.” 

“Did he ask you to come see me?” Tim asked, his tone a little tenser than he had meant it as he let Dick examine him without any argument.

“No, he actually didn’t know I was in town either,” Dick replied, picking up one of Tim’s hands and inspecting his raw knuckles. “I stopped by Wayne Enterprises to surprise you both, and when he said you weren’t there because of injuries, I knew I had to stop by and see you. I had the day off and actually slept decently, and I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks, so I decided to drive over from Bludhaven to spend the weekend.” 

Tim relaxed at that and smiled, relieved that it had been by Dick’s own volition that he had come to see him and not something Bruce had needed to convince him to do. “You’re here for the weekend?” 

“If Bruce doesn’t kick me to the curb tonight, then yeah.” Dick grinned as he scooted up to rest his back against the headboard of Tim’s bed and draped his arm around Tim’s shoulders, his arm long enough and Tim’s shoulders narrow enough that he could rest a hand on the left side of Tim’s chest. He pointed with the hand resting over Tim’s heart toward his propped-up foot. “Not broken, I’m told?” 

“No, not broken. Just a bad sprain.” Tim supplied, relaxing into his brother’s side and resting his head against his chest. “A couple of stupid goons decided that it was a good handle to swing me around by.” 

Dick clucked his tongue as he winced openly. “Yeouch! That stinks, whatcha let ‘em get that close for? Isn’t that why I trained you in bo staff? To keep the baddies out there ?” He emphasized his last word by waving a hand away from them.

“I lost my staff during the fight,” Tim defended, his tone slightly miffed, “and I didn’t let them do anything.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Dick agreed with a grin, reaching up to tweak the end of Tim’s nose, “I’m just teasing. Bruce said there were four of ‘em you were up against; nice job not letting the odds get the best of you.” 

Tim’s smile wilted into a small frown as he laid still against Dick, the full events of the previous night coming back hard and clear. He had let it get the best of him. He hadn’t had it handled. The only reason that he didn’t get hurt worse was because of…

“Hey, you okay?” Dick asked as he leaned forward a little to look down into Tim’s face, his brows puckered in concern when he saw Tim’s expression. 

Tim swallowed hard, unsure of how to answer. He had made up his mind that he shouldn’t say anything about Jason being back in town, especially when he had not caused any disturbances, and certainly not after he had stepped in and helped him out. Even if it had been with a snark here and there. He wanted to give Jason a chance, the benefit of the doubt, before making everyone hyper-aware and paranoid about his presence. Even if the last time they had been together, it had included Jason with a knife to his throat, spitting hateful comments and angry oaths. 

“Hello? Earth to Timmy? This is ground control speaking, am I getting through?” 

Tim blinked out of his thoughts as Dick tapped the end of his nose, scrunching it and looking up offendedly at Dick. “Dick! Wouldya cut it out?” 

Dick grinned and shrugged his shoulders defensively. “Hey, I’m just making sure you’re still in my same dimension, you kinda drifted off there.” 

Tim sighed and shook his head lightly (he was learning). “Sorry Dick, I didn’t mean to drift. I was just… thinking.” 

“Well, in that case, a penny for your thoughts?” Dick asked, squeezing Tim a little closer. “A nickel? A dime? Okay, a quarter, but that’s my final offer.” 

Tim smiled at Dick’s personal bidding war, even chuckling a little. He had made up his mind about not telling Bruce about Jason, he just did not want to be the one responsible for that fallout, but Dick on the other hand… 

Tim had always been able to confide in Dick, even before he had become Robin. He could remember lots of times when they would sneak off together during boring galas and fundraising events, sneaking snacks that Tim wasn’t supposed to have and getting into some sort of mischief that Dick always took the blame for. Their relationship had stretched a little thin when Tim started showing up at the Batcave; understandably so since Dick was very much still grieving the loss of another boy and was not ready to call someone else Robin in Jason’s place, but Dick was still the first one to truly accept Tim and start helping him with his training, and had welcomed him with open arms when Bruce told him that Tim was to be the newest addition to the Wayne family of adopted misfits.

Would Dick initially freak out? Yes. Would it feel great to get this off his chest? Also yes. Could he swear his older brother to secrecy with enough guilting and begging? Most likely. 

Tim took a deep breath and sat up further so he could turn and look at Dick fully. “Dick, I really need to tell you something, but it has to stay between us. Just us, understand?” 

Dick raised a brow and smirked. “Can I translate that request as ‘don’t tell Dad’?” 

“Or anyone Dick, please,” Tim reached over and grabbed Dick’s hand, squeezing tightly as he met Dick’s gaze firmly, “I need you to promise me.” 

Dick’s teasing expression faded into a serious one as he searched Tim’s face and found nothing but absolute sincerity there, and maybe a little apprehension, or… fear?

“Yeah, okay, Tim.” Dick nodded, returning the firm hold on Tim’s hand in a sign of surety. “Just between us, I won’t say anything about what you want to tell me unless you want me to.” 

Tim let out a small sigh of relief and nodded slowly, now seeming to have to regather his courage. “How much did Bruce tell you about last night?” 

“Not a terrible amount, I mean we were in his office so he had to keep it pretty brief and somewhat cryptic,” Dick replied, not liking where this was going considering the context of his pretty beat up little brother and the fact that Tim had sworn him to silence. 

“Okay, well, let’s just say I kinda didn’t have things under control with the muggers, and kinda really needed back up, and I was going to call for that backup, but someone kinda stepped in before I could.” Tim knew that the words that had just come out of his mouth made little to no sense, and he did not really give Dick enough background to be able to piece it together either, but now that he had decided to tell someone the exact details of night, he felt he had to do so as quickly as possible. “I mean, I probably should have called Bruce right away regardless, but I was kinda slightly concussed and confused and whole lot panicking, so I didn’t. And I mean, he really didn’t seem that bad, I mean, not like he was before, which totally caught me off gaurd. Sure, he got a little upset with me, but…” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dick begged, holding up his hands to stop the torrent of words bubbling out of Tim’s mouth. “Slow down there a moment, Tim. I’m gathering that you are talking about some body, but you kinda blew right past who . Who stepped in, who didn’t seem that bad, and who got upset with you?” 

Tim took in a shuddering breath, his hands shaking even though he was holding them clenched in his lap. “Jason. Jason’s back.” 

Dick stared at him blankly for a moment with wide eyes, his mouth opening to say something and sort of getting stuck in a slightly agape position. “Wha-what?” 

Tim swallowed and tried again. “Jason’s back; he’s back in Gotham, Dick. I saw him. I talked to him. He’s the one who stepped in and knocked the last of the goons out while I was trying to piece my consciousness back together in the bottom of a dumpster.” 

Dick reached out and grabbed both of Tim’s forearms, his eyes wide with both panic and anger. “Is he the one who did this to you?” 

“No, Dick, listen!” Tim huffed, his eyes rolling a little. “Gosh, I just told you that he stepped in and helped me, why would he be the one that hurt me if I just said that he helped me?” 

“Well, I don’t know! The last time you two were in the same proximity he nearly slit your throat!” Dick exclaimed, looking frustrated and frantic at the same time. “What did he do? What did he say? What did you say? Why is he here ?”

“If you’d quit yelling in my face for a second, I might be able to actually tell you!” Tim snapped, purposefully leaning forward into Dick’s face to make his point and to stun Dick into silence. 

It worked, because Dick sat back a bit, loosened his bruising grip on Tim’s forearms and slid his hands down to hold Tim’s instead, and let his eyes close for a moment as he took a few deep breaths. “Okay,” He said after a moment, opening his eyes and sighing slowly through his nose, “I’m sorry, I kinda freaked out for a minute there, but I’m listening. Start from the beginning, and I’ll try not to interrupt or ask questions until you’re finished.” 

“Thank you, ‘cause you were really starting to stress me out.” Tim sighed, forcing himself to relax his shoulders and breathe a little slower before starting again. “I was up against it Dick, I really was. I had taken down three of the four muggers, but I slipped up and one of the brick-heads landed a good one to the side of my face with a set of brass knuckles, then he body-slammed me into an empty dumpster.” 

Tim swallowed hard, frowning as he forced the confession to come. “I didn’t have things handled like Bruce thinks. I… I don’t know what would have happened if Jason hadn't shown up. But he did, he did, and he took out that last goon before he could do anything else to me; non-lethally, I might add. He actually asked if I was okay, and he followed me to the roof and caught me before I passed out and fell. He even sat with me for a while.” 

Dick had been listening, though he had been grinding his molars to keep from interrupting Tim with one of his thousand questions, but now in Tim’s pause he swallowed and wet his lips. “Then? What happened then? What did he say to you before Bruce got there to pick you up?”

“He got mad at me for thanking him.” Tim shrugged. “He said he didn’t do it for me, that the fact that I was there and that he helped me was a coincidence that he didn’t want to be thanked for. Then we kinda started arguing back and forth about the south side of town being ‘his’ and then he left.” 

“But he didn’t touch you? I mean, no punches were thrown?” Dick pressed, taking in Tim’s extremely swollen left side of his face and feeling a small degree of shock that his wayward brother had not had anything to do with it given his track record. 

Tim shook his head, shrugging one shoulder. “No, no punches were thrown between us. Like I said, he only touched me by making sure I didn't topple off a building head first. He might have said that he didn’t actually mean to help me and that I just happened to be there, but I don’t think that’s true; he looked… different.” 

“Different how?” 

“I don’no.” Tim deadpanned as he thought back on Jason’s face from the night before and the day at the coffee shop. “Just different. Less angry, a little more relaxed, a lot less aggressive. Towards me, I mean, I didn’t really see what he did to that last mugger. And his eyes looked different too: not as green, a bit more blue like they used to be.” 

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, both lost in their thoughts over the self-proclaimed ‘black sheep’ of the family. Finally, Tim broke the silence with his final confession. 

“Last night wasn’t the first time I saw him either. I saw him at Take a Shake a day or two ago. He was in his civvies, and he ordered the exact same shake as me.” Tim smiled a little as he thought back on it. “He offered me the first one up even though he had ordered first.” 

Dick glanced over at Tim and shifted so he was facing him more squarely. “Why didn’t you tell somebody? Why haven't you told Bruce? Why do you not want me telling him?” 

“Because I don’t want Bruce to flip his lid! You know as well as I do what a mention of Jason does to him.” Tim insisted, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. “And beyond that, I… I want to give Jason a little benefit of the doubt. He hasn’t started anything, he hasn’t come up in any police reports or news stories; he came back to town, but he hasn’t done anything.” 

“Tim, buddy, the last time he was here, he was on a rampage, and you were on his hit list! If not in the number one spot, very close to it!” Dick insisted right back, frowning as he leaned forward a little to meet Tim’s gaze. “Don’t you think we should all be ready just in case?” 

“If you walk around expecting eggshells, you’re going to jump at the first sound of cracking,” Tim stated firmly. “Nothing has happened yet. If anything, regardless of whether he wanted my thanks for it or not, Jason pulled my rear out of a bad situation. I don’t want us all on high alert and paranoid until we’ve given him a chance to lay low and just be for a while.” 

“But what if he’s planning something?” Dick asked, reaching out without diverting his gaze from Tim’s to take a hold of his hands to stop Tim from picking at dry spots on his cuticles. “I mean, why else would he come back after a year of radar and radio silence?” 

“Maybe because this city is the only home Jason has ever known?” Tim suggested, slightly annoyed with Dick’s insistence toward the negative when he was usually such a glass-half-full kind of guy. “I don’t know why for sure, but I can imagine that in a weird way, he feels the most comfortable here. Come on Dick, work with me! What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“He’s been proven guilty, though! Of several crimes!” Dick insisted, throwing his hands up briefly before letting them fall back into his lap. “Murder and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon are just a few of them!”

“Right, and people can't change? You started out unable to stand being around me, and now you're here just because you were worried about me.” Tim pointed out, knowing it was a weak example given the circumstances they were discussing, but trying anyway. “I'm telling you Dick, Jason was different than he was the last time we saw him, and I for one would prefer to think that maybe he has had the time to rein himself in and readjust to being alive ; that maybe he really has changed and has come back to himself a little bit.” 

Dick sighed in slight resignation and sat back a bit, his gaze staring a hole into a space of TIm’s comforter, his eyes darting a little as he seemed to be fighting with his own thoughts. 

“Dick, please,” Tim’s tone turned softer, more searching and pleaful, “I told you because I needed someone to confide in and I knew that I could trust you. Please, don’t tell Bruce. Give it some time. Give Jason some time. He's your brother, too, remember?” That last statement was a low blow, Tim knew, but he was getting slightly desperate to invoke Dick's empathy. 

After a long moment of Tim panicking that he had perhaps made the wrong decision, Dick sighed heavily and nodded, smiling and resching out to sweep Tim’s hair back out of his face. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to betray your trust, Timmy. I’ll keep it on the down low, but only on one condition, okay? And that’s if you promise that the second Jason so much raises his voice at you or seems to be slipping back into old habits that you go to Bruce and tell him, and that you won’t put yourself in unnecessary risk or danger to save anybody's feelings. Promise?” 

Tim grinned in relief and nodded eagerly. “I will Dick, I promise.” He threw his arms around Dick’s neck and pulled him into a hug. “I knew I could count on you.” 

Dick smirked and rubbed a hand up and down Tim’s back while he used the other one to cradle the back of Tim’s head. “Yeah, yeah. What can I say? I have a weakness for my little bro when he decides to be all cute, lovable, and trusting.” 

“Tt. Well, at least one of those words certainly does not fit Drake.” 

Dick pulled back from Tim and looked over his shoulder, missing the wilted then annoyed look on Tim’s face as Dick smiled at his youngest brother leaning against the door frame glowering at the two of them. 

“Dami! Hey little buddy!” Dick exclaimed standing to go and meet Damian where he was standing. 

“You didn’t knock.” Tim pointed out flatly, furious by the burn of jealousy he felt in his chest over Dick’s attention being turned on the younger boy. 

Damian winced as Dick wrapped his arms around him in a hug, and did not bother to reciprocate at all. “I heard you talking to Richard and figured it unlikely that you were indecent.” He smirked and quirked one of his dark brows. “Well, more than you usually are anyway.” 

Dick seemed oblivious to the thick air between Tim and Damian as he knelt so that he could be closer to Damian’s height, reaching up to ruffle Damian’s hair. “How’ve you been, Dames? Has school been good?” 

Damian smoothed his hair back down and shrugged. “As good as any day at a second-rate institution filled with foolish, rambling children can be. I was hoping to show you a project I have been working on; Father has encouraged me to take up drawing and I want your opinion.” 

Dick’s smile wilted a little as he looked from Damian to Tim. “Well… I’d love to see what you’ve got going on, Little D, but I kinda came over to spend the day with Tim, since he’s hurt and all. Maybe next time?” 

“It is not as if he is going anywhere. His inadequacy in the field has landed him bedridden for now.” Damian pointed out, his gaze hard and cold as he stared at Tim over Dick’s head. “Father had to expend quite a lot of effort to make sure he had Drake’s responsibilities and duties covered this morning because of it.” 

Dick smiled and gave Damian a little jostle by the shoulder. “Ah, come on Dami, if it was you that was hurt I would-”

“I don’t care.” 

Dick looked over his shoulder at Tim, a light frown across his features. “What was that?” 

“I don’t care if you want to go with Damian,” Tim repeated with a little more clarity, doing his best to keep his expression neutral. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here; I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.” 

Dick stood and looked down at Damian, then back at Tim. “Are you sure? I thought we might play a video game or something together for a while.” 

“It’s fine. The screen would probably make my headache worse.” Tim replied flippantly, sinking back in his pillows and scooching down the bed a bit. “Go on ahead; I’m going to nap.” 

Dick smiled and allowed Damian to pull him toward the hall. “Thanks, Tim. I’ll come to see you in a few hours, I promise.” He paused as he leaned around the door and winked. “And no worries, your secret is safe with me, for now . Just remember your end of the bargain, okay?” 

After the door closed, Tim stared at it blankly, the knot in his throat growing so hard that he was struggling to swallow. 

While Dick had been as surprised as anyone to find out about Damian, he had been quicker even than Bruce to welcome Damian into the family; even quicker than he had been to welcome Tim. Maybe it was because Damian was really young and Dick was just happy that Talia had given over custody so that Damian could not be indoctrinated any further by his assassin mother, so he would bend over backward to make Damian feel loved, valued, and wanted; and this was Dick Greyson of the Flying Greyson’s we are talking about; the guy could bend pretty far. That should be a good thing, admirable even, but it always made Tim feel slightly sick every time he had to see it.

Tim reached over and grabbed one of his extra pillows and hugged it tightly to his chest, hoping the pressure might relieve the aching he felt around his heart. 

Dick came to see Tim ; he had to hang onto that, even though he had been pulled away by Bruce’s selfish, diabolical, biological son. He wasn’t being passed up. He wasn’t being set aside. He wasn’t . 

Tim wasn’t sure when the tears started, but by the time he noticed them, they were trailing down his temples and making his hairline wet, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. 

Had he caused Bruce that much trouble moving his schedule around? Bruce hadn’t sounded mad, but what if Damian was right and Bruce had just been nice to spare his feelings? 

Inadequate, replacement, pretender, fill-in, pathetic… 

Tim let out a sobbed groan as he pulled the pillow up over his face, ignoring the pain in the wounds on his face as he pressed it hard over his head. 

Yeah. Having Damian around was bad for his psyche. Having Jason around was maybe just as bad, if not worse. But both? This was overall not good, and he was going to have to find a way to put on his perfectly curated I’m-fine-nothing’s-wrong-you-haven’t-hurt-me-at-all face so that he could muster to even leave his room in the next few weeks. 

Tim had fallen asleep shortly after he had finally stopped crying, but Dick had stopped by to see him again, and left a note with his hurried handwriting next to Tim’s waterbottle: Emergency in Bludhaven, so no sleepover this time, sorry Timmy. I’ll be back soon to hang out! Get better soon!

Tim had crumpled up the note after reading it and buried his face back into his pillow to let it swallow up a fresh onslaught of tears. Not only had Damian pulled Dick away, he had taken up the rest of his time too. Selfish, little, demon brat. 

But this was fine, nothing Tim hadn’t dealt with before… 

He was used to being passed over.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The next few weeks were enough to drive Tim mad with claustrophobia and stir-craze. His ankle was stubbornly slow to heal, and Bruce insisted he spend several hours a day with it propped up and wrapped in ice. So Tim sulked in bed with his laptop and worked on cold cases, sending his findings to GCPD and logging them into his files to be uploaded to the Batcomputer once he could convince Bruce to let him go down there. 

After a few weeks, Tim forced his way down by sneaking down when everyone else was sleeping, and by the time Bruce came down it just didn't make much sense to shoo Tim back upstairs since he had taken extra care to pull over a second chair to prop his foot up on and had brought an ice pack with him. So Tim worked monitor duty for the following weeks, alerting Batman and Robin to anything that he saw going on… and watching the south side cameras for Red Hood, although he was careful to do that when he was completely alone. 

It wasn't often that Tim found him, but every time he did only further cemented his feelings that something had definitely changed during Jason's hiatus. He was still stupidly intimidating in that stupid red helmet, but he was a lot more gentle in all his movements and actions, and Tim usually found him leading some street kid out of a bad area or breaking up teen punks trying to run a carjacking. Tim had only panicked once when Jason pulled a gun on a particularly aggressive druggy that had been hustling a young woman for money, but he never pulled the trigger, just used the weapon as enough of a threat to get the guy to back off. 

Sitting behind the safety of the screen watching Jason on camera feeds felt strangely familiar, and it threw him back to another time in his life, a time that undoubtedly now pulled Tim further towards empathy and understanding rather than bitterness and grudges. 

People were always shocked by the distances that Tim walked; teachers were constantly insisting that they drive him home on the days his dad forgot to pick him up, but Tim always just waved a hand absently and said that he liked walking. It was true: he did like walking, but it mostly made his… extracurricular … hobby a lot easier when he had the ability to cover a lot of ground without getting tired. 

He had grown accustomed to feeling the prickle of unease as he wandered through Gotham, but tonight he was a little more unnerved than usual. Gotham was always dark at night, especially in the poorer areas with fewer streetlights, but tonight it was even darker than that as a looming storm blocked out any little amount of light the moon could have offered. 

Tim gripped his camera closer to his chest and swallowed hard, his gaze trained on the rooftops as he walked down the sidewalk. He had been following Robin for the past few hours, snapping pictures here and there when he was still enough, but he had lost him nearly an hour ago and was only traversing further into the south side of Gotham with every step he took. 

Just as Tim was about to give up and turn around, a large looming figure stepped out of an alley and blocked Tim’s path, making him jump within himself and choke down a gasp. 

“Well woulda lookie here, you’re dressed a little nice ta be pallin’ around these parts.” The man drawled, taking a long puff on a stump of a cigarette before letting the smoke trail from his nostrils, a predatory grin that was missing several teeth crawling across his grizzled features. “Are ya lost little boy?” 

“N-no…” Tim managed, starting to back up as the towering man mountain started lazily stalking toward him. “I’m not lost.” 

“Ya sure? Cause I’d be glad ta walk ya home. Maybe we could have a little fun on the way? Hm? Whatya say?” 

“No thanks, I can get home on my own.” Tim insisted, turning to make a break for it and letting out a small yelp of surprise as an equally large, equally rough, and terrifying man with an eye patch stepped out around the side of a box truck. 

“Now that’s not very mannerly of ya, and here I thought a nicely dressed kid like yerslef would have better manners.” The first bully sneered, still stalking forward and grinning. “Whatya say, Ralph? Would you say that was good manners?” 

“That’s a nice-looking camera the kid has, bet we could pawn that off easy.” Growled the second, falling into step and backing Tim down an alleyway. 

Tim gulped, his heart beating wildly in his chest like it was trying to escape as he glanced behind him and found that not only was he now in the darkness of the alley, but it was a blind alley with no way out except the way he came in. His back soon came in contact with the brick wall of the building that closed off the alley, his legs shaking beneath him. 

“Y-you better leave me alone.” Tim tried, knowing full well that the tremble in his voice did absolutely nothing for frightening the two muggers. 

“Oh yeah? What are ya gonna do if we don’t? Scream for mommy?” This made them both chuckle as they continued forward. 

“If you don’t then… then… then you’ll have to deal with Batman!” Tim exclaimed, trying to stand as tall as he could and hide the trembling in his hands by grasping his camera. 

The two goons glanced at each other before busting out laughing as though they had heard the best joke of the century, patting each other on the back in their mirth and grinning darkly at Tim. 

“Batman huh? Batman don’t care about these parts.” The first crony cackled, reaching out and closing a hand around Tim’s bicep and pulling him from his feet to dangle him like a piece of trash. “So I wouldn’t count on the Bat ta do anything for you, brat.” 

“I am not a brat!” Tim exclaimed, his fear subsiding as his fight or flight instincts started kicking in, his legs and free arm flailing out in an effort to connect with something tender. “Put me down! Lemme go!” He kicked out hard and high, his shoe smacking into the chin of his captor, pulling a grunt of pain and growl of anger from him, while at the same time, he turned his head and latched his teeth into the fingers around his arm. 

The next thing he knew, Tim was flying, for just a moment of course, when the mugger tossed him down the alley. He landed hard on his side and rolled a few feet, feeling dizzy and winded and unable to easily find his feet. So he did the only thing that he could think to do, start screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs like his mom had always coached him to do if he ever found himself in a bad situation. “Help! Help me, please! Stay away! Get away from me! Help!” He screeched as he scrambled backward against a wall and cowered behind a trash can. 

“ Shut up! You’re gonna pay for biting me, you little brat!” 

“Back off, creepazoid!” 

Tim pulled his head up out of the cradle of his own arms when he heard a grunt and the crash of overturned trash cans, but more importantly, a familiar voice. His heart leaped for joy and relief as he watched Robin flip off the prone mugger that he had landed on and start a volley of kicks and punches against the one with the eye patch. He was so excited, he almost forgot to start clicking away on his camera… almost, that is.  

Robin planted a sidekick into the eye-patch-wearing mugger's groin, then laced his fingers behind the mugger's head when he pitched forward in pain and slammed his face down into his knee. 

“Come m'ere Boy Blunder!” The leader growled, wrapping his arms around Robin's chest and pinning his arms at his sides. 

Robin grinned, letting his head fall forward before bringing it back hard and fast with a crack! and dropping down into a squat as the thug yelled out in pain and dropped him in favor of cradling his broken nose and stumbling back blindly. 

Robin stood and sauntered over to stand over him, a smirk on his face as he cracked his knuckles. “What's the matter, creepo? I thought you liked picking on people smaller than you. Aren't ya gonna pick on me too?” 

The only answer was a pained groan as the mugger rolled back and forth and writhed in pain from his broken and bleeding nose. 

“Yeah, that's what I thought, jerk.” Robin huffed, turning and knocking him cold with a heel strike to the middle of his forehead. He brushed off his hands before setting them on his hips just below his utility belt as he looked around the alley in a searching sort of manner.

Robin’s gaze fell on where Tim was peeking out from behind the dumpster, smiling as he walked over and squatted down in front of him with his forearms resting casually on his knees. “Hey there little buddy, you okay?” 

Tim gulped and tried to form something of a reply, but his mind and tongue seemed to have forgotten that they had to work together, so he just nodded dumbly. 

Robin grinned and stood, holding out a gloved hand to Tim and planting the other on his hip. “Come on, up an’ at ‘em! Let's getcha out of this slum, what’d ya say?” 

Tim gulped again and reached up to accept the hand, letting out a small gasp of surprise as he was pulled easily to his feet. His head was spinning with both the downward spiral of adrenaline and wild excitement to be so close to The Robin. 

Robin wrapped a protective arm around Tim's shoulders and led him out of the alley, looking down the road at the sound of sirens approaching. “Right on time, the cops are here ta load up yer friends.” 

Tim wrinkled his nose as he glanced over his shoulder back into the alley. “They’re not my friends.” 

Robin threw back his head and laughed, jostling Tim gently by his shoulders as he pulled his grappling gun from his holster. “I'm not really in the mood ta hang around and talk ta the boys in blue as they load up the bums.” He fired off his grappling gun and then looked down at Tim with a raised brow and wide smile. “Ever wanted to fly?” 

Tim grinned at the prospect of the question and nodded eagerly. 

“Come on then,” Robin said as he squatted down a little with his back to Tim, “climb on and hang on tight. Now whatever ya do, don’t let go.” 

Tim wrapped his arms around Robin's neck, a small yelp ripping from his throat as they were pulled from the ground and into the air as Robin swung them across the street, his legs wrapping around Robin’s waist as Robin ran a few steps across the rooftop only to leap off it once more to swing across a street and in between two buildings. 

Tim’s stomach and heart seemed to be in an argument on which organ belonged where as they plummeted and flew, swung and dove across several buildings until they were quite a distance away from where Tim had nearly gotten mugged. 

Robin finally stopped on the roof of an apartment building, taking a few trotting steps as he slowed, turning his head to try and get a look at the kid that was clinging to his back like a koala. “Heh, hey kiddo? You good?” 

Tim raised his head from where he had buried it against the back of Robin’s neck, gulping as his face flushed with embarrassment as he unwound his legs and slid down to stand, finding himself to be rather wobbly and shaky. “Y-yeah. I’m, uh, I’m great, actually, that was…” Tim grinned and pushed a hand back through his hair as he met Robin’s masked gaze with excitement that made his eyes bright even in the lightly illuminated night. “That was awesome! I mean that was really the coolest thing I’ve ever done! And you! You are amazing! You’re the greatest! You’re really…” Tim slapped a hand over his mouth as he realized that he was gushing, his cheeks darkening even further. “S-sorry.” 

Robin laughed again, a bright, almost barky sort of laugh that made Tim want to smile, his head thrown back and his hands on his hips as he laughed. He waved a hand dismissively as he shook his head. “Hey, don’t worry about it! It’s not every day I get to haul a fan out of a tight spot.” Robin tilted his head slightly as he considered Tim carefully. “If I’m right by calling you a fan?” 

Tim grinned and puffed himself to his full height, which was unfortunately not a lot for his twelve-year-old self.  “You could probably call me one of your greatest fans ever , actually.” 

Robin chuckled and shook his head, then frowned a little as he looked Tim over. “I should probably take a look at that.” He remarked as he pointed downward. 

Tim glanced down and found that his knee was busted up pretty badly, and a warm trickle of blood was running down his shin. What a day to have decided to wear shorts. “It’s okay, I mean, it’s not that bad.” 

“Bull pucky.” Robin replied, taking Tim’s hand and leading him over to a large air conditioning pipe, hooking his hands under Tim’s armpits without so much as a ‘do you mind’ and lifting him up to sit on the pipe. “It is actually kinda bad. Now sit tight.” He knelt and started pulling out first-aid supplies from various pockets on his belt. “So, you got a name?” 

“It’s Tim.” Tim supplied, brushing off his hands as he just now noticed that little pieces of gravel were clinging to his palms and leaving little pitted indents. 

Robin hummed in response and started carefully dabbing at the wound to soak up the blood and get a look at how bad the wound was under it. “Do you live around here? I mean, what’re ya doin’ wandering around the south side in the middle of the night?” 

Tim swallowed hard, feeling suddenly that he was treading on quicksand. “Um, well, no. I don’t… I don’t live here. I mean, not on this side of town.” 

Robin paused in wiping up the trickle of blood before it could reach Tim’s sock and quirked a brow at Tim before sighing and shaking his head. “Don't tell me you're runnin’ away from home?” 

“No! Oh no, I wouldn’t do that.” Tim insisted as he shook his head, even if he had before very much considered it. “I’m just… well… I was following you.” 

Robin paused again, but this time he tensed a little, looking up at Tim with confusion on his face. “You were what?” 

Tim gulped, feeling that he was now sinking into that quicksand he had started treading on. “I… I was… following you.” He reached down and lifted his camera slightly off his chest. “I wanted to… I just wanted… pictures… I just wanted to take your picture.” 

Even under the domino, Tim could tell Robin’s eyes widened in surprise, which paired with his slightly slack jaw painted the image of someone who had just been slapped across the face. 

“Please don’t be mad! It’s nothing bad, I promise!” Tim insisted, his voice trembling as he started to panic. “I… I just think you’re really really cool! And I like taking pictures, and you always look so awesome! I don’t show them to anybody, ever! No one even knows I do this! I promise I wouldn’t-” 

“Whoa, whoa, hold up there Timbit.” Robin urged, holding up his hands to slow Tim’s torrent of poor excuses. “You mean you’ve done this before? Followed me around to take my picture?” 

Tim nodded slowly, his heart beating almost as hard as it had when they had been flying through the air a moment ago. “Yeah. I mean, not just you. Batman too, and the other Robin.” 

The eyes of Robin’s domino widened more if that was at all possible. “Other Robin?” He echoed, his voice heavy with disbelief. 

Tim smiled a little, a tiny bloom of pride taking root in his chest. “Yeah, the other Robin, the one before you. I know there’s two of you.” 

“How’d ya figure?” Robin asked as he sat back on his heels, the bloody piece of gauze  in his hand as forgotten as the cut on Tim’s knee. 

“Well, the other Robin is a little taller than you, and he’s skinnier... leaner, I mean.” Tim started to elaborate, thinking back over the notes he had made, counting off the differences on the fingers of his right hand. “And his accent is a lot different, but not just that, you just talk differently all around; you cuss sometimes, and Batman doesn't like that. And you fight differently; the other Robin does a lot more flips and jumping, but you like to stay grounded so you can kick and punch more. Then there's your suit; Di- um, the other Robin’s suit is red and green and yellow, and he doesn't wear pants, just the acrobat shorts. Your suit is black and red, and you always wear pants.” 

Tim grinned and shrugged one shoulder, kicking his heel against the large pipe he was sitting on. “I like your suit, especially the pants. But don't tell the other Robin that.”

Robin stared at Tim for another few heartbeats then tossed his head back and laughed, a truly giddy, ecstatic kind of laugh before he shook his head at Tim. “You are one strange little kid; you really are a Robin fan aren't you?” 

“I told you, probably a number one fan.” Tim agreed, relief washing over him that Robin was not angry with him after his confession. “I always have been, for as long as I can remember. I mean, Batman is awesome, of course he is, but Robin is the best. Both of you are.” 

Robin shook his head again and went back to cleaning the blood off Tim's leg and around the wound on his knee. “So just how long have you been stalking us to take pictures that you don't ever show anyone?” 

“Well… a while I guess. And I really don't show them to anyone, I swear.” Tim added, even though his mom hated when he said that and insisted that he not swear, even though that didn't always make sense to Tim since there were two different types of swearing. He knew because he had looked it up. 

“I can't believe we haven't noticed you. I'm pretty sure B woulda said somethin’ if he had known at any point that we were being tailed by a little kid.” Robin mused as he set aside the soiled gauze pad and sprayed some disinfectant onto the wound on Tim's knee. 

Tim gritted his teeth as the cool liquid stung in the cut, and tried his best to sit up a little taller. “I'm not little.” 

“Yeah, sure you're not Timbit,” Robin replied without looking up.

Tim could not decide if he liked the nickname or not, but he decided not to say anything about it since he was really just excited to be talking to Robin at all and really didn't want to ruin the moment over something silly. 

Robin placed a clean, fresh square of gauze over the cut on Tim's knee and held it carefully in place so he could wrap a flexible bandage around his knee “There,” He announced as he finished off the bandage and sat back to examine his work. “How's that feel?” 

“Better, thanks,” Tim responded, testing out the range of motion the bandage allowed by carefully bending and straightening his knee. It still hurt, but he was pretty sure that it was fairly minor considering what could have happened to him.

“Good,” Robin said as he stood, his hands planted on his hips and a smirk on his face, “now let's see ’em.” 

Tim frowned in confusion and shrugged. “See what?” 

Robin popped up on the pipe next to Tim and pointed at his camera. “The pictures, Timbo. I wanna see ‘em. I think it's only fair since you've been creeping around stalking me and taking my picture without asking.” 

Tim swallowed hard. That was only fair, but he had never shown his pictures to anyone before, and the thought of showing them to his subject made his stomach flip. But he switched on his camera anyway, slightly surprised but glad that it turned on at all given the fact that it easily could have been damaged from being around his neck as he had been thrown around. 

“They're… they're not that good. I mean, I'm just an amateur, I haven't had any lessons or anything.” Tim filled the silence with little excuses and apologies as he flipped through the last few pictures he had taken: different stills of Robin flying through the air between buildings, crouched on the edge of a rooftop at Batman's feet, and throwing a punch with a gleeful grin on his face. 

Robin sat watching the pictures on the little screen, leaning so close to Tim that if he had lowered his head at all he would have his chin resting on Tim's shoulder. For a moment, Tim could not tell if he was mad or not, then an amused noise sounded at the back of Robin's throat as he reached out and lifted Tim's camera a little higher to get a better look.

“These are great! I mean, really great !” Robin exclaimed, grinning as he examined the current picture of him flipping in a somersault off the hood of a car. “You're amazing! You could work for the Gotham Gazette, even the Globe!" 

Tim blushed under the praise, ducking his head a little as he smiled sheepishly. “They aren't that good.” 

“Are you kiddin’? They're fantastic!” Robin insisted as he reached around Tim and took control of the arrow button to scroll through them himself, not noticing how Tim was practically buzzing at the impromptu hug he was receiving from his hero. “You're a natural! Geez, you even got B looking all dramatic and cool. Whoa! Look at that! Mid kick! And this one’s so cool with the explosion in the backgro-! Wha-wait a second… that… that was at that arms bust at the harbor a few weeks ago!” Robin sat back and looked at Tim with shock. “You were there?” 

“I've gotten to watch a few of your busts.” Tim grinned, feeling slightly proud of himself that he had truly been as sneaky as he thought he had been. “They're pretty exciting.” 

“You coulda gotten hurt! Shot or fff- blown to bits! Did ya ever consider that?” Robin asked, sounding like he was trying to scold and barely catching the colorful language that nearly leaped into his sentence, but the amount of admiration that made it into his tone cheapened it really coming through that way. 

“I always stay far enough away that I won't get seen or hurt,” Tim assured, “I just use a camera with a bigger lens so I can zoom in.” 

“Do your parents know you're doing this?” Robin asked, and now he really did sound like he was scolding. 

Tim bit his lips and lowered his gaze from Robin's masked one. “No.” 

“Do they know you're out right now?” 

“No.” 

“Do they even know you left the house in the middle of the night?” 

“They hardly ever know if I'm home during the day.” Tim huffed, switching his camera off to save the battery, and scowling off across the rooftop. “They don't care.” 

Robin stared at him a moment then softened a little. “Oh.” He tilted his head as he looked Tim over carefully. “How old are you?” 

“Twelve,” Tim replied, not looking up and taking up kicking his heel against the pipe again. 

“Whoa really? You're twelve?” 

Tim looked up with a frown, wrinkling his nose a little in offense. “What of it?” 

Robin shrugged with a characteristic smirk. “I dunno. I kinda had you pegged ta be about eight or nine.” 

“Eight or nine?!” Tim echoed indignantly, his frown turning into a glare. “I'm twelve, and I'll be thirteen in June! So there with you and your bulky genes!” 

“Okay okay! Sorry! Geez…” Robin laughed as he hopped down from the pipe and backed up a step with his hands raised in surrender. He planted his hands on his hips again and sighed. “Well, in any case, ya really shouldn't be out in the middle of the night following a couple of vigilantes around the city while they deal with dangerous situations, Timbit. Ya really could get hurt, and I wouldn't want that. I mean, just look at what happened tonight; you're just lucky I could hear you screamin’.” 

Tim nodded slowly, knowing in his rational brain that Robin was right, but arguing in his irrational brain that if he stopped his little hobby, he would practically be giving up his entire being. 

“I guess I should probably getcha home.” Robin continued, holding out a hand to help Tim down off the pipe. “Come on Timbit, I'll go along with ya to make sure you don't get kidnapped… or worse.” 

Tim had no idea what could be worse than kidnapping, but he was talking to a crime-fighting vigilante who had seen a great deal more of the ugly side of Gotham, so he decided he really didn't want to ask. He took Robin's offered hand and hopped down from the pipe, wincing a little at the pain in his knee. 

“You okay?” Robin asked, still holding Tim’s hand to steady the younger boy, watching him carefully as Tim took a few limping steps. 

“Yeah, I think so. It just smarts a little.” Tim replied, not wanting to seem any weaker than Robin already seemed to think he was. “I'm okay.” 

“Well, why don't I give you a lift? We'll travel a little faster that way anyhow.” Robin offered, tugging Tim toward him and turning to let Tim climb up on his back. 

“Yeah okay. Um, are we gonna swing like we did before?’ Tim asked a little nervously as he placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders but didn't quite climb up yet. 

“Yeah, why? Ya didn't like it?” 

“No, I did. I mean, it was a little scary at first.” Tim admitted, wrapping his arms around Jason's neck and hopping at the same time Robin bent down and hefted him up with his arms wrapped around the back of Tim's knees. “Could you just, maybe, give me a little warning before we jump off? So I'm ready for it? I'm not... I'm not a super fan of heights.”  

“Sure thing Timbo.” Robin chuckled and nodded as he walked to the edge of the building, pausing and reaching up to tap the hidden communication piece in his ear. “Hey Bats, Robin checking in. I'll be a little late for our rendezvous, I've gotta get a lost kid home.” 

“I'm not lost,” Tim interjected. 

“Yeah, no, we're good. I just wanna make sure he gets home safe.” Robin continued without correcting his previous statement. “I'll come meet you as planned once I'm finished. Right. Yep. Uh-huh. Got it B, Robin out.” Robin glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “You ready?” 

“I am not lost,” Tim repeated, tightening his grip a little around Robin's neck as they stepped closer to the roof edge. “I knew where I was, and where I was going, and how to get home again. So I wasn't lost.” 

“Uh huh, sure Timbers. Are you ready or not?” Robin asked again, this time not waiting for a response as he stepped off the building at the same time as shooting off his grapple, a grin crossing his features at Tim's surprised screech. “Yeouch, could ya maybe not do that right in my ear?” 

“You said you'd warn me!” Tim cried as they swung through the air, the wind whistling in his ears and through his hair, his eyes screwing shut to block out the dizzy sight below. “Serves you right!” 

“Yeah, probably. Hang tight Timbit!”

After about fifteen minutes of traveling faster than Tim ever had on foot, Robin landed neatly and started walking along the sidewalk area that ran parallel to a section of road that crossed over the large highway that cut through the middle of Gotham. They were leaving the south side and crossing into the slightly better-lit side of town, although not much better in terms of crime rate, any amount of improvement in Gotham was considered an improvement. 

Tim had not noticed when he had started dozing off, but between the hour of the night, the distance he had traveled, the adrenaline from his near mugging wearing off, and the warmth of Robin's body heat through his suit and cape against Tim's chest, he was starting to feel truly exhausted. 

Robin shrugged the shoulder Tim's cheek was resting against a couple of times to rouse him. “Hey little buddy, hate ta bug ya, but I actually don't know where you live.”

Tim blinked owlishly a few times and raised his head to look around and get his bearings, then glanced at his watch. “If you drop me off at the Ninth Street bus stop I can take the three a.m. bus back home. Then you can get back to Batman.” 

“He can wait, it's not a big deal,” Robin replied as he checked both ways before crossing a street. 

“Sure, that's why he keeps checking in with you every five minutes.” Tim quipped, resting his chin against Robin's shoulder and cutting his eyes at Robin. 

“He's just paranoid. I told him I'd check in once I got you home safely.” Robin replied with a huff, a small frown pulling at his lips. 

Tim chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, but I guess dads are supposed to be that way.” 

Robin paused and craned his head to look at Tim, and Tim decided that he liked that shocked expression that Jason kept expressing tonight. “Wha…? He… Batman's not my dad.” 

“Really?” Tim asked with raised brows, knowing well that wasn't the truth, but not exactly wanting to reveal that he knew that to be fact. “He's not your dad?”

“N-no! No. I mean, that's just weird. What made you think that?” Robin huffed as he started walking again. 

“Cause it's weirder if he's not your dad?” Tim suggested, shrugging and resting his cheek against Robin's shoulder again. “Don't worry, I think it's cool. Probably the coolest. I wish my dad was Batman.” 

Robin swallowed hard, Tim could feel it against his arm, then shrugged. “No, you don't. But I guess… I guess it can be cool sometimes.” 

Tim was disappointed when he saw the bus stop in sight, tightening his grip a little around Robin's neck and gulping back a knot that threatened to form in his throat; he suddenly did not want the night's adventures to end, and he did not want to let go of Robin because that meant he might not ever get to talk to him again. 

“Okay Timbers, down you go.” Robin encouraged as he squatted down a little so he could set Tim down on the bench under the lit bus stop overhang. 

Tim did as he was told and sat on the bench, unwillingly letting his arms slide off of Robin's shoulders, wrinkling his nose a little as he looked up at Robin. “Can you not just call me Tim ? It's already a nickname for Timothy.” 

“What's the fun in that, Timbit?” Robin chuckled with a grin as he reached out and chucked Tim under the chin. He crossed his arms over his chest and he leaned his shoulder against the bus stop overhang. “You sure you don't want me to take you all the way home?”

No, he was not sure. 

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Tim smirked as he kicked his feet back and forth since his legs were too short for his feet to touch the ground. “If you take me all the way home you might decide to talk to my parents.” 

Robin smirked back and shook his head. “Touche.” He pushed off the overhang and sat on the bench next to Tim, leaning his forearms on his knees. “Okay, then let's make a deal: no more creeping around the south side. You're a cute kid, and you don't look like ya belong over there; it's like painting a big red bullseye on your back for every thug, criminal, and dirty-minded creepo that might want to hurt ya. Okay? I know I probably can't stop you from this spooky little hobby of yours, but at least stay closer to home, alright? Deal?” 

Tim smiled and nodded, though a little reluctantly since it was always on the south side that the most action happened; although the north side did have better lighting, so there were a few perks he supposed. “Okay, deal.” 

Robin nodded with a satisfied smile and stood, seeming to be taking Tim in all over again and considering carefully. He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You are one strange, creepy, spooky little kid, ya know that?” 

“I'm not little.” Tim insisted again, but he was smiling too. “And I'm not creepy.” 

“Spooky then. Really spooky.” 

Both boys looked up as the bus pulled to a stop in front of them, the brakes screeching a little and the doors hissing as they opened. 

Tim swallowed hard and stood, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked his weight from his toes to his heels. “I guess…. I guess this is it.” 

“I guess so,” Robin agreed, cocking his right hip out as he settled his hands on his hips, “it’s been fun Tim. I hope you plan on gettin’ some sleep when you get home.” 

Tim nodded, growing more and more reluctant to get on the bus. “Um, thanks, by the way. For saving me, I mean.” 

Robin grinned and waved a dismissive hand. “Forget about it, all part of the gig.” 

“I won't forget it.” Tim insisted firmly, staring at the sidewalk between their feet for a moment. Then, before he could chicken out, propelled himself forward and wrapped his arms tightly around the taller boy's middle.  

Robin stared down at the top of Tim's head with wide eyes and a slack jaw, his hands hovering to the sides for a second before he grinned and wrapped his arms around the boy plastered to his front, ruffling his hair gently with a gloved hand. 

Tim stepped back after a moment, his cheeks reddened with embarrassment as he backed toward the bus. “Be careful out there Robin, and tell Batman I said ‘hi’.”

“Sure thing kid.” Robin agreed. “Oh, hey Timbit! Think fast!” 

Tim turned as he climbed up the steps on the bus, gasping as he held out his hands just in time to catch the black object that was flying toward his face. He held it out on his open palms and grinned. It was a Batarang, not one of the bladed ones, but a solid one meant only for stunning. He clutched the treasure to his chest and waved eagerly at Robin's retreating back. “Thanks, Jason!” 

The word had flown from his mouth before Tim could stop it, and he clamped a hand over his mouth the moment it registered with him what he had just said. The doors of the bus closed in front of him just as Robin whirled around to stare at Tim with that same bewildered expression that Tim had come to love in the past few hours. 

Tim ran to the back of the bus, grateful that it was empty except for the bus driver who had Airpods in his ears and a thoroughly uninterested look on his face, climbing up on the back bench seat to grin and wave out the back window as the bus pulled away from the stop.

Robin stared after him, a slow smile taking over the shock as he finally started to wave back as the bus drove further and further down the road. 

Tim did not sit down in his seat until after they had turned down a road and Robin disappeared entirely. He grinned down at his souvenir from the night's escapade, his thumbs lovingly running over its surface. He could not wait to write tonight's encounter down in the secret little brown  leather-bound book tucked between his mattress and box spring.  

“Tim? Hey, kiddo.” The voice was accompanied by a hand on Tim's shoulder, then running through his hair, and it pulled him unwillingly from his state of dozing.

Tim sat up with a groan and scrubbed at his eyes, blinking several times as he looked up to find Bruce smiling down at him, still dressed in his suit but with this cowl pulled back. 

“Hey there sleepyhead,” Bruce greeted as he smoothed his gloved hand over Tim's hair, “you think you might like to actually go to bed tonight? That keyboard doesn't seem like a great pillow.” He smiled in amusement as he ran his finger over Tim's cheek. 

Tim's brows raised in question as he reached up and felt his face, rolling his eyes at the waffle-pattern indents the keys of the keyboard had left behind. “I didn't mean to fall asleep at all. I hope I didn't miss anything.” 

“Not a thing,” Bruce assured, resting his hand on Tim's shoulder. “But the question remains: bed? At least for a few hours?”

Tim thought that over for a moment, then nodded as he decided that his back was kind of stiff and unhappy from laying hunched over the keyboard. Then, without really thinking twice before doing so, raised his arms up toward Bruce with an expectant expression.  

Bruce looked as surprised by the gesture as Tim felt, but his surprise quickly melted into pleased eagerness and acceptance as he bent down without comment or question and scooped Tim out of the Batcomputer's chair like he was much younger than his nearly seventeen years. 

Tim wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and nuzzled his face into his shoulder, his lanky legs curling around Bruce's middle as Bruce clasped his hands around the small of Tim's back and turned to start walking them towards the stairs that led to the elevator. He paused long enough to grab Tim's discarded crutch and then continued without a word.  

Tim did not even care about Damian's shocked then disgusted expression as they passed him; for whatever reason he felt like he needed a little physical comfort after the dreamt memory, and he was feeling rather pleased with himself and grateful as Bruce gladly gave it to him without so much as a raised brow of question. 

Bruce even sat on Tim's bed with him held like this for a long quiet moment before he even tried to transfer Tim to his mattress; Bruce knew, he always seemed to know when Tim needed that rare bit of contact, and he never denied it or questioned it. In fact, there were times when Tim wondered if he was not the only one getting something out of his occasional need for a hug or at the very least close proximity. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

“Are you sure you're feeling up to patrol tonight?” Bruce asked, his arms folded tightly over his chest as he leaned back against the counter and watched Tim lace up his boots. “It won't hurt anything to put it off another week or two.” 

“B, we talked about this. I've stayed down for your prescribed rest period, with little argument, I might add. I did the physical therapy, and we've rechecked it with an MRI.” Tim reminded Bruce as he stood, smiling at him with his hands on his hips. “I'm ready, Bruce. I don't even have a limp anymore." 

“You and I both know that you're better at masking a limp than I am, so that really doesn't tell me anything,” Bruce insisted with a frown. 

“Then I guess you're just going to have to trust me that I'm not bluffing you, that I really am good to go,” Tim replied as he peeled the clear backing off his domino mask and pressed it to his face for a few seconds so that the adhesive would bond to his skin before winking at Bruce and grabbing his bo staff off the counter. “And what's the worst a little trust between partners could do?” 

Bruce shook his head as he started after Tim, but he was smiling a little now. “You tell me. Okay, I'll let you be about it, but here's the deal: half-hour check-ins, stay within a fifteen-minute radius of me and Damian, and call me if you need help at all with anything. Got it?” 

Tim nodded as he climbed on his motorcycle and pulled on his helmet. “Got it, Dad; I'll be good, I promise.” He started up his bike with a grin, flipped down the visor of his helmet, and revved the engine once before driving off. 

Bruce watched him disappear up the ramp with his hand on his hips, smiling and shaking his head as he started toward the Batmobile. “Stubborn… scrappy… exasperating little…”  

Damian was sitting in the passenger seat of the Batmobile already, his arms crossed over his chest and masked eyes staring off after Tim. “When do I get to leave for patrol on my own? Like Drake does?”

“When I can trust you to do so,” Bruce answered simply as he climbed in and pulled on his cowl. “So I suppose that is entirely up to you, isn't it?”

Tim zipped through Gotham on his bike, unable to keep the smile from his face as he navigated between cars and trucks, getting the occasional wave from someone who noticed him. It felt good to be out, to be cleared for patrol again, to be back in his suit that people associated with hero-good-strong, instead of injured-small-pathetic. 

Tim knew in his head that he was probably getting to be on the outside edge of the fifteen-minute radius he and Bruce had discussed, but he couldn't help but keep driving, weaving in and out of traffic at a speed that was just barely legal. Even though he had broken the speed limit many times before, he wasn't in the mood to get flashed down by some policeman who did not realize he was pulling over Red Robin, he just wanted to drive. 

He had been lost in the joy of being out for a long time before Tim felt that all too familiar prickle on the back of his neck: he was being followed. He glanced down at the right rearview mirror on his bike handle, and his stomach dropped hard as he turned to look over his shoulder to confirm what he was seeing. 

It was another motorcyclist in an all too familiar brown leather jacket and dark grey Kevlar body suit, black tactical pants with patch pockets on his thighs and military style boots, black leather fingerless biking gloves, and a practically trademarked red and black cyclist helmet.

Jason raised a hand from his handbars and flicked Tim a casual, two-fingered salute. 

Tim gulped as he turned back to watch the road, swerving around a slower car that he was gaining on rather quickly, his mind going over a million really bad scenarios that might be about to unfold. The whir of a second engine pulled his attention to his right, and he found Jason was now driving next to him, his expression hidden behind the black visor of the helmet, but his head turned so that it was unmistakable that he was staring at Tim. 

Jason revved his engine and pulled just slightly in front of Tim so that he could lean back and pop a wheelie, hanging onto the handlebars one-handed as he drove several feet down the highway like that before dropping back to both wheels. 

Tim smirked behind his helmet and shook his head. Show off. He sped up a little and cut under the trailer of a semi, coming out on the other side before cutting back under to ride next to Jason again. 

Jason nodded in acceptance of Tim's stunt, then revved his engine once, then twice, always falling back alongside Tim, seeming to be watching him carefully. 

Tim cocked his head and gunned his engine a little, grinning with realization when Jason immediately pulled up next to him. 

So that's what it was to be, now was it?

Tim revved his engine and took off, weaving in and out of the traffic, glancing to the side and seeing Jason staying close to him just a lane away. Tim shifted his seat backwards and leaned down low over his bike to make himself a little more aerodynamic, accelerating past a double-long semi, then looking around to see where Jason was. 

The highway that cut through the middle of Gotham was perfect for this in Tim's mind: six lanes across with a cement divider between the east-bound and west-bound traffic, well lit with large street lights every few feet, and with very few policemen stationed to watch for speeding. Yeah, the Gotham Interstate was the perfect place for a bike race.   

For a moment, Tim thought he had lost Jason in the traffic, then his heart leapt within him when he felt a tug on the end of his cape before Jason pulled up beside him, so close that Tim was sure that he might have been able to see his eyes behind the shaded visor (and did he imagine the wink?) before he pulled out in front of Tim, his bike's engine roaring. 

Two can play that game. Tim smirked and pulled around a minivan, then a box truck, and then a semi hauling a trailer house, careful to keep himself out of Jason's line of sight before falling in directly behind him, slowly accelerating to keep his engine from revving out of sync with Jason's. When he was close enough, he reached out and thumped the back of Jason's helmet with a flat hand, laughing at the way Jason swerved a little as he looked back to see what had hit him before whipping out around him. 

Jason caught him once more, driving perfectly in sync and turning slightly to look at Tim for a moment, then giving him one last two-fingered salute before swerving across three lanes to take an off-ramp that led up to the overpass and turning right without waiting for the green light.

Tim watched him until he passed under the overpass, clucking his tongue thoughtfully. What was that for? Was it a coincidence that he ended up on the same road at the same time as me? Or… or is he following me? 

Tim shook his head and slowed his bike, finally choosing an exit and pulling off the highway to find a convenient place to park his bike and start on a patrol route. He checked his gauntlet computer and saw two blinking lights a few miles away, no further than a fifteen-minute swing across the rooftops. 

The night was almost painfully quiet and free of trouble, which sounds like a strange complaint for a crime fighter, but it was increasingly frustrating for Tim as he followed his chosen patrol route, with only breaking up a group of teens committing the petty crime of graffiti on the side of a convenience store. Ironically, one of the kids was even graffiti-ing Red Robin in bright red and outlined in black: that kid was kind of the highlight of Tim’s night since he begged for several selfies and to shake Tim’s hand, which he did very enthusiastically. 

It was nearly a half hour after three in the morning when Tim found himself perched on the top of Wayne Enterprises, currently the tallest building in the city at one hundred and ten stories, with one leg pulled up so he could wrap his arms around his shin while the other dangled off the edge of the roof. There was just a slight breeze here above the city, enough to blow pleasantly through his hair but not enough to pull at his cape, and Tim could even see a few stars studding the dark expanse of the sky above him. 

It was not that long ago that Tim would never have considered sitting nearly two thousand feet above the streets, even the thought of such heights would have set his knees shaking and flipped his stomach within his gut. Heights were always the hardest part of his training when he started as Robin: even the gymnastic poles and the rock wall in the cave made him freeze with terror. It was a strange mixture of Bruce’s disappointed head shakes and mutters that he had been right all along and Dick’s constant pushing and goading that he slowly started to defeat the phobia that had gripped him so tightly. Now, it was here that Tim felt the most at home, at ease, and able to breathe out the tension that he usually kept unintentionally held tightly in his shoulders.

Tim checked the time on his gauntlet, then reached up and tapped his communicator. “Red Robin checking in.”

Go ahead, Red Robin, I hear you.

“Patrol route G9 is all quiet, as is G7,” Tim reported, kicking his heel against the wall absentmindedly. “Nothing major to report.” 

Copy that, Red. Robin and I just finished a sweep of B13, and we've also been through B6 through 8. It’s a down-low night, I feel.

“Copy that. What's your next route?” 

Hadn't gotten that far. We might double back to the car through B14, but then I think I'm calling it for the night. Robin has other engagements in the morning.

I do not need extra sleep for that ! We could spend another two hours!

Tim rolled his eyes at Damian's indignant insistence. At least he had never argued with Bruce about shorter patrols on school nights.

  That only gives you an hour max to sleep before you have to be up in time for the bus.

Tt . I could manage the day with twenty-five minutes of sleep maximum. Easy. 

You might think you can, but you can't, and won't. 

You are being hypocritical! You do it all the time!

That’s because I am an adult, Robin, you are not. 

What does that have to do with anything in this matter?

It's not good for you at this age to go without that much sleep. It'll damage your brain. 

Hn. So, is that what is wrong with Red Robin?

“Hey!” Tim cut in after listening with annoyance to Bruce and Damian's argument. “You know I can still hear you, right?” 

If it bothers you, perhaps you should have closed off your comm instead of sitting there listening in like a brain-damaged-

Enouuugh. Bruce's voice was firm, but it also sounded a little on the weary side to Tim. Red, we are heading in once we make it back to the car. What is your plan?

Tim knew he was pushing his luck, but maybe, just maybe , he might get lucky and actually catch Bruce in an understanding moment. “I think I might stay out for just a little while longer. I won't be long, maybe an hour before I head back to the cave.” 

Silence. Complete silence in fact, not even the slight buzz of radio static in his earpiece. Just when he started to reach up to tap his earpiece to check the connection, Bruce's voice came back through. 

Red?

“Did you disconnect the comms? If not, I think my earpiece might be acting up.” Tim replied, opening his gauntlet computer and checking the connections. 

Your earpiece is fine. I disconnected so I could open a private line. I also sent Robin ahead. So… you don’t have to worry about him overhearing anything.

Tim grinned at those words as his heart seemed to swell a moment: Bruce was in a caring mood tonight.

Are you sure you'll be alright if I leave you out on your own? How's the compromised weapon? 

Tim shook his head at the code Bruce used to ask about his ankle, but the smile stayed. “It's fine. Present and accounted for. I'm actually just… hanging out. I'm at W.E., and I'm not quite ready to head in yet. With any luck, maybe you'll have Robin ushered off to bed before I get there.”

Isn’t it prolonging the inevitable to just avoid him?

“Probably, but it seems to me you two are on the outs tonight, and I don't know if you've noticed, but that's when the darts start flying my way. Thicker than they already do normally, that is.” Tim pointed out, letting his pulled-up leg join the other in dangling off the building and leaning his weight into his palms against the rooftop on either side of his hips.  

…That's probably true. I haven't noticed that specifically, but I wouldn't doubt it. And we are not on the outs, he's just rebelling against going to school. 

“Have fun with that,” Tim huffed, “regardless, I'll give you guys some space. Like I said, I'll be right behind you in about an hour. I'll call if anything concerning comes up, I promise.” 

Alright, Red, I won’t push, just be back before sunrise, hm?  

“Copy that,” Tim chuckled, “Red Robin out.” 

Just as he reached up and ended the private line call, a gasp ripped from Tim's chest as a firm boot against the small of his back shoved him forward. He slipped from his perch on the rooftop, and even though his heart flew up into his throat and possibly stopped for a moment, his instincts kicked in. He swiveled as he fell and grasped the edge of the roof and redirected his momentum to swing his legs back over the edge, left leg tucked and right leg extended out in a face-level kick at his assailant. His boot was caught in a strong hand that shoved him back, which he used to handspring back into a fight-ready stance as he pulled his bo staff from his belt and extended it with a flick. 

Tim’s eyes widened, and his shoulders fell from their tense position. “J-Jason?!”

In the short amount of time it took for Tim to prepare himself for a fight that was not coming, Jason had backed up to lean against the supports of the massive Wayne Enterprises sign and was sipping casually on a milkshake; one hand in the pocket of his jacket, his left ankle laxly crossed over his right, his face only concealed by his domino. Curse him. He looked far too relaxed for someone who had just pushed a person off the tallest building in Gotham. 

Jason paused long enough in his steady slurping on the too-skinny straw for the thickness of his shake to utter a cool, uninterested: “Sup?” 

“What's up ?” Tim echoed, his voice rising an indignant octave as he straightened from his fight stance, glaring hotly at Jason's unbothered expression. “You just pushed me off a building , that's what's up!” 

Jason shrugged a shoulder, his mouth coming off his straw with a soft pop! before he licked his lips. “I figured you'd heard me.” 

“No! No, I did not hear you! Do you think I would have just sat there if I had heard you?” Tim huffed, stepping further away from the edge of the building and collapsing his bo staff with a frustrated flick of his wrist. 

A smirk pulled at Jason's lips as he shrugged again, pushing off the support and bending down to snatch up a paper to-go bag before walking past Tim to sit in the exact spot he had been occupying a moment before. “Gotta be more observant than that if yer gonna risk sitting on the edge of a building, Pretender.”

Tim stiffened at the name and frowned, a just a little less intense expression than the glare he had been wearing a moment ago. “You and I both know that you don't move like other people; if you had been anybody else, I would have heard you.” 

“Whatever makes ya feel better.” Jason set his milkshake down beside him and opened up his bag to peer inside. “Serves ya right anyway; this is my spot.” 

Tim sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he shifted his weight off his left leg which cocked out his right hip. “Since when?” 

Jason looked over his shoulder after stuffing several fries in his mouth, his brow furrowed in a glare that did not hold much heat, chewing a few times before talking around his mouthful. “Since always, punk. Long before you muscled your way in.” 

Tim opened his mouth to spit back a comment about how he was actually co- owner of the building they were standing on and therefore that spot was very much his, but he clamped his jaw shut and chewed on the inside of his lip instead. He was really pretty pleased with how non-violent his encounters with Jason had been so far, and he really was not interested in being the one to upheave that. So instead, Tim slowly walked back over to the roof edge, several feet away from Jason, mind you, and sat once more with his legs hanging off to kick his heels against the wall. 

Jason unwrapped a double patty, bacon cheeseburger with ketchup covered lettuce and chopped onions cascading off the edges and took a bite that in Tim's opinion was at least a quarter of the whole burger, staring off across the cityscape while he chewed; seeming to completely unbothered by Tim’s presence in the least, and ignoring him entirely at most.

Tim kept his face decidedly forward, but that did not mean that he was not watching Jason carefully in his peripheral. 

Just like the last few times Tim had seen him, Jason seemed far more relaxed than Tim remembered. His shoulders and neck were not held tense, and he sat with his back slightly slumped as he ate his meal rather than keeping his normally rigid posture. 

He could have shot me. I didn’t hear him. I didn't know he was there. He could have done it if he wanted to, could have actually gotten rid of me… but he didn't…

“Are you really gonna sit there and watch me eat?” 

Tim blinked a few times and turned toward Jason as he stuffed the last bite of his burger into his mouth without looking at Tim. “I'm not watching you eat.” 

Jason made a mocking talking motion with his hand in time with Tim’s insistence. “You might be wearing a mask, but I'm pretty good at knowin’ when I'm being eyeballed.”

Tim shook his head with an amused sniff, knowing he was pushing his luck in keeping up the back and forth, but being unable to really care at the moment. This was, after all, the longest actual conversation of any kind he had with Jason that was not in the midst of an all-or-nothing, life-or-death fight. “I was here first, you know. You could have eaten anywhere.” 

“I like eatin’ up here.” Jason shot back, crumpling up the burger wrapper and stuffing it back in his bag. “Like I said, this is my spot.” 

Tim cocked his head and smirked. “You're kinda possessive, you know that? Your side of town, your spot.” 

Jason took a long suck from his milkshake and turned a sour look on Tim. “There's a lot in this city that is and should be mine that I don't get, so if you're tryin’ to make me feel bad over the few things I do claim, you're missin’ pretty badly.” 

“I'm not trying to make you feel bad, just commenting,” Tim replied with a shrug, kicking his right heel against the wall and turning to look back over the cityscape as Jason set to finishing his fries. 

Several moments of silence passed before Tim had worked up the courage. He turned and pulled one leg up to rest his foot on the rooftop, leaning back on one hand and resting the forearm of the other arm on his drawn-up knee. “So… what do you want?” 

Jason froze midchew, turning slowly to look at Tim. “What?” He mumbled around his mouthful after tucking it into his cheek so he could talk around it.  

“What do you want? I can't help but get the feeling that you're following me.” Tim reiterated, trying to keep his voice light and cool. 

Jason sniffed and finished chewing before he responded. “I have no idea what you're talkin’ about. I have not been followin’ you. You just keep turnin’ up in all the places I happen to be. Maybe you're following me .”  

“I didn't even know you were back in Gotham until I saw you at Take a Shake ,” Tim replied, knowing full well that he was treading on unstable ground but striding forward anyway. “I can't be the one following you. So you're definitely following me.”

“I am not.” Jason huffed impatiently, taking the lid off his milkshake and drinking it straight from the cup, another sign of impatience. “You're delusional.” 

“Probably,” Tim agreed, “that’s kinda an occupational hazard in our line of work.” 

Jason frowned as he gulped down some more of his milkshake and watched Tim warily. “ Our line of work? You make it sound like we have somethin’ in common.” 

“Don’t we?” Tim ventured, staying calm in spite of his heart rate spiking slightly at Jason's darkened tone. 

“No.” Jason snapped as he stood, glaring down at Tim with his hands clenched at his sides, although the intimidation factor was slightly cheapened by the stripe of strawberry milkshake above Jason's upper lip. “We have nothing in common. Nothing . Don't get it twisted, Robin , just ‘cause you-”

“I'm not Robin.” 

Jason blinked hard, Tim could tell just by his body language without having to actually see his eyes. “Wha… what?” 

“I am not Robin.” Tim repeated, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing toward the lack of ‘R’ emblem on his chest. “I go by Red Robin now. Guess you don’t watch or read much local news.”

Jason stood still, looking down at Tim, his face blank of emotion as his right hand clenched and unclenched almost robotically. “You… then who…? Wait… Talia's kid?” 

Tim nodded, not even trying to disguise the downward quirk of his mouth. “Yeah, only the problem is, he really is B's kid too. He's been here for almost a year now.”

“And Bru-B… gave it to him? He took Robin from you ?” Jason asked, his voice conveying the surprise that his face did not show. 

Tim sighed and looked out over the city, hating the twist of raw feelings that he had never been able to quite shake. “Yeah. He did.”

“But… Why? Why would he do that?” Jason asked with his palms open at his side in a questioning gesture. “He was so… He wanted… You were Robin! He insisted that you were… I don't… I don't get it.” 

“B thought it would be good for… Robin.” Tim knew that they were likely far and above anyone that might hear names, but you never can tell who might have planted some sort of listening device somewhere discreet. “He thought the kid needed the structure, the purpose, the correct outlet for all his trained, bottled up, ingrained, tiny assassin rage.” 

“But he can't just… that's not fair!” Jason snapped, both his hands clenching into fists so tight that his knuckles went white. 

Tim frowned and shook his head. “I am… so… confused right now.” It was the only thing he could think to say. He was not sure what he expected Jason's reaction to the shuffle of mantles would be, but this was not it. 

“ You're confused? I'm freaking confused!” Jason cried, not really glaring at Tim anymore but certainly not looking pleased about the topic. “Are you really tellin’ me that he took Robin from you, to give it to that other kid that got dumped here by his freaky mom because he thought it'd be good for his anger management?” 

“Thaaat's…” Tim shrugged his left shoulder slowly, letting it hover by his ear for a moment before letting it drop, “about the large and small of it, yeah.” 

Jason stared, really stared, down at Tim. His mouth was set firmly, the little muscles and tendons clenching around his jaw, but something else caught Tim's eye that was more than anger or frustration. His throat kept bobbing repeatedly… hard. Which seemed odd, until Tim realized with a drop in his stomach that it was because Jason was trying very hard not to cry . 

Before Tim could piece together a thought, much less words, to deal with this revelation, Jason turned sharply on his heel and stalked off to the other side of the building. He snatched his grappling gun from the roof, where he had apparently left his grapple attached to one of the sign supports, and without so much as a backward glance or another word to Tim promptly stepped off the building with as much care as if he were taking the last step off a flight of stairs. After a few minutes of silence, the grapple gave a little tug and flip before it too disappeared over the edge. 

Tim sat staring at the open air where he had last seen Jason with a million broken thoughts swirling through his head. 

After everything…? Was he…? Why was he so upset? What did I… did I…? Why does he care ? He didn't want me to have the mantle anyway, so why does he seem so pissed off that I don't have it now? What…? What now ?  

Finally, after what seemed like hours of unblinking staring and muddling through his mess of unanswered questions, Tim stood with a grunt, having become slightly stiff from sitting in one position on the hard surface of the rooftop for so long. He took in a deep breath, cape held in each of his hands and slightly taut to his sides, and tipped his head back until he was nearly doing a backbend before he fell backward off the building, ignoring the familiar lurch in his stomach as he began plummeting earthward headfirst. 

Tim allowed himself exactly seven seconds of free-falling with his eyes closed before pulling his grappling gun, tucking his knees to his chest to turn midair so that he was now falling feet first, and firing his grapple toward the flag pole on another building to swing across the busy street below. 

Tim remained in a state of autopilot all the way back to the cave, not even really realizing how or by what route he made it back. It should probably concern Tim how much he relied on muscle memory when he was working through a problem in his head, but he decided to file that away in ‘the least of his concerns’ file of his habits in his mind and just be grateful that it allowed him to somehow travel about without being fully engaged. 

Tim pulled his helmet off and shook out his hair from its rumpled state as he walked from the parking pad, breaking out of the mire of his mind when he looked up and to his right to see the computer illuminated and the back of Bruce's head over the back of the chair. He set his helmet on a shelf of similar headgear before trotting up the stairs and walking across the platform to stand just behind and to the side of the chair, resting his hand on the back of it as he glanced over the various tabs open on the multi-screen monitor. 

A small smirk took over Tim's features as he read website titles and search queries such as: How to Parent a Teenager. Can a preteen have mood swings? What To Do When Your Kid Is The Bully. Can diet affect mood? Getting Your Kid Through The Trials of School.   

Before Tim could say anything, Bruce's gaze flicked from the screens, his shoulders and back tensing visibly as he half rose from the chair and half jumped, his fist clenching as it pulled back in front of his chest. 

“Whoa, B! It's just me!” Tim yelped as he scuttled back a step and held his hands up in a defensive position, his eyebrows popping up in surprise at Bruce's reaction. 

Bruce instantly relaxed and dropped his hands the moment he turned fully toward Tim. “Oh, Tim. I'm sorry, kiddo.” 

Tim quirked a brow as he planted his hands on his hips, leaning forward just a bit from his waist as he narrowed his eyes slightly. “Did I scare you? Did I actually sneak up on you ?”  

Bruce frowned and crossed his arms over his chest with a characteristic ‘hn’ . “No. You did not.” 

“Really? Cause I'm pret-ty sure I did.” Tim pressed, grinning now as he mirrored Bruce's stance except he shifted his weight to his right leg which popped out his hip cockily. 

“Timothy. You did not scare me, and you did not sneak up on me.” Bruce insisted, the unmistakable quirk of a threatening smile pulling at his mouth and twitching in his right cheek.

“Oh? So you were just planning on backhanding me across the cave for fun-zies?” Tim shot back, still grinning a little wickedly and taking a great amount of glee from Bruce's rare use of his full name, which just proved further that Tim had flustered him. 

“No! Of course not!” Bruce replied quickly, huffing through his nose and sitting back in his chair to quickly minimize his parenting search tabs for no other reason than to escape Tim's smugness. “If anything, you just… startled me. You're very… I'll just say that you took very well to learning how to be sneaky. You came by it quite naturally.” 

Tim chuckled as he pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto the counter he leaned his hips against. “Sure, Bruce. I gotcha, just admit it.” 

“Hn.” Was the only admission or even response he got as Bruce did not bother to turn around. 

Tim unclasped his cape and laid it on the counter. “So? It was that bad, huh?” 

“Hm?” 

“The talk with the mini terror.” Tim elaborated as he peeled off his mask and winced as the adhesive caught one of his eyebrow hairs and plucked it neatly, then added it to the pile of his gear. “Went bad enough that you had to turn to the advice of Doctor Google, P.H.D in I-am-at-a-loss-what-now?” 

“Tim, you could at least call him by his name.” The sigh on the end of Bruce’s request spoke volumes as Tim crossed over to the control panel and leaned back against the edge of it so he could see Bruce's face, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. 

“You’re evading.” Tim accused lightly, smiling as he watched Bruce’s carefully masked face and waiting for the slip. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Yeah, you are, or you would stop clicking around at a blank screen to look busy and actually look at me instead.” Tim insisted, leaning his upper body to the side until his face was in front of the lower center screen and therefore right in front of Bruce’s. 

Bruce huffed indignantly with his brows pinched as he leaned backward a little to put a bit more space between Tim’s face and his own. “Tim, do you mind?” 

“Not usually, but you already know that,” Tim replied, staying in his side-bend position and smirking. 

Bruce stared at him with a slightly disapproving frown, holding on to a few more moments of his resolve, then sighing heavily and slumping back in his chair, his elbow resting on the arm so he could lean his temple against the palm of his hand, his fingers splaying across his face. “It went… rough. The whole thing was rough. Damian thinks that he should not have to keep up civilian appearances ‘because he is above such things’ and that he certainly should not have to go to school since he is ‘far and above the mental abilities of his so-called peers’.”  Bruce punctuated moments of his confession with air quotes whenever he repeated something that Damian had obviously said. 

He sighed and let his head fall back against the backrest of his chair. “I tried to explain that I had already placed him two grades ahead of where children his age typically are, and that there is a certain lack of attention that we actually want to draw, but he just accused me of holding him back from ‘greatness’ and his ‘purpose’, which apparently does not include any further education than he already has.” 

Tim had straightened from his bent position a while ago, and listened to Bruce’s woes with empathy, but also a tiny amount of smug appreciation that Damian did not always turn his prideful arrogance and lofty self-image on Tim alone. “Well, if one thing is for sure, the kid has a superiority complex that is far larger than his actual physical size.” 

Bruce cut his eyes from staring at the blank screen to look at Tim with a softer, knowing sort of look. “When I told him that he needed to be around kids his age and try to make friends he stated that I was being a hypocrite since you are in college well before the average person, and don’t have friends at all.” 

Tim frowned and wrinkled his nose. “I have friends.” He pouted slightly, annoyed that he had come up even in an argument that was specifically between Bruce and Damian. 

“Not normal friends.” Bruce pointed out. 

“What makes my friends not normal?” 

Bruce’s right eyebrow twitched upward as he smiled a little. “Tim, can you really, in good conscience, call Conner and Bart normal?”

Tim’s frown deepened slightly, and he let out a huff through his nose as he cut his gaze away. “They… they aren’t my only friends, Bruce… Just my best friends at the moment.” 

“Mm-hm,” Bruce responded without much agreement, still smiling as he had proudly and officially turned the tables and flustered Tim. “I did tell Damian that he could learn a lot from you if he would just give you the chance. I mean, you are only a few semesters away from your MBA, that’s impressive to say the least.” 

“It’s just a business degree,” Tim mumbled, his cheeks darkening at Bruce’s praise and the fact that he had used him as a good example in his conversation with Damian. 

“It’s a master’s degree before you even turn twenty,” Bruce corrected, turning slightly in his chair so that his knee bumped into Tim’s thigh, “that’s something to be proud of, Tim. But it’s not just that; it’s your tenacity, your ability to multitask, your critical thinking skills, even your innate talent of stealth.” Bruce shook his head with a slightly bitter smile at his last statement. “There’s a lot that Damian could learn from you, and a lot I wish he would.” 

“I see Damian learning from me being a possibility as much as I see the possibility of a lead balloon floating going over zero percent,” Tim replied with a small roll of his eyes, but he smiled again when his gaze traveled back to Bruce. “But, I appreciate that you think that I have something to offer.” 

“Of course you have something to offer, you have a lot to offer,” Bruce replied as he stood, pushing back his chair and laying a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Good first night out?” 

Tim nodded, grateful for the change in topic. “Yeah. Nice and quiet, but refreshing after being laid up.”

“Nothing significant came up for you?” Bruce asked as he took off his cape and cowl and started toward the uniform displays.

“Nothing… too significant,” Tim replied, his strange interaction with Jason rising in his mind and making him feel slightly guilty for the lie he had just told by not sharing it, making himself busy collecting his gear and following Bruce so he could ignore the discomfort.  

“Good. That’s the best kind of night to have when you’re recovering from an injury.” Bruce said as he hung his cape up in its spot, then gathered the set of clothes he had set out before walking toward the partitioned-off changed areas. 

“Mm-hm.” Tim hummed in reply as he followed close behind, struggling not to sink back into that place of deep thought and desperate problem solving that Bruce was sure to notice and try to pry into. 

Tim changed out of his suit and into his sweat pants and t-shirt, hanging up his suit and sitting on a bench by their boot rack as he waited for Bruce to reappear. 

Bruce stepped out with his suit in hand and paused, watching Tim carefully for a moment before returning his suit to its case, pressing a button on a control pad to shut the glass case and begin spraying a cloud of deodorizer and disinfectant over the uniform. “Tim, are you-?”

“Can we watch Zorro?” Tim asked suddenly, looking up from where he had been staring a hole through the metal floor in front of him. 

Bruce blinked in surprise at the question, cocking his head curiously. “Zorro?” 

“You know, the old Guy William’s Zorro. The ones we used to watch sometimes?” Tim replied, kicking his legs as he looked up at Bruce hopefully. “Just a couple of episodes?” 

Bruce continued to study Tim for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Sure. Maybe just two, since I want you to get a little sleep at least.” 

Tim grinned and popped up from his seat, running barefoot up the stairs toward the elevator platform. “I’ll get it started on the den’s TV and ask Alfred to make us some snacks.” He called over his shoulder. “Don’t be long, or I’ll start the first episode without you!” 

Bruce watched the door to the elevator slide closed, slowly shaking his head. He tried, really tried, to get inside Tim’s head and figure out what made Tim tick; but just when he thought he might be close to cracking the code, Tim changed it up again, and he had to start all over. 

In the difficult months that followed Damian’s arrival, Tim had pulled away from anywhere Damian might happen to be, which unfortunately had meant anywhere Bruce was, and Bruce had begun to fear that it might stay that way.

Lately, however, Tim seemed to be gravitating slowly back, even pulling himself back; trying to find little slivers of times when they could be alone (even just to be around Bruce if not finding something to talk about), bringing his laptop from his office at Wayne Enterprises into Bruce’s office to work, seeking out those tiny moments of touch and affection to which Tim had for so many years seemed allergic or at the very least slightly opposed and foreign. Like tonight, for example, he more than happily sat with his legs curled up onto the couch and arms hugging his middle, firmly planted at Bruce’s side with his shoulder tucked under Bruce’s armpit with his head on Bruce's chest while he contentedly watched the black and white film of the sword-wielding, Spaniard vigilante. 

Bruce wasn’t sure what was reeling his boy back in, but he wasn’t going to dare ask for fear of upsetting the delicate balance, and he definitely was not going to complain about it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Disgusting. Weak. Pathetic. Useless. Fill-in-that-has-far-overstayed-his-welcome. These were the sort of thoughts that came to Damian’s mind as he stood on the second-story hallway that overlooked one of the many living areas of the manor, leaning on the railing and glowering down at his father and Timothy Drake sitting on the couch watching some ridiculous television show. His father. Not Drake’s. Not the second-rate fill-in that his father seemed intent on keeping around for some reason beyond Damian’s comprehension.

Damian shoved off the railing and went back to his room, careful to step just so and close his door with painstaking care to avoid any sound that might alert his father to him being out of bed. Hypocrite; sending him to bed but staying up himself just to appease the whims of a person with the most unstable sleeping schedule Damian had ever seen. 

Damian climbed into his bed and sat with his legs crisscrossed, his hands resting on his knees, his back perfectly straight, his gaze fixed straight ahead glaring at the wall in front of him. 

His mother had told him that there would be unworthy rivals that he would have to dispose of, and he had found no problem with that personally since disposing of rivals was something that had to be dealt with often in The League, but he had no idea that his father would be so irritatingly attached to them. 

Greyson was another story entirely. After a period of deep consideration and watchful study, Damian had decided that he was not so much a rival, especially since Greyson operated in the sister city of Gotham under his own moniker: Nightwing. It had nothing to do with liking him, of course not. Greyson was infuriating, and overly physical in the emotional, skin-crawling way, but Greyson also seemed to be in favor of his father’s decision to take the mantle of Robin and bestow it on Damian. So he had removed Greyson from his list of rivals needing to be outright removed. 

But Drake… there was nothing redeeming about that pathetic worm of a human being. Damian could not deny that his mental abilities were at times… passable … but his lack of ability in all other fields far outweighed his critical thinking and deducing skills. Even though his Father had removed Robin from him and passed it rightfully to Damian, he still did not seem to get the picture and insisted on making a new mantle for himself that was a ridiculous, pathetic copy of the original. The disaster had a plethora of underlying health deficiencies that The Bat seemed to actually ignore or in the least purposefully overlook; Drake could not even breathe correctly at times. He was emotionally weak and vulnerable, and as far as his fighting skills went, well, if his father had just stayed out of it and not been so squeamish, Damian would have removed Drake a long time ago. 

But that was the crux of Damian’s problem with Drake: his father actually seemed to like him and want him around. He had put a complete stop to Damian’s plans of forceful usurpation under threat of sending Damian away; he had not said so outright, but Damian knew that ‘away’ meant back to his mother, and in his heart of hearts he really did not want that. 

Damian’s eyes slipped closed as he sighed heavily through his nose. No. Removing Drake by ending his pathetic life would not be the answer; however, Damian was beginning to consider Drake's other weaknesses, his tender emotions, for example. If Damian could only leverage his immunity to such things as ‘feelings’ and exploit Drake’s obvious gravitation toward them, perhaps he could find his way clear to remove Drake by way of his own volition. 

All he needed to do was gather enough intelligence to know exactly where to strike, and do so while evading blame or suspicion from his father. It might require a little emotional manipulation and some fake shows of vulnerability to do so, but so be it. It could not be that hard, Drake was easy enough to fluster off handedly with just the right jabs, so if Damian could find just the right weak spots and perhaps even somehow find a way to pull his father in as an emotional tool for leverage, perhaps, it would work. 

Me: So… I saw you-know-who again. Two nights ago.  

Bro In Blue : …

Bro In Blue: Who are we talking about?

Me: Help me out here. Who else would I not be using an actual name for???

Bro In Blue: …

Bro In Blue: …

Bro In Blue: Does it rhyme with Bed Could?

Tim sat back in his office chair and let his phone fall into his lap as he rolled his eyes and groaned heavily, but he couldn’t help but smile regardless. He picked up his phone with a shake of his head and continued his texting conversation with Dick. 

Me: I’m overlooking how bad that was and for the sake of ease, yes, yes it does.

Bro In Blue: You good? 

Bro In Blue: Do you need to talk?

Bro In Blue: Like talk-talk?

Bro In Blue: I can call. ???

Bro In Blue: Or I could take a sick day and come to Got Ham?

Bro In Blue: ...

Bro In Blue: *Gotham. Stupid Autocorrect. 

Tim rolled his eyes again and sighed as his phone blinged over and over with each rapid-fire, consecutive text, which was Dick's habit when texting, and he waited until his phone fell silent before he even attempted to type his answer. 

Me: 1. I’m fine. 2. Maybe I’ll call you after work. 3. No, you don’t need to come to Gotham. 4. I move to rename the city Got Ham.

Bro In Blue: Haha. 

Bro In Blue: What was the vibe?

Bro In Blue: Ya know, with Lead Wood.

Me: That one was even worse than Bed Could… somehow…  

Me: The vibe was… Weird. He sat next to me for like 15 min and ate a burger. 

Me: Then he got mad? When he found out I’m not the bird anymore? IKYK. 

Bro In Blue: WDYM? 

Bro In Blue: Why would he be mad about that? He didn’t WANT you to be the bird… 

Bro In Blue: that was the whole problem… ???

Me: Beats me. I told you… it was weird.  

A knock at the door that connected Tim’s office to Bruce’s made him look up from his phone. “It’s open.” 

Bruce stepped in at Tim’s invite, gathering his coat over his arm. “I’m calling it for the day, Tim,” He informed as he looked up from zipping his briefcase closed, “I have to pick Damian up from school and I don’t have anything I need to do here that I can’t do tomorrow, so I think I’ll just stay home for the rest of the afternoon.” 

“Sure, B,” Tim replied, looking back to his phone and reading the text Dick had sent. “I’ll probably stay for another hour or so. I have a meeting over the phone with a stockholder in half an hour, so I can’t leave until that’s done for sure.” 

Bruce smiled and leaned his hip against Tim’s desk as he watched him text. “Am I interrupting something?” 

It took Tim a moment to register what Bruce had said as he was typing his response, looking up with a brow raised. “Huh?” 

“I asked if I was interrupting something,” Bruce repeated with a small huff of amusement, “but I think that answered my question.” 

“No, sorry, you’re not,” Tim assured, stuffing his phone into his pocket with a shrug. “It’s just Dick, I can answer him later.” 

Bruce nodded with an upward quirk of his eyebrow. “I’m glad to hear you two are staying in touch. I know you have had some… disagreements… at times.” 

Tim shrugged and kicked the side of his desk so that he spun to face Bruce. “That was a while ago; we always patch things up.” He chewed his bottom lip and glanced down at the most recent message that popped up on his digital watch, then looked up at Bruce with a small smile. “Regardless of any past issues, Dick is the best person I know.” 

Bruce clicked his tongue and raised a brow. “High praise.” His voice was slightly tense, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Tim did. 

Tim’s eyes widened as he sat up in his chair quickly and held up his hands. “ One of the best, Bruce, Dick is one of the best people I know. I didn't mean-”

Bruce chuckled and reached out to ruffle Tim's hair, paying little mind to the fact that he disrupted the gel that had just barely been holding together Tim's more professional-looking style. “Relax kiddo, I knew what you meant. Funny to see you sweat though.” 

Tim glared up at Bruce as his hair fell down on his forehead as he withdrew his hand, though the expression held no heat. “You're annoying.” 

“I know, but I can send that one right back to you, and you know it,” Bruce smirked, though the expression was short-lived as his watch lit up and vibrated. He lifted his wrist and read the message with a small frown. 

“Trouble?” Tim asked as he tilted his head curiously as he watched Bruce's face. 

“No, not really.” Bruce sighed, straightening from the desk and shaking his head. “Just Damian reminding me to not be late or otherwise forget about him.” 

Tim rolled his eyes and slumped back in his chair, picking up his ink pen and clicking it against the desk, letting it launch up an inch before catching it and doing it again. “Please, you've never forgotten him.” 

“He’s convinced that I did once, not because I completely forgot, but because I forgot to tell him I would be late,” Bruce admitted, setting his briefcase on Tim's desk and pulling on his coat. 

Tim huffed and shook his head as he continued playing with his pen. “That kid doesn't know the first thing about being forgotten.” The statement had come out a little darker and a little deeper than he had meant it to and was it far too laced with bitterness to not be noticed by a casual passerby, much less Bruce-I-Am-Batman-Wayne.

Bruce froze with one arm in his coat, staring at Tim with that blank I'm-analyzing-your-every-blink expression. 

Tim turned suddenly and clicked the space bar on his keyboard to wake up his computer, clicking open a spreadsheet and trying to make a convincing show of studying the numbers within the cells. “Shouldn't you be heading out? I wouldn't want you getting a lecture from your mini-me.” He hoped it was an annoying enough statement that Bruce would get huffy and leave. But then again, when had he ever been that lucky?

“Tim?” Bruce's voice held that sort of prying, seeking the sort of tone that he used when he was not going to let a subject drop, his hand laying on the back of Tim's chair as he pulled out the vowel in Tim's name. 

“Hm?” Tim hummed, trying harder to look invested and like he was trying to concentrate.

“Tim,” Bruce repeated, a little shorter this time as he turned Tim's chair away from the computer so that Tim was looking up at him, looking as though he were trying to shrink into the chair completely. “Do we need to talk?” 

Tim huffed and dropped his gaze from Bruce's, picking at a loose thread on a button of his dress shirt. “No, you need to go get your kid and I need to finish my projects for the day.” 

Bruce lowered his hand from the backrest of Tim's office chair and brought it to rest against Tim's cheek. “I should have done something sooner.” 

The words were almost a whisper, and the gentleness of them made Tim look up in surprise to find Bruce looking down at him with his face both softened with remorse and hardened by regret. 

“I knew that you were not getting the care and attention that you needed, or deserved, but I was too caught up in my own issues to see my way to doing anything about it,” Bruce added, his thumb rubbing against Tim's cheekbone. 

Tim tried not to gulp against the knot that settled in his throat, laying his hand against Bruce's and forcing a small smile. “You did what you could when you could, B. Let's be honest, the issues you were dealing with were pretty… all consuming… to say the least. The last thing on your mind was your neighbor's kid’s problems.” 

Bruce opened his mouth to say more, but his jaw clamped down, swallowing hard as Tim’s desk phone started ringing. 

Tim rolled back and peeked at the caller ID, then smiled apologetically over his shoulder at Bruce. “I've gotta take this B, it's my stockholder meeting.” 

Bruce nodded, taking an unwillingly step back from Tim's desk, his eyes still studying Tim's face carefully. 

“You gotta go get Damian anyway,” Tim insisted, picking up the receiver and immediately pressing the hold button, “we can talk later.” Tim smiled, knowing that it was his too-practiced smile and Bruce would see right through it, but feeling unable to conjure up much else. “You don't want to be late picking up His Majesty anyways.” He winked and grinned as he unclicked the hold button before putting the phone to his ear. “You've reached Tim Wayne. Good afternoon! How are you, Mr. Walz?” Tim waved Bruce on as he traded formalities in his oh-so-practiced-and-cheerful-phone=voice and turned to his meeting notes. 

Bruce stood by the door for another minute, barely listening to what Tim was saying, but watching him closely before he finally stepped out of his office and closed the door quietly behind him.

It was no secret that Tim had… well… abandonment issues, to say the least, but he hardly ever brought them up. In fact, it was the one topic that he seemed to try to avoid like the plague. Bruce was convinced that somewhere deep down, Tim still denied the fact that Jack and Janet Drake had made the World’s Worst Parent List for a full fifteen years in a row, and tried to cling to the false perceptions and crafted memories of a “happy little family” that the Drakes had tried so hard to project. 

They would be talking later alright, even if Bruce had to tie the kid down and revoke all caffeine rights until the conversation happened. 

Bruce was not late, he was not . He was right on time for pickup, actually. Damian just happened to always be the first kid waiting on the steps of the school, which did increase his wait time for Bruce, but only artificially. Bruce was going to stand by that fact at all costs. 

Damian hefted his backpack up off the step he was standing on and slung it over his shoulder, stalking, rather than stomping, down the sidewalk where Bruce was parked. 

He didn’t look angry, Bruce noted that right away with a little relief, but there was something else about his youngest son that seemed… off. 

“Hello Damian,” Bruce greeted as Damian tugged open the door and tossed his backpack into the back seat, “I hope you didn’t have to wait on me too long.”

Damian shrugged as he slid into the seat and pulled the door shut behind him. “It was an acceptable time to wait since you were driving across town.” He paused a moment before he added. “Hello to you too, Father.” 

Bruce watched Damian for a moment, feeling as though the air inside his car had just become thicker and thereby much more difficult to breathe. 

Damian sat slightly slumped in his seat, which was strange enough on by itself since Damian never slumped when in public or when in his school uniform, his arms were crossed loosely over his chest and he stared straight forward with his eyelids at only half-mast.

Bruce tilted his head as he watched him and hummed thoughtfully. “Damian? Are you feeling alright?” 

“Of course,” Damian huffed, his eyes cutting over toward Bruce in a slow, lazy sort of way, “I am wondering why we are still sitting here, but other than that I am fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Bruce pressed, reaching out and holding the back of his hand against Damian's forehead. “You don't look like you're feeling ‘fine’ at all, you look a little peakish.”

Damian smirked and pushed Bruce's hand away before waving him on. “Peakish? How very British of you, Father; Pennyworth must be rubbing off on you again. I assure you, I am alright, can we please start toward home?” 

Bruce watched Damian a moment more, then put the car into drive and pulled away from the school. In spite of Damian's insistence, Bruce did not feel that Damian was alright in the least. He only responded to Bruce's questioning about his day when he absolutely had to, hummed when he didn't, and barely rolled his eyes when Bruce asked him to put on his seatbelt. It was when Damian barely hid a yawn behind his hand that Bruce tried again. 

“Are you sure you're feeling okay, Son?” Bruce asked after a few miles of silent driving. “You seem out of sorts, and you really don't seem to be feeling the best. It's alright if you're not feeling well, I'd just like to know.” 

Damian pressed his lips together tightly then sighed as he looked down at his lap sullenly. “I am… perhaps… feeling a little under the weather.” 

“What are your symptoms?” Bruce pressed, eager now that Damian had begun to crack a little. “Sore throat? GI problems? Headache?” 

“No, nothing like that, although perhaps I do have a bit of a headache,” Damian admitted. “It is nothing for you to be concerned with Father, if I can just actually sleep a little tonight before and after patrol I should be fine.” 

Bruce frowned, glancing from the road to Damian. “ Actually sleep? Have you been having trouble sleeping?” 

“I… I do not want you concerning yourself, I will be perfectly fine to find an answer myself.” Damian insisted, turning to look out his window so that Bruce could no longer see his face. 

“Damian,” Bruce sighed as he shook his head, “you don't have to take on everything on your own; we've been over this. I might be able to help if you tell me what's troubling you.” 

Thick silence filled the car for several long moments that made Bruce want to start making demands that Damian speak to him, but he was beginning to learn that doing so was a surefire way to shut Damian down completely. So he waited; as painful as it was, Bruce waited. 

“I have not been… sleeping well… the past few weeks.” Damian's voice was low, almost a whisper, as he continued staring out the window at the passing scenery. “Whenever I try to, my sleep is always… interrupted.”

Bruce gripped the wheel as he listened, only daring to speak when he was sure he would not cut into his son's explanation. “Damian, have you been having nightmares?”

Damian glanced from the window, his cheeks darkening a little before he quickly looked away. “Perhaps.” 

“Can you tell me what you think they may be stemming from?” Bruce ventured carefully, feeling rather victorious that he had gotten this far, but keeping it from his voice and trying to sound gently concerned instead. 

Damian finally looked fully from his window, his eyes glancing from his tightly folded hands to Bruce's face. “I am not certain.”

Bruce nodded, considering for a moment to reach over and pat Damian's leg or reach for his hand, but thought better of it since this was Damian he was talking to and Damian historically did not respond very well to physical comfort or affection. “Well, what can we do to address this problem so you can start getting some better sleep? Would it help if I spent some time winding down with you before you try to sleep so you can talk through your day and work out any pent-up feelings?” 

“Maybe, I could see that being possibly beneficial. I will admit that I have felt a little… unsettled… about falling asleep because I do not want to give my mind the chance to conjure something up.” Damian replied warily, sighing and looking back out his window. “I wish I could be…” 

“Yes?” Bruce pressed, taking the chance to look at Damian fully as he stopped at a red light. “What is it?” 

Damian's shoulder lifted and dropped in an almost hopeless sort of expression. “I wish I were closer to you in the manor. It would at least feel a little better to know you were near if I did wake up from a troubled night.” 

Bruce quietly considered what Damian had said for a moment before turning back toward the road as he pulled away when the light changed. “We might be able to do something about that.” He replied thoughtfully. 

No one could argue that Bruce was the greatest detective and crime fighter that Gotham, and perhaps the world, had ever known, and these skills could play a useful hand in parenting his misfit band of boys. The only trouble was that he himself had trained those boys to use the skills he had so carefully gathered and cultivated through the years, and there were times when they managed to use that training against him. 

Even as astute and observant as Bruce was, even with all his training, he did not see the evil, smug, sly grin of malicious victory that slipped across Damian's face in the reflection of the window.

 “Gosh flipping dang it, Jason,” Tim muttered as he gripped the wheel of his car until his knuckles went white and frowned at the road ahead of him. 

There were many problems with Jason Todd being back in Gotham, but one of the ones that was annoying Tim to no end at the moment was the fact that everywhere he looked now, Jason was there. A man in a leather jacket walking out of a coffee shop, a cigarette-smoking guy in an alley, and just now some punk on a motorcycle zipping around him on the highway. 

Tim drummed his fingers against the wheel, his temple resting against his knuckles as he began to slip into his thoughts as he left Wayne Enterprises. 

Things were stacking up in Tim's head, like a precarious Jenga tower just waiting to topple; Jason being back, Tim trying very hard not to let that fact slip when he was around Bruce, Damian seeming to re-up his efforts at being a pain, Bruce trying to get Tim to talk to him about uncomfortable topics, Tim wanting for some strange reason to find every chance possible to be around Jason to further unravel that ball of string, and yet not wanting anything to do with it at all. 

Rationally, Tim knew he should be furiously angry with Jason, and maybe even cripplingly afraid of him at the very least, but his curiosity about Jason was annoyingly overriding those feelings right now. Now that's not to say that he wasn't angry and wasn't afraid of him; he was, deeply in fact when he really thought about it, he was just storing that neatly away in the I-don’t-have-time-or-energy-to-feel-this-right-now box that he had tucked away in the back of his mind to deal with later.

Tim had found Bruce's extensive study file on side effects of the Lazarus Pit just shortly after Jason had returned, and had recently revisited it when Bruce was not looking. Jason fit almost every single one of them. Pit Madness it was called: confusion, uncontrollable anger, violent outbursts, disorientation, a sort of invincibility toward pain and wounds, heightened strength, speed, and stamina, and bright green eyes that nearly glowed with intensity. And those were side effects in people who were only mostly dead, meaning they were still slightly alive . Jason had most definitely been all dead. So who knows how much worse the side effects were for someone in his situation? 

Surely, it wouldn't be fair for Tim to hold Jason completely accountable for his actions post-creepy-bath when those were the known side effects… right? Riiiight ? Yeah… right. 

Tim shuddered to shake off the prickly feeling on the back of his neck, and suddenly really did not want to be home. Home meant Damian. Damian al Ghul-Wayne. Damian-grandson-of-the-reason-Tim-was-in-this-predicament-in-the-first-place-al Ghul. 

“Text Bruce Wayne,” Tim spoke out in the silence of the car as he flicked on his right blinker and took an exit last minute. 

Of course, what is the message? The quippy response came from his phone that was set up in the phone holder on his dash.

“Hey B, I'm going to crash at Dick's. Nothing's wrong, I just want to hang out.” Tim paused and thought a moment before adding: “Don't wait on me for our night job. I'll see you at the office tomorrow. Send.” 

Message sent to Bruce Wayne. 

Tim smirked to himself as he took another exit under a large green sign that said: Downtown Bludhaven. I hope he's not having friends over…

“ Dude ! Come on ! They smoked us!” Dick groaned as he flopped back on his couch with his arms thrown wide, a gaming controller held loosely in his right hand. 

“ If we had only followed my perfectly thought-out plan, maybe that wouldn't have happened!” 

Dick glowered up at the ceiling and huffed heavily as he replied into his gaming headphone’s mic. “ Your plan was anything but thought out , Walls. It's only because of my leadership and quick thinking that got us inside the warehouse in the first place!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Well, queue up then, o’captain, my captain. Let's go again and see what we can do to avoid being obliterated… likely by a couple of teenagers.”

“Alright, let me get things going here…” Dick replied as he sat up and started clicking through the game options to start a new round. “Okay Wally, let's get in and get this-” 

Dick reached up and pulled the headphones off his right ear, staring at the door with a raised eyebrow as he was sure he had heard a knock. 

“Dickie? Hey, let's get going! Press the start button!” 

“Hang on Walls, I thought I heard-” Dick's explanation was cut off as a knock for sure sounded now. “Someone's at my door.” 

“Who would be at your door in the middle of the week? You need me to run over there?”

“No Wally, hang tight…” Dick replied as he stood, crossing over to his door and listening carefully, reaching for an Escrima stick that he had set by the door and tucking it behind his back just in case. He took a deep breath and unlocked his door, then pulled it open with a face ready to greet his landlady and a mindset ready for anything else. He was not ready for the sheepish smile that he was met with instead. 

“Hey Dick,” Tim greeted, his hands shoved as deep into his pockets as the shallow pockets of his dress slacks would allow and his shoulders caved inward slightly, “ya busy?” 

“Tim? What in the- why are you… Are you okay?” Dick asked, his surprise melting off and his big brother instincts clicking firmly into place as he reached out and gently grasped Tim’s shoulders. “What's going on? Did something happen? What are you doing in Bludhaven?”

“Whoa, whoa, Dick!” Tim laughed as he reached up and grasped Dick's forearms. “Slow down, I'm fine! Really, I’m okay.” 

Dick blinked blankly at Tim for a moment, his brow pinched up as he searched for signs of harm or damage. “Then why are you-? Nevermind. Here, come on in.” Dick invited, taking Tim's hand and pulling him into his apartment. 

Tim allowed himself to be led inside off the second-story walkway outside the apartments, reaching with his free hand to shut the door behind him. “I hope I'm not bothering you, or interrupting anything.” He asked with a smile as he glanced at the loading screen of Call of Duty on the TV screen. 

“What? No, no, you're not. And you're never a bother , Timmy.” Dick insisted, picking up the remote and turning off the TV before reaching up and lowering the mic of his headset in front of his mouth. “Hey Walls, I gotta go. No, everything's good, I just gotta initiate the Baby Bird Protocol. We'll catch that rematch later.” 

Tim planted his hands on his hips and glared at his taller brother. “The Baby Bird Protocol ? Are you seriously telling me that you have a code for whenever I come over?” 

“No! Well, not… exactly…” Dick hemmed around the question with a slow shrug, “I mean, technically, you aren't the only baby bird that falls under the protocol. But that's not important right now, tell me what's going on.” He insisted as he reached out for Tim's hand and pulled him down alongside him onto the couch before Tim could protest further. 

Tim shrugged and pointed at Dick's headset as he pulled it off and set it on the cluttered coffee table. “I didn't mean to end your game. Are sure Wally won't mind?” 

“Of course not,” Dick replied with a wave of his hand, “it's just a game. We can pick it up anytime, and that falls pretty low on my priority list when it comes to the game or my little brother showing up on my doorstep.” He grinned as he reached out and ruffled Tim's hair, effectively loosening it from the final hold that the gel from that morning had on it. “Besides, Wally knows well the parameters of the Baby Bird Protocol.” 

Tim stuck his tongue out at the frankly embarrassing code Dick had apparently set amongst his friend group for whenever his brothers needed him but smiled afterward since it was really sort of nice to know that he had thought of such a thing at all. 

“So?” Dick asked, curling one leg up on the couch and leaning against the backrest with his cheek resting against his palm so that he was fully facing Tim. “What's going on with you? What brings you to Bludhaven in your W.E. get up?” 

“Does there have to be something going on?” Tim asked with a shrug. “I can't just want to hang out with you? I haven't seen you since I busted my ankle.” 

“As much as I would just love to believe that your want to hang out with your big bro is the only thing that would bring you to my apartment on a weekday directly after work at W.E., I find that extremely unlikely,” Dick replied with a smirk. “So why don't we cut the run around, since I would like to think we are way beyond that, and you just tell me what's going on and who I need to kick into next week.” 

Tim held his composure for exactly two heartbeats before he allowed that composure to crumble away, sighing hard as he slumped back against the cushions of Dick's slightly greasy, second-hand couch, not caring that he was wrinkling his suit and likely getting remnants of Cheeto dust on his pants. “I just… I needed somewhere to go that was not the manor, and not the cave, and not a rooftop somewhere. I need to talk to somebody who might actually understand. I need to skip out on patrol. I need junk food.” 

Dick laughed and shook his head as he scooted closer to Tim so he could reach out and ruffle his hair again, his hand sliding down Tim's cheek to come to rest at the base of his neck and shoulder and giving the muscle there a squeeze. “Well, I'm glad to know that I was the first place you thought of that covered all of those bases.” He stood and patted Tim on the shoulder. “I'll tell you what, why don't you go change into something more comfortable that you can chill in, and I'll heat up some Hotpockets.” He pulled a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie from a laundry basket and tossed them to Tim, smirking as Tim raised the clothes to his nose to take a quick whiff of them. “Hey, they're clean , I just haven't folded them yet.” 

Tim smiled and started toward Dick's bathroom. “Do you have the breakfast Hotpockets? The sausage and egg ones with the croissant crust? If you don't, my second favorite is ham and cheese.”

Dick faked a very shocked gasp with a hand on each of his cheeks. “Are you suggesting that I don't keep breakfast Hotpockets, arguably the best Hotpockets to ever exist, stocked in my freezer of glorious pre-processed goodness?” 

Tim grinned as he stepped into the bathroom and rested his hand against the door. “Me? Never! I could never have so little faith in your junk food buying skills.” Even though he closed the door, Dick could hear him chuckle lightly. 

Dick's smile wilted the moment the door closed, his face setting in a light frown as he started opening the packages of the Hotpockets and dumped them out on a paper plate. 

Of course Dick was happy to see Tim. Of course he was thrilled that Tim felt confident and comfortable enough to come to his apartment when he needed somewhere to go. Did he also know that it probably meant that things were not copesthetic at the manor? Yes, yes he did, and that was the part that not only made him unhappy, he was down right concerned about it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Tim pulled his feet up onto the couch and settled back onto the pillow that Dick had thrown at him with an apology for the hard couch arms. He was dressed in Dick's baggy, frumpy, red, Mario Cart hoodie and far too long sweatpants that covered his feet when he walked, feeling much more comfortable now that he was no longer in his suit and was certain that Dick was not upset or annoyed by his random drop by visit.  

“Okay, Timmy, beverage choices: I have milk, orange juice, Pepsi, Fanta, or Sprite,” Dick called over his shoulder as he investigated his fridge. 

Tim slung an arm over the back of the couch so he could look over his shoulder at Dick. “Does the orange juice have pulp?” 

“Yeah.” 

Tim wrinkled his nose. “I'll have a Sprite then.” 

“Pulp is good for you!” Dick insisted, but he grabbed the can of soda that Tim asked for and carried it over to him with a smile. “It has dietary fiber to go along with the vitamin C that nonpulp orange juice contains.” 

“Dietary fiber and nastiness,” Tim added, his face still scrunched in disgust. “I like my liquids to be liquid, not a gross, weird state in between.” 

“Yet half your diet is made up of protein shakes.” Dick pointed out with a shudder. “Chalky, thick, barely sweet, disgusting sludge.” 

“Not if you make them right.” Tim defended with a smirk as Dick brought over two plates with two steaming Hotpockets a piece on them and placed them on the coffee table in front of the couch. 

“Don’t eat those,” Dick warned as he sat next to Tim with his legs criss-crossed beneath him, “they’re not food yet, they’re molten lava wrapped in deceptively cool crust. Give ‘em a bit to cool down.” 

Tim chuckled and shook his head. “If you had actually followed the heating instructions, they might be somewhat edible right now.” 

Dick waved his hand dismissively as he took a long drink from his orange juice. “Those are suggestions, they have to put that on there. I prefer to,” He winked and clicked his tongue as he pointed a finger gun at Tim, “ wing it.” 

Tim groaned and let himself fall backwards against the pillow that was propped up against the couch arm. “Diiiick, pleeeease… ” 

Dick laughed and shook his head at Tim's reaction to his very bad pun, then reached out and squeezed one of Tim's knees. “Okay, Mister Can-and-will-tiptoe-himself-out-of-any-conversation, come clean with me; why did you not want to be at the manor today?” 

Tim sighed and lifted his head, but scrunched further back into the couch as he pulled his knees to his chest and pulled his hoodie down around them so he was almost completely cocooned inside. “It's kinda a bigger question than just that to unpack.”

“I’ve got all day, Tim; this is my day off unless I get called in, and I'm not planning on patrol tonight as long as you're here and needing to talk.” Dick encouraged, resting his elbow on the back cushion so he could lean his cheek against his palm in a manner of complete ease and readiness for whatever Tim might say. “So fire away.” 

Tim nodded slowly, staring at the dip in Dick's neck where his collar bone and throat joined rather than meeting his intensely searching gaze. Stupid Bat-stare: it seemed to have rubbed off on Dick through his years of living under it. “Can I start by telling you about the last time I saw Jason?” 

“Sure, if that's what you need,” Dick replied with a nonchalant shrug and a smile, but Tim saw the slight twitch of discomfort in the corner of Dick's right eye. 

Regardless of the pit of uncertainty in his stomach as he considered how Dick might feel about the subject, Tim took a deep breath and started forward anyway. “It was my first night out after Bruce benched me for my ankle, and I was hanging out on the top of the W.E. building. I was talking with Bruce, so I guess I was distracted, but I swear, as bulked up as the guy has become, I didn't hear him at all.” 

Dick swallowed hard, looking as if he very much wanted to interrupt and interject, but he just shifted a little uncomfortably and nodded to encourage Tim to continue. 

“He came up behind me and, well, he kinda,” Tim shrugged one shoulder and tried to smile in an effort to lessen the blow of the statement to come, “shoved me off the roof?” 

Dick’s eyes widened almost comically and his mouth opened slightly with a protest that he could not put to words, so instead he made an indignant sort of squeaked scoff. 

“I’m fine, obviously, and I had my grapple so it wouldn’t have been a big deal regardless,” Tim insisted before Dick could have time to completely freak out, “but I was able to swing back up. But he was just so… chill… I guess? Like he was almost a creepy kinda chill, like he was… I dunno… kinda...” 

“Kinda like didn’t-just-try-to-make-street-pizza-out-of-somebody-for-no-reason kinda chill?” Dick finally cut in, his voice almost breaking with indignant anger, his brows pinched tight as he stared at Tim in a mix of shock and horror. 

“He said I was sitting in his spot.” Tim supplied, as if that helped any with Dick’s horror over Tim being shoved off the top of the tallest skyscraper in Gotham. “And I-”

“Well, whoopdie!” Dick huffed, throwing his hands in the air with a fake grin. “That makes it all better, doesn’t it? Yeah, you’re right, you totally deserved to be kicked off a building because you were sitting in somebody’s so-called claimed spot!” Dick slumped back against the arm of the couch and shook his head in disbelief. “Tim, for crying out loud! Why didn’t you tell somebody? Why didn’t you-” 

“I told you I am trying to let him lie low! Remember ?” Tim cut in, letting his hoodie pop off his knees as he dropped them into a criss-crossed position that matched Dick’s so he could lean forward a little. “Now are you gonna let me finish or are you gonna keep interrupting me?” 

Dick clamped his jaw shut with a click of his teeth, staring at Tim in disbelief for a heartbeat before sighing and nodding with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, sorry, you’re right. I just freaked out a little at the idea that someone shoved you off W.E. of all places.” 

“Like that isn’t part of the job description already? We get shoved off rooftops all the time.” Tim pointed out with a smirk as he sat back as well. 

“That’s… different. Don’t ask me how it’s different, it just is.” Dick huffed. “Go on, what happened after that? I’ll keep the protests down to a dull roar.” 

Tim shrugged and pulled his knees to his chest. “Like I told you on text, he ate a burger. I thought about leaving, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to. I don’t know how we got on it, but he called me Robin, and I told him I wasn’t Robin anymore. That’s when things got weird.” 

“Pfft,” Dick rolled his eyes as he scoffed, “that’s when it got weird? It’s reeeally bugging me that you are way too okay with the whole pushing you off a building part, Timmy. Frickin’ jerk.” He muttered as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. 

Tim straightened one of his legs and nudged Dick’s shin with his foot. “Would you please focus?! He could have shot me, Dick! So yeah, the fact that he gave me a shove off the building when he and I both knew that I would have been fine, is not the big deal! The bigger deal is the fact that he didn’t shoot me, that he decided to stay around me instead of leaving, and that he was mad, for some reason, that I wasn’t Robin, those are the bigger deals!” 

Dick glared at the couch cushion between them for a moment then looked up at Tim with a raised brow. “What exactly did he say?” 

“He didn’t seem to know what to say,” Tim replied with a sigh, “he seemed really upset about it, but not quite angry? More… put out? Frustrated? Maybe even a little… a little bit sad… maybe…” Tim shook his head and pulled the sleeve of his hoodie down over his hands and then tucked his hands into his armpits. “I don’t know Dick, it was odd. I just don’t know how to read him like I do most people, so everything about him right now seems odd. It’s like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself… or me, for that matter.” 

“I personally don’t like that he keeps showing up around you,” Dick stated firmly, reaching for one of his hotpockets and taking a far too large bite out of it, sucking and blowing in and out in an effort to cool off the mouthful but continuing on as though it hadn’t happened. “What if he’s plannin’ somethin’?” He mumbled his bite.

Tim shook his head and took one of his own Hot Pockets, biting off the very tip of the corner and blowing into it. “Like I said Dick, if he had wanted to hurt me, he could have and would have already. I think he’s trying to come out from under Pit Madness.” 

Dick frowned and pressed his lips tightly together as he swallowed the last of his hotpocket. “You mean the side effects from the Lazarus Pit?” 

“We don’t know all that it could have done to him. Heck, he might not…” Tim paused as he took another bite, unsure of what he was about to say and not really liking the meaning of it if it were true. “He might not even completely remember what he did.” He replied finally after swallowing.

“I don’t like going down that route,” Dick replied with a scrunch of his nose, “that lets him off waaay too easily.” 

“But it could be true though, Dick, there's no way for us to know what side effects that whole ordeal had on him,” Tim insisted as he brushed crumbs from his hands, “which is why I want to give him the benefit of the doubt until I know more, especially since he seems to be… trying… in some way or another.”

Dick studied Tim carefully, his head tilting and eyes narrowing a little as if it helped him see better somehow. “Tim, are you not… scared of him? Even just a little?” 

Tim opened his mouth to reply, but no words left his tongue as he considered the question fully for the first time. He sighed slowly through his nose as he closed his mouth, his brows pinching together a little as his hand absentmindedly traveled to his neck, his fingers brushing over the puckered skin of a long scar just under his chin. 

“Yeah. I am.” Tim whispered after a long, silent moment filled only by the sound of the refrigerator running in the kitchen. “I've… I've had to deal with it… a lot… since he turned back up in Gotham. That was part of why I wanted to be able to come here and actually talk about it, because you are the only other one that I've told; I felt like if I kept it inside any longer, I might actually explode.” He drew in a shuddering breath as he shook his head. “I am scared of him, Dick, more than I want to admit. After the first time I saw him, I started having nightmares about the last time I saw him.”

Dick frowned with a grunt of empathy and shifted over closer to Tim so he could draw an arm around his shoulders to pull Tim into his side, resting his cheek against the top of Tim's head and rubbing his hand up and down Tim's bicep. 

Tim tucked his shoulder under Dick's armpit and laid his head against Dick's chest, sighing as a shudder passed over him as he settled into Dick's offered embrace, allowing himself to give into the comfort of Dick's heartbeat under his ear, the weight of his arm around his shoulders, and the warmth of his body heat seeping through his borrowed hoodie and sweats. 

“I think he's scared too,” Tim said quietly after a long time of thick but soothing silence. “I think that's why he keeps showing up. He's looking for something, I just don't know what that something is yet.”    

Dick shook his head as he sighed, squeezing Tim closer. “I wish I had your faith in people, Timmy, ‘cause all I can think is what he might want, or what he might do, or what he could be planning.” 

“I don't have faith in people Dick, I never really have; but I do have an unfailing amount of need for answers,” Tim replied with a huff of mirthless amusement, his brows furrowing as he thought for a moment. “Maybe that's wrong though, cause I have faith in you, and Bruce… mostly.” 

Dick winced and gulped hard. “I really hate that you have to qualify that statement with a ‘mostly’, and I hate the fact that I completely get that it's our own fault.” 

Tim gently nudged his head up under Dick's chin with a small smile. “But the fact remains that I still do, even though you've messed up a few times, I still trust you guys more than anyone else in the world.” 

Another long moment of silence passed before Dick cleared his throat. “Why don't you tell Bruce about Jason? Are things rough between you right now in a way that you think he might not react all that great? Does Bruce have you scared?” 

“No, I'm not scared of Bruce,” Tim replied, a little too quickly maybe, “but name one time that a mention of Jason has gone particularly well where Bruce is concerned. I just… things aren't… great all the time, but they aren't bad all the time either.”

“Between you and Bruce?”

Tim nodded, gently, so he didn't make Dick's teeth click together. “I don't wanna… mess it up. You know?” 

“Yeah,” Dick sighed, “I know.” 

“So I'd rather keep this whole thing on the down low until I know more. Until something changes… or happens.” Tim pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he yawned. It was a good, satisfying yawn, it made his jaw pop. “I just don't wanna be the one to tip the scale, upset the balance… mess up.”

“But don't you think that waiting until something happens is waiting until it’s too late?” Dick pressed gently. “I really don't want you getting hurt, Tim, so I would rather we all be on the alert before something happens .”

Tim scooched down the couch so he could lay his head in Dick's lap and curl his legs up with his feet pressed against the arm of the couch. “I'm not gonna get hurt. I can take care of myself… mostly.” 

Dick chuckled and ran his fingers through Tim's hair as he leaned forward a little to look down into his face. “There's that ‘mostly’ qualifier again.” He shook his head as he continued running his fingers through Tim's hair from his hairline to his neck. “I trust your judgement on this one, Timmy, but that won't stop me from worrying; it's kinda my job as your big brother after all.” 

Tim huffed, letting his eyes close as snuggled closer to Dick with a content sigh. “I wouldn't wanna take that away from you, but I promise I haven't forgotten the risk. I won't let things get out of hand, Dick; I'll reach out long before then.” 

“I'll hold you to that.” Dick sighed heavily and absentmindedly started lightly scratching the nape of Tim's neck. “I just don't want this blowing up in our faces, and considering Jason's past, I might mean that literally.” 

Tim held back a shiver that snaked down his spine from where Dick was scratching his neck, his throat tightening as his finger once more brushed over the scar on his neck. “Trust me, I know.” 

Dick seemed lost in thought for a moment as silence fell once more, his fingers taking turns rubbing the nape of Tim's neck then carding through his hair.

“You're staying the night, right?” 

Tim had not realized he had closed his eyes until they popped open at Dick's sudden question. He blinked several times to clear the sticky feeling behind his lids as he looked up dazedly at Dick. “Huh?”

Dick chuckled and shook his head as he smiled down at Tim. “I was asking if you are staying the night, but that kinda answers my question.” 

Tim smiled drowsily before settling down again with a sigh. “Do ya mind?” 

“Of course not,” Dick assured as he smoothed Tim's hair back out of his face, “I just wanted to be sure that I knew the plan. Do you wanna go to bed?”

“I'm kinda happy righ’ here actually, if you don’ mind.” Tim mumbled as he felt his heart rate begin to drop comfortably.

Dick smiled as he watched Tim's eyes drift closed without any effort to keep them open. “You know I don't, I'm pretty happy at the moment myself. I've been telling you for years that naps are good for you, you really think I'm gonna frown on this one?”

 “Can we talk more when I wake up?” Tim asked, his voice growing more drowsy as his head became slightly heavier against Dick's leg. 

“You betcha,” Dick promised, dropping his tone as he watched Tim start to drop off before his eyes, and feeling a swell of pride that his little brother was comfortable enough to do so, and also a twist of worry that the younger boy seemed so terribly exhausted and worn thin. 

“You c’n play with Wally if ya want,” Tim offered around a yawn, “ya won't bother me.”

Dick didn't answer, he just smiled as he petted Tim's hair rhythmically, wondering just what exactly was in the kid's genes that made it so thick, because it surely wasn't his diet. 

The longer Dick stared at Tim's quickly relaxing features, the harder the twist of guilt knotted in his gut. He was so glad that Tim felt that he could come to him when he needed comfort and a confidant that he could almost break down and weep, and the fact that they had made it to this point in their relationship was really a miracle considering how it had started…

The knocking was beginning to drive a nail of frustration through Dick's temples, and even though he thought the person at his door would get bored with their sore attempt at being a drummer and go away, they only seemed to become more insistent. 

Dick groaned and rolled over in bed, dragging his pillow with him and plastering it to his face, and even that did not seem to dull the aggravating thumping.  His night had been rough… really rough; his ribs were throbbing from the spreading bruise from getting whacked with a piece of pipe, his right knee was wrapped in a now warm icepack from a kick to the side of it, and his left bicep was bandaged tightly from a knife cut that truly needed stitches. All he wanted was to sleep for a few hours and escape the discomfort for a little while, yet here he was having to listen to the little-drummer-boy-that-could rapping away on his door. 

“FINE!” Dick cried out, throwing his pillow against his wall and rolling out of bed, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared over far too much of his being as he limped toward the door. “I'm COMING! Don't break down the flipping door!”

Dick unlocked the chain lock, the deadbolt, and typed in his code to his security system, then yanked open the door. “What?” Dick demanded, face scrunched with frustrated fury as he faced… nobody?

A nervous cough made Dick look downward toward the source of the sound, his brows springing up in surprise as he found himself looking down at a kid; dressed in a maroon sweater with a white collar, grey slacks, and black loafer shoes; a school uniform, maybe? He had black hair that was combed over neatly and gelled far too much, and large baby-blue eyes that met Dick's gaze steadily, but a little anxiously. He was strangely… familiar?

The kid cleared his throat again, his hands gripping the hem of his sweater. “Hiya, Mr. Greyson, sir.” His eyes carefully took in Dick's bare chest, covered in bruises and bandaged cuts, and his knee with the useless cold pack wrapped around it with a stretchy bandage. Yikes, this kid was just a little too observant for comfort. “I hope I'm not bothering you.” 

Dick shook out of his shocked stare, blinking several times and closing the door slightly so he could hide behind it slightly, throwing a (hopefully) disarming smile on his face as he leaned casually on the doorframe. “Hello there, uh, chum. Ya lost or somethin’?”

The kid shook his head, glancing over his shoulder as if briefly considering leaving before looking back at Dick with a new kind of determination in his eyes. “No, sir, I'm not. Um, I'm your, or  I  was , your neighbor.” He stuck out a hand with a shy sort of smile. “Tim Drake.” 

Ah. That's why he was familiar. 

“Oh, yeah, hi Tim.” Dick quickly reached out and shook the offered hand (was it trembling?) and forced himself to smile a little more friendly in spite of his growing apprehension and confusion. “What are you… did your parents… how did you get… How did you know I was in Bludhaven? How did you find my apartment?" The urgency suddenly hit Dick like a pipe to the ribs (okay, yeah, he was still sore about that… literally). 

Tim swallowed hard, his face somehow getting paler than it already was naturally. “That's… a bit of a long story. Can I… come in? Just for a moment? I really need to talk to you.” 

Dick stared down at the boy on his doorstep, his head swirling with confusion, questions, and slight frustration. He shook his head and stepped backward, pulling the door open a little. “Yeah, sure, kid. Come on in.” 

The moment Dick let Tim in and closed the door, a wave of self consciousness washed over him at the disaster zone that his apartment was, the fact that it was completely pitch black dark because of the cardboard and curtains over all the windows, and the fact that he was standing there in nothing but a pair of boxers that badly needed to be washed. 

Dick clicked on the light and grabbed a few of the quickly crusting bowls and cups from the cluttered end table by his couch and set them in the sink along with other ‘soaking’ dishes. He then snatched a thigh-length robe from the back of the couch and threw it on, tying it haphazardly around his waist. “You, uh, do you need anything to eat?” 

Tim turned from taking in the wreck of Dick's apartment and smiled politely. “No, thank you, I had lunch an hour ago.” 

Dick nodded and gestured toward the couch as he perched on. “You want to sit down and tell me what exactly you need to talk with me so badly about, and maybe how you got to Bludhaven, and how you knew where I live?” He knew he was being brusque and that he was probably hurting the kid's feelings, but he figured he was at least a little justified. 

Tim nodded and sat at the opposite end of the couch, his back painfully straight and his hands folded in a perfectly practiced manner in his lap, but there was a thrilled sort of urgency in his eyes that made Dick's stomach flip. “W-well, Mr. Greyson-” 

“Dick.” 

Tim blinked in stunned surprise, his brows puckering a little as he stared at Dick after the sudden interruption, the tips of his ears going quite pink. “I… I'm sorry, do you prefer Mr. Wayne?” 

“No, Tim,” Dick huffed as he tried not to cross his arms (too threatening), and instead stuffed his hands into his robe pockets, “you can just call me Dick. Drop the ‘Mr. This or Mr. That’. It makes me feel old.” 

“Oh, right, okay.” Tim swallowed hard, hard enough that a strange little squeak escaped his throat. “I’m not exactly sure how to say this, or where to start, but I guess…” He paused in his fumbling start and took a deep breath with his eyes closed. When they opened again, Dick’s heart skipped slightly at the determination and urgency that they held. “Dick, Bruce needs help, he needs a lot of help. I know this is hard, and I know it really isn't any of my business, but he needs help. I know that something happened between the two of you, but you've gotta come back to Gotham! If you don't, I don't know what's-” 

“Whoa! Hold it!” Dick demanded with a raised hand, his heart beat pounding in his ears as Tim's words made his stomach sick and his shoulders tense. “What are you talking about? How do you know that Bruce and I are having problems? And we aren't having problems, we're just-” 

“Dick, I know you're Nightwing.”

Dick froze, his mouth open in mid sentence but the words dead on his tongue as he stared down at the boy sitting on his couch with his hands fisted into the hem of his sweater, his eyes earnest, his face tight, maybe a little fearful, but not nearly enough considering what he just said. 

“And Robin too,” Tim pressed on, apparently bothered by the silence, his voice carefully level and low so that anyone passing by the door or in the adjacent apartments would not hear him, “and Bruce Wayne is Batman. I know, Dick, I know that you stopped being Robin and became Nightwing and moved to Bludhaven because something happened. But things are different now because Bruce needs help .”

“How long?” Were the words that Dick was finally able to form after trying several times. “How long have you known?” 

Tim shrugged one shoulder carefully. “A few… years.” 

“How?” Dick spat, his fists clenching in his robe pockets as his mind began to spiral to a million possibilities of others being aware of his secret.  Their  secret . 

A small smirk (how dare he) crept across Tim's face. “It was your fault actually. I used to watch you and Batman on the news all the time, every chance I got, every time you were recorded or photographed, and I started to recognize the way you moved. I had seen it before, once, when I was little.” Tim gulped as he seemed to be gripping tightly to his resolve under Dick's hard stare. “There was only one kid that I had ever seen that could move the way you do, and he was a Flying Greyson. I found out about the same time that Bruce Wayne had adopted Richard Greyson after the accident.” The little punk dared to shrug. “Things kinda fell into place after that.” 

Dick's heart might explode. He might fall over dead. That might be preferable to having to figure out what in the heck he was supposed to say other than a long stream of curses that he had never been allowed to say before. 

“Dick? Are you okay?” 

A soft hand on Dick's forearm snapped Dick back to the present, and it took every ounce of practiced and trained self control to not snap something else, so he opted for backing up a few steps as he glared at the concern in Tim's face. “You… you don't… You can't…” 

“Dick, I know, I know you're probably mad.” Tim stayed where he was, smart enough to advance on Dick with his hands out in an open, held out in a pleading sort of gesture. “But you really have to listen to me; Bruce isn't being careful, he isn't trying! You should have seen him last night-” 

“Last night? What do you mean, last night?” Dick asked as turned sharply toward Tim. “Are you saying you saw him? Are you saying you were there ?” 

Tim retreated a step, his hands grasping the hem of his sweater once more. “Y-yeah. I was.” He swallowed hard and for the first time dropped his gaze from Dick's. “I've been… checking on him. I've been doing it for a while.” 

“By checking on him, do you mean following him? Following Batman?” Dick clarified, feeling almost stupid for saying it out loud, because surely not…  

“Yeah. I mean following Batman. I've been doing it for years.” Tim raised his eyes once more and took a deep breath. “Even back when you were Robin. But I promise no one else knows; I’ve been so careful, I swear no one else knows.” 

Dick reached behind him, his hand flailing a little in search of the back of his dining room chair, yanking it forward so he could collapse into it. He cradled his head in his hands and rubbed at his throbbing temples. “You've gotta be kidding me…” 

“I'm not.” Tim supplied unnecessarily. “And I've been watching him even closer since… well… since Jason…” 

Dick’s head snapped up from his hands, and the expression on his face must have been a doozy because Tim's mouth snapped shut. He sighed and rubbed a calloused hand across his face, and stood. “Look, kid, I… appreciate … the concern, but this really isn't something you should be mixed up in. I'm sure Bruce is-” 

“Bruce is gonna get himself killed! And he doesn't care! Don't you get it?” Tim snapped, his voice suddenly stronger than it had been, and held an edge that took Dick off guard. “He doesn't have anything to care about other than himself, and he clearly doesn't care about that! He needs Robin!”

“Robin is over Tim, there will never be another Robin!” Dick snapped back, forgetting that he was talking to a kid (nine? Was he nine?) and allowed his carefully held back emotions to rise to the surface. “I will never be Robin again, and Jason…” His throat tightened around the name that he had not spoken in months, “Jason is gone. And with him, so went Robin. Now, look, I know you probably mean well, but just drop it. Forget about it.” Dick insisted as he started toward the door, a firm hand on Tim's back as he ushered him along.“And for crying out loud, stop following Batman around! You're going to get yourself hurt… or worse.”  

“Dick! Please! You've gotta listen to me, I know what I'm talking about! You've gotta help Bruce!” Tim insisted, his voice rising in pitch, high with desperation and cracked with surprised emotion. 

“I'm sure he'll be fine, Tim, this isn't anything you should worry about. You're just a kid for gosh sakes! I mean, come on, what are you, nine, ten maybe?” 

Tim made a shocked sort of indegnant scoff that was also a squeak as he tripped slightly over a discarded shoe as Dick pushed him forward. “ I'm fourteen!” 

“Coulda fooled me,” Dick mumbled, opening the door and giving Tim a gentle shove to encourage him out onto the balcony walkway. “Regardless, you really need to forget about all this, okay? You just knowing the things you know puts you in danger.” 

Tim turned back toward Dick and frowned, his eyes glinting sharply with frustration. “Dick, if you don't do something… he could die.” 

The words knotted hard in Dick's stomach, but he shook his head as he leaned heavily against the doorframe. “He doesn't want my help, kid, he's made that clear. He doesn't want anyone's help. Just… just go home and be happy that this isn't your problem to solve, it's his.” 

“If you won't help him,” Tim's solid tone made Dick pause in closing the door, “if you won't do something to save him from himself, then I will.” 

Dick expression blanked as he tried to figure out how exactly this weird little kid thought he was going to… “No!” Dick snapped as reality hit him hard. “ You  can't  do  that! You won't!” 

“I can, and I will.” Tim challenged with an upward jut of his chin and clenched fists at his sides. “Who's going to stop me? You? You won't even come to Gotham to see Bruce, why should I beleive that you would do anything to get in my way?” 

“Tim, be reasonable here, bud,” Dick was pleading now, hoping that somehow a gentler approach would dissuade the stubborn teen, “try to see where I'm coming from on this; you've got a life, parents, school, friends. You don't want to throw all that away like this! On something that isn't even yours to fix?” 

Tim frowned with a tilt of his head, as if judging every fiber of Dick's being. “Are you really going to let whatever the heck happened between you two put his life on the line now? You really feel it would be  a  waste  to do something about it? To do something for him?”

Dick blinked hard, feeling as though Tim had slapped him across the face even though he was well out of arms length. 

Tim shook his head slowly, as if completely disappointed by his final analysis. “I had hoped for so much more out of this. I get that you're grieving and that even talking about this hurts, trust me, I do; but if you don't feel that you can do something to help Bruce, then someone has to.” He turned and started toward the stairs of the walkway. “He's hurting too.” 

“Tim! Wait!” Dick called, stepping halfway out of his door and reaching out in a beseeching manner. “Tim, ya gotta promise me that you're gonna drop this whole thing! I need to know that you get it! I need to know that you understand why you can't be… why you can't fix this!” 

Tim paused, one foot on the step below him as he looked over his shoulder, his eyes looking more saddened now than anything. “You were my hero Dick, you always have been, and it wasn't because of your flashy moves and skill. It was because I always thought that you would do anything for Bruce; that you two were truly partners, more than partners. It was the way you were dedicated to the mission against all odds; how, no matter what, you were always there for him, always had his back. I guess even your heroes can change.” 

Dick had finally found it within himself to go to Gotham and try to confront Tim about his personal mission, but he had been too late. He had found Tim in the Batcave, following Bruce's directions through a workout set with eyes that sparked with determination and resolve. They had never known he was there, he had slipped out the way he had come in without ever triggering the security systems. 

Tim had been right, of course, because as Dick carefully watched his old mentor from afar over the several weeks that bled stubbornly into months, he saw that in every way he moved, reacted, and fought was different than he had since they had lost Jason; his little only brother and Bruce's second, and best, son. Batman had regained his control, taken back his caution, and was reclaiming Gotham in a way that Dick had begun to wonder if it had been lost forever. 

Present day Dick reached up and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist, his chest tight from trying to stay quiet as tears trailed down his cheeks. After it all, Tim had been so willing to forgive him for his lack of involvement and had been eager to learn from Dick when he finally came to his senses, and now, here Tim lay; relaxed, trusting, peaceful. Unfortunately, Dick knew that constant acceptance for things that maybe shouldn’t be so easy to accept was trained into Tim by his parents as much as quick reflexes and street fighting skills had been trained into him by Batman. As selfish as it was, Dick was grateful for that when it came to Tim’s acceptance of him regardless of how little he deserved it. 

Dick smiled as he gathered Tim up in his arms and hefted him up into a steady hold, pausing as he stood when Tim jerked and waited to move again until Tim settled with his head against Dick's chest and let out a long, content sigh. 

Yeah. He had messed up. He had left Tim alone for far too long, and even when he finally came to his head, he had still found ways to push away a close relationship with the boy, desperately trying to guard his too-fragile-too-broken heart from being hurt any further with little to no regard what that had done to Tim’s psyche. But thank all that was holy for Tim's stubborn streak, because even when he could have so easily, he hadn't given up on Dick any more than he had ever given up on Bruce. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Tim stirred slowly, groggily, not wanting to leave the comfortable place of floating between sleeping and wakefulness. He tried to roll over, but grunted as he found himself trapped under Dick's arm, which tugged him closer with a sleepy mumble against the back of Tim's neck. 

Apparently, Tim's nap had turned into actual sleep, and Dick had lugged Tim into his room and plopped them both into his bed. 

Tim blinked himself awake, smirking as he found that they were completely tangled in Dick's sheets and fuzzy blanket, the bunched up material woven in and out of their legs and tying them together. Well, he certainly wasn't going to be getting up until Dick was ready to do so. 

Tim sighed contentedly and settled in, knowing that he could either choose to be grumpy about being held captive in Dick's cuddling or soak it in while he could. He had been right, he had needed to spend time away from the manor, and as he had hoped, Dick had not minded his random drop in visit.  

 Tim absentmindedly started fiddling with the things on Dick's bedside table, smiling at the random assortment of things that were cluttered tightly on the surface; a banana peel that was now so old that it was black and crispy, a stressball, a bottle of Advil, a bottle of Tylenol, several used glasses with the dried remnants of milk or juice in the bottom, a couple of old energy drink cans, a battarang, an old, faded pokemon card, and… a used-to-be-white, terrycloth sweatband. 

Tim picked up the sweatband and ran his thumb over it, a twinge of familiarity making him smile, because he had one just like it…  

Whump! 

The air was forced from Tim's lungs as he fell flat on his back, the padded floor beneath him doing very little to actually cushion his fall. His vision was black fringed at the edges, but that didn't stop him from looking up into the very stern, slightly annoyed, and completely disappointed face of Bruce Wayne. 

This wasn't the Bruce Wayne that the world knew though, this was the Bruce Wayne that was in between being that Bruce Wayne and being Batman. This Bruce Wayne was solemn, withdrawn, easily frustrated, and quick to small flares of very hot anger. 

“Haven’t we done this combo before?” The question was blunt, and Bruce's tone was flat as he held a hand down to help Tim back to his feet. “I'm sure we have, yet you miss the sweep every single time.” 

“S-sorry Bruce,” Tim huffed as he regained his breath and was pulled to his feet, “I thought there was another block before the sweep.” His legs were shaking beneath him, and he found it hard to keep his back straight under the strain of his screaming muscles, but he took up the ready stance anyway and gulped in a deep breath. “One more time; I’ll get it, this time.” 

Bruce looked unsure of that statement, but stepped back and raised the pads on his hands. “Alright, come on then. Same combo.” 

Tim nodded and started into the combination: Left hook, right punch, left knee, right cross-WHUMP!

Tim flew forward as his legs were deftly swept out from under him, landing hard on his front, his chin busting into the firm padding as the air rushed fully from his lungs. He instinctively rolled over onto his side into a recovery position, his eyes wide as he fought to refill his depleted lungs. 

Bruce sighed as he knelt and laid a heavy hand on Tim’s side, rubbing it gently up and down his ribcage. “Relax, Tim. If you stay tense, your lungs won’t be able to recover.”  

In spite of Bruce’s attempt at comfort, Tim's exertion flushed face darkened as he glared up at Bruce. “Y-you… ngh … that wa-asn't… hunf … You ch-changed the com- uf -bo!” He groaned out between huffed breaths that flared pain in his chest. 

“Do you really think a thug on the street is going to stick to set combos?” Bruce asked, still rubbing Tim's side in a manner that felt out of place in its comfort in contrast with his stern expression. “We've worked on thinking on your feet, and that's what you didn't do just then. You can't be set in stone in your movements; you have to pivot, mentally and physically, so that you're ready for anything an assailant might throw at you.” 

Tim laid still as he listened to Bruce's half lecture half instruction, allowing himself to take the moment to recover, his face burning from a horrible, stomach churning mix of embarrassment, frustration, and weariness. 

“Come on, sit up for me.” Bruce requested as he removed his hand and watched Tim with a slightly tilted head. “You're breathing sounds fine now.” 

Tim took in a deep breath, ignoring how it shuddered in his chest, and pushed himself into a sitting position with his legs criss-crossed, his hands resting on his knees as he continued to try and even his breathing. 

Bruce watched him a moment more, then stood, pulling his last pad off his left hand and starting to walk toward the edge of the padded sparring mats. “I’m calling it for the night.” 

Tim's head snapped up and he scrambled up to stand on quivering legs as he nearly stumbled in effort to follow Bruce. “Wait, Bruce, we can go again. I'm fine, really; we can at least go for another fifteen minutes.” He tried to keep the pleading from his words but he was afraid it came through on the unevenness of his voice anyway. “It's not even one-thirty yet!” 

“I think you've had enough.” Bruce answered simply, trotting down the steps of the platform. “If you push much further tonight you might pull something.” 

“No I won’t! I promise!” Now Tim was pleading, but he didn’t care as he followed closely behind Bruce. “Come on, I’m good Bruce, really!” 

Bruce paused as he picked up a clean sweat rag, examining Tim with an expression that made Tim’s stomach leap and his face flush with something other than embarrassment. He reached out and wiped a drip of sweat from Tim’s chin with the towel, then draped it over Tim’s shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment in a way that made Tim’s heart swoop in his chest. “You are good, Tim.” He murmured, his voice almost inaudible and uncharacteristically soft, before he turned and grabbed another rag for himself and started toward the showers. “You should go stretch,” He called over his shoulder, voice back to its normal gruff tone, “at least thirty minutes or so before you go home.” 

Tim stood frozen in place as he watched Bruce disappear, his heart beating in a rabbity manner in his chest and his stomach swooping and dropping in a mostly unfamiliar way. He had suffered through the feeling before, and it was always after Bruce decided to lower his voice into that certain tone and risk a comforting or reassuring kind of physical touch. He wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t sure he liked it. 

Tim turned and stalked back to the padded sparring mat, hating how his legs were trembling and knees felt as if they might buckle. Stupid-weak-puny-feeble-lacking… 

Tim almost didn’t catch himself before jumping when he saw a large shadow in his peripheral vision. He jogged (limped?) over to the railing and looked down at the parking pad where Bruce was walking toward the Batmobile. “Same time tomorrow, right?” 

Bruce paused in pulling up his cowl, looking back and up at Tim, his face still holding that annoyingly unreadable considering expression. “No.” 

Tim thought he might actually throw up. “No? Whaddya mean , no? Did I do something? Cause if this is about my tone earlier, I’m really sorry, I was just-”

“No, I just think you need a rest period.” Bruce interrupted. “Two days. You can come and stretch and work out on your own if you want, but we’ll take a two day break in the normal routine for you to recoup.” He pulled up his cowl and opened the door to the Batmobile, looking up at Tim once more, now as Batman (yikes!). His lips curved just slightly and just briefly, a movement that easily could have just been a facial tic, then silently stepped into the Batmobile. 

The Batmobile roared to life and pulled up the exit ramp, the sound of the engine slowly fading to nothing as Tim stared after it. He slumped down from where he was leaning on the railing and wandered back toward the middle of the sparring mats. 

Bruce had said he could come back on his own if he wanted, so he must not be too mad at him, and had said that he wanted to take a break from training so Tim could recoup. Which probably actually meant that Tim hadn’t been good enough, his weariness had shown through, and his weakness had become apparent despite his efforts to mask it, which now had disrupted his personal best streak for staying on Bruce’s good side and keeping things going smoothly. 

“I don’t need to recoup!” Tim growled as he struck out and punched a sparring dummy. “I said I was fine !” He kept punching the dummy as his throat tightened annoyingly and his eyes pricked. “If only I hadn’t messed up tonight! If only I had figured it out! Why can’t I figure it out? What’s wrong with me?” 

Tim’s voice echoed in such a way that it seemed the world itself were demanding answers, and now that he was alone in the belly of that world, Tim didn’t try to brush away the tears that were beginning to trail down his face and mix with his sweat as he took out his pent up frustrations on the unfeeling, unresponsive torso dummy. 

“Why can’t you get it together? Why are you such a screwup? You’re going to mess it up! You’re going to make him push you away! You’ve gotten this far and now you’re ruining everything! You’re going to get him killed if you can’t be better than this! It’s going to be your fault! Stupid, useless, pathetic little nothing !” 

Tim’s unaimed fist hit the side of the torso dummy’s head, and the sweat from his hand made it slip past, sending him bodily forward into the dummy and slumping to a shaking pile on the floor. His stomach flipped as he heard his own sob echo around him, and he curled tighter around himself in an effort to escape it. 

Things had been going so well, Bruce seemed to actually be falling right in line with Tim’s suspicions and had actually started to get better since he first relented to Tim’s constant nagging and begging to be trained. It gave him something to do, someone to come back to, something to vent his frustrations on in the form of constant correction and critique. But the past few weeks had felt different, Bruce was pulling away. His critiques were less, his corrections softer, and his insistence for Tim to take frequent breaks from training had increased. And it was Tim’s fault, he wasn’t advancing well enough, he was too weak, too skinny, too tired, too…

A soft hand on his shoulder made Tim bolt upright and let out a very undignified, unchecked screech that caused several bats to reply in kind and swoop around overhead. 

Dick’s surprise melted into an apologetic smile as he raised his empty hands defensively. “Whoops, sorry kiddo, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Tim felt his face go hot as he reached up with the abandoned sweat rag and scrubbed at his face, trying hard to remove the signs of tears and snot. “Y-you didn’t scare me, you just… you just startled me. I’m fine.” Tim mumbled into the towel, grateful for someplace to hide momentarily. 

Dick raised an incredulous eyebrow and settled down in front of Tim with his legs criss-crossed. “Fine huh? Hate to break it to you, but you uh, you really don’t look fine to me.” 

“Like you’d know.” Tim muttered as he leaned his back against the dummy and pulled his knees to his chest, glaring at Dick with a huff while noting the fact that he was in his Nightwing uniform except for his mask, and that he was wearing sweats over his suit. (Weirdo.) “What are you doing here anyway?” 

Dick shrugged one shoulder, leaning back on his hands as he looked Tim over in a way that felt far too judgmental and far too understanding all at the same time. “Just grabbing a few things, or at least, I was, before I heard someone saying some very unnecessary things to an inanimate dummy.” He raised his brow again, this time looking a little more curious and sympathetic. “Or, was that directed to the dummy at all?” 

Tim hunched his shoulders forward and tried to shrink further into himself, sure that if his face got any hotter he might pass out. He dropped his gaze to his knees and worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to think of some good excuse now that he knew Dick had been privy to his vent, all that came out however was a very grumpy, very indignant: “What, are you spying on me now? Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

“I wasn’t spying,” Dick defended sitting forward so he could hold his hands up in a shrug, “I just happened to drop in when I heard some… commotion. But nevermind. We can drop that.” He sat forward now with his forearms resting on his knees, a small smirk lighting up his features. “How goes your little mission with the Brooding Bat?” 

Tim’s glare deepened as he clenched his jaw with a hard sniff, his shoulders tensing in spite of the quiver in his muscles. “Are you seriously here to gloat? Cause I am really not in the mood for ‘I told you so’s’.” 

“No, Tim,” Dick sighed and shook his head, his shoulders slumping forward slightly in defeat, “I-I’m not trying to be sarcastic, honest, I’m just trying to… nevermind, straight forward it is.” He muttered more to himself than to Tim, lacing his fingers together loosely as he rested his elbows on his knees. “Tim, are you doing okay with all this? It’s been a little over a couple of months now, and I’m sorry to say I haven’t… I haven’t even checked in.” 

Tim swallowed hard, slightly taken aback by the question, and still uncertain whether Dick was being sincere or not. “I’m… fine.”  

Dick’s lips pressed down tightly until they went white, then scooted a little closer with a small smile. “Yeah, sure, fine as in, F is for- Feeling overwhelmed, I is for- I’m not alright, N is for- Not okay, and E is for- Exhausted beyond recovery?” 

“Maybe… a little…” Tim blinked blankly as his mind (why did his mind feel like mush?) processed Dick’s spoken anagram, a small shudder passing over him as a cool draft passed over his sweat-damp skin, and slumping further down for a moment before sitting up quickly. “But I can handle it! It’s working Dick! Just like I knew it would. Bruce is doing sooo much better now! You should see him, really you should! I just have to try harder! I just have to- gak !” 

Tim’s heart lurched into his throat as Dick leaned forward suddenly and gathered Tim up in his arms, holding him pinned to his chest with Tim’s arms trapped and his legs held in an awkward position and oh… crapcrapcrap ! How was he supposed to get out of this? What kind of hold was this? He knew this didn’t he? He could… Oh. Ohhh… This was a hug. Dick Greyson, Nightwing, Robin, was hugging him. 

Tim was sure that Dick would be able to feel his heart hammering against his ribs and his pulse racing in every pulse point in his body, and for a moment every tired muscle in Tim’s body tightened to the point of cramping as he froze with his face pressed gently to Dick’s chest as Dick laid a hand against the back of his head. Then, slowly, those muscles started to not only relax, but give way completely; his body melting into Dick’s hold and now trembling for an entirely different reason that exhaustion. Tim had never been one for physical touch, his mother was always frustrated that hugs rumbled clothes, and his dad was always huffing and brushing Tim off because he did not want his associates seeing an annoying kid hanging off of him, and Bruce… well…

Don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry…

Regardless of Tim’s inner urging, tears blurred his vision and quickly started streaming down his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around Dick’s middle, feeling grounded and steadied by the firm, lean muscles that flexed gently beneath his arms. The hand on the back of his head gently started carding through his hair, sending enjoyable little tingles down Tim’s spine that made him shiver hard, which made Dick shush him quietly. 

“Oh Timmy, you crazy, clever, stupid, genius .” Dick murmured against the top of Tim’s head as he held him closer. “I’m not here to tell you ‘I told you so’, I’m here to tell you that you were right . I’m here to tell you I’m sorry. I know I said I was here for other reasons, but I'm not, you're all I came for. 

Bruce did need you, he needed you more than I could even imagine. You could see him crumbling when I refused to see it because of my own stupid ego, and you were willing to do whatever it took to save him from himself. I was wrong Tim, so so wrong. I abandoned him, and you knew it, and you did something about it when it should have been me.” 

Tim shuddered again as Dick’s words settled heavily and warmly in his chest; shock, surprise, awe, and glee swirled in his chest as he clung to his childhood hero, the first Robin, the shoes he was trying so hard to fill even if just a little. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I’ve left you alone in this for so long. I should have stepped in, I should have stepped up .” Dick’s voice hitched as he pulled Tim impossibly closer. “You were right, sooo right buddy, but you shouldn’t have been the one to step up and take the brunt of this, and you won’t have to for another second.” 

Panic made Tim press himself back out of Dick’s embrace with his hands on Dick’s chest, trying to look serious in spite of his quivering arms and tear streaked face. “I’m not giving this up. I can’t . You can’t make m-”

“Of course I can’t,” Dick interrupted with a small smile, cradling Tim’s face in both his hands (those stupid, finger stripe gloved hands) and used his thumbs to gently wipe the tears from Tim’s cheeks, “you are obviously built different when it comes to levels of stubborn in your average teen, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you alone in this little quest of salvation. I’m gonna be here to take the fall if he lashes out, I’ll be here to help you figure the idiot out, I’ll help you in any and every way.” 

Tim gulped and dropped his gaze as his eyes filled and overflowed once more. “I-I’m worried that I’m not… good enough. I’m not fast enough, not strong enough, not-” 

“That’s not true,” Dick cut Tim off again, giving his face a smooshing little squeeze, “you’ve just never had to put your body through this kind of work. Besides, what you might have to work on in the physical realm you more than make up for in the wits and intellect side of things. Seriously, you're freaky kinda smart Tim; you've got brains, kid, you just need a little help with the brawn bit, and that’s where I’m gonna come in. Whether B wants it or not, I’m going to be here to fill in the blanks where his clouded judgment can’t.” He lowered his hands from Tim’s cheeks to cup the sides of his neck instead, his fingers gently rubbing at the base of Tim’s skull. “If you’ll have me.”  

Tim let out a small gasped exclamation, reaching up to wipe his nose on the back of his hand, ignoring the gross stripe of snot that the action left behind. “Are you kidding me? Turn down an offer of training from the Nightwing?” 

Dick chuckled and shook his head. “Let’s stick with just Dick, okay? It's weird when you talk about me like I'm some sort of celebrity or something.”

Tim sniffed and reached up to scrub the salt streaks from his face, feeling his ears warm. “Are you… are you sure you really want to? You were… kinda against the whole thing before.”

“Yeah, well, that was emotional-shocked-by-a-kid-knowing-my-identity me.” Dick shrugged a little and reached out to wipe a driblet of snot from Tim’s upper lip. “This is I-have-something-of-a-clue-and-had-to-get-shown-up-by-a-kid-before-I-got-it me. I’m sure, Tim; I wanna help you, and in a round about way, step up and help out Da-... Bruce.”

Tim used the neck of his tank to wipe his nose (he really needed a tissue), swallowing hard as a stubborn lump reformed in his throat. “After everything, you don’t… hate me?” 

Dick’s eyes widened a moment before he reached out and gathered Tim into another rib shifting hug, his hand pressed to the back of Tim's head until his cheek was smooshed to Dick's chest. “No I don’t hate you! I could never hate you Timmy, what kind of insufferable boob do you take me for? After all you've done, after coming to me first to give me the chance to step up, after a month of facing this on your own, how on earth could I hate you?” 

Tim giggled a little at Dick's self-inflicted name calling and sighed shakily as he relaxed into Dick's chest. “I wouldn't blame you much if you did. I've kinda been a jerk in the way I've shoved my way in despite you saying no, and Bruce saying no for that matter.”

“You've not been a jerk in the slightest,” Dick insisted as he held Tim out at arms length and smiled (wowwowwow that was a real Dick Greyson smile!), “if anyone in this situation has been a jerk it's been me and the big man himself.” 

Tim lowered his eyes from Dick's unwavering gaze, shrugging one shoulder. “I expected Bruce to be a jerk, that was kinda the whole point. If he could be hard on me before patrol, his mind would be clearer during so that he didn't go too far out on the streets.”

Dick's hands suddenly tightened on Tim's shoulders, making him look back up and finding Dick's face had settled into a firm stare that made Tim want to squirm. “Tim, just how hard on you has he been?” 

“He's… you know… the normal amount.” Tim stuttered, taken aback by the question. 

“You know the normal amount should be not at all? Right?” Dick pressed, his eyes looking over Tim carefully, a glint of panic brightening his eyes. “Has he… has he hurt you?” 

Tim's eyes widened and he shook his head fervently. “No! Oh gosh no! Well, I mean, he's dropped me on the mats a few times, but that's not the same! He hasn't… no Dick he has not hurt me. I mean, think about what he's been through; considering all that, I count myself lucky really. Besides, I always knew that he wouldn't be… that he'd be… he's just a little… well… he hasn't hurt me. I don't think he’d ever hurt me physically, not on purpose.”

“Physically,” Dick shook his head and sighed heavily, “but emotionally? I’m not sure I even want to know.” 

Before Tim could continue to defend Bruce, Dick nodded firmly as if making up his mind. “Well, you won't have to deal with that alone anymore. I’ll want your training schedule ASAP so I can be here, okay?” 

Tim nodded eagerly, trying to shake the uncertainty that made his chest tight. “I have it on a spread sheet! Here, I'll go print-” He tried to stand but crumbled back down with a light grunt as the muscles in his legs and abdominals quivered and seemed to refuse to work with him. “Ow.”

“Sore?” Dick asked with an empathetic smile, reaching out to rub Tim's bicep, his thumb massaging a small circle as if judging the weakness of the muscle there. 

“More than I thought I was, I guess. Honestly I'm more wiggle-limbed than anything right now.” Tim mumbled, shuddering hard at the horrible feeling of his body refusing to work. “But I'm fine; I'll be fine.” 

“You've said that. Several times.” Dick smirked, reaching into his sweat pant's pocket and pulling out a white sweat band. He pulled it down over Tim's head then pushed it up on his forehead to hold back his hair, resting his hand against Tim's cheek. “Come on Timmy, I'll get you started with some stretches tonight to help with that, okay?” 

Tim smiled and nodded wearily. “Are they… hard?” 

Dick chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, not today, that'll come later. Up you come Babybird, let’s get you stretched out and cooled down.” 

Tim felt the arm around his middle tighten, and Dick's chest expanded and contracted against his back as a sigh of morning breath fluttered through the hair on the back of his head. 

Tim wrinkled his nose and gently elbowed Dick in the ribs. “Diiiick, hotpocket breath is not cool first thing in the morning.” 

Dick chuckled drowsily as he leaned forward and planted an exaggerated kiss to the nape of Tim's neck. “G'mornin’ to y’ too gru’py.”

Tim pulled his head down in a turtle-like manner as he chuckled and tugged himself against Dick's arm. “Lemme up would ya? I gotta pee like crazy and you've been holding me captive for the past hour.”  

“Mph, s’rry.” Dick mumbled as he pulled back his arm and curled it under his chest as he stretched out on his stomach. 

Tim rolled out of bed, untangling his legs from the blankets and tripped at least twice on his way to answer the very urgent call of nature. As he was heading out of the tiny bathroom (how on earth Dick fit in that teeny-tiny shower with all his long lankiness, Tim didn’t even want to imagine), Tim caught sight of his reflection in the desilvering mirror above the sink and nearly gasped out a laugh. His hair was sticking out in nearly every possible direction and even a few impossible ones: a truly epic slept-with-Dick-Greyson bedhead. He ran some water over his hands and combed his damp fingers through his to calm the wild locks, shrugging at the fact that now he just sort of looked greasy, then headed back out into the apartment. 

“I’m in the kitchen, Timmy!” Came Dick’s cheerful chirp from the room over. How anyone could shake off the drowsiness of sleep so fast without at least thirty-two ounces of coffee first was entirely beyond Tim’s comprehension. 

Tim shuffled into the kitchen in his too-long lounge pants with yawn, smiling at the smell of brewing coffee that was beginning to fill the space. 

Dick looked up from pressing the lever of his toaster with a grin. “Mornin’ Babybird, you sleep okay?” He asked as he stepped away from the counter and held out his arms. 

It took Tim an embarrassing moment of blank staring for him to realize what Dick was asking for, then stepped forward to accept the offered hug, wrapping his arms around Dick's middle and allowing his face to get smushed against Dick's chest. Dick was still warm from being in bed, and his heart was beating evenly and steadily under Tim's cheek, which made Tim cling tighter to him as a warmth that wasn't physical settled in his bones. 

“Better than I thought I would, I kinda thought I'd just catch a few winks, not a full night's sleep.” Tim mumbled, almost forgetting that Dick had asked a question at all. “Sorry.” 

Dick's huff fluttered through his hair as he reached up to tangle his fingers comfortably in the hair at the back of Tim's head. “Did you really just apologize for partaking in a basic human need that is rare and hard to obtain for folks such as us? Te ador, puiule.” 

Tim's face flushed at Dick's rare use of the Romani endearment (how long had it been since he'd heard that?), and buried his face against Dick's chest, rubbing his cheek against the soft material of Dick's threadbare t-shirt in a show of affection that would normally send Tim into a spiral of embarrassment and apologies, but this was Dick. He never had to apologize for taking the affection that he felt he needed when he was with Dick. 

“I'm glad you slept Timmy,” Dick assured, giving him another squeeze before releasing him so he could step around to take the toasted waffles from the toaster and transfer them to a paper plate with a smirk. “Hope you don't mind me not pulling out the glassware, I already have a lot of dishes to catch up on.” 

“Paper plates are fine.” Tim replied as he took the offered plate with a smile. “Eggos?”

Dick winked and popped two more waffles in the toaster. “What else? There's syrup in the fridge and the butter’s on the counter in that little tupperware.” 

Tim nodded and set to buttering his waffles, unaware of the comfortable smile that had found a permanent place on his face as he listened to Dick hum Don't Stop Believing in a croaky, still-slightly-asleep sort of tone. 

A few minutes later found the brothers sitting on the couch with their breakfast, enjoying the comfortable silence and their syrup soaked, buttery premade waffles. 

Tim took a long drink of coffee (black, since Dick's milk had apparently expired a week ago) and cleared his throat as he cut a bite off his last waffle with his fork, not really wanting to interrupt the moment but having felt that Dick had been stealing glances at him for a while now. “You gonna tell me why you keep looking at me like that? Or should I just get used to it?” 

Dick’'s mouth tilted in a smile as he licked a drizzle of syrup from his chin. “You're nice to look at?” 

“Dick.” 

“A piece of fine art to be admired?” 

“Richard.”

“Devilishly charming, winningly handsome, and dashingly debonair?”  

Tim paused in sopping up the last of his butter laced syrup with his last bite of waffle, looking up with only his eyes in a deadpan expression. “Richard. John. Greyson. Wayne.” 

Dick winced and held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, geeze! You don't have to pull out the bug guns like that.” He set his empty plate and fork over on the coffee table. “Okay, I gotta ask, what was the root cause of your sleepover last night? We covered the… Jason anomaly, last night, but you also mentioned that things between you and Bruce are strained-not good, not bad-so what's that stemming from?”  

Tim sighed and swallowed the last of his breakfast, picking up his coffee and holding it between his hands to enjoy the heat of the mug. “What does it usually stem from lately?” 

Dick's mouth turned down briefly in a sympathetic smile. “Tiny, angry, assassin bat?” 

“Tiny, angry, assassin bat.” Tim agreed with a frown, shaking his head heavily. “It's like I told Bruce: a relationship is a two way street and all I'm getting from that kid is roadblocks and tire spikes. I want things to be better, not just for him or Bruce but, selfishly, for me. I'm sick of the constant bickering and right fighting. I try to just not engage, but it's like he knows exactly what to say and do to get under my skin. I wonder if I have Talia or Ra’s to thank for that.”  

Dick's right brow quirked upward as he leaned his cheek against his loosely held fist. “I would say I doubt it, but we are talking about the Al Ghuls. Have you tried finding common ground with Damian? Sometimes all it takes is something you have in common with a person to break the ice.” 

“Dick, we don't even have a common zip code.” Tim deadpanned with a huff. 

“Sure you do!” Dick insisted gently, straightening to start counting off on his fingers. “You both have Bruce, me, Robin, the manor, the Cave…” Dick's expression fell as he trailed off as Tim stared at him blankly with half lidded eyes of annoyance. “Oh. Hm. Geez. Those are all the grounds for contention between you two, aren't they?”

Tim nodded in an exaggerated manner. “ Riiiight . Like I said: not even the same zip code. I think he's still determined to get rid of me;  like, he’s just waiting for the perfect moment.” 

Dick sighed and shook his head. “I’m sure he’s still trying to adjust and settle in. I know it’s hard, but step into his shoes for a second; he was raised for ten years by a mother that’s less than nurturing, puffed up with all these ideas of greatness, destiny, and violence, and then dropped at his dad’s doorstep and expected to just cope. Not to mention that he had been told that he would have peers that he would have to get rid of from him to prove his place.” 

Tim frowned and sipped his quickly cooling coffee, a twist of annoyance making it settle badly in his gut. “Trust me Dick, I’ve received the ‘have some empathy and understanding’ talk about a million times now. Your version is the same song forty-seventh verse. I get it, I’m just being sensitive and need to give him more grace.” 

“Whoa now, come on Tim, I didn’t mean it like that.” Dick insisted, crossing his legs into a pretzel shape so he could lean forward and put a hand on Tim’s knee. “As much as I wish I did, I don’t know the answer to you and Damian’s relationship because relationships are complicated; there’s now two ways about that. I’m just mentioning that Damian is probably struggling too. Maybe that’s the common ground that you need to try.” 

Tim badly missed the relaxed, comfortable atmosphere he had felt when he had first worked up, and annoyingly, without even being here, Damian had somehow messed it up. “Why is he so accepting of you?” 

Dick huffed and shook his head, puffing a breath over his face to move a lock of hair out of his vision. “He’s not, not really. I don’t think Damian is really very accepting of anybody.”

“You’re on first name biases with him, that’s something.” Tim pointed out, setting his coffee mug aside on the table. “He still insists on calling me Drake ; which I’m convinced is just another chance for him to remind me that I’m not actually Bruce’s son.” 

“You are Bruce’s son Tim, nothing and no one can change that.” Dick insisted firmly, scooting down the couch to pull Tim into his side and drape an arm over his shoulders. “I know Damian is a little hung up on the whole ‘blood son’ thing, but don’t let that shake you. Don’t forget, you were legally a Wayne before I was.” 

Tim smiled a little and leaned away from Dick to look into his face, but not far enough to move away from Dick’s side. “That was your fault; if Bruce had been allowed his way you would have been a Wayne long before me.” 

“Whatever, I’m a different topic and not important right now.” Dick waved him off before squeezing him closer. “Has it gotten worse? Him trying to shove you to the side, I mean.” 

“Sort of, at least I feel that it has,” Tim frowned and picked a ball of lint from the knee of his sweats, “but maybe I am sensitive.” 

“Don’t do that, that’s just writing your feelings off and we don’t do that here.” Dick reminded him as he jostled them back and forth just to see the frown lift from Tim’s face. “Your feelings are valid, Tim, so there will be no ‘I’m just sensitive and over reacting and maybe I’m the problem’.” Dick’s voice raised at least two octaves during the last part of his declaration, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh as it reminded him far too closely of Elmo’s voice. 

“You’re not just sensitive Babybird, I promise you that. Damian has an incredible knack for being downright abusive and cruel. Case in point several scars that I know you and I both have from those first few painful months.” Dick pointed out with a heavy sigh.

Tim  bumped his head up underneath Dick’s chin. “I know, but it’s hard when Bruce keeps defending him all the time; I mean, I get it, Damian is his son and he’s trying to make things work but… well… it makes me wonder if I really am the problem.” Tim let out an embarrassingly high shriek as in the blink of an eye and a few quick movements, Dick was suddenly straddling his waist and attacking his ribcage with dancing fingers.

“What did I just say?” Dick demanded, his face lit up with a wicked grin as he tickled unmercifully. “None of that self-depreciating, writing off your feelings crap!” 

“ Diiiiiiiick !” Tim screeched as he kicked and flailed in an attempt to get free without resorting to the reflexes and instincts that knew just how to get Dick off but not without an unnecessary amount of pain. “ Stoooop ! C-cut it out! Ah ! N-no tick- tickling !”

“Say it then!” Dick insisted, going in for the kill as he went for Tim’s collarbone. “Say ‘my feelings matter’ and I’ll let you go!” 

“Ah! Stop! D-Dick! I’m gonna pee! Seriously! St- Ah !-Stop!” 

“Say it! Come on, say it!” 

“F-fine! Fine! I c-can’t breathe! W-wait! Please! J-just… Stop a sec!” 

Dick froze, grinning down at Tim in a smug, victorious manner that only he was capable of. “Well? I’m waiting?” 

Tim gasped for breath, giggling in the aftershocks of the brutal attack and holding his sensitive ribs with his arms hugging his own middle for protection. “Okay! My feelings matter! Now get offa me before I wet your pants and your couch!” 

Dick laughed as he let Tim up and watched him scramble to the bathroom, shaking his head as he leaned against the back of the couch and rested his chin on his right forearm. 

When Tim returned from the bathroom he tumbled over the back of the couch so that his legs were trailing up the back rest and his head was hanging off the seat, his fingers laced and resting on his stomach. “I wish I could just… fix it.” 

Dick chuckled and flipped around so he was mirroring Tim’s upside-down seating arrangement, and reached out for one of TIm’s hands, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. “That’s the Timmy I know: always wanting to be five steps ahead with every problem solved. But relationships just aren’t that simple; I mean, consider me and Bruce for a second.” 

Tim scrunched his nose and turned his head to look at Dick. “Do I have to? That’s a hot mess, in a dumpster fire, inside a train wreck.” 

Dick rolled his eyes (was it just because they were upside down that it looked more exaggerated?). “Tell me about it. But you get my meaning, right? This whole thing between you, Bruce, and Damian is going to take some time to sort out, and as much as you’d like to, you can’t solve it all on your own. You shouldn’t have to either; do you think it would help if I came to stay at the manor for a while?”

Tim shrugged, a weird feeling in his current position, and shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe? What about your job at BPD?” 

Almost the second the words left his mouth, the sound of blazing sirens made them both jump and look around for the source. Dick kicked his legs over his head to somersault into a standing position and went to grab his vibrating phone from the table, waving it to show Tim that it was the culprit before answering it. 

 “Dick Grayson. Yes sir… uh, no sir.” Dick's shoulders slumped as he sighed. “No, yeah, I’ll be in, twenty minutes tops. Yes sir. Mm-hm.” Dick hung up the call and looked to Tim with an apologetic smile and shrug. “Duty calls Tim, I just got called in.” 

Tim copied Dick's earlier somersault and shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “My fault probably; I went and jinxed it.” 

“No, you didn't.” Dick assured as he crossed the room to ruffle Tim's hair before digging through a laundry basket to find a compression shirt. “I'm just annoyed that I have to leave you here. You wanna hang out until I get off?” 

Tim shook his head and gathered his suit from the previous day off the back of one of Dick's dining chairs. “I’d like to, but I should probably go check in with B at work before the weekend. I told him I would, and I don't want to make him worry or leave him hanging.” 

A few moments later both young men stepped into the living room in their respective outfits for the day: Tim in his slightly wrinkled suit, and Dick in his Bludhaven Police Department uniform.

Tim followed Dick out onto the walkway and watched as he set his security system and locked the door. “Be careful out there, ‘kay?”

Dick turned with a smile and held out his arms, then wrapping them tightly around Tim as he dropped a kiss to Tim's forehead. “Right back atcha Timmy.” He pushed Tim back with firm hands on his shoulders, leveling him with a serious expression that held no heat or tension. “Keep in touch, okay? I wanna know how you're doing going forward; when I can, I'll see if I can get some time off and come stay in Gotham for a week or so. Maybe I can be the in between that helps sort all this out.” 

Tim nodded and stepped forward into a last embrace, his arms tightening around Dick's middle as he took in a deep breath. “That would be great, but don't do anything that'll get you in trouble or doesn't work for you. I'll be okay.” 

Dick reached out and took Tim's hand as they walked down the stairs together. “I've heard that one before. Stay in touch anyway, promise me?” 

Tim nodded and squeezed Dick's hand once before letting go and watching him walk to his police car. “I promise. See you on the streets.” 

Dick stepped in and started his car, flicking his sunglasses down so that they rested on the end of his nose, flashing Tim a wink as he rolled down the window. “You know it Babybird.” 

Tim watched Dick pull out and start down the street, waving as Dick flashed his lights briefly and turned on his siren with a quick whoop. He stepped into his own car and turned the key in the ignition, sighing as he let his head fall back against the seat. There was a large part of him that would have very much liked to just stay at Dick's place and ignore everything else, but he had told Bruce that it would just be an overnighter, and if he was going to change that then he'd have to explain. Yuck.

 Tim sighed and slung his arm over the back of the passenger seat to pull out of his parking spot. As little as he wanted to go back to Gotham, the weight of several issues that he had to solve pulled Tim back.

Gotham was like that for the brood of the Bat. No matter how hard things got, the pull of problems to fix, messes to clean up, and mysteries to solve always brought  them back. It was like a strange force pulling them back.

 It always had.

 It always would.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

Tim paused in his office by the door that connected the CEO offices, leaning close as he listened carefully. He could hear Bruce talking on the other side, but it was a one sided conversation, indicating a phone call, so Tim eased the door open and stepped inside. 

Bruce’s back was to Tim and he was leaning heavily against his desk, seeming quite done with the conversation on the other end of the phone he had barely held to his ear as he stared out the window. “Mm-hm. I'm sure that's true. We can consider that in our next meeting.”

Tim closed the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms laxly over his chest and waiting for Bruce to end his call. 

“I personally feel that the funds, my funds, are being distributed exactly as they should be. No, I'm not saying that adjustments can't be made, I'm just mentioning that I feel content and sure about the current distribution schedule.” Bruce lowered the phone from his ear to let out a heavy sigh, then lifted it once more. “Well, Mr. Mayor, I’m looking forward to our next meeting, but I really should be getting off now. Mm, right. Lot's to get done, indeed. Mm-hm. Wonderful. You as well, good bye.” Bruce reached out to press the receiver button to end the call, then slammed the phone down onto it with gusto. 

“No, no, Bruce,” Tim smirked and shook his head, pushing off the door to step forward, catching Bruce's obvious start with glee, “you did that wrong. You're supposed to just slam the phone down and let the earpiece hang up the call.”

Bruce quickly composed himself as he stood and stepped around his desk, smiling with a small huff. “And just how long had you been standing there?” 

“Long enough,” Tim gloated as he stepped up close enough that he had to tilt his head back to look up at Bruce's face, his chest nearly brushing Burce’s as he clasped his hands innocently behind his back, “long enough to know that you were having yet another very riveting conversation with the Mayor about the fund schedule, and that you didn't know that I was there. Which means I snuck up on you.” 

Bruce settled his hands on his hips and looked down at Tim with a fond smirk, barely lowering his chin so that he was looking down his nose at his son, which exaggerated the height difference in a nearly comical manner. “You did not sneak up on me; I knew you were there.” 

“Riiight, that's why you jumped.”

“I didn't jump.” 

“Yes you did, I saw you.” 

“No, I didn't. I was just turning around in my chair.” 

“Maybe you're getting jerky in your old age, ‘cause it sure looked like a jump to me.”

“Old age, huh?” Bruce's smirk broke into a grin as he gave into his instantaneous impulse to wrap his arms around Tim's middle in a bear hug, pinning Tim's arms at his sides as he straightened and lifted Tim's feet from the ground, now looking up a little to meet his son's gaze as Tim yelped in surprise at being grabbed. “I'll tell you what, I will officially be old when I can no longer pick you up. Deal?” 

Tim grunted as he squirmed in the hold, one that he could certainly get out of if he were trying, and faked a glare as he looked down into Bruce's face, their noses nearly touching. “Not setting the bar very high there Dad; all one hundred and thirty-seven pounds of me.” 

Bruce chuckled, the laugh rumbling in his chest pleasantly against Tim's ribs as Bruce turned to deposit Tim on his desk. “Maybe that’s the point.” He turned and leaned his hips against the desk next to where Tim was sitting and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “How's Dick?” 

Tim crossed one leg casually over his other knee and leaned back on his hands with a smile. “Good. I might have stayed longer, but he got called into work. It was nice though, just staying for a while to hang out for no real reason.” 

“I can imagine.” Bruce nodded, his smile still there but slightly smaller as he seemed to be slightly lost in careful consideration. “I hope you… were you… did…? You needed the break away.” He stated finally after a moment of stuttering for what he wanted to say, watching Tim's face. 

“Yeah I did.” Tim agreed, meeting Bruce’s gaze firmly so Bruce could see he was not trying to hide anything or avoid his searching. “I’m sorry for the short notice, but I really did need it.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry Tim, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Bruce replied with a renewed spark in his eyes as his smile widened. “You and your always-ready-apologies; just when I think you’ve grown out of that you have another one ready.” 

Tim shrugged with a small eyeroll. “Maybe that’s because I always find myself in situations where I feel like people expect it, so when it isn’t expected I’m not prepared with another response besides the apology. It’s sorta what I do. Frustrating, but it's probably not the worst tick I could have all things considered.” 

Bruce frowned slightly, his lips pressing together tightly. “That’s… Tim…” 

“Is there anything you need me to get done today before I head home?” Tim asked as he slid off the desk and shoved his fingers into his dress pant pockets (why are dress pant pockets so stinking shallow?), smiling as if he had not just said something that hinted at extreme emotional conditioning; mostly because he had not noticed that he had. 

Bruce blinked hard, his mouth opening in preparation to circle around to Tim's flippant statement, but he sighed through his nose and shook his head instead, smiling again as he reached out and ran his fingers through the hair on the side of Tim's head to tuck it behind his ear. “No. I think I have things mostly handled, at least anything that could not wait until next week. I have a few things to finish, but then I'll be calling it for the day. Why don't you go ahead and go home now so you can change clothes, and maybe get a shower?”

Tim planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head, his lips pursed in mild, insincere expression of offence. “Are you suggesting that I stink?” 

“I'm suggesting that it might be good for you to do something just because it's good for you and might be a pleasant thing to do; you actually hardly ever stink.” Bruce pointed out with a one-shouldered shrug.

Tim smiled but rolled his eyes as he let his hands fall from his hips. “Now I know you're just trying to use flattery to get rid of me, because I can name a few times that I have not only stank, but in fact reeked to the highest heavens.” 

“That's different,” Bruce countered, “that's when there are… extenuating… circumstances. Normally though, you don't stink like some other people I know, myself included, even when you work up a sweat. It must be something in your genes.” 

Tim chuckled and shrugged, letting his shoulders hover for a moment by his ears before letting them drop. “It might not be much, but at least my parents gave me something.” Before he could allow that comment to sink in for either of him, he shoved his hands in his pockets and continued. “But I think you're right; I'll go ahead to the manor and meet you there. I could work on some projects at home anyway.”

Bruce pushed off the desk and shook his head. “I would argue with you and try to convince you to take the afternoon off from ‘projects’ and take some time for yourself, but I think that would likely be pointless. Just promise me you'll take a little time to get comfortable and maybe eat a little something before you dive in, okay?”  

“I can do that.” Tim agreed, walking backward toward the door. “Will it be long before you shut down shop for the day?” 

“Not too long; another hour or two at the most.” Bruce replied as he circled back around to his office chair and sat with a sigh. “I have to make a decision about the date of the children's hospital fundraiser, and likely reach out to a few of our more reliable donors, then I should be right behind you.” 

“Alright, I'll meet you at home then.” Tim agreed as he opened the door and started out into the hall. 

“Tim?” 

“Hm?” Tim leaned backward a little to look around the door. 

“Drive safe, okay kiddo?” 

Tim smiled and nodded. “You bet; right back atcha. See ya at home, Dad.” He shut the door behind him and smiled with warm tipped ears as he walked down the hall. 

It might not have meant much to the casual passerby, but little comments like that for Tim were equal to, if not better than, saying the most sincere ‘I love you’. 

The only person he had ever met that seemed to get that concept was Conner, who said that if someone in Smallville told you to ‘watch for deer’ you had officially made it into the most loved and cherished tier of human beings in that person's life. 

Tim stepped through the front door of Wayne Manor and felt as if he had passed through a sunshiny day and into an oppressive storm cloud. He stood in the entryway with one shoe on and one shoe off, stark still with his head cocked to one side, carefully listening for anything that indicated anything that might be making the atmosphere feel so tense and off kilter. 

Finally, he slipped off his other shoe and hung his briefcase on the hook by the door, hating the feeling of the hair prickling on the back of his neck and pulling a Batarang from the hidden compartment in his briefcase as a means to settle his nerves. He moved carefully from the entryway, ready for nearly anything considering how he was feeling, then sighing as the tension practically melted at the sound of Alfred coming down the stairs; that is, until he noticed that the butler's footsteps were much heavier than normal. 

Tim slipped the Batarang into his back pocket and cautiously came to stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the descending butler and swallowing hard as he saw the tightness in his adoptive grandfather's shoulders and the deep crease of frustration between his brows.

“Of all the infuriating, self-centered, intitled… Oh, Master Tim! Welcome home, my boy. I do hope your little trip to see your brother was enjoyable. ” Alfred’s frustrated mumbling cut off as he caught sight of Tim as he neared the bottom of the stairs, reaching out to rest a white-gloved hand on Tim's shoulder, his face still a mask of tension and frustration. 

“Al? Is everything okay?” Tim asked, reaching up to lay his hand over Alfred's. 

Alfred's lips tensed in a downward twitch. “I’m afraid there has been a… development. I tried to put a stop to it the moment I became privy to it, but I'm afraid I was a little late.” 

Tim glanced from Alfred's face to the top of the stairs, a heavy thump coming from the second floor making him jump slightly before he ran up the stairs two at a time 

“Master Tim! Wait a moment, would you please wait for… oh bloody…” 

Tim was hardly even slowed by Alfred's protest, following the sound of distant movement and occasional thumping, the pocketed Batarang once more finding a place in his hand as a swirl of questions about what might be awaiting him filled his mind. As he came down the hallway of the in-use bedrooms, he tripped into a wandering sort of walk as he frowned and tried to process what he was looking at. 

There against the wall across from the bedroom doors was a rather large pile of… things: various books, binders, clothing items, shoes, cords, bits of trash, and a great many other unidentifiable objects lay in a jumbled heap right outside…

Tim blinked rapidly as understanding settled hard in his gut as he stepped into the open doorway, his mouth slightly agape and his hand clenching the Batarang tight enough that he had to consciously loosen his grip or risk cutting his palm as he stared dazedly into the room.

Damian was extremely preoccupied with meticulously arranging a shelf of collected bird nests on a shelf, his back to Tim as he acted (for surely it was an act) as if he had not noticed Tim's presence. 

“What have you done?” Tim was barely able to keep the shriek from his tone as he finally forced the words from his temporarily frozen tongue. “What are you doing in my room?”

Damian turned with a feigned look of surprise, an empty, slightly cracked robin's egg cradled carefully in his hand. “Your room?” 

“Yes! My room, you little creep!” Tim cried as he stepped further through the door and looked around with growing fury and confusion as he found Damian's sparse room furnishings were now occupying the open floorspace and a few boxes of Damian's smaller belongings were stacked neatly by his bed. “Why is all my stuff dumped in the hall? Where's my bed and my…? Why are you in here?” 

The smile that crawled across Damian's features made Tim's stomach flip and his face heat with anger. “There has been a rearrangement in sleeping quarters. Your room is now the next one down the hall.” He explained, taking on the extremely aggravating remember-I-am-a-prince-and-you-are-nothing tone of voice that he pulled out from time to time that made Tim's skin crawl.

“What are you talking about? Why? Who said?” Tim demanded, not even bothering or considering that his voice had gone a good octave higher than normal as he looked down at Damian, his eyes flashing with anger and disbelief.

Damian blinked (as if he could look even slightly innocent right now) and smiled up into Tim's face that was much more like a gloating expression than a joyful one. “Father said so.” 

“He what?” Tim gaped at Damian as if he had grown horns (unironically like his maternal grandfather's title namesake). “He did not!” 

“Indeed he did, and I will ask you not to screech.” Damian demanded plainly, not budging or backing down from Tim squaring up to him. “He said that if it made me feel more settled and at home, that I could move into this room and relocate you down the hall. This room is far more… fitting… for my place here. ” He added with a dark sort of smile, then turned and went back to carefully arranging his belongings on a shelf that had once held a few of Tim's favorite framed pictures. “He said you would not mind.”

“He… he wouldn't have said that. You're… you're lying.” Tim mumbled, feeling as though someone had ripped a rug out from under the feet of his brain as he tried to understand and fit together mixed up pieces of puzzles that did not go together. 

“Why would I lie?” Damian asked over his shoulder, turning a deep purple geode slice until it was just so on the shelf. “Father is the owner of this estate and therefore every room in it; it would do me no good to lie about something so insignificant as a room. You really should thank me anyway; this place was disgusting before I got to it, maybe now you can clean up the disaster that is your belongings and start over." 

Tim stepped back with a shocked exclamation in the back of his throat, something that sounded embarrassingly like a distressed whimper, but he just could not seem to help it. He looked around at what had once been his room, but now did not hold a single item of his, nor did it hold the familiar feeling of… home. 

Damian was right, why would he lie about something that Bruce could easily disprove? But that would have to mean that…  Tim gulped back a thick feeling in his throat and backed out of the room, nearly stumbling over the pile of his jumbled, dumped belongings.

Tim crossed over to the room further down the hall and pushed open the door, peering into the room hesitantly and dazedly to find his furniture shoved haphazardly into the space in no particular order and with no thought or consideration. He backed out of the room as his throat constricted and knelt by the clutter of his things, poking through it as though it were a collection of unknown items that he had never seen before instead his things that he used or looked at everyday. 

A pained gasp ripped from Tim's throat as he gingerly reached out and picked up an object out from under a textbook and several mismatched shoes: his camera… his old, digital, fixed lens camera… the one he had carried years ago as he crept through the alleys of Gotham on the look out for beings of shadow and light leaping across buildings, dealing out justice, saving lives, and over taking his entire being with respect and longing. He turned it over carefully in his hands (when had his hands started to shake?) and found with a sickening drop in his stomach that the lens now bore a deep crack from one edge to the other, not to mention the body was covered in scratches and scuffs. 

“I tried to get to the bottom of this situation before you came home so that you would not have to see this,” Alfred apologized from behind him, his hand coming to rest gently on the top of Tim's head, “I am so sorry I was not able to catch him sooner and delay this mess.” 

Tim stood slowly with the camera clutched to his chest as though it were a wounded creature, staring blankly into his – Damian's – room, an expression that was only betrayed by the single tear that trailed down his cheek. “Bruce said he could.” The statement was quiet, but heavy with accusation and cracked with betrayal.

“I… I will not jump to conclusions in a matter in which I did not have an audience. Until I know more, I am inclined to believe that there must have been a grave misunderstanding between Master Damian and your father.” Alfred offered gently, his grey eyes watching Tim's face carefully as he reached up to wipe the tear from Tim's cheek with one gloved finger. “I know that as soon as Master Bruce returns home we can get to the bottom of this together. It will be sorted, just you wait and see.” 

Tim bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling and swallowed hard, his breath shuddering in his chest as he turned and started down the hall. 

“Master Tim? Can I assist?” Alfred asked, taking a step after him but not quite following him to avoid making him feel chased. “I could help you arrange your things perhaps?” 

Tim shook his head as he continued down the hall, unable to voice an answer as he clutched the camera closer to his chest. He wanted to answer, but he couldn't, because if he did the tears he was choking back would surely break through, and he refused to give Damian anything more that was his. 

Bruce knew the moment he pulled into the driveway that his life was very possibly over. 

Standing stoically on the front step, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, with shoulders that could hold level shelf for all their straight, tenseness, was Alfred: looking ready to take a pound of flesh for whatever offense Bruce was guilty of committing. 

Although his mind flew over a thousand possibilities, Bruce could not imagine what he had done to receive a porchfront greeting, and for a moment considered turning around and living full time in his office. He pulled the key from the ignition with a sigh and banished the very childish thought from his mind, admonishing himself for a thought that was characteristically like something Dick might consider when faced with a confrontation. 

Bruce walked up to the front steps and stopped, looking up slightly at Alfred with his hands in his pockets. “Alfred, I hope your day has been peaceful.” 

“I will take none of your flippant offers of pleasantries, Master Bruce, I am in no mood for it at all.” Alfred retorted tersely, his already thin lips nearly disappearing as they pressed tightly together.

Bruce slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as he tried to decode and decipher Alfred's uncharacteristically short demeanor before sighing and shaking his head. “Alright Alfred, come forth with it; what have I done?”

“Perhaps sir, you should ask Master Timothy.” Alfred suggested without an ounce of helpfulness as he turned and started toward the front door. 

“Tim? What do you mean?” Bruce asked, his voice tense with concern as he trotted up the stairs in Alfred's wake. “What happened to Tim? Is he alright?” 

Alfred turned in the entryway and leveled Bruce with what could only be described as a go-to-hell sort of expression. “Surely you have some idea of the mess you have caused between him and your youngest. Please tell me you are not clueless in this matter.” 

Bruce swallowed hard, finding it hard to do so as it felt as his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Alfred, please give it to me straight: did something happen between Tim and Damian?”

“Allow me to answer your question, with a question,” Alfred replied curtly, “what on earth possessed you to allow Damian to take over Tim's room?” 

Bruce blinked and stepped back a half step as if Alfred's words had physically slapped him across the face. “Wha… What? N-no… no, that wasn't…” He set his jaw and started past Alfred with his hands clenched at his sides as his stomach flipped in his gut. “Oh have mercy, tell me that boy didn't…” 

“He insisted that he was acting under your permission and guidance.” Alfred noted as he followed a few steps behind Bruce. “I did all I could to stall or stop him and he pressed forward in his little mission regardless.” 

Bruce’s heart was hammering hard against his ribs as he took the stairs at a near sprint, not bothering with the fact that he was leaving Alfred behind as his mind became a buzz. He grabbed the top banister spire and used it to propel him down the hallway toward their bedrooms, not even trying to mask or soften his footsteps, his heart swooping in his chest as his gaze fell on a pile of cluttered objects against the wall across from Tim's door. He reached down and picked up a picture frame that was on top, swallowing hard when he saw that the glass had broken and torn a gash down the selfie of Tim and Dick grinning brightly with their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in front of the movie theater. 

Bruce clenched his jaw as he turned and opened the door that should have been Tim's without a thought of knocking or announcing himself and froze in the doorway when he saw that Damian had made short work of completely moving into Tim's room. “Damian?” Bruce snapped as he looked around the seemingly empty room. 

“I believe Master Damian is downstairs in the basement.” Alfred supplied from where he stood slightly down the hall. “Master Tim, on the other hand, I have yet to be able to locate.” 

Bruce turned on his heel and started back toward the stairs. “I'll find Tim in a moment, right now I need to speak with Damian first.” He ground out between clenched teeth as he fought down the rising anger and frustration in his chest. 

Damian had just finished a combination with his katana that left a practice dummy decapitated and sliced down the torso as Bruce stalked down the stairs onto the training mats. 

“Damian.”

Damian's shoulders stiffened upward towards his ears as his father's voice echoed harsh and stern through the cave, sheathing his sword quickly and turning quickly so that he was standing with his arms stiffly at his sides and his feet tightly together in a type of attention, a long trained in habit courtesy of his mother. The moment he saw Bruce closing the distance between them, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides and his steps brusque and calculated, he swallowed hard before attempting to speak. “Father?”  

Bruce planted his hands on his hips as he looked down at his son, his jaw tense and his eyes flashing bright with anger as he met Damian's gaze. “What on earth has gotten into you? Just when I think you might be starting to get a clue, you go and do something like this!” 

Damian fought against the urge to duck his head to escape his father's gaze and flinch at the harsh snap of his voice, and instead lifted his chin just that tiny bit more. “I'm sure I don't know what you are speaking of Father. What exactly have I-”

“I will not tolerate feigned innocence Damian.” Bruce cut in, “You know perfectly well what I am speaking of: the fact that you took over Tim's room this afternoon without my permission!”  

Damian sniffed through his nose and fell out of his instinctual stance in favor of crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “I did not do anything wrong, and I did not do anything without your permission.” 

“How is it not wrong to dump all of your brother's things in the hall without an ounce of consideration and move in without him even knowing about it?” Bruce cried, one hand gesturing upward toward the manor. “And I most certainly did not give you permission to do so!” 

“Yes you did!” Damian snapped, his arms dropping to his sides as he glared up at Bruce. “You said that he wouldn't mind, and I could have whatever room I liked if it made me feel more at home! Am I to understand that you did not want me to feel comfortable here after all?" 

“Don't you dare twist my words Damian Wayne, you know that isn't what I meant. At this moment this issue has nothing to do with whether you are comfortable or not and everything to do with you filtering my statements for your own goals!” Bruce commanded, his brows furrowing low over his eyes. “When I said that, I meant that we would speak with Tim about swapping rooms, not that you were allowed to go in and take over without his knowledge! Surely you are not that dense!” 

“I am not dense!” Damian defended, his head tilted back a little so that he could meet Bruce's gaze with defiance. “If anything I did him a favor by doing the work for him by moving him from the room you said I could have!” 

“In no way did I indicate that I had promised you that room Damian; if anything, that room was Tim's to give, not yours to take!” Bruce retorted sharply. “What you did was sneaky, cruel, and inconsiderate, and you are sadly delusional if you think for a moment that I do not see your motives for exactly what they are. You knew that what you did was for the direct purpose of causing upheaval and harm, and you manipulated me into giving you pseudo permission so that Alfred would not intervene by acting as though you were struggling to belong here.” 

Damian finally dropped his gaze from Bruce’s, disguising his discomfort with a huff as he turned slightly and crossed his arms. “It's just a room. I do not see what the issue is beyond Drake having fragile feelings about things that are not important.” 

“Oh really? If it isn't important, then why did you want that room instead of your own?” Bruce shot back, his hands returning to their perch on his hips. 

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it as he shut his mouth with an audible click. 

Bruce sighed and ran a hand back through his hair. “Can you even see that what you did was wrong in any way?” He waited for several heartbeats for Damian to give him something, anything, in the form of acknowledgement then let out a long breath through his nose. “Fine, clam up, if that's your decision, but I will have you understand perfectly that this will not go without consequences.” 

Damian's gaze flicked back to Bruce with slightly widened eyes, but other than that his face was void of changed emotion besides his stoic glare. “If that is what you have decided Father, I will bear whatever you see fit as a form of punishment. What am I to expect?”

“You can expect to not step foot down in this cave, much less accompany me on patrols,” Bruce stated firmly, continuing in spite of Damian's mouth flying open to protest, “and if I even suspect that you are sneaking down here without my express permission, I will only extend the period. Put that sword away and go upstairs, your punishment starts now.” He added over his shoulder as he started toward the stairs. 

“For how long?” Damian demanded, stepping forward after Bruce and pausing at the bottom of the stairs, his hands gripping the railing until his knuckles whitened. 

“As long as I say so.” Bruce replied curtly without looking back, his mind was now on finding his other son and trying to mend what Damian had broken. 

Of all his sons, Bruce hated it when Tim decided to vanish; with Dick, his hiding place was always under his own bed or in the closet, Jason had always hidden himself away in a corner of the library, and Damian always went to the garden to decapitate topiaries. Tim, on the other hand, changed his places of solitude so often that Bruce could never keep track, which made it almost impossible to locate him when he decided that he did not want to be found. 

 Bruce had checked the bedrooms, several of the dens, the library, and the entirety of the guest bedrooms by nightfall only to come up empty handed and increasingly concerned. He sat down in a large armchair in one of the main family rooms with a sigh and pulled his phone from his pocket, touching the picture of Tim on his speed dial page and listening to the dial tone on speaker with his bottom lip pinned tightly between his teeth. 

Hey! This is Tim. If you are calling in regards to Wayne Enterprises business, please hang up and contact me through my business phone number listed on the website. Otherwise, sorry I missed your call, leave me a message with your number and I'll get back with you as soon as I can. Thanks!

Bruce swallowed hard and hung up before the voicemail tone could beep, his stomach slightly sick at the cheerful, fake, Timmy Wayne voicemail message in light of how he was sure Tim was actually feeling at the moment. He stood and shoved his phone back into his pocket as he started toward the entrance to the Batcave, annoyed with himself that he had not checked there before when he had been speaking to Damain. 

After a thorough search of the Cave, Bruce leaned heavily against the keyboard of the computer and typed in his code one handed, a small band of panic drawing tight around his heart as he considered that perhaps Tim had at some point circled around into the Cave while Bruce was upstairs and had left on his own. He swiped through a few options on the home screen of the computer then opened the tracking and health stats that were linked to Tim’s Red Robin uniform; which to his surprise showed that the suit had indeed moved, but was still within the Cave. The tracking beacon was in fact showing that the Red Robin suit was in the design and repair section of the cave, an area that was not immediately noticeable from the main floors of the Cave, and therefore an area that could easily miss an initial once over. 

After staring at the blinking dot on the map and figuring out where exactly it was indicating, Bruce shut off the screen and started toward the area. As he climbed a small flight of stairs that led up to the platform, he made his steps purposefully louder than normal in hopes of announcing his approach, and he could not help but sigh in relief when his gaze came level with the platform and landed on his son in one of the chairs near one of the tables. 

Tim was scrunched into the chair in a way that made Bruce’s back hurt just looking at him, with one leg bent and laid flat on the chair’s seat with his foot hooked around the ankle of his other leg which was drawn up to act as a brace for the tablet he was working on, his eyes trained in on his project with perfect focus while his screen-light illuminated face appeared to be completely blank of any emotion at all. Not a good sign, especially since when Tim was happily working on a project his brow furrowed, his top lip would twitch, and occasionally the tip of his tongue would poke out from in between his lips; expressionless focus meant dissociation more than anything else. 

“Hey kiddo, I've been looking all over for you.” Bruce greeted carefully, trying to keep his voice light and his tone soft as he walked up to stand in front of Tim’s chair, his hands casually in his pockets in what he hoped was an approachable demeanor.  

Tim didn’t jump or flinch at the sound of his voice, which probably meant he had noticed or heard Bruce at some point, and his eyes barely flicked from his screen for a second. “Hey.” The single syllable was all Bruce needed to gather pissed-hurt-annoyed-guarded from his tone. 

Bruce sighed and pulled over another chair and straddled it backward so that he could rest his forearms on the back of it. “Can we talk?” 

Tim shrugged one shoulder so quickly that it almost looked like a twitch, his gaze not leaving the tablet screen, but now that Bruce was this close he could see that Tim’s eyes were badly bloodshot and slightly red-rimmed. Another not good sign…

Bruce swallowed hard, getting the drift that Tim was not going to help him out with this in any way and that he was on his own with getting this conversation started. And the only way he could think to do that was… “Tim, I’m sorry.” 

Tim paused in his tapping and swiping on the screen, but he still didn’t look up. “What for?” He quired quietly, his voice edged with a bitter tone that only aided in shielding the waver of hurt in his tone a little. 

“For Damian’s actions today, and my part in allowing it to happen,” Bruce supplied, “please believe me that I had no idea what he was home doing this afternoon, and if I had I would have put a stop to it.” 

Tim stared at his screen a moment more before finally, finally, looking up to meet Bruce’s gaze, and for a moment Bruce wondered if he would have rathered Tim to continue his project just to escape the accusation-filled gaze he was leveled with. “Why? According to Damian you gave him permission to make himself,” he paused and raised his hands on either side of his face to twitch his middle and index fingers in air quotes, “‘feel more settled and at home’.” Tim’s expression darkened into a glare as he let out a sharp sniff. “And that apparently included taking over my room and dumping me wherever.” 

“I did not give him permission to do that Tim, I never would.” Bruce insisted, forcing himself to hold Tim’s gaze and sit still even though he badly wanted to stand and pace. “Damian mentioned that being further away from me made him uncomfortable and that he had been experiencing nightmares. All I said was that maybe we could speak to you about switching rooms if you wanted to; I did not make promises nor give permission, but Damian-” 

“Took what he felt was his by right. He told me that you said I wouldn’t care.” Tim filled in shortly, his eyes searching Bruce's face with the same calculation as he would examine the evidence of a crime. 

“I said I didn't think you would mind,” Bruce reiterated, “as in after we spoke with you about it, and if you had minded then I hope you understand that I would not have forced you to give up your room.” Bruce rolled his chair forward and laid a hand on Tim's knee. “Tim, I would not do that to you, truly I wouldn’t. I hope you can believe that, but more than that, I hope you know me better than that.” 

Tim stared at Bruce in silence for a moment, his gaze almost penetrating Bruce’s soul. Bruce would not say this aloud to another living soul, but he was convinced that the Robin that had somehow adopted the Bat-glare the most flawlessly, was in fact Tim. 

The spell was broken with Tim sighing heavily and dropping his gaze to the tablet, but not to work, just as a place to look that wasn’t Bruce’s face. “I know, I know you wouldn’t. I guess hearing Damian say it, and see him moving in without even a second thought, I sort of… worried that you might.” He swallowed hard and set his tablet over on the table in favor of lacing his fingers against his shin. “It just… it really rubbed me the wrong way.” 

“Rightfully so,” Bruce agreed with a nod, “you came home and found all of your things moved and your room occupied. That would rub anyone the wrong way, and I’m so sorry that you had to experience that.” 

Tim swallowed again, and Bruce didn’t like to think that it was likely in effort to keep a knot of emotion from forming. “It’s… It’s just a room, I know that, but…” 

Bruce rolled his chair over so that he was sitting next to Tim, experimentally draping an arm over Tim’s shoulders and pulling him closer when he felt Tim respond by relaxing his shoulders and leaning in. “Go on, tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Tim kept his gaze training on the metal floor, blinking rabidly as his eyes swam in the artificial light. “It’s just a room, Damian said that, and he was right in a way; it’s just a room, but it was my room. It’s always been my room.” His voice was slightly thick, but he was doing a good job of keeping it steady in spite of the obvious battle he was fighting. “Back when I didn’t know where, exactly, I belonged; when being home meant being alone or ignored and being here meant… not being alone. It was… my safe space; a place I could just trust would be there.” 

Bruce thought that a knife twisted into his sternum might not be as painful as this; seeing Tim struggle and fight to express how he was feeling and put to words a time when Bruce should have been more than the difference of just not being alone and instead actually been there was enough to make his throat constrict and heart feel as though it were being crushed. 

“I know,” Tim’s voice broke through Bruce’s thoughts as he laid his head on Bruce’s chest, “it’s stupid. I’m being stupid about it.” 

Bruce swallowed hard and pulled himself closer to Tim. “No, you are not being stupid. What you’re feeling, what you’ve said, is valid. Your space and your belongings should be respected, and that respect was completely violated. I get it, I understand where you’re coming from and I want to do what I can to fix it; especially since I am responsible for not making myself clear, well… more clear… to Damian.” Bruce was having to plant his feet firmly now to keep his chair from rolling as Tim leaned into him, but he was not about to say anything to disrupt the moment. 

“I can imagine you were perfectly clear with him,” Tim sighed, “but it’s Damian we’re talking about, Mister-I-get-what-I-want-cause-I’m-the-blood-son. He isn’t exactly known for being very obedient; at least, not unless there is punishment by trial of fire and blood involved.” 

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes in frustration at TIm’s unfortunately accurate statement then squeezed Tim’s shoulder gently. “I know it’s late, but what do you say we go upstairs and put your room back together? It shouldn’t take long between the two of us, and I know Alfred would help if I asked.” Bruce couldn’t see Tim’s face, but he could practically hear the gears in his head turning in the silence that followed his offer, and as much as he wanted to press, he knew better than to try to force an answer from Tim so he instead waited. 

“No.” 

The quiet answer made Bruce’s brows raise in surprise as he leaned slightly away from Tim to see his face. “No?” He echoed, as if saying it again would make the answer change somehow. 

Tim sat up, not quite pulling out from under Bruce’s arm, but moving away enough that they could look at each other. “It won’t do any good, in fact, it will only make things harder. I don’t know what you did to Damian, but whatever it was will make him mad enough; swapping rooms again will just make him… stabby angry. Besides, it won’t… it won’t be the same now.” 

Bruce frowned and reached out to smooth Tim’s hair back off his forehead only for it to fall right back into its previous place. “Yes it will; we’ll put it all back just as you had it, and I’m not really sure I want to allow Damian to keep it given the circumstances of him moving into it.” 

“It won’t be the same Bruce, I can’t explain it, but I know that it won’t.” Tim replied firmly, though his voice still shook a little. “I don’t really want Damian having it either, obviously, but I… I guess I don’t want to deal with the fallout.”  

“There wont be any fallout Tim,” Bruce insisted gently, slightly surprised that he was losing this fight somehow, “if you want your room back, say the word and you and I will go up and take care of it.” 

Tim smiled, but it was a sympathetic sort of smile that made Bruce's chest tighten, as if he was pitying Bruce's lack of understanding in this matter. “B, we're talking about Damian; there would be fallout. No, I'll… I’ll get over it, and I'll find my way into a new space.” 

Bruce considered arguing, thought deeply on pulling rank and order and telling Tim that he was going to go up and set things right whether he thought he wanted it or not; but he knew, deep down, that would do nothing for his and Tim's relationship. Tim knew what he wanted, and if Bruce had learned anything, he wanted nothing more than to have his opinions and wants respected; forcing the matter would only make him feel that Bruce was brushing him aside and walking over him. 

So, instead of arguing, Burce nodded with a small smile. “Alright kiddo, if that's really what you want.” 

Tim's smile brightened a little and leaned over to return to his previous position of reclining against Bruce. “It is, I'd tell you if it wasn't.” 

“And you'll tell me if you change your mind?” 

Tim nodded against Bruce's chest. “I will, but I won't.” 

The silence that stretched between them now was not in the least uncomfortable, but Bruce's mind was running over and over the day, and thinking about his youngest son half-gloating and half-sulking in his stolen room, and the one leaning heavily, almost wearily, against him. He hated that Tim wouldn't let him make it right, and also hated that Tim was also likely right that he would not be able to. But he had to fix it somehow; this could not be the only case that he failed to solve… 

Tim sighed as he sat up, and Bruce had to restrain himself from pulling him back in. “Shouldn't we be suiting up? Nightfall was at least an hour ago.”

Bruce smiled and shook his head. “It was actually a few hours ago, but that really isn’t my concern tonight. We’ll go if you feel like it, and won’t if you don’t.”

Tim stared at Bruce for a moment as if he had grown a third eye, then ducked his head as the tips of his ears darkened, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. “Well… I do have a new room to set up… apparently.” 

Bruce tried not to wince and nodded. “I can help with that. You want to head up?” 

Tim nodded, unfurling his legs from the chair and standing to plug in his tablet. 

“What were you working on?” Bruce asked as he stood to join him at the table. 

Tim’s cheeks darkened to match his ears as he shrugged a little. “Nothing too interesting really; I was just playing around with some mask designs for my Red Robin suit.”

“Would you mind if I see?” Bruce asked (not too demanding, just gentle requesting), leaning against the table with his hands in his pockets (relaxed, not intimidating, just relaxed). 

Tim opened his mouth a little bit before he paused, a sure sign he was thinking heavily on saying no, then shrugged one shoulder. “Sure.” He replied, pressing his thumb to the fingerprint reader to unlock the tablet, then swiped through a few pages before (reluctantly? No, nervously.) handing it over to Bruce. 

The page that was open on the tablet held a selection of 3D mannequin heads, and on each one was a variation of domino mask. One was quite angular, with the sides extending down from the temples nearly to the chin, and the nose was quite… beak-like… there was really no other way to describe it, and the thought made Bruce have to fight back a smile at how Tim was leaning into the bird theme of his alter-ego. Another was red, and more like the current domino mask that Tim wore, only it had sharp points curving upward toward the temple area. And another at the bottom of the page… 

“A cowl?” Bruce mused as he tilted the screen to show Tim the option he was currently looking at. 

“Maybe, I was thinking about it. I mean, there is a lot of practicality to a cowl…” Tim shrugged slowly, his shoulders hovering by his ears for a few seconds before they dropped heavily, his gaze dropping to the floor as his face reddened again, but this time out of embarrassment. “Maybe it’s stupid…” 

“No no,” Bruce cut in, laying a hand on Tim’s shoulders to bring his attention back, “I don’t think it’s stupid; I mean, I wear one, so...” 

Tim looked up so quickly a vertebrae in his neck popped, panic in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…!” 

“I know you didn’t,” Bruce assured quickly, “I just meant that I know well the practicalities and uses a cowl provides, I’m just a little surprised that you would consider wearing one. That would be… different.” 

Tim relaxed a little as a smile replaced the uncertainty on his face. “Bad-different? I was hesitating because I wasn''t sure what you would think about it.” 

“Not bad-different, just different from what I'm used to seeing on you.” Bruce replied, holding up the tablet next to Tim's face as he considered it. “But, I think it might be a good look for Red Robin.” 

Tim grinned and took back the offered tablet. “I was hoping you'd say that. I'm not sold on anything, I just thought I might want to upgrade at some point.” 

Bruce nodded and draped an arm over Tim's shoulders as they started down the stairs together. “My opinion is just that, but I think that whatever you choose will suit you just fine. You have certainly proved to have a flare for uniform design.” 

Tim chuckled and gently elbowed Bruce in the ribs. “I didn't exactly have a choice with 'the brand' you know, I just have to do what I can with it since I inherited it.”

Bruce smiled down at Tim as they stepped into the elevator, making no move to pull his arm from Tim's shoulders. “What's wrong with 'the brand’?”

“Oh, nothing really,” Tim smiled, turning slightly so that he could wrap his arms around Bruce's middle while staying under Bruce’s arm and pressing his cheek to his chest, “it’s just something I have to deal with since I wasn’t here from the beginning to coach you on your oftentimes atrocious fashion sense.” 

Bruce chuckled and shook his head at Tim’s snark, more grateful to hear that than he would be to hear anything else, because if Tim was snarking, he wasn't shutting Bruce out and locking down. He rubbed his hand up and down Tim’s back, able to feel the nodules of his spine even under his sweatshirt. 

Bruce deserved Tim’s snark. He deserved his anger. Somehow, forgiveness and willingness to move on hurt even worse than if Tim had refused to speak to him and not believed his defense that he would not have allowed Damian to act the way he had; it hurt because it worried Bruce that it was only a well practiced front Tim had learned to put on from the time he was little… shut down, shut up, and bury whatever he was really feeling deep enough that it would not bother or inconvenience anyone.

Bruce knew that if his fears held any weight, it could, and eventually would, have catastrophic consequences; he knew, because he was prone to do the exact same thing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

It was the same room. It was the same room. In fact, all of the bedrooms on the second floor were exactly the same. They were all painted the same light taupe brown, they all had two large windows with thick blackout curtains, and they all had an attached bathroom with a Mr. and Mrs. sink, a toilet, a walk-in shower, and separate bathtub. The only room that was actually different was Bruce’s room because it was the official ‘master bedroom’ in the manor.

So why did Tim feel that everything about his ‘new’ room was just… wrong?

Bruce had helped Tim set everything up exactly how Tim had wanted, and had not uttered a single question about the ‘why’ of Tim’s particular requests for his bed to be in the far corner with one side shoved against the wall, or his desk to be set in between the windows with room for his chair to be between the wall and desk. Bruce had not complained when the night stretched thin as Tim took his time untangling the mess of his things from the hall and spent a ridiculous amount of time arranging them around the room; and yet, after all that, Tim had not slept a single moment that night. He had simply laid in bed staring at the ceiling and thought of the overall sense of wrongness that seemed to fill the very air of the room. 

Now, almost a week later, Tim tried to avoid the room at all costs, barely even spending ten minutes at a time there in order to get dressed. Which made sleep… interesting… to say the least. But it wasn’t a problem if he just… didn’t. Right? Yeah. Right. 

He had also written out and deleted a very long vent text in response to Dick's 'how's it going?' text at least three times. He finally ended up just sending a very false, very simple 'fine, how are you?' and ended up small talking and BS-ing to avoid telling Dick the whole truth or crying over the situation again.

The plus side of the entire fiasco, was that Damian had been benched by Bruce until further notice (Tim might have cackled with satisfaction the next moment he was alone after finding that out, but he would never admit it if asked). This meant that for the first time in what felt like ages, Tim was patrolling the city alongside Bruce, without the little pain in the neck tagging along and making Bruce’s immediate vicinity a living hell zone. 

So as he swung through the air between two sky scrapers, watching the shadow of Batman’s cape billow and snap in front of him, Tim decided that maybe losing his room to Damian was worth it just to have this moment. Would he feel the pang of frustration and anger again when he got home and was forced to face reality? Yes. Was it something he was worth forgetting about right now in order to fully relish being the sole Robin at Batman’s side for a time while the gremlin monster served his time? Also yes. 

Tim landed neatly out of a slightly unnecessary flip onto the top of a building, pulling in his grappling line and holstering his launcher as he strode to the edge of the roof to stand next to Bruce to look out over the streets below. He smiled and bumped his shoulder into Bruce's bicep. “Is it too early to say that it seems like a quiet night?”

“I always wait to say that until the sun’s up,” Bruce replied, his voice deep and low as he swiped through reports on the hologram screen projecting from his wrist gauntlet. “There's been some strange activity on the south side recently.” 

Tim cocked his head slightly as he peeked at the screen. “What kind of strange activity?”

“Reports of crimes that are called in but oddly already dealt with by the time GCPD has a chance to get there.” Bruce supplied as he continued scrolling through the reports, pausing on a picture of a mohawk sporting thug face down on the asphalt with this wrists zip tied behind his back, his face an array of bruises and cuts. “The strangest part to me is the fact that when questioned, the perpetrators will not supply any information on who neutralized them. Their files all say the same thing: that they were terrified of retribution from whoever it was if they spoke up about the incident. They seemed relieved to be taken into custody, as if arrest was the best thing that could happen to get them away from whoever stopped them from committing their crime. A few of them have been admitted for psych evals due to their extreme paranoid behavior after getting picked up.” 

Tim's mouth went dry as he listened to Bruce's explanation. Boy, he really had spoken too soon. There was only one person that he knew who could hold the underbelly of Gotham in a state of terror where arrest seemed like escape. He could be wrong (unlikely), but it was seeming very possible due to the evidence that Red Hood was stepping back up to take a hold of the crime world by the scruff and threaten ‘play nice or else’. It would make sense that Jason would not be able to stay away from his roots for long now that he was back…

“Red? You good?” The question, as well as the touch of the back of Bruce's gloved hand against his own, made Tim realize that he had been drifting within his own thoughts for several quiet moments. 

Tim blinked a few times and looked up to meet Bruce's questioning stare. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I was just running possibilities through my head. Um… what are your thoughts?”

“I'm not sure.” Bruce replied as he pulled his grappling gun from his holster. “I don't like the thought, but the idea of a rogue vigilante did cross my mind.” 

Tim found suddenly that he was unable to swallow, and gave up trying. “Rouge? What do you mean? Like a new one? Or… or one we know of?” 

“Possibily, to either circumstance. Regardless, I think it's worth checking out.” Bruce replied as he raised his launcher to aim for an anchor point. 

“Is it really that urgent? I mean, it seems to me whoever it is is doing us a favor.” 

Bruce lowered his arm and turned to look back at Tim with a slightly tilted head, a chilling sort of sight for someone that was not used to getting that look from The Batman on a simi-frequent basis. “Red, you know that an unknown, unchecked vigilante is a threat until proven otherwise. Why the hesitation?"

Tim shrugged and pulled his launcher as a distraction from the hammering under his ribs. “No hesitation really, just… pointing out that maybe it isn’t a super big deal yet.”

“Right, ‘yet’ being the operative word,” Bruce insisted, “and I prefer to be ahead of the ‘yet’, and so do you… normally. Is there a reason why you're feeling a lack of urgency?” 

“No, no, I'm urgent,” Tim replied, kicking himself that he did so a little too quickly, “ya know, I was just… just checking. You’re right though; let’s, uh, let’s go. Whatdaya say?” Tim fired off his grapple and stepped off the roof edge, the sound of Bruce firing his own grapple confirmed that Bruce was following him. 

Freaking dang it… real subtle there moron. Oh Jason, you had better either be ready to make an appearance and get it over with or please for the love of everything just stay tucked away someplace…

Tim knew it was inevitable; Gotham was only so big and news traveled fast, especially when Gotham’s finest had a constant finger to the pulse of anything that happened within the city limits. Surely one of the thugs would eventually croak and admit that it was indeed Red Hood that had brought them down (because honestly, who else would be stopping crimes on the south side and have the criminals scared into silence?) and the news that Red Hood was back in town would be out for sure. But considering everything Tim was already dealing with in his life, he would appreciate it if one or more things would resolve themselves before he had to add another one to his list of problems needing solving, fixing, and patching up. 

“Do you want to take Q15 while I go through Q10?” Bruce's question in the communicator in his ear nearly made Tim miss his next grapple target as it yanked him out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah, sure. You think splitting up is the way to go?” Tim asked, stealing a quick glance at his swinging partner before pressing his recoil button and firing it off again. 

“I thought we'd cover more ground that way, maybe find some clues as to what we’re dealing with. Unless you aren't comfortable splitting up…?” 

“Nope! I'm good! No problem.” Frick… he was really off his ‘play it cool’ game tonight…

They split paths after Bruce made Tim swear and double swear that nothing was wrong and that he was fine (stupid Bat-sixth-sense), and started out on their patrol of their agreed-upon areas of the south side of Gotham. 

Somehow, without really thinking about it, Tim ended up on the rooftop where he had a few months ago with a busted ankle, a bleeding face, and Jason sitting at his left making quips and making sure he didn't dive headfirst toward the concrete below. He sighed heavily as he knelt and opened up his gauntlet computer to swipe through the reports that he had seen Bruce examining earlier. 

Tim shook his head as he read through one report that described the perpetrator taken into custody as "hysterical beyond the ability to speak” and “having both defecated and urinated himself before pick up: no drugs present in system to cause such reaction”. There were only a few people in the world Tim had ever met that had scared him badly enough to nearly make him wet himself, and one of them had once had shown up in the one place he thought he would be safe and had soundly mopped the floor with him (mostly, Tim held pretty tightly to the licks he got in given the circumstance).

Just as Tim started to continue on in his patrol of the area, his attention was jerked toward a bright flash down the street that was accompanied by an ear-ringing explosion and a shock wave that made him stumble back against a chimney. He blinked several times as he tried to rid his eyes of the light spots in his vision and shake off the numbness of shock before the gut-wrenching realization of what had happened forced him to his feet and leaping down from the roof as adrenaline coursed through his veins.    

“We’ve got an explosion in Q15!” Tim barked out as he fell into a dead run, reaching up to tap his earpiece so that his communicator connected not only with Bruce’s but also the GCPD radio system, “Apartment building, 1535 West Norville Street, several injuries and potential civilian casualties possible. Back up needed, repeat, back up will be needed!” 

"I’m coming, Red." Batman’s voice promised over the communicator. "Do what you can, but be careful." 

Tim paused for just a moment in front of the now ablaze building to pull out a respirator mask from one of his belt pouches and pull it on before using his grapple to send him up to the gaping hole from where the explosion had originated in the third story of the building. 

The room was barely a room now at all, just flaming, jagged support beams, crumbling walls, and what used to be a floor. Tim peered through the smoke and flying, flaming particles into the room below and dropped down with a light grunt, his mask lens scanning the area for anything or anyone that was moving. A whimpered sob to his right made him turn to see a boy around his own age barely visible beneath the rubble of the ceiling that crashed down from the explosion in the room above. 

“Hold on pal,” Tim encouraged, projecting his voice so that he could be heard over the groaning and creaking of the unstable walls around them and through the layers of filters in his mask, “I'll get ya out of there.” 

“Wha-what happened?” The teen coughed, his eyes struggling to stay focused as he looked up dazedly at Tim pulling rubble off of him. “M-Mom? Mom! Wh-where…?”

“Hey, hey bud, listen to me: it's gonna be okay,” Tim grunted out as he pulled the beam out of the way, then knelt to quickly take stock of the kid's injuries to decide the best way to transport him. “I'm gonna get you out of here, and then I'm gonna come back for your mom. Okay?” 

“Y-you… you p-promise?” 

Tim carefully pulled the kid into a fireman's carry as he nodded. “Yep, promise. But let's get you outta here first.” Tim grappled back up to the room where the explosion had happened and rappelled down the wall. He trotted across the street where several civilians stood gathered, watching the blaze that was quickly taking over the building. “Here! Watch him and make sure he doesn't try to stand up or move too much.” Tim called to a mom-looking lady and her husband as he carefully laid the kid down on the sidewalk and started back across the street. 

“Bats? What's your ETA?” Tim asked into his communicator as he ran back across the street, only slightly relieved to hear sirens in the distance. “I could really use some more hands!” 

"Longer than I want, Red, I'm pinned in by a couple of gunmen."

Tim's stomach flipped anxiously at the gruff answer as he reentered the building, dropping into the apartment to look for the boy's mother. “When the frick did that happen?” 

"Right after you called in the…" Bruce's voice paused as Tim could hear the ratatatat of a semi-automatic weapon. "Explosion." Bruce finished with a growl. "I’m hoping there's no connection. Hang in there, Red, I'm still coming."

Tim didn't bother answering as he pulled an unconscious woman out from under the door of what used to be her bedroom. Regardless of connection, it sounded like he was on his own, and there were a lot of apartments that needed to be evacuated and countless possible injured or unconscious civilians that needed help. He fell quickly into the rhythm of pulling people out of rubble and barely stable rooms and carrying or helping them out of the quickly destabilizing building. 

“Red Robin! Wait!” A fire chief called as he jumped down from his truck as several more started pulling up. “Where can my crews help with evac?” 

“Start in the lower part of the building," Tim ordered as he pulled his mask down briefly so that his voice was clearer and to pull in a few deep breaths of semi-clear air. “The upper levels are too unstable and dangerous, I'll cover that part. Be careful, though! The structure could go any minute!” He called over his shoulder as he pulled his mask back up and jogged back to where he had been passing in and out through the gaping hole in the building.

Tim walked through the flaming hall, his eyes stinging behind his mask as his sweat loosened the seal and allowed for smoke to seep in, listening and watching carefully for signs of life as he wove in and out of the destroyed apartments. His head was spinning slightly, and his chest felt constricted, which meant the filters in his respirator were beginning to fail at their job of keeping out the fumes and smoke from the burning building. 

“Help! Please! H-help me!” 

Tim's head jerked up from looking under a fallen door at the choked plea that cried out from the next apartment. He jumped back and held up an arm in front of his face as part of the ceiling gave way just in front of him and crashed down in a flurry of smoke, burning ash, and flame. “Hang on! I'm coming!” He called as he climbed through the web of wood and pipes that had been created by the collapse. 

Tim's mouth went dry as he caught sight of a man face down beneath a load-bearing size beam with a large amount of what used to be the ceiling attached to it, his face covered in blood and ash as he stared up at Tim in desperation. 

“I-I can't move! My legs are tr-trapped! Oh dear Lord, I’m gonna die here!” The man cried, his voice broken and raspy from pain and his smoke-burned esophagus. 

“Not on my watch. I know it hurts, just hold on and try to stay calm for me.” Tim urged as he knelt and patted the trapped man's arm as comfortingly as he could manage, as he took in the beam and considered his options. “If I can get this thing lifted, do you think you can crawl forward?” 

“I… I think so. I’ll try…” 

“Okay, let’s give it our best shot then.” Tim stood and tugged his gloves a little more firmly into place, bent his knees to wedge his fingers between the beam and the man's back, blowing out a deep breath before bracing himself and trying to lift the beam. His jaw set tight enough that his back molars squeaked uncomfortably and he could feel almost every muscle in his body tense in effort, an effort that seemed to be pointless as he hardly noticed the beam move at all. Just before he gave up to readjust his grip and try again, the beam suddenly started to lift, yet not by Tim’s strength but instead a seemingly otherworldly force. The debris lifted nearly out of his hands and above his head so that he was looking straight into… the white eye lenses of Red Hood's mask.

“Wouldja just get him outta there already?” Came the snapped demand from behind the mask after Tim gawked for a moment as he stood holding up the beam unnecessarily. “This isn't exactly a paper weight I'm holding…”  

“Oh! Right!” Tim exclaimed as he dropped to one knee to carefully roll the man over and then drag him away from the beam, allowing Red Hood to step out from under it and drop the load. “Okay, let's get you out of here and into some fresh air.” He mumbled as he quickly assessed possible injuries and pulled the man onto his shoulders, patting his leg gently in sympathy as the man let out a groan of pain. “Hang in there, the worst is almost over.” 

“I'll check the last apartments on this level. Once you've got him out, I'll meet you on the next floor.” Red Hood called, sparta kicking his way through some fallen boards on his way to carry out his task. 

“Copy that! We aren't going to have much time before the structure gives out!” Tim called over his shoulder as he hurried toward the exit with his now unconscious passenger.

Once back inside, Tim made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor, coming around the corner just in time to see Red Hood pulling a little girl and her mother into his arms as the blazing ceiling shifted and creaked. 

“Hood, watch it!” Tim cried out as he dove across the space dividing them and slammed bodily into Red Hood’s back, sending the four of them falling forward enough so that when the ceiling gave in they were out of the way of the collapse of building materials.

Red Hood propped himself up on his elbow as he looked back over his shoulder and the smoldering mess where he had been standing a moment ago, then looked to Tim with a small huff that came through a little funny through the modulator in his mask. “Nice save, kid. Let's get these guys out of here before the whole place comes down.   

Tim grinned and nodded, picking up the little girl and kicking down another apartment door to look around quickly. “Anybody in here? We're here to help you!” Tim called, listening carefully for any response. 

“I'll take her, you check it out.” Red Hood suggested as he reached out with one arm to take the girl from Tim as he wrapped his other arm around the crying, dazed mother. 

“Got it,” Tim replied as he started inside the room in search of trapped tenants.

It was easy… simple… seamless the way Red Hood and Red Robin fell into step and started working together to clear out the fourth level of civilians; Red Hood worked to clear paths and lift debris as Red Robin crawled or wriggled into tight spaces and pulled survivors free so they could trade off transporting them to the safety of the street below. In the very back of the not-dealing-with-an-emergency-crisis side of Tim's brain, he marveled at how well they worked together since unlike with Bruce or Dick, he had never once trained in any capacity to work with Jason. Yet it was like two pieces of a puzzle falling neatly into place to get the job done in the most efficient and effective way possible. That would certainly be a mystery to solve… but maybe a mystery for another day when a building was not actively crumbling around them. 

Tim came back up the stairs on what felt like his hundredth trip and jogged to stop as Red Hood came clambering back over a pile of debris, firmly shoving the creeping feelings of fatigue from his mind. “Was that the last room?” 

“Yeah, that was it.” Red Hood answered, slapping out a small flame on his shoulder. “This level's clear.”

“I just spoke with the chief, the lower levels have been evacuated, and they are doing everything they can to stop the fire from spreading to other buildings,” Tim reported, wiping his forearm across his forehead to brush away the beading sweat that was running down his face. “But this place is a lost cause, and she’s likely to come down any moment.” 

“Then we'd better-” Red Hood's statement trailed off as he reached out to shove Tim hard in the chest as he jumped back just as the floor began to creak and shift. 

Tim stumbled back further and held his arms up to guard his face from the heat and flying bits of burning ash as flames shot up from the massive hole that opened up in front of him, coughing as the badly abused filters in his mask seemed to be doing less every passing moment.

When the smoke and flames settled down a little, Tim gulped hard as he surveyed the large opening in the floor that now separated him from the exit. 

Red Hood stood from where he had knelt to wait out the surge of heat and wiped a gloved hand across his mask's eye lens. “Red? You good?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Tim answered as he started searching for his next easiest exit point. “I'm going to have to try to get out one of these apartment windows.”

“Those rooms aren't stable enough for that. I barely got out of that one to your left before the roof caved.” Red Hood called across the gaping chasm of flames. 

“I don't have a lot of choice,” Tim replied as he pushed aside a fallen beam and peered into the room to his right, “there's not a fire escape or exit on this end of the hallway.” 

“Alright, just make sure you- THREE O’CLOCK!” 

The hoarse cry combined with a creak and crunch of collapsing ceiling and roof just to his right made Tim sprint forward, his hesitation or consideration of the aftermath of his actions washed out by survival instinct as he planted his foot on the edge of a jagged floor beam and launched himself across the hole. Time, in a ridiculously cliche manner, seemed to stretch thin as Tim's mind cleared of instinct just long enough for part of it to scream ‘what on earth are you doing?’; his eyes locked on Red Hood's expressionless face, and another part of his mind whispered ‘my best’. 

Just as Tim began to question if he was going to make across, and seriously question exactly how he thought he would have in the first place as his left hand was reaching for his grappling gun, Red Hood- no, Jason- reached out and grabbed Tim's outstretched right hand, dropping to his knees with the force of Tim's weight as he caught him. 

“Gotcha!” Jason grunted as he reached down with his other hand and took a firm hold of Tim's wrist to ensure that he had a good grip. 

Tim looked up from staring at the roaring flames below his dangling feet and grinned. “Nice catch!” He exclaimed with a breathless laugh of relief edging his voice, reaching up with his left hand and grabbing a fistful of Jason's jacket over his shoulder to help pull himself up as Jason stood and pulled him to the solid area of the floor.

“That was a solid jump,” Jason chuckled, “another foot or so and you might ‘ave made it.” He glanced over his shoulder, a strange sort of clicking sound coming through the modulator of his helmet from him clucking his tongue thoughtfully as he took in the blocked stairwell. “Well, shoot fire… Looks like we're gonna have to make our own exit now. Come on, this way!” 

Tim had barely had time to register what was happening as he was suddenly being dragged along behind Jason as he started into one of the apartments, kicking and shoving debris out of his way as he bulldozed their way toward the opening created by a collapsed wall while never even loosening his grip on Tim's hand. 

The air was suddenly filled with ear-splitting creaking, crunching, and mini explosions as the building started collapsing beneath them; Tim could feel it, the percussion in the air, the shaking and shifting underneath his feet, they soon wouldn't have a floor to stand on. 

Tim pulled his grappling gun from his belt and fired it toward the building next door just as Jason launched them out of the condemned apartment complex as it shuddered for the last time and plummeted into a pile of flames and falling debris. He pushed the retract button and ground his teeth together around a cry of pain as Jason's weight yanked on his shoulder socket as he hung on to Tim's hand, then let out a wheezed grunt as they slammed hard into the wall just below the roof's edge. Both his shoulders were burning at the strain of hanging with a whole other person's weight pulling at them (good gracious! How much did this man weigh??) and he felt slightly winded and dizzy, but he held on anyway as he pressed the recoil button one more time to get them closer to the roof. He took in as deep a breath as he could through his nose considering he was still wearing his mask and he felt that he might split in two, and slowly blew it out as he tried to concentrate on not dropping Jason and not letting go of his grapple in spite of the pain that was making his head swim and his stomach flop with nausea.  

“Hang tight, just a sec’, lemme just…” Jason grunted as he kicked out and found purchase on a drain pipe, finally releasing Tim's hand as he reached up and pulled himself up onto the roof before turning around and grabbing a handful of the back of Tim's cape and hauling him up like a kitten by the scruff (it might have been embarrassing if Tim hadn't been so relieved to have the pressure off his shoulders). 

Tim shuddered as he was placed unsteadily on his feet, and stood looking down at the massive pile of rubble that had once been home to the people who were huddled behind the ambulances and firetrucks blocking the street below. He was in a small amount of shock; he knew that, because he shouldn't be cold after being in a burning building, yet he was shivering. The thing that snapped him out of it was a hard, well-placed smack to the back of his head. 

“Ow! What the-?” Tim yelped as he reached up to hold the smarting area of his head and found Jason looking at him in just his domino mask with his hands up in defense. 

“Sorry! I'm sorry, your, um, your hair was on fire.” Jason pointed out, a small apologetic smile pulling at his lips. 

Tim blinked hard as he felt the area and found that there were indeed a few strands that were shorter than the others and felt sort of crispy between his gloved fingers. He chuckled and reached up to pull his respirator mask down to let it hang around his neck (definitely not trying to desperately ignore the smarting and burning in his shoulders), and blowing out a long shaky breath as he shook his head. “That was a close one; I thought we might not make it out before she came down. Are you good?”

Jason nodded and brushed ash from his shoulders. “Yeah, I'm… I'm good; way too hot and sweaty to be very comfortable at the moment, but that's nothin’ a shower can't handle.” He stepped a little closer, almost cautiously. “Are… are you okay? How're your shoulders?”

Tim was a little surprised by the question, but he supposed he shouldn't be, it was no secret that there was certainly a bit (a lot) of difference in their size. He tried to shrug but winced hard and sucked in a sharp breath as his right shoulder twinged with fiery pain in rebellion. “Ah, well, I think it's fine.” He tried to raise his arm, but found with a sinking feeling that he couldn't without nauseating discomfort, and more than that, it felt stuck. “Ow, crap… well… maybe not so fine.” As the adrenaline started to ease, the pain started to increase to the point that he had to cradle his forearm in his other hand to ease the strain. 

Jason gulped, visibly gulped, then pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his jacket pocket as he shifted just a little bit closer. “Can I…?” His question hung, unfinished and uncertain, as he studied Tim's face, his brows pinched slightly in uncertainty that Tim knew was filling his eyes behind the domino. 

Tim nodded as he reached across his chest to push his cape back off his shoulder and closed the space between them with a small step, the tiniest scream of instinct and fear speaking up just briefly in the back of Tim's head before he smothered it with ‘he’s offering openness, he’s offering help… don't you dare blow it’.

Jason hesitated just a second longer before reaching up and carefully prodding and squeezing Tim’s shoulder with trained fingers, his masked eyes glued to the joint as he watched for reactions to his examination. 

Tim sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth and fought the urge to jerk away as the pain flared hot and searing as Jason carefully tried to lift Tim's arm by his elbow. “Yeouch! Yep, oh yeah. That… ow… that hurts.” 

Jason nodded and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Yeah, it's gonna; it's definitely outta socket. The swelling’s gonna set in fast, so…” He looked up and met Tim's gaze, seeming to be unable to finish his questions tonight. 

Tim nodded as he swallowed hard. “Okay, yeah, let's uh… Lemme sit down first.” He requested as he started for the rooftop as his legs shook beneath him. 

Jason followed him down to kneel next to him, clicking his tongue as he gently felt the joint again. “It'll be worse if you wait.” He pointed out, a little reluctantly, it seemed.  

“I know.” Tim nodded, drawing his legs up a little so that he could grip the underside of his knee with his left hand to keep it occupied. “It's not my first dislocation, I can take it. Go ahead, snap it back in there.”

Jason swallowed again, not quite as hard as before but nearly, and positioned his right hand under Tim's elbow as his left cupped Tim's shoulder. “Okay, don't hit me.” 

Tim chuckled breathlessly as he stared steadily to the front, watching the smoke and glowing ashes rise toward the sky from the remains below them so he was not watching what Jason was doing. “No promises.”  

“So, sabotage, murder attempt, or freak accident?” Jason asked, his tone suddenly casual and light. 

“Whadaya me-YAH!” Tim let out a yelped wail as Jason suddenly lifted his elbow up and slightly out to allow his shoulder to slip back into place with a flare of sharp pain and a sickening, audible snap. He fell back on the rooftop and reached up to grip his shoulder as his vision blurred and his molars ground together while he blew out slow, long breaths as he waited for the pain to ease. “Freaking toaster strudels! Hot dang, that flipping hurt!”

Jason chuckled and leaned over on one hand to look down into Tim’s face. “Toaster strudels huh? Here I thought the Big B would still be enforcing the no-swear rule, and yet you're letting curses like that fly.” 

Tim blinked several times to clear the tears that had sprung to his eyes and huffed breathlessly as he looked up into Jason’s masked face, wishing dearly all of a sudden that he could see his eyes. “Hey, after years of being chided for ‘language’, you get creative. I never had much pocket cash for the swear jar.” 

“Me neither,” Jason smirked as he rose to his knees and offered Tim a hand, “here, left hand, remember.” 

Tim accepted the offered hand, with his left hand as advised, and used it to pull himself into a sitting position before rolling onto his knees and climbing slightly shakily to his feet, noting the hovering hand Jason kept extended near his back just in case he lost balance or stumbled. He experimentally rolled his shoulder and moved his arm, smiling at Jason with a sigh before crossing his arms across his middle to give the abused joint some support. “Thanks, you set that thing faster than anyone I've ever known.” 

Jason shrugged, suddenly avoiding Tim's gaze. “Yeah, well, you get good at setting slipped joints and broken bones in our line of work.” He worked his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment as he watched the firefighters below working to douse the flames. “Pretty stupid trying to catch someone three times your size, Timbo. You’re lucky it was just dislocated and not flippin’ ripped off.” 

Tim was so taken aback to hear the nickname that the sting of the comment was barely felt, and after a moment of staring, Tim nodded sagely with a smirk. “You're totally right, I shoulda dropped your enormous butt, for sure.” 

Jason looked up in search of Tim's meaning by the comment, his mouth open with some sort of retort, but then dropped his gaze with the smallest sort of smile, and if Tim wasn't just seeing red from staring at flames for too long, his face darkened a little. He sniffed in what seemed to Tim like suppressed amusement and turned to walk over to where he had dropped his helmet. 

Tim swallowed any remaining fear and common sense he possessed (which at this point, Tim was feeling was none) and reached out to grab Jason's wrist. “Hey, um, thanks.” 

Jason looked back over his shoulder, his brows raised in surprise and question. “Not a big deal dude, I kinda owed you a set shoulder joint since I was the one who-” 

“No, I mean,” Tim paused and wet his lips, which were salty from sweat and ashy from the floating bits in the air, “for what you did in there. I couldn't have gotten all those people out on my own, and you saved my neck too, while you were at it. So, thank you.” 

Jason stared slightly blankly at Tim for a moment, then his gaze traveled slowly down to where Tim's fingers were wrapped around his wrist, his Adam's apple bobbing hard before he tried to speak. “I… yeah. It’s not… It's still not a big deal.” 

“I think it is.” Tim insisted quietly, “In any case, it's a big deal to me, Jason. I know you said you don't want thanks, but regardless of that, you have mine for every time you decide to help when you could have kept walking.” 

Jason turned so that he was facing Tim more, pulling his wrist out of Tim's grasp just to hold onto Tim's hand instead, much to Tim’s surprise. “That's the job, isn't it? Doing what nobody else will in ways nobody else can? So… you're welcome.” His mouth quirked upward in a smile as he squeezed Tim's hand quickly before releasing it. “Have fun with the panic checkup.” 

“The what?” Tim asked as he looked over his shoulder in the direction Jason had jerked his chin, looking back and sighing as he shook his head when he found that in the time it took for him to look away, Jason had pulled the trained-by-the-Bat disappearing act. He walked to the edge of the roof and looked down into the crowded street below, but the only people he saw milling around were either police, fire personnel, or victims of the explosion and fire. 

“Red!” 

Tim started slightly at the call behind him and stepped back from the roof edge just as two strong hands gripped his biceps and pulled him forward into a hug that seemed to be from darkness itself until Tim realized it was Bruce. 

“I'm okay, B, I'm good,” Tim mumbled into Bruce's chest as he winced at the twinge in his shoulder, glad that Bruce was not able to see his discomfort since he was pressing Tim's head to his chest. 

Bruce knelt and looked up into Tim's face, his hands running down the length of his arms and legs before reaching up to cup Tim's cheeks, his thumb rubbing at a spot of soot on his cheekbone to ensure it wasn't a bruise. “Talk to me, are you hurt?” He asked as he looked Tim over from top to toe in search of obvious injuries or wounds. 

Tim shook his head as much as he could in the confines of Bruce's hands. “I'm not hurt, a little heat raw and… well, my shoulders are sore from… from carrying people; but nothing serious, and everyone in the building was evacuated. Everything's okay now.” 

Bruce stood, his hands sliding down to hold the base of Tim's head and neck as he looked down at the firefighters working to put out the flames on the remains of the apartment complex and the victims being cared for and loaded into ambulances. “All of them?” 

“Yes, all of the apartments were emptied before the collapse,” Tim replied, stepping forward to tuck his left shoulder under Bruce's armpit and lean against him a little, the weariness of the workout he got evacuating civilians starting to weigh heavily on him as his muscles began to tremble. “There were some pretty serious injuries, but those people are on their way to the hospital by now if they haven't made it there yet.” 

Bruce wrapped an arm around Tim's back and hooked his hand under Tim's armpit to hold him up as he looked down at him in concern. “Are you sure you're okay? You're shaking.” 

“I'm just tired, and a little sore if I'm being honest,” Tim replied, letting his head rest against Bruce's chest. “I'm fine, though, really.”

Bruce stood holding Tim close silently for a few minutes, then looked down at Tim with his lips turned down in an expression that Tim knew was an uncertain, questioning one. “Did you evacuate the entire building by yourself?” 

Tim's heat-sore throat seemed to get drier at the question, and he did not even try to swallow for fear of choking. “ Not completely; the GCFD and GCPD took the bottom floors, I took care of the upper floors and the areas they couldn't get to.” It wasn't a lie, that is what had happened. he was just omitting the fact that he had not been alone in the upper levels.    

Bruce nodded slowly, then looked back at the barely contained inferno. “I wasn't here… I'm sorry.” 

“Don't go down that path, B. It wasn't your fault, and I had it handled.” Tim chided gently with no real heat as he made no move to pull away from Bruce's comforting hold and the shelter of his cape, feeling rather grateful for the weight of it draped around him. “You would have been here if you could have been. The situation begs the question, what are the chances that you were held up while I was here during an explosion?” 

“We can worry about that later,” Bruce replied, his voice starting to lose the edge of concern and softening slightly out of his Batman tone as he reached down to detach a filter from the mask hanging around Tim’s neck and frowning at it. “Right now, I'd like to get you back to the cave and check you for smoke inhalation. We'll be looking into this deeper, though, don't worry. I'll go down and check in; you can wait here for me.”

“No, I'll come with you.” Tim insisted, willing himself to stand straight and bear his own weight in spite of the weariness that begged him to do otherwise. “I was here when the explosion happened and worked through the evacuation, so I should come in case they need any information from me.” 

He also wanted to be there in case someone made mention of Red Hood making an appearance. What would he do if that happened? Eh, he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. 

Thankfully, and unfortunately, no one had much to add to what Tim already knew about the explosion, and it also seemed that somehow Jason had avoided being seen by any of the official personnel and all of the victims had already been loaded into ambulances and driven to the hospital. 

As Bruce spoke with the lieutenant, Tim wondered how on earth he was supposed to move forward with his plan of allowing Jason to lay low now that he had been seen and aided by so many people. Someone was surely going to come forward with the fact that they had been rescued by the Red Hood, the ex-crime lord that had once held Gotham in suspense of his next move. The only question in Tim's mind now was if he should let events take their course, or if he should be the one to break the news to Bruce before he found out on his own and came to Tim for the answers he had withheld. 

Tim really didn’t like lying or keeping things from Bruce, especially since he felt that Bruce really did trust him, and their relationship had been built heavily upon their mutual need for each other and the honesty that came with that need. Yet there was so much confession that came with sharing this truth with Bruce that it made Tim’s heart swoop inside his chest and ache at the thought of any more strain being put upon either of them. But then again… 

“‘obin? Hey, Red?” 

The light touch on his arm made Tim blink out of his trance-like stare at an obliging police car and found both Batman and the lieutenant staring expectantly at him. 

“Oh, um, sorry. Did you ask me a question?” Tim asked after clearing the prickly feeling out of his throat. 

“It’s alright, Red, the officer just asked if you had seen anyone leave the building before the explosion.” Bruce relayed, his voice gentler than it normally would be in front of other people. 

“Oh, right, yeah, that makes sense, doesn't it?” Tim replied as he reached up and rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “Um, no. I can't say that I did, but I was also at least two blocks away when it happened.” 

“Not a problem, Red Robin, I just wanted to be sure I have as much information for my report tonight. There will be a thorough investigation of the site, of course, to see if there was foul play involved,” The officer gestured toward the smoldering remains with a shrug, “but I’m doubting much will be found out of that.”

Tim supposed he was trying to be amusing considering the cocky smile the lieutenant flashed at him, but somehow he couldn't find it in him to see the humor. He knew he was swaying a little, but he couldn't seem to keep from it as an odd throbbing settled between his temples, and his chest felt tight and restricted.  

Bruce watched Tim for a moment, then stepped a little closer so that Tim's shoulder was pressed against his bicep to steady him. “I'll leave you to your report then, Lieutenant Phillips. I'll look into things on my end and send anything I find to the Commissioner." Bruce snaked his arm around Tim's back and turned him toward the sidewalk. 

When they were a few feet away, Bruce flipped open his gauntlet one-handed so that the hologram screen opened. “Batmobile to my location.” He tightened his arm around Tim as he tripped over a scrap of drainpipe. “Are you okay?” 

Tim grunted in frustration and redoubled his efforts to pick up his feet as he walked. “Yeah, fine, the rush is just wearing off, and my legs are reminding me why I need to stick to a leg day every day. I think I-” His voice cut off with a choked sort of noise as his throat and chest constricted and sent him into a harsh coughing fit. 

Bruce kept his arm around Tim's back and reached out to press a hand to Tim's chest to support him, listening to him cough for just a moment in careful examination before reaching into one of the pockets in Tim's belt without a word and pulling out an inhaler. “Easy, try to get control so you can breathe in.” He encouraged, his voice low, but in his I've-got-you-it's-okay sort of manner.

Tim nodded as he choked and gasped on his constricted airways, then waved his hand in signal that he was as under control as he could get. 

Bruce gave the inhaler a shake, then brought it to Tim's lips. “Ready? One, two, breathe deep.” 

Tim did as he was told as Bruce depressed the inhaler, wincing as he tried to hold his breath long enough for the Albuterol to settle in his lungs before gasping out a cough, but this one didn't hurt quite as bad. 

Bruce waited for Tim to get control of his coughing and brought the inhaler back to his mouth. “One more time, nice and easy.”

Tim shook his head as he sucked in a shuddering breath that rattled in his chest. “Smoke.” Was all he could wheeze out before he started coughing again.

“I know, don't talk,” Bruce replied. “We'll get you into the Batmobile and out of this smoggy atmosphere. Need another shot?” 

Tim nodded gratefully and lifted his hand to take the inhaler himself, focusing on blowing out as much breath as he could before using it. 

The tires of the Batmobile screeched as it turned the corner, and Bruce hardly waited for it to stop completely before opening the passenger door. He kept hold of Tim's arm as Tim slumped down in the seat and reached out to help Tim pull his legs into the car.  

“I'm okay,” Tim sighed out, his voice cracking in an annoying fashion that noted the very opposite of what he had just said.

Bruce lifted Tim's cape out of the way and patted Tim's thigh before straightening and closing the door so he could circle around the front of the car and climb in himself. He punched in a command on the screen and turned in his chair a bit to face Tim better. “Here, Son, can you take your mask off so I can check your eyes?” 

Tim nodded wearily and pulled his mask off and turned his head so he could look at Bruce, smiling a little as he blinked a few times to try and clear the stinging from his eyes. “Stupid lungs.” He huffed out as Bruce brushed his hair back off his forehead and gazed into his eyes first in examination and then with a small smile of his own. 

“They aren't stupid, they're just… not as high functioning as we'd like them to be,” Bruce replied, pressing a button on the console that popped open a small glove box that contained an oxygen mask. “Here, let's give them a hand, shall we?” 

Tim sat forward enough to let Bruce slip the strap of the mask over his head and took in a deep, albeit shaky, breath of the oxygenated air as Bruce switched on the flow. “I just need a moment, we could circle around and check things out in the incident site now that the personnel have all left.” 

Bruce pushed back his cowl and shook his head with a smile as he ran his gloved fingers through Tim's hair to move it off his sweaty forehead. “You did good tonight, Tim, we'll worry about the investigation later. Just breathe, okay, sweetheart?” 

Tim smiled as the pet name flared a lovely bloom of warmth in his chest that spread out to warm his cheeks and nodded as he rested his head back against the headrest of his seat and let his eyes slip closed, which felt soothing against the sting of heat dryness. 

Bruce watched him thoughtfully for a moment, then reached out and pressed a button on the dash that slowly reclined Tim's chair. “Just relax and focus on breathing easy, we'll be home soon, Son.” 

Tim nodded again, feeling as though he were sinking into the seat as his lungs began to relax and open gratefully for the oxygen. His head felt heavy, almost stuffy or fuzzy as his eyelids began to feel sticky as exhaustion draped over him heavily… or… wait… was that Bruce's cape? The rumble and motion of the car driving down the road seemed to be pulling him deeper and deeper into sleep that he did not even want to fight for how wonderful it felt. Hmm… maybe this was the consequence of not having slept consistently for weeks and then evacuating a several-story apartment complex… 

Bruce watched Tim practically pass out in the passenger seat and shook his head slowly with a small smile. He reached out and turned off the autopilot so he could take control of the wheel. 

“Alfred, we might be a little while getting in,” Bruce warned, keeping his voice low and even so as not to disturb the sleeping teen next to him as he turned on the in-dash communicator. 

"Are you and Master Tim alright? I was just watching the reports coming in from the explosion site; it was a miracle Master Tim made it out of that building with so many lives saved."

“I'm fine, and Tim's stable. He had an asthma attack from the smoke, and he's completely worn out, but he's stable right now, so…” Bruce glanced over at Tim and smiled when he saw that his mouth was slightly agape now as a small snore escaped his lips. “He's sleeping, Alfred, really sleeping. I think I'll take him for a little drive to give him some rest before we check in for the night.” 

"I trust your judgment, Master Bruce, as long as he is uninjured and resting, I think a drive through the country would not be out of order. I remember taking you on quite a few of those when you were a boy when sleep seemed evasive."

Bruce rolled his eyes lightly as he dropped one hand from the wheel and reached over to take Tim's gently into his own, running his thumb over the back of it as he drove. “Thank you, Alfred, would you make sure that there is an oxygen tank and cannula in his bedroom for when we get back?” 

"Of course, I will also locate one of his inhalers just in case he has another attack." 

“Thanks, Alfred, I'll check in before we start for the cave so you're ready for us,” Bruce replied as he ended the call. He glanced from the road and shook his head with a huff of amusement as he saw Tim's face twitch beneath the oxygen mask. 

The kid might not sleep much, but when he did, he did it right.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Panic check-ins, the things that used to drive him mad, Jason suddenly missed with a deep pit in his stomach and an annoyingly tight throat as he stood several buildings over, watching Batman carefully look Tim over after he had left the teen standing there with that stupid, confused look on his stupid face. 

Stupid. The kid was stupid. Stupidly courageous, stupidly capable, stupidly fragile, stupidly smart, stupidly… stupidly… forgiving? 

He didn't feel like diving into that thought, right now, not with his chest feeling so tight and his eyes burning from fighting off panic attack after panic attack after running through a burning, collapsing apartment complex, so Jason turned and started off across the roof at a brisk walk to work out some of his nerves.

‘Nerves’ was putting it lightly; a clawing, buzzing, prickling, skin-crawling panic and desire to maim was closer to describing the sensations pulsing through his veins, a disgusting itch that he couldn’t scratch because he would not allow himself to do so. Not anymore. Not if he could help it. He could give in to it, it had been sooo easy to give in before, allowing himself to be urged and pushed and moved by that evil, keening little voice in his head that chanted kill kill kill kill; but there was another voice that had recently started to scream over it, that was finally able to scream loud enough to drown out the mantra, only this one shrieked monster monster monster monster which was not in itself pleasant either.  

Jason slid down a fire escape ladder and stumbled over a wet, wilty cardboard box, letting out a frustrated grunt as he turned and roundhouse kicked a garbage can down the alley, watching it roll and clatter and spill its contents across the ground. 

That felt… good. Not good enough, but it took some of the burn out of his veins. 

He reached up and pressed the buttons on his helmet and yanked it off his head, leaning back against the brick of the building and purposefully pressing back so that he could feel the rough edges poking into his scalp as he sucked in and puffed out lung-fulls of musty, damp, garbage laced air. Disgusting, but it was far superior to air heavy and thick with smoke, ash, and unbearable, inescapable heat.

Jason knew that going into that burning building would spark off everything bottled up within he had been so carefully avoiding the past few months. Yet, when he saw that stupid kid in black and red go zipping into a blazing inferno seemingly without a second thought, he was running inside before he even realized he was. Why? That was a question he was still trying to figure out. 

In fact, he had a lot of ‘why’s’ running around his head lately, so many in fact that a lot of nights he collapsed onto his couch with a searing migraine-style headache that brought bile to his mouth. 

One of the most notable ‘why’s’ that he had been wrestling with lately was why Tim Drake, the Robin who had replaced him, seemed so keen on disrupting everything Jason expected of him. When Jason had decided that staying away from Gotham was no longer doing anything positive for his psyche and was only prolonging the inevitable, he expected to come back to hate, disgust, and maybe even attempts at revenge. 

At least, that's how Jason would have reacted to someone who had attacked him, tormented him, and nearly killed him. Yet, for some reason, the stupid kid seemed interested, appreciative, and frustratingly… forgiving. But Jason hadn’t wanted forgiveness; he had wanted Tim to hate him, to despise him, to lash out so Jason had reason to dish it out as good as he got; but that hadn't happened, and Jason couldn't figure out why. 

Tim didn't hate him, and that ‘why’ was strange enough to try and deal with, but one worse than that was why he didn't hate Tim. He had hated him; he had hated him so much that he had not hesitated to mop the floor with him in an effort to show the punk who was the bigger, better Robin and who deserved and earned that title. But even as he had stood over Tim, with all the power in his hands to end the pathetic little excuse for a replacement as he lay there and had the gall to insist that he still deserved to be Robin, he didn’t take the chance; but he also couldn’t. 

Jason remembered so well the strange tug and pull within his head, like the part of himself that had been warring against some invader that had taken up roost in his head and the part that he was sure was deep down just really him had just barely won the fight in his subconscious that night; after that, he stayed as far away from Tim as possible, which had eventually meant Gotham in its entirety. Now that he was back, the burn for revenge and itch for justice against being replaced had simmered out nearly completely, leaving him with extremely mixed-up feelings about the kid that by all means should hate his guts and somehow still didn’t. 

Why? That was the question that could be the start of another migraine.

Jason pushed off the wall after several moments of just breathing and feeling the brick against the back of his head, and started down the sidewalk at a dead run; it was the type of run that a person would typically reserve for a life or death circumstance, but for Jason, it was one of the best ways to work out the all consuming burn in his veins, the shrieking in his mind, and the destruction itching in his fingertips. His boots pounded the cement beneath him as he flew down the sidewalk, his arms pumping rhythmically and his breath hissing in and out between clenched teeth as his lungs worked furiously to keep up with his pace. 

His eyes were open, but a fat lot of good they did him for all he could see, which… wasn't good. That usually meant that he was falling into some sort of fit, the sort of fit that physically clouded his vision until all he could see was green; sickening, intense, swirling green, and all he could feel was hot, maddening, numbing anger that usually resulted in him coming back to himself with bloodied knuckles and a body that was so exhausted that he had fallen asleep once or twice in the bottom of his shower when he had no strength left to stand. Sometimes he remembered what happened during those fits, usually in bits and pieces, and other times it was all just a green fog of confusion and rage. 

When the burning in Jason's limbs started feeling like the strained burn of exhaustion and not the otherworldly prickling burn that crawled through his veins, and his vision slowly cleared except for a green fringe on the outside edges, he started slowing down, stumbling into a jog then a meandering sort of wandering walk before slumping against a wall in an alley as he gasped and huffed for breath. 

Better. Not great , far from perfect or even just alright , but he felt better .

Jason wiped his face off in the crook of his elbow, even though his leather jacket did very little to deal with the sweat rolling down his forehead, and sighed as a heavy shudder passed over him as he leaned back against the wall. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and whacked one out into the palm of his hand, muttering an annoyed curse at the trembling in his fingers before lighting it and taking in a deep drag of the smoke before letting it leave his lungs on a long sigh through his nose. 

It was a strange sort of irony that Jason could not stand the smell of smoke, yet one of the most comforting things he could do to calm himself down was the habit of smoking. It felt familiar and grounding, like a teeny-tiny scrap of who he was before that he could still experience now. Yeah… that was pretty pathetic…

He paused mid-drag as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood stiff and his heart skipped inside his chest at the intense surge of paranoid adrenaline that pulsed through his veins. His eyes slowly scanned the alley and rooftops around him as he blew out another breath of smoke, then flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette. 

“If you boys are tryin’ to be sneaky, ya failed before ya started.” Jason quipped lightly as he reached down and picked up his helmet from where he had dropped it at his feet. He took a last inhale of his cigarette before flicking it away as he pulled on his helmet, breathing out right before he pressed the seals so that smoke billowed out from under it. “So, why don’cha just drop the act, and we can get this whole thing over with?” 

As if materializing from the walls, pavement, and shadowed objects within the Alley, Jason was suddenly surrounded by twenty, no, twenty-nine, men with blackened masks that looked chillingly like skulls; every one of them was armed to their teeth with all manner of guns and knives, just the kind of challenge Jason was needing to work out the last of the green tinging his vision. 

Perfect.

It was hard to say who made the first move, but the moment it happened, the alleyway erupted into the deafening rain of bullets, yells, and curses. 

Jason planted a sharp elbow into one of the men's throats as he quickly aimed and fired a shot that sent another tumbling down from the roof, clutching a wound in his side. He spun to the side to avoid the rapid fire of an automatic and used the momentum to roundhouse two men who had pulled switch blades and had started for his back into a pile of rubbish with cries of pain and anger.

His molars squeaked as he ground his teeth together as the burn of intrusion flared across his side and back: that blasted marksman with the automatic had to go. Jason whirled around, barely aimed as he flipped his other gun around to slam the handle between the eyes of one of the men who was trying to stand from a previous kick, and fired, grinning as a wail rang out as the gunman dropped the weapon in favor of cradling his bleeding hand. Bullseye.

Jason grunted as he was tackled from behind by two of the goons who tried to pin him to the ground. He reached down and pulled a knife from his belt and buried deep it into the thigh of one of them so they rolled off to allow himself to get up on his knees, then reached back over his shoulder and grabbed a handful of both shirt and flesh to pitch the other henchmen off of him and planted his fist into the face that gazed up at him dazedly from being flipped over Jason's shoulder onto the pavement. He rolled onto his back and brought his heel down into the chest of the one he stabbed, then kipped up and fell into a combination of punches that laid another gunwielding goon prone. 

The remaining uninjured and conscious henchmen stood still suddenly, all around him, silent, with their weapons at their sides and their gaze directed down to the shadowed portion of the alley. The only sound was the muffled groans of agony and pain from the men Jason had dropped, at least for a moment.

Jason ejected the magazines from his guns as he whirled toward the sound of slow, drawn-out clapping, quickly slamming new ones into place as he kept his eyes trained on the figure that slowly sauntered out of the darkness and into the orange light cast from the streetlamp outside the alley. “Sionis.” 

Roman Sionis, more widely known as Black Mask, mob boss and crime lord, took a cane from where it was tucked under his arm when he had clapped for the display and leaned against it laxly as he stared down the alley at Jason. His skull-like mask hid any true expression and left him with a disgusting sort of grin from the fake teeth that stood out boldly from the black surroundings of the mask that gave him his name. He was dressed in a grey suit with a black shirt, tie, and shiny leather shoes that matched his cane, looking far too high-end and polished in this setting.

“Red Hood, a pleasure as always.” Roman crooned, his voice purposefully lazy and patronizing. 

“Pleasure is it? That why you sicced your goonies on me, for the purpose of a pleasure visit? ” Jason growled, keeping his fingers on his triggers even though he kept his guns at his sides. 

“Call it an experiment,” Roman replied, straightening and twirling his cane once before strolling toward Jason in an easy fashion. “It's been a while since you've been seen in these parts, and I wanted to see if you were still as good as you were before your little… hiatus.” 

Jason stiffened as Roman stopped just an arm's length away, planting his cane between his feet as he folded his hands over the top and leaned forward on it. Even behind the mask, Jason could see the corners of Roman's eyes crinkle from a sick smile. 

“I wasn't disappointed.” Roman had the gall to purr as if Jason didn't have the ability to kill him where he stood before he had the chance to even blink once more. “Welcome home, Hood.” 

“What do you want, Sionis?” Jason pressed, keeping his voice level and staying still even though he felt that maddening pulling and tugging to lose control at the edge of his subconscious that made his muscles tremble with anticipation. “You wouldn't risk yourself or your men just to see if I've gotten rusty, unless you were lookin' for somthin’ specific.”

Roman stood silently staring at Jason, practically mask to mask, as if just waiting for Jason to snap, then cocked his head as he looked Jason over. “Curiosity is a powerful thing, don't underestimate just how far someone might be willing to go for the sake of answering it.”

“Curiousty also killed the cat,” Jason quipped back, drawing himself to his full height and cocking his chin up a little, “so maybe be careful with that willingness .” 

Roman chuckled and shook his head. “Truer words my friend, have never-” 

“I'm not your friend, Sionis.” Jason interrupted as he raised one of his guns to level the barrel with Black Mask's face, suddenly desperate to end this little confrontation as the few bullets that had made their way through his Kevlar were starting to sting and burn and his legs were starting to quiver from the let down of his… whatever it was. “So tell me what you want and get it over with before I lose my patience and end both our suffering.” 

Roman tilted his head curiously, interestedly, and huffed gently with the tiniest nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “But will you?” 

Those three words were as good as a punch to the gut, and it took every last bit of resolve Jason was clinging to to keep from physically stepping backward under the weight of them. 

Would he? Six months ago, it wouldn't have even been a question; he just would have, without a second thought, question, or even a flicker of guilt. But… now…?

“I don't think you will, Hood, because whether you want to admit it or not, you've changed since you've been gone.” Roman droned, his eyes glinting behind his mask in the eerie light. He slowly stepped away from Jason's gun and casually started prowling around Jason as he twirled his cane. 

Jason's heart started hammering against his ribs like it hadn't before, even when he was fighting off gangster henchmen, his mouth went dry, and his ears started ringing relentlessly as Roman continued. 

“I've been watching you, boy, watching you close, and I've seen some things I never thought the Red Hood would stoop to bothering himself with. Helping street kids to the shelter, beating up petty muggers so the cops can drag ‘em off the streets, walking little ol’ ladies home in the dark, but it's more than that…” He stopped in front of Jason again, reaching out to lift the barrel of Jason's gun with a single finger so that it was resting against his forehead, right between his eyes. “You stopped killing.” 

Jason clenched his jaw and adjusted his hold on the grip of his gun, pressing it tighter against Roman's forehead with a purposeful jab that tilted Roma’s head back a little. “What makes you think I still won't? I'd be doing Gotham and the world a real big favor by removing your stinkin’ influence from the crime rings.” 

“Well then?” Roman purred, his eyes narrowing, “Go ahead, if you're so keen.”

Pull the trigger… just pull the trigger ! One squeeze, one squeeze, and you're done! Jason swallowed hard and nearly choked, never had been so glad for the modulator in his helmet. He's scum; evil, filthy, scum that doesn't deserve to live. So just… just… 

Jason lowered the pistol and stepped back, praying that his hands weren't shaking as badly as he felt that they were, his stomach swirling so badly he feared he might puke in his helmet. 

Roman scoffed lightly, lifting his cane to rest it on his shoulder (good grief, Jason wanted to snap that cane in two…). “Interesting. The man who once had no qualms about delivering heads in duffle bags, threatenin’ my boys, and holding every crime lord, mob boss, and petty crime ring in complete terror, suddenly has an issue with takin’ the shot?” 

“Whether I will or won't is for only I to know. Fact is, you don't want me to kill you, Roman,” Jason spat, gripping his pistols like he was holding on to life itself as a flare of green shot across his vision, “you like making hell for those around you too much, and to do that you’ve gotta live. So, what is it that you really want ?”

Several heartbeats of silence stretched so thin that Jason was beginning to wonder what was about to break because surely something had to at this point with so much tension in the air.

“I want to extend an offer,” Roman finally stated, his voice as cool and easy as if he were lounging back in the den of one of his private penthouses and not standing in front of a volatile gunman, “an offer that’ll only come once, right here, right now, and once it's passed up will never be reinstated.” 

Jason swallowed, but only succeeded in making his stomach pitch worse. “What kinda offer?” He managed when he saw that Roman wasn’t going to continue until he got some sort of engagement. 

“Well, you an’ I could have some real dirty history-” 

“Could have?” Jason spat with a huff, his right forefinger running over and over the trigger of his pistol, as a way to keep himself grounded and present if nothing else. 

“That’s right, could have, because I’m prepared to wipe the slate clean,” Roman replied, “because that is exactly part of the terms of my offer. You see, a man like me, as I’m sure you know all too well, has a lot of enemies; men who would rather see me dead than say so much as a ‘how do you do’. So I currently find myself in need of a man with your skills, your… expertise, shall we say.” 

Jason was one hundred percent sure he was going to puke; he could feel the bile in the back of his throat, and his mouth was filling with too-much-too-hot saliva that he kept having to gulp back into his protesting stomach. This was not the way he thought tonight was going to go…

“It’s a pretty rich deal for you, Hood,” Roman was suddenly saying (Jason figured he might have zoned out for a moment), “you work for me, deal with the things that I send you to handle without question or hesitation, and I make sure that no one in this town dares touch you. Oh, and don’t worry, this offer comes with quite an allowance, if you get my meaning.”

“You… you want me to be your hitman.” Jason clarified, and if not for the modulator, his voice would have cracked and trembled at the statement. 

“That’s the jist of it, yeah, if you want to give the position a specific label.” Roman nodded slowly, his voice so very smooth and edged with a patronizing tone that made Jason want to shove it back down his throat. “You work for me Hood, and I’ll set you up for life, forget what you did to me and my boys, and let bygones be bygones, see?” 

Roman pulled himself from the lax position, bristling like a mad, rabid dog as he stepped forward to close the distance between them even further. “But if you don’t, trust me when I say I will make your life a living hell that you’d do anything to escape from; I’ll sic my men on you every waking moment until you think they’re coming out of the walls. I’ll have you running like a dog and wishing you were one. I’ll find the means to drive you mad in ways that you could only dream of in your darkest nightmares. So, whaddya say?” 

Jason opened his eyes; he wasn’t quite sure for how long of Roman’s spiel they had been closed for, and set his jaw with an uptick of his chin. “I say that you have no idea just how dark my nightmares are, and no idea how truly mad I am .” 

Without waiting for response, Jason pointed one of his guns between Roman’s feet and fired while simultaneously holstering his other pistol and flicking out a couple of smoke bombs that went off in a bright flare of light and an explosion of black smoke that billowed around him as the henchmen on the rooftops opened fire on the place where he was standing. 

Roman stumbled back, gritting his teeth against the pain of the asphalt that had sprayed his legs from the shot, coughing and waving his hand to clear the smoke from his airways. Glaring hotly as the smoke began to dissipate, he found that Red Hood had seemed to vanish along with it. “That’s how you wanna play? Fine. That’s how I’ll play…” 

Jason stumbled into his safehouse apartment, slamming the door behind him and switching on the security system as he leaned his forehead against the door and panted for air that his lungs did not seem to want as his stomach surged and pitched as if it had forgotten it was a stomach at all and turned into a boiling, angry sea of bile. Once he heard the whir and click of the locks and taser system setting and activating, he pushed himself backwards off the door and walked with heavy feet toward his bedroom, which was at the moment severely lacking in the one thing that would give it such a name: a bed. 

He shucked off his jacket, not even daring to look at the bullet holes he knew were there since he knew it would only make him mad, and dumped it on the floor along with his helmet and gloves before shuffling out to go around the corner into the bathroom. He flicked on the light, his brows pinching at the sting of the white light in his eyes and started peeling off the upper portion of his Kevlar body suit (dang, he needed some body armor, bullet resistant was just not cutting it these days…), and turned to look at the damage in the mirror. 

Four bullets had made it past his suit and jacket, sprayed up in a curve from his left lower rib to his upper mid back. The good news was that because of his suit and jacket, they weren’t deep. The bad news? They were going to be hell to try and get out on his own. 

Jason squatted down and yanked open the cabinet under the sink to grab his fully stocked med kit, wincing as he straightened and set it on the counter. He rifled through it and pulled out the supplies he would need: alcohol wipes, forceps, a suture kit, gauze, and medical tape. He considered the syringe of anesthetic and huffed as he pulled it out too. Could he take the pain for the sake of saving the meds for something worse? Yeah. Was he in the mood to do so? Nope. 

He sanitized his hands and the forceps, then swiped an alcohol wipe over his inner elbow to prep for the needle before injecting the anesthetic. He set the used syringe aside, mentally making a note to take it to a medical drop off as soon as possible: no sense in letting something like that get in the garbage for some poor, desperate needle junkie to use later. 

Jason waited impatiently for the burn of the bullets in his side and back to begin to ease, then picked up the forceps and got to work, lifting his left arm up and over his head with his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck just to give him something to hold onto as he started digging into the first wound to pull out the bullet. He clenched his jaw as he jabbed deeper than the anesthetic had settled, and pressed on in working to grasp the metal intrusion before pulling it out with a grunt and dropping it into the sink with a plink! and a splatter of blood in the white bowl.

Okay, one down, three to go. 

He twisted his torso a little more to reach around to the next entry wound, biting his bottom lip as he started prodding around and thinking better of it as his mouth started to taste bitter and tangy; he really did not need to bite through his lip too… 

After the forceps slipped off it twice, Jason finally grabbed firmly onto the bullet and pulled it out with a small gasp of relief as he straightened and took a few breaths. He decided to take a quick break and tape some gauze over the wounds that were now trailing hot blood, knowing the worst of it was still to come with the two bullets that were further around his back. 

Jason twisted his torso and craned his neck to consider the wounds still holding lead inside them, reaching experimentally back around with his right hand and shaking his head as the forceps did not even come close to one of the wounds, then he switched them into his left hand and tried reaching them by craning his arm up reminiscent of a chicken wing (a fact that he might snorted in amusement at if he was not so tired and irritably) but with a grunt and curse of frustration he found that wouldn’t work either. 

He couldn’t reach them. There was no way for him to reach them, and there they were, burning and stinging in his flesh in a way that made him seethe with anger and frustration that he hadn’t been able to dodge the shots.  

Jason dropped the forceps in the sink with a snarl and leaned against the counter, not caring at the moment that he was getting bloody handprints on the white formica. Without realizing it for several moments, he found himself glaring at his reflection, something he usually sincerely tried to avoid these days. 

He looked… well… he looked different, to say the least. It had been a constant that Jason hated to admit, but when he looked at his reflection, he didn’t see himself; in fact, he didn’t look like anyone he recognized. 

His jaw was sharper, squarer, with the annoying prickle of facial hair that he was constantly having to shave off only to find it back again the next day. His hair was still black and lightly curly, but it now held a forelock of shock white that curled down over his brows that were also peppered with stray white hairs among the black; he didn’t really mind that part of his new appearance if he was being honest. Actually, he kinda liked it. 

He was taller than he had ever been in his life, and it didn’t feel right sometimes to look down at the body that didn’t seem to be his; it was toned and built with muscle that he had only ever dreamed of having, he was still flexible but not like he was before, and pitifully, horribly void of the scars that should be there and even the ones that had used to be there. Even the one on his left hip that had looked like the frilly, flailed fins of a guppy. He had actually really liked that one…

What really bothered him about his reflection, though, was his eyes. They were almost always bruised underneath with stress or lack of sleep, and they were slightly sunken and, most of the time, looked sort of dull. The worst part, however, was the color; they weren’t the blue they used to be, even on a good day, more a turquoise-ish color between green and blue, and sometimes shifting more one way than the other. On a bad day, though, during one of his… episodes?... they turned an intense, hot green that physically glowed out of his head, making him look like some sort of ghoulish Halloween decoration come to life. When they were like that, he couldn’t bear to look at himself in any sort of reflection. He figured out eventually that the change was triggered by anger or adrenaline (or fear), and they shifted so suddenly that sometimes he could see the glow in his helmet or behind his domino. They had been that way since his impromptu bath in Ra’s al Ghul’s glowing pit of magical Mountain Dew, and Jason hated it with a passion. 

Tonight, the glow was still there from the let down of the… for crying out loud, he needed to think of something to call it… fit … during the evacuation and fight with the False Facers, but it was dim, easily mistaken for the reflection of light or a trick of the silvering in the mirror. At least he couldn’t see it shining on the sides of his nose, which really drove him nuts. No one should have to be so aware of the fact that you can actually see your own nose. 

Jason gripped the edge of the sink as he pitched forward suddenly and vomited burning bile and pitiful stomach contents, his stomach clenching and spasming as it violently emptied itself. Well… better the sink than his helmet; he had done that once, it had super sucked.

Once his body decided that it had done its job of ridding itself from the stress it was feeling (it really hadn't, stupid body…), Jason spat several times in the sink and turned on the facet to rinse away the mess down the drain and bring palm-fulls of the water to his mouth to gargle, spit, and finally swallow to cool down the burn of stomach acid in his throat. 

Jason sighed and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, vaguely aware that his fingers were still blood-stained from his wounds. He sniffed hard and blinked a haze of tears from his eyes as he ripped open the package of a large square Band-Aid and strained to barely place it over one of the bullet-containing wounds, and carefully pressed his back against the wall to stick it in place. The next Band-Aid was even more difficult, and he practically had to dangle it over his left shoulder by the very tips of his fingers on his right hand and then use the wall once more to press the adhesive to his skin to get the job done. Not ideal, leaving the bullets in, but for now, at least the wounds were covered. 

He rinsed the blood from his hands, then smacked the light switch on the wall and forced himself to drag his feet across the floor to the old, ratty couch he had found in the alley by a dumpster a few weeks ago and collapsed onto it on his stomach, one leg dangling off onto the floor and the other extending off the arm of the couch. Jason winced and sucked in a hard breath as the wounds ached, throbbed, and burned. 

His body was a very strange thing to live in these days, besides it looking and feeling different; it was strange in cool ways and strange in really, really, horrible, no good, very bad ways. Ever since his bath in the Lazarus Pit where his body somehow decided that it was going to live again against all odds of that really realistically being possible, his body regenerated and healed at rates that shocked him; things that should scar didn't, or only did briefly before they faded over a few days to a week or so. Even now, he could feel the flesh and muscle begin to itch and sting as it began to bind and seal… except in the wounds that still held lead. Those hurt in a way that Jason had never seen or heard described with human words as his body struggled against the foreign bodies lodged in his back in a useless attempt at healing. 

Deep down, Jason knew that if he didn’t get them out soon, it was possible that his body would just close up around them and they would be lodged permanently in his back and possibly cause an infection that he would have to fight and his body would try to heal but wouldn’t fully be able to and it would be an endless, awful, miserable cycle of misery and pain and he’d have to live that way in a horrid state of healing and not healing for the rest of his cursed, jinxed, unbearable life that he shouldn't have to be dealing with living again!

Was he spiraling into a depressive black hole of negative self-talk and useless bemoaning that he was prone to do at times when he was miserable? Yes. Did he have the energy or willpower at the moment to pull out of it? No. No, he did not.

Jason turned his face into the pillow that his cheek was resting on and allowed himself a long, loud, whimpered scream of discomfort and frustration as he gripped the slightly greasy material of the pillow case with both fists, glad for the muffling effect the pillow had since he knew darn well his walls were far from soundproof. 

Between the sea of ‘why's’ in his head, the exhaustion creeping into his very bones, his confrontation with Black Mask, and the pain of his wounds, he had no resolve left to cling to and didn't care that the pillow was beginning to grow damp and uncomfortable under his face as his tears began to soak into material. 

He needed… something… he needed the bullets out of his back, he needed to eat, he needed water, he needed to kick off his heavy boots and peel off the rest of the Kevlar suit that reeked of smoke, ash, and burning debris, he needed so many blankets piled on top of him that he could wriggle into them and disappear, he needed to get that freaking voice of doom and rage and hate out of his freaking head... 

He needed… someth-…some body …

Maybe he needed… heck… ah frick… oh no …

He needed that stupid kid.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

Tim snapped into wakefulness at the feeling of fingers brushing the skin on his face around the oxygen mask, the sharp inhale of breath he took in making him dizzy as he flooded his brain with oxygen. 

“Whoa now, easy Tim,” Bruce comforted, resting his hand firmly but gently against Tim's cheek as Tim’s eyes darted around in a startled, dazed fashion, “it's okay Kiddo. I'm sorry to wake you, but we're home.” 

Tim groaned and sat up to rub at his gritty, stinging eyes, careful not to dislodge the oxygen mask as his lungs prickled angrily at the abuse they had taken. “H-how long have we been home?”

“We just pulled in,” Bruce replied with a tilt of his head, “why do you ask?” 

“‘Cause I think the dash clock is wrong,” Tim mumbled, his head still resting back against his chair as his eyes blinked unknowingly out of sync, “we weren't more than thirty minutes from home where we were, but that clock says it's been four hours.” 

Bruce smiled then, his thumb gently petting Tim's eyebrow in a way that badly made Tim want to slip back into dozing. “Tim, it has been four hours, sweetheart.” 

Bruce's voice was so gentle and comforting, and the pet name settled so nicely in Tim's mind that it took Tim a moment to stop leaning into Bruce's hand and fully process what had just been said. He sat up straight in his seat, gritting his teeth as his shoulders screamed in agony. 

“Wait, what? Whaddya mean it has been four hours ?” Tim asked, his voice cracking badly before he coughed, unnecessarily bringing his fist up to cover it since he still had the mask strapped to his face. 

Bruce rubbed Tim's back with a firm, warm hand and chuckled. “Easy does it, that was a pretty nasty asthma attack; probably the worst one I've seen in a while. You probably should have taken a moment to replace the filters in your mask.” 

“I didn't have a moment,” Tim croaked as he caught his breath, “the whole building was crumbling down around my ears.” He sighed and let his head fall back as he reached up to pull the mask off, rubbing at where it had been pressed to his skin. “But back up a minute, why did it take us four hours to get home? Did something happen?”

“Yeah, it did,” Bruce replied, carding his fingers through Tim's ash and sweat-grimey hair as if it wasn't gross (it totally must be considering how it felt), “you slept. For four consecutive hours, without barely moving at all.” He chuckled as he shook his head. “I'm not even going to ask how long you had been running on no sleep cause I know I won't like the answer considering the work you did tonight, but judging by the way you practically passed out the minute the car started rolling, I figured I'd let you sleep as long as I could manage”

“So you just drove around for four hours to let me sleep?” Tim asked, turning his head against the backrest to look at Bruce, his gloved fingers rubbing over the heavy material draped across his lap, smiling a little as he realized it was Bruce's cape.

“Something like that,” Bruce agreed, “when I was a boy and had trouble sleeping, Alfred used to take me for long nighttime drives with classical music playing. It always did the trick for me, and you seemed to enjoy the motion of it just as I did. But it's nearly dawn, and I figured I had better head in and check you over good from last night's rescue mission.” 

Tim nodded and sat forward again, pulling at the weighted, Kevalr-enforced cape in an effort to remove it from his legs, but the more he tried to find the end of it so he could gather it up, the more he seemed to become entangled and buried in the heavy material. He let out a grunt that was nearly half-whine as the seemingly living folds became harder and harder to deal with; he started to feel a prickle of overstimulated frustration bloom over his skin, and his shoulders began to ache nearly unbearably from the struggle and weight of the thing.

“Hold on, sweetheart, sit still.” Bruce chuckled and reached over to free Tim from the cape, gathering it up into a ball and tucking it into the seat beside him as he smoothed Tim's hair back off his slightly sweaty forehead. “I'll come around and help you.” 

“I'm alright, Dad,” Tim insisted gently and popped the latch on the door, swiveling to set his feet on the ground, “it’s mostly just fatigue. And my head feels a little weird.” 

“That could either be from the smoke or the fact that you just got a few solid hours of sleep after not sleeping for too long.” Bruce supplied as he circled around the front of the Batmobile and offered Tim a hand to steady him as he stood, smiling when Tim took it without argument. “And it has been too long, hasn’t it? You haven’t been sleeping well the past few weeks.” 

Tim shrugged and tried to hide the wince. “I’ve… slept… off and on. But…” He sighed in resignation as he looked up to meet Bruce’s searching gaze. “Not very well, I guess, nor very consistently.”

Bruce nodded and turned Tim toward the stairs with a hand on his back. “We’ll talk about that more later, because I really don’t want your insomnia kicking back in, but let’s give you a workover for now and see about getting you to bed.”

Tim huffed as he shakily walked up the stairs (he hated stairs at the moment after running flights and flights of them carrying people, and really did not relish the idea of making his way up to his… the room). “Kick back in? Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this, but my insomnia has never not been kicked in; it just depends on what gear it’s in.” 

“Welcome home, my boys!” Alfred greeted them warmly as he met them on the main platform. “I do say I was concerned I would not see you home today at all, although I dare say that Master Tim earned his rest; I just came down from watching the late-night report on the apartment complex explosion. Good heavens, it was a terrible incident to happen in a residential building.” 

“Were there…” Tim paused and swallowed hard as the question seemed to lodge for a moment in his throat. “Were there any casualties, Alfred?” 

Alfred’s brows softened as he reached out and cupped Tim’s chin. “My dear boy, I am sure that you will find your way to read the full report at a later date, but for now, I do think we should clean you up a bit. You are practically shedding ash and soot at the moment.” 

“I agree, Alfred,” Bruce nodded, reaching out to unclasp Tim’s cape and hand it off to Alfred, who took it with just the smallest twitch of his upper lip as blackened motes floated from the material. “Your work is done for the night, Tim. You did all you could and did a very nice job of doing it, so until tomorrow at least, let's put off any analyzing or investigation, alright?” 

Tim nodded gratefully and allowed Bruce to lead him toward the med bay with a hand on his upper back, pulling off his gloves and pitching them over his shoulder toward the hamper Alfred held out expectantly, smiling triumphantly as they made it in cleanly. 

“Here, sit on the bed and let me grab a few things.” Bruce encouraged as he walked past Tim with his hand lingering on his shoulder until he was out of reach as he headed for the supply room. 

Tim looked at the bed a moment, looked up to make sure that Bruce had left the room, then climbed onto it using his knees like a small child climbing onto something too high for them to avoid putting pressure on his shoulders, then shuffled around so he was sitting with his legs dangling off the edge. 

Bruce returned with a portable X-ray machine and a handful of other supplies. He pulled on a pair of latex-free gloves (they had found out Tim had a latex allergy the hard way) and unwrapped what looked like a large microscope slide. “Okay, kiddo, give me a good, hard cough and see if you can get up a bit of phlegm so I can check for soot or debris.” 

Tim sat as straight as he could to open up his airways, forced himself to cough a few times, then made a hacking sound like a cat ridding itself of a hairball, then gagged a little as far more phlegm rose in his throat than he expected. He spat the junk onto the slide Bruce was holding just under his chin and wiped a string of saliva from his chin with a shudder. 

Bruce smiled with a purposeful, almost teasing, wrinkle in his nose as he set the slide on the examination table behind him. “Hm, nice one.” 

“Eck, that was gross, sorry.” Tim apologised, “I didn't expect there to be that much.” 

“It's just your lungs trying to recover from the smoke and asthma attack, pretty normal,” Bruce replied as he used a handheld microscope lens to check the phlegm, then straightened and took up an otoscope and lifted Tim's head with a hand under his chin as he used it to check Tim's nose. “Thankfully, I'm not seeing any discoloration or soot, which are good signs.” 

Tim smiled and kicked his legs absently as he watched Bruce pull off his gloves. “You know, you really should go back to med school and finish your degree. If this gig ever goes belly up, you would make a good doctor. A great one, actually.” 

Bruce chuckled as he rolled the X-ray closer and started turning on the machine. “Glad to know I have your vote of confidence.” 

“It wouldn't take long, you only need twenty more credits to graduate.” Tim pressed gently, “Not to mention you already have quite a bit of field experience to go toward your needed practice hours.” 

Bruce looked up from the screen as he scrolled through the settings. “How do you know I'm only twenty credits away?” 

Tim tilted his head with a wink. “Do you really have to ask? I checked your school records a while back because I was curious.”  

Bruce shook his head as he went back to setting up the X-ray machine. “You're right; dumb question when I consider who I'm talking to. Should I assume you checked my GPA as well? Take the top of your suit down so I can check your lungs.” 

Tim followed Bruce's instruction and started peeling back the top of his suit with a smile. “I might have. What can I say, I kinda wanted to know what your grades were like when I started bringing home my own transcripts.” 

“It wouldn't have mattered what my grades were, Tim, yours are completely– Good grief!” Bruce exclaimed as he looked over at Tim when he picked up the handheld scanner, his eyes wide and face slightly horrified. 

“What?” Tim yelped, jumping at Bruce’s sudden outburst and turning to look behind him as though some horrible creature might have crawled through the wall. 

“What happened?” Bruce demanded, setting the scanner down in favor of carefully turning Tim back toward him and smoothing a light thumb over the bare skin of Tim's shoulder. “I thought you said you weren't hurt!” 

Tim craned his neck to look down at his shoulder and saw with a drop in his stomach that an angry flare of bruising was spreading from the joint. Dang it… the dislocation must have been worse than he thought to start bruising this bad.  “Oh… I, uh…” 

Bruce carefully started to feel the bruised area and shoulder joint in search of breaks or anything out of place. “Does it hurt?” 

Tim winced and pulled his shoulder back a tiny bit out of instinct as Bruce's thumb pressed a little too deeply. “Ow, yeah, it… It hurts a little. But it's okay, it's just… I might have…” 

“What?” Bruce demanded again, looking up to meet Tim's eyes, his hands frozen in place holding Tim's shoulder as if he were cradling the injured joint. “You might have what? Did you hit it on something, or did something fall on you?” 

Tim met Bruce's gaze with a growing feeling of apprehension and dread blooming through his gut, his mouth slightly open in an answer that did not come. 

He could lie; he could do it so easily. He could say that a beam fell and caught his shoulder. He could say that he caught someone falling and the force jerked it out of socket, that would be even closer to the truth without actually telling the whole truth. But something was stopping him from forming any of those possible stories into actual words. 

There were a few things in this life that Tim valued beyond anything else in the world, and a few of those things were Bruce's trust and reliance on him. There was no way to keep sweeping this under the rug without continually lying to Bruce at every turn, and the more he did that, the bigger the betrayal would be when Bruce inevitably found out the truth. 

But… what would the fallout of the truth be? Tim remembered far too well the time when Jason had come back the first time, the way Bruce changed so suddenly that it made Tim's head spin, the way he sank into a sullen, stern, silence that Tim could barely pull him out of to answer essential questions. Bruce basically forget Tim existed in his effort to chase down answers about Red Hood and once he found out Jason returned from the grave; Tim had never felt more alone or shut out as Bruce brushed him off and pushed him aside in favor of searching to the ends of the world for answers to gain back what had been taken from him and handle an out of control, deadly crime lord. 

If this time was going to be anything like the last, Tim wasn't sure he would be able to bear it, much less survive it. The very thought of it made Tim feel like he might shrivel up and cease to exist… maybe that's how it's supposed to be…

“Tim, son, what's wrong?” Bruce's voice broke through Tim's frantic scrambling, his hands coming to cradle his face and force him to meet his eyes. Gentle eyes, worried eyes, searching eyes; not angry, disconnected, and hard. 

Tim dropped his gaze as much as could without pulling away from Bruce's touch, reaching up to grasp Bruce's wrists as he closed his eyes and swallowed over and over to try and loosen the vice-like feeling around his vocal cords. 

“Tim, you're shaking,” Bruce pointed out with growing alarm as Tim's demeanor slipped into something that he didn't like at all. He seemed smaller suddenly, caved in, and cringing as though he were expecting Bruce to lash out somehow. 

Bruce took in a deep breath to quell the rising angst and concern, and slowly and rhythmically started stroking Tim's temples with his thumbs, lowering his voice the way he did when he was talking Tim or Dick through a panic attack.“Hey, kiddo, talk to me. Tell me what's going on so I can help.”

Tim couldn't stop the tears that immediately began streaming down his face, triggered by the gentleness of Bruce's actions and voice, panicked at the thought of uttering the words that would take it all away. “Dad… Bruce, there's… there's something I've gotta tell you. B-but you've gotta promise that you won’t interrupt, and you won't get mad, and you won't… that you won't…” A sob caught in Tim's throat and made a strangled sort of sound as he pulled Bruce's hands from his face so he could reach out and wrap his arms around Bruce's neck, pulling him into a hug as if… as if it might be goodbye…

Bruce wrapped a careful arm around Tim's bare back so as not to possibly hurt Tim worse since he still didn't know what had happened to cause such deep bruising, and reached up to cradle the back of his head as his mind immediately plunged into panic and worst-case-scenario thoughts. He wanted to demand, he wanted to snap orders, he wanted, no, needed, answers, but something deep down urged him to wait, to be patient, to hold on until Tim came around. Whatever this was, it was bothering Tim to his core and sending him to that very delicate edge of control that could quickly become a full shutdown. 

“It's okay, kiddo, I've got you.” Bruce whispered into his hair that smelled heavily of smoke, ash, and sweat, “I'm here, Tim; you're going to be okay. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

Tim rubbed his cheek against the less-than-comfortable material of Bruce's suit, pulling him just a little closer as a fresh bout of tears trailed down his cheeks, his heart-of-hearts aching and begging him not to say what he knew had to be said. “I need… I need you to b-believe me…” 

“Of course I'll believe you, Tim,” Bruce hummed gently, “I just need to hear from you so I know what's going on.”

“No, B, listen…” Tim forced himself to pull back from Bruce, reaching up to wipe his nose across the back of his hand before he tried unsuccessfully to scrub some of the tears from his face. “I need you to believe me, wh-when I say that I was going to t-tell you, and that I only d-didn't because I was worried that… that it might hurt you. That it might hurt… us.” 

Bruce swallowed hard and reached up to pull Tim's hands away from his face and take over the job of wiping away the constant stream of tears. “Tim, buddy, nothing you can say will hurt me, and I know that whatever you are dealing with right now you've thought through, but I need you to trust me too; you need to trust me that no matter what you tell me won't be the end of the world.”

Tim sniffed hard and shook his head. “It might be, though, in ways that you can't understand .” 

Bruce stooped forward a little as he cupped a hand under Tim's chin so he could catch his son's gaze. “Timmy, I can't understand if you don't tell me, and right now, I am really clueless about what is going on with you. I want to help kiddo, but I can't unless you let me.” Bruce sighed and ran a feather-light hand over the darkening bruise that was spreading over Tim's shoulder and down under his arm. “Right now, I'm just worried about you; you're hurt, crying, and clearly… scared. So, just tell me what's going on so I can take care of you.” 

Just jump. Take a breath, and take the plunge…

Tim sucked in a shuddering breath and swallowed back thick saliva. “I’m not… I'm not entirely sure where to start. It's kinda… It's a lot.” 

Bruce nodded and swiped his thumbs under Tim's eyes to dry the tears gathering there. “I can handle it, Tim, just start at the beginning and take it slow. I won't push, and I'll try not to cut you off until you're finished.” 

“I had… help tonight… at the evacuation, and I don't mean the FD and PD.” Tim started, wondering if his body trembled any harder, if he might be able to phase through the bed like Bart could. 

Bruce’s brows pinched a little, his head tilting slightly as he listened, clearly struggling to stay quiet and wait for Tim to continue. 

Tim wiped his hand across his nose again and huffed out a hard breath, trying to ignore the prickle of his lungs threatening to constrict. “In fact, there've been a few times that you've thought I handled something on my own, but I… I haven't. A couple of weeks ago, I-” 

“ Father! ” 

Tim jumped hard enough at the sudden, sharp exclamation that Bruce grabbed his hands to steady him as they both jerked toward the door where Damian was standing in a short white robe and matching loose-fitting pants, barefoot, wide-eyed, and tense. 

Bruce huffed, his brow furrowed in a frustrated frown, and turned more fully toward Damian while still keeping one of Tim's hands in his own. “Damian? What on earth are you-” 

“The Red Hood is back!” Damian blurted out, his hand gripping the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles were whitening despite his tan skin. “I saw him on the monitors, with Drake! He was at the explosion tonight!”

The air, in that moment, seemed to have decided to become something other than air, because Tim suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe; his heart was slamming against his ribs as though it were a caged animal trying to escape, which sent a throbbing thrum to his ears that filled the silence, and his skin prickled as cold sweat popped up instantly over his face and chest.

Bruce stood like stone, staring at his youngest with a face void of expression while holding his third son's hand far too gently than should be possible for how tense he was. Surprisingly, he was the one who broke the spell of silence with an even, carefully tempered voice that was almost more rumble than anything else. “Damian, you're supposed to be in bed.” 

Damian sniffed indignantly and stepped back a bit in surprise at the statement. “I was on monitor watch; you permitted me to do so!” 

“But I also gave you a curfew,” Bruce replied coolly, “which you are up far past at this point. Go on upstairs now, I need to finish looking after Tim.” 

Damian stared blankly at Bruce with a kind of shock that only comes from not getting the expected response, then glanced at Tim with a snarl of disgust before turning sharply on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him.  

Tim fisted his free hand into the bedding and tried not to grip onto Bruce's hand too tightly as his stomach pitched uncomfortably. “Bruce? Please… please say something .” 

Bruce finally turned back toward Tim, letting out a long sigh through his nose as he untangled Tim's fingers from the sheets so that he could hold both his hands again. When he lifted his gaze, his expression was still unreadable, but his eyes glinted with deeply suppressed pain. “That was what you were going to tell me, wasn't it? The help you had, it was…” Bruce swallowed so hard that Tim could hear his throat working to get the job done. “It was Jason.”

Tim nodded, his teeth starting to chatter as his trembling got worse. “Y-yeah, that's what I was going to tell you.” 

Bruce nodded in turn, lowering his eyes to stare at Tim's hands in his, his thumbs rubbing circles over Tim’s forefinger knuckles. 

Tim wet his lips and forced himself to form words that he didn’t want to say. “He’s been back in Gotham for a few months now.” 

Bruce looked up at that, the slightest flash of shock and harshness traveling over his features before he reined himself back in. “And… and you’ve known this for that long, but didn’t tell me?” 

“I was going to, Bruce, I promise, I was always going to,” Tim winced as his chest started to ache on the edge of another coughing fit, “I was just waiting...” He managed to croak out before he had to reach up and press a hand to his chest as his lungs betrayed him for what felt like an unnecessary number of times in one night. When Tim opened his eyes again, it was to his inhaler being held in front of his face, so he leaned forward a little, almost instinctively, to wrap his lips around it. 

“Deep breath, Tim,” Bruce instructed as he depressed the inhaler, laying a firm hand on Tim's back, before reaching up to massage the tense muscle at the base of Tim's neck.

Tim shuddered as he struggled to reregulate his breathing, sitting still and letting Bruce situate a cannula over his ears and into his nostrils before switching on the oxygen tank that was sitting at the end of the bed. “I was trying to wait for the right time.” He sighed, finishing his earlier abandoned sentence.

“What would have been the right time, Tim?” Bruce asked, his voice tight and his brow puckering as he straightened from fiddling with the flow on the tank, his gaze meeting Tim's in a way that Tim could only label as desperate. “What right time exactly were you waiting for to tell me that Jason was back, and not only back, but confronting you?” 

Tim shuddered again, this time because goosebumps spread over his bare skin. “I… I don't know.” 

Bruce sighed, suddenly looking so very tired that Tim felt a surge of guilt for being the reason, and reached behind Tim to grab a folded blanket from its ready place, and gave a sharp snap to unfurl it before draping it over Tim's shoulders. “Alright, let's do this,” He started as he rubbed his hands up and down Tim's arms to chase the goosebumps away as he searched Tim's face, “I'm going to check your lungs and shoulder, and you are going to start from the top and tell me what has been going on. Deal?”

It took time to gather his thoughts and get going, but Tim was no quitter; once he started telling Bruce about his encounters with Jason, starting with the chance meeting at the cafe to the evacuation at the apartment complex, the words practically tumbled out of his mouth as a surprising weight lifted at having it all out on the table. 

Bruce, to his credit, interrupted extremely minimally, only cutting in to clarify a detail or a date as he busied his hands with checking Tim's lungs and shoulder with the portable X-ray, and then going about helping Tim into a shoulder brace to support the joint. 

Tim finally ran out of words and fumbled explanations littered with apologies, and Bruce had nothing more to do with his hands, so he eventually sat next to Tim on the bed and listened with his hands clenched against the mattress and his eyes boring holes into the floor in front of him. 

Tim wet his lips and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “B? Please, please say something.” He murmured, the weight of the secret now being replaced with clenching, worming anxiety curling around his heart. 

Bruce didn't respond, and for a moment, Tim wondered if he had heard him at all before he finally took in a deep breath. “I always knew that it was a possibility that Jason would return; I knew that I couldn't keep ignoring and avoiding it.” He admitted on a sigh. “After everything that happened, I… I suppose I didn't know what to expect of it when it finally did happen. This… this wasn't what I had imagined.” 

“I know, it wasn't what I expected either.” Tim agreed, running his bottom lip through his teeth. “I guess I figured if he ever did come back, it would be with guns blazing.”

“What I really don't like is that I can't figure out the reason.” Bruce mused, his gaze lifting a little as he blinked a few times to rewet his eyes after staring unblinking for a time. “Why come back? He had to know that he was… wanted … by every crime ring in existence and the law enforcement. So why come back when he had successfully managed to get out?” 

“I think… Well, actually, he said that this is his home. When I asked him why he was back, he asked if he wasn't allowed to come home.” Tim replied quietly, “I think that no matter what this place has to do with his past, good or bad, it's still all he's ever known.” 

Bruce responded with a characteristic grunt and reached up to rub at his temple. “I’d love to believe that’s all it is, but I’m more inclined to think that he has some motive besides sentimentalism. I hate to say it, but I’m fairly certain that those motives are unlikely to be that innocent.” 

“We can’t know that for sure. I told you, Bruce, he seemed really different than before, in every possible way. Maybe he really did just need the familiarity of home after coming down from the Pit Madness episode.” Tim insisted, a little surprised at how defensive he sounded. 

Bruce looked over at Tim for the first time in over an hour, his brows still pinched and his eyes searching and analyzing Tim’s face so carefully that Tim almost felt exposed somehow. “Why did you choose not to tell me, Tim?” 

Tim dropped his gaze to his lap and gulped hard, reaching up to fiddle with the cannula tube that was pressing against his cheek. “I don’t really know.” 

“ Tim, I’m sorry; normally, I might let you go on just that because I don’t like forcing you to talk to me if you don’t want to, but that isn’t good enough considering the circumstances.” Bruce insisted, reaching out to turn Tim’s face toward him. “The last time Jason was anywhere near you, I had to collect you, beaten and broken, off the floor of Titans Tower while staring at his name written in your blood on the wall.” 

Bruce swallowed and took a deep breath, as if reining in the anger that edged his tone before speaking again with carefully measured words. “You need to do better than ‘I don’t know,’ Tim,  because being this rash and taking this kind of a risk is not like you. More than anything else, I need to know why you did not tell me, and why you felt you couldn't.”

Tim silently cursed the tears that sprang to his eyes as he was forced to keep looking into Bruce's gaze by the hand under his chin and took in a breath that quivered both on the way in and out as he considered a thousand possible cover ups, only to hesitantly say what was truly at the forefront of his mind. “I… I didn't want… to lose you again.” 

Bruce blinked hard, his brows quirking upward as his hand dropped from Tim's chin to reach for one of his hands instead. “What do you mean, lose me? Jason might be dangerous, but you forget, he learned over half of what he knows from me; I can and have handled him just fine.” 

“I don't mean like that, even though I'll remind you that you have several scars as marks of the times you didn't ‘handle’ it that well sometimes.” Tim corrected with a hard swallow as his gaze dropped to Bruce's hand holding his, “I mean, lose you, to the obsession of trying to answer all the questions and fix everything. I mean like how I lost you the last time Jason came back.” 

An odd sort of choked inhale made Tim look back up, finding Bruce staring at him with a slightly agape mouth and wide eyes. 

Tim felt a small surge of courage and took a deep breath before continuing, focusing on the flecks of light blue in the dark blue of Bruce's eyes rather than his expression, so he would not lose his gumption. “When Jason came back the last time, the only thing you could think about was tracking him down and trying to pull him back to who he used to be and keeping him from doing things that were incriminating. And I know Bruce, I know that you were hurting and grieving and just wanted to find some way to get Jason back, and I totally get that part, but it became your every waking thought and focus. So I… I lost you, Bruce. So telling you that Jason was back? That was the last thing I wanted to do because I was dreading losing you again in the same way.” 

The silence that followed his words was thick, heavy, and nearly oppressive. Bruce's eyes never moved from staring into Tim's, and after a moment, they began to waver in the fluorescent lights of the medical room. 

Tim scooted closer to Bruce, carefully not to pull the cannula tube, especially since he felt the extra oxygen was the only thing keeping him from passing out. “I'm sorry, really sorry, if you feel I betrayed your trust; I even understand if you feel that way. I know that I was selfish to keep this to myself as a way of preserving my own… feelings, I guess.” 

Tim expected Bruce to do almost anything, from yelling at him, storming out of the room, to grounding him from field work. What he did not expect was for Bruce to reach up, gently cradle the back of his head, and pull him forward to press a long kiss to his forehead just between his brows. And he really didn't expect him to shift from doing that to laying Tim's head against his chest so he could hold him close in a careful, but tight embrace. 

“Oh, Tim,” Bruce whispered into his hair as he laid a hand against Tim's cheek to hold him to his chest, “I did leave you alone then, didn't I? I was here physically, but so far removed emotionally and mentally that I abandoned you for the sake of trying to fix everything else.” 

Tim's chest ached in a way that scared him a little (surely this might be what a heart attack feels like) as he wrapped his arms around Bruce's middle, a little frustrated that he was still in his armored body suit so that there was nothing really to cling to. “I did my best…” That was all he could manage as tears started trailing hot and fresh down his face. 

“Of course you did, you handled yourself brilliantly,” Bruce murmured, pressing kisses to his hair every once in a while as he spoke, “I have no complaints about you, Tim, I just… I recognize that I did not handle myself or the situation well at all, and because of my failings in that manner, I hurt you. I betrayed your trust by shoving you to the side, which has made you hesitate to be open with me now. I'm sorry, Tim, I'm so sorry.” 

This was not how Tim thought this conversation would go, and he had thought it all out several times before: Bruce would be mad, Tim would try to convince him to leave Jason alone so they could just watch him for a while, Bruce would tell Tim to mind his own, Tim would appeal to his deeper feelings about his wayward son, Bruce would listen begrudgingly and then ignore him for the foreseeable future in brooding, angry silence. 

But now Bruce had completely gone off script, which meant Tim had no idea how to proceed, so he just allowed himself to be held and tried not to keep himself from openly sobbing in relief. It wasn't that he had wanted things to go according to his prethought-out script; he had just expected it to. 

Once he was sure that he would be able to speak without stumbling over his words and the phlegm in his mouth, Tim wet his lips and sniffed hard to keep the threatening dribble of snot in his nostril. “I've been watching him, Bruce, when I was grounded because of my ankle, and I really think that something's changed for him.” He insisted quietly, “I  also didn't tell you right away because I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and some space to figure himself out for a while. Especially since he had helped me when he obviously didn't have to.” 

“And you were worried that if you told me, I would rush headlong into a confrontation without listening to what you had found out.” Bruce filled in sullenly, his voice heavy with remorse. 

Tim winced at the hurt those words held and gulped hard. “I just didn't want… I didn't want you freaking out.” 

Bruce huffed, the breath lifting and dropping Tim's head a little. “Which is something I tend to do?” 

“When it's something that involves Jason, yeah,” Tim replied, a weak smile pulling at his lips at Bruce's lighter tone. “I was just trying to… mitigate the fallout all around.” 

Bruce shook his head and pulled Tim away so he could look him in the face again, his expression much softer now as he gently pet away the tear trails on Tim's cheeks. “You never should have had to feel that all of that pressure was on you to bear alone, and I…” He sighed as he held Tim's face between his hands, his gaze dropping for a moment as he tried to straighten out his words before speaking them before looking back up, “I understand that I'm the one that put you in that position, and for that, Tim I hope you can believe, I could not be more sorry.”

Tim smiled and nodded against Bruce's hands, relief over the lack of anger in the room making him feel slightly weakened. “I know, Bruce, it's okay.” 

“It's not,” Bruce insisted, leaning forward to kiss Tim's forehead, “it's not okay, and I know that.” He sighed as he rested his forehead against Tim's as he stroked his cheeks with his thumbs. “My so-quick-to-forgiveness boy, it's never okay if anyone hurts you in any way, especially if it's me.” 

Tim raised his hands to hold Bruce's wrists to bring his hands down from his face so he could lean into his chest again, nuzzling his head under Bruce's chin as Bruce wrapped his arm around him. “Alright, let me rephrase that; I forgive you, Dad, and we're okay.” He looked up at Bruce when his stomach dropped anxiously, “We are okay, right?” 

Bruce smiled a little as he looked down at Tim. “Yeah, we're okay, kiddo.”

“And we're going to be okay moving forward, right? We're going to hang together through this, even if it's hard and emotional and confusing where people who will remain nameless but whose initials are Jason Todd are concerned?”

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle at that as he pressed his cheek to the top of Tim's head and squeezed him a little closer, still mindful of his shoulder. “Yes, Tim, we will, I promise.” He sealed the promise with a kiss to Tim's hairline as he swept Tim's hair back. “And I give you full permission to whack me out of it if I start slipping back into my old ways, okay?” 

Tim chuckled and winked. “Can I get that in writing?" 

“No,” Bruce replied as he stood and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Tim's ear, “but I promise I won't forget that I said it, so I'm not shocked if you cuff me randomly. Come on, Tim, I think you need to sleep.” 

Tim reached up to pull the cannula from his nose, but looked up in surprise when Bruce stopped him. 

“Why don't you keep that in tonight?” Bruce suggested, crossing the room to get a smaller, portable tank to hook the tube up to instead. “Your lungs look fine, but after the asthma attack, the extra oxygen wouldn't do you any harm.” 

Tim shrugged and winced at the action (when was he going to figure out that some things just didn't work with certain injuries?) and watched Bruce finish hooking up the tank. 

Bruce slung the strap of the tank bag over his shoulder and, without skipping a beat, scooped Tim up in his arms with an arm around his back and the other under Tim's knees, smiling at the little yelp that Tim let out as he grabbed onto Bruce's shoulders to steady himself. “Come on, son, let's get you upstairs and cleaned up enough for bed.” 

“B! I can walk!” Tim exclaimed as Bruce started for the door, once again frustrated by the lack of purchase Bruce's suit offered to his grabbing hands.

“Do you want to walk?” 

“...m’no…” 

“Mm-hm. Then sit still and let me hold you.”

Once upstairs and in Tim's room, Bruce helped Tim remove the rest of his body suit and waited outside his bathroom while Tim showered and changed into a fresh pair of boxers, then helped him into a nightshirt that Bruce one hundred percent recognized as one of his own missing t-shirts.

Tim climbed into bed and sucked in a breath at the throb in his shoulder when he leaned on it too hard. “Ow, good grief, that guy must weigh four hundred pounds… or something like that.” 

Bruce pulled the blankets up over Tim's legs before sitting next to him on the bed. “Jason was always… stocky, but most of that bulk definitely came after he…” Bruce's words trailed off as he stared at the pattern on Tim's comforter for a moment, then looked up at Tim again with a small smile. “Do you think you'll be comfortable enough to sleep tonight, or would you like a sleep aid?” 

“I think I'll be fine.” Tim stared up at Bruce and swallowed hard as he reached out to take Bruce's hand. “Bruce, are you going to try and confront him?” 

Bruce’s lips pressed together tightly for a moment and shook his head as he unshouldered the oxygen tank bag to set it next to the bed and started situating the cannula around Tim's ears, careful to untuck his hair out from under the tube. “We'll talk about that situation later. Right now, we'll let it lie and keep a careful eye on it. Just… promise me something?” 

Tim placed the tubes into his nose as comfortably as he could, then nodded. “Sure, what?” 

“From this point on, if you encounter Jason, you will tell me about it right away. No matter how you think I might react to it, okay?” Bruce asked, cupping Tim's chin in his hand and meeting his gaze earnestly.

Tim sighed and nodded with a smile. “Deal. And you'll promise me that you won't freak out and that you'll talk to me before you do anything, okay?”  

Bruce stood and helped Tim shift down into his bed and tucked the comforter in around him. “Deal.” He promised with a light kiss to the end of Tim's nose, which made Tim chuckle. He smoothed Tim's still-damp hair back as he looked down into his face. “Try to sleep for a few hours?”

Tim nodded against his pillow. “I don't think I'll have to try very hard.” 

“That would be a good thing. Good night, son.” Bruce wished him as he switched off Tim's lamp and started toward the door. 

“Good night… Dad.”

“Bruce, you can't go back out tonight!” Tim insisted as he practically had to chase Bruce across the Batcave. “Your arm is still healing, and your stitches could break open any time! You need to rest!”

“I don't have time to rest,” Bruce growled as he pulled on his gloves. “Red Hood will likely be at the docks tonight. I intend to be there before he is.” 

“Bruce, come on! If those stitches pop on your stomach, you could seriously lose a lot of blood,” Tim begged, “just give it a rest for the night at least!” 

“I don't need to rest, Tim, just drop it.” Bruce snapped as he fastened on his cape and continued his brisk stalk toward the Batmobile. 

“I know you want to help him, Bruce,” Tim pressed instantly, “but this isn't the same Jason you're dealing with, he's-”

Bruce whirled back toward Tim with his eyes blazing with anger and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don't need to be reminded of that! I don't need the constant reminder that my boy has gone mad! I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do! I don't need you hovering over me! I don’t need you getting in my way! I don't need you!” 

Tim jerked awake with a strangled cry as he sat up stark stiff and shaking. His face was damp with sweat, and his chest felt as though there was a fifty-pound weight sitting on top of it, and suddenly, he just had to get the tube on his face off. He ripped the cannula off over his head as he gasped and panted for air, as the stinging words from his memory and dream played over and over in his mind, as his body started to shudder and tremble. 

Bruce had handled the news of Jason being back and Tim keeping it from him so well, yet Tim’s subconscious was panicking over what would come next. Bruce had been so gentle, so caring, so… dad-like … but how long did Tim have before that changed? 

Was it sincere? Was he just masking his true feelings so that he could deal with things later when Tim wasn’t in the way? How long before he was dragging Bruce back from the edge of the abyss that had nearly claimed him the last time? How long did he have before he stopped being ‘son’ and became a nuisance? When would he snap out of his current mood and go dark and brooding and step into that persona that scared Tim to the very core of his being? When would everything that Tim had fought so hard for crumble around him and leave him in nothing but ash, bone, and desolation? 

He couldn’t take it. He wouldn’t be able to survive it again; he barely had the last time he found himself alone, watching the man he treasured so dearly become a shell of what he once was. This time, Tim wouldn’t fight. He wouldn’t be able to or even have the strength to try. If Jason truly wanted him removed, Tim would not be able to do anything more than just lie down and let it happen. 

Tim practically fell out of bed, gripping his shirt over his chest in both hands and stumbling across his room, letting out a small cry of pain as he bumped into the wall and lit a fire in his healing shoulder. He tried to find the doorknob, and for several terrifying, horrible moments of fumbling and grasping, he started to believe that there suddenly wasn’t one. A whimpered sob ripped from his throat when he finally felt the brush of cool metal against his fingers and struggled for a moment to find the ability to actually turn the gosh-darn-thing. 

He tripped on the rug and scrambled to stay on his feet as he fell against Bruce's door, struggling once more with the door knob before stumbling into his room… or was it his room? Everything felt wrong, out of place, too small… the smell wasn’t right… the air wasn’t the right temperature and was too dry…

“ Drake?” Damian practically shrieked as he bolted up to be standing on his bed, katana drawn and fear glinting in his eyes in the low light as he gawked at Tim. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?” 

There were a thousand things Tim wanted to say, but all that came out was a choked sob as he shuffled backward and yanked the door shut behind him, wincing at the string of Arabic curses and expletives that followed behind him. 

Tim ran a hand along the wall to find the next door, the last door in the hallway, no longer the one right next to his, and pushed open the door before closing it and falling back against it in a shaking heap. 

His mouth was dry, his lips feeling split as he panted and gasped. He was sweating and his face was burning, but he was also shivering and chilled, and he couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t any air, it was gone; all of the precious O2 that had once been so available had somehow been removed completely for his desperate lungs to use. 

“Tim? What’s-?” Bruce’s voice split through the fringing darkness of Tim’s consciousness, sounding confused, concerned, and so real. 

The next thing Tim knew, he was being cradled like a small child against Bruce’s chest, his sleep-warm body so close that it chased away the goosebumps. Tim could feel the rise and fall of his chest and the steady thumpthumpthump of his heart that was beating just a little too quickly for someone that just woken up, and he could also hear his voice. Deep, rumbling, sleep-heavy, taut with worry, but gentle with concern. 

“Timmy, baby, I’ve got you. You’re okay, sweetheart. Dad’s here, Dad’s got you, and you’re safe. Breathe baby, slowly, easy. Like me, Tim, feel right here, can you breathe like me? In, and out. In, and out. That’s a good boy, that’s right, Timmy, just like that. In, and out. In, and out.” 

Tim choked and whimpered as he tried to focus on the feeling of Bruce’s hand over his, pressing it to his chest where it expanded and contracted with each level, even breath Bruce took. He held onto the feeling and the sound of his voice like they were a lifeline, and slowly, painfully slowly, air started coming back into his aching, screaming lungs. 

Slow to follow the air was his awareness. Bruce had switched on a lamp, surely before as he leapt out of bed, and they were sitting on the floor in front of the door where Tim had collapsed. Bruce was sitting cross-legged with Tim nestled in the hollow his legs made, holding Tim close and thumping his back in a gentle rhythm that went along with the rhythm of Tim’s breathing. Bruce was dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and a white tank top: a wonderful, stretchy, grabbable tank top. 

One of Tim’s hands ventured from where it was clinging to the cotton material and gingerly brushed Bruce’s face as though he expected Bruce to simply vanish, the prickle of the growing stubble of Bruce’s beard tickling his fingertips. That stubble would be gone in the morning: it always was since he was careful to shave every day… except when he didn’t…

Bruce turned his head a little to kiss Tim’s palm, then carefully leaned back to look down at Tim. “Are you with me, Timmy?” 

Tim nodded, words were too hard, and his tongue was heavy and useless, and his mouth was too full of thick phlegm for him to even try. 

“I’m going to pick you up, Tim, but just for a moment so I can move us both to my bed. Is that alright? Or do you want to go back to your room?” 

Again, words were too hard, but Tim really wanted to beg Bruce not to take him away, so his instinct kicked in and he simply… well… whined. 

“Okay, sweetheart, okay,” Bruce replied gently, carefully arranging Tim’s tangled limbs so he could hold him in a way that allowed him to stand, taking slow, deliberate steps so that Tim knew where they were going without him having to raise his head. 

Bruce lowered Tim down onto the bed, but Tim didn’t let go of his shirt, so he practically fell over the top of him, bracing himself on his elbows and knees so as not to crush his much smaller son. “Timmy, baby, can you let go of me just for a second so I can get the light?” He asked as he pressed a kiss to the place just under Tim’s eyebrow. 

“Mmph…” 

Bruce sighed, more in a tired way than an annoyed way, and scooped one arm under Tim so he could roll him closer against his chest as he slid into bed, then stretched his arm back to flip off the light. 

The darkness was nice, even though Tim had closed his eyes before and wasn’t really aware of it, he now opened his eyes and was happy that he could not see anything. Partially because of the lack of light and partially because he was snuggled so close to Bruce that his nose was almost touching his chest. 

Bruce smelled good. Dick always told Bruce that he stank, but even after a heavy workout or a night in the sauna that was his suit, Tim always thought the opposite. He smelled like hot leather, spicy aftershave, and a bit like warm earth. He smelled like home. It was grounding, comforting, and a relief to be so close that Tim could smell that scent, like a blanket of security wrapping around him as he finally shivered hard as the tension released its death grip on him.   

Bruce rubbed a hand slowly and smoothly up and down Tim’s spine, almost purposefully letting his fingers trail up and down the bumps of his vertebrae as he hummed deep and rhythmically. It took a moment for Tim to realize that it was the tune of “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon. 

“M‘ruce?” Tim was finally able to mumble when his tongue remembered how to be a tongue again.

“I’m here, baby,” Bruce answered immediately, pausing in his humming and petting to cradle the back of Tim’s head, “I’m right here.” 

“I’m… ’m s‘rry…” 

“Hush, don’t you start.” Bruce scolded without even a spark of heat as he pressed his lips to Tim’s forehead. “I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re okay, sweetheart, just keep breathing for me.” 

Tim obeyed, focusing on one inhale and one exhale at a time, his limbs finally starting to stop trembling as he did so. After a few moments, though, he tried again. 

“Dad?” 

“Yes, son.” 

Tim untangled his hand from Bruce’s shirt and reached up to take Bruce’s hand from his head, pressing his hand into Bruce’s palm as he signed the letters: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U. 

Bruce huffed gently and pulled Tim even closer as he wrapped his arms around him, trapping him in warmth and strength. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Bruce was not going to brood, he was not going to sulk, and he was not going to ‘pout’ as Alfred put it; but those things were extremely hard to avoid when all he wanted to do was brood, sulk, and pout. 

Last night (this morning?) had been hell, actual hell. Had he been shocked to hear that Red… Jason … was back in Gotham? Yes, but he had also been expecting it for a while now so not as shocked as he could have been. Had he been completely horrified by Tim’s reaction to him finding out? All consumingly, yes. It was not often that Tim fell apart even a little, but last night he had practically crumbled to pieces right before Bruce’s eyes in a way that Bruce wasn't sure he'd be able to put back together.  

The shame and guilt of thinking back on just how far he had pushed Tim away during the time when Jason reappeared had been enough that Bruce thought he was going to become physically ill after he had put Tim to bed. Bruce had laid in bed wracking his mind for the details of just how bad it got, but terrifyingly distressingly, he struggled to bring up memories that even included Tim in them at all . Then his door had slammed open suddenly and sent him nearly out of his skin as he instinctively flipped on the light. 

The sight of Tim crumpled on the floor had driven him to his feet, and the sight of his wide-blown eyes, sweat-matted hair, and blue-tinged lips from the complete lack of breathing he was doing had nearly driven his heart from his chest. He had feared for a moment that he might not be able to bring Tim down before he passed out from his frantic hyperventilating, but slowly and surely had been able to break through his panic and calm him down enough for the color to return to his face and for his lips to lose that horrible blue tinge. 

Once Tim had fallen asleep, and he had done so hard, almost like he passed out more than anything, Bruce laid as relaxed as he could so as not to startle or bother him, but he had not slept a moment for fear that Tim would wake up again and need him; his hand pressed carefully to his back to monitor his breathing and heartbeat, shushing him gently when he tensed or whimpered. 

By the time the sun had begun to peek its way through the small part in the curtains, Tim was practically boneless, and snoring lightly on each inhale through his nose. Bruce had carefully untangled Tim's fingers one by one from the front of his shirt and eased oh-so-carefully out of bed, pulling up the blankets and tucking them in tightly around Tim to keep as much of his body heat under the covers as possible. He then grabbed his robe and quickly left the bedroom to let Tim sleep as long as his body would allow him. 

Now he was sitting in the kitchen at the small wooden table by the window with a mug of black coffee in his hand staring out the window running over and over the events of last night and his pathetic few clear memories of the time when the impossible had happened and his second son had come back from the grave with a blood lust and hatred for him that he couldn't comprehend.   

It was not often that Bruce came to the kitchen, usually because Alfred forbade it or promptly shooed him out, but every once in a while, he came here to sit and listen to the sounds of Alfred working and enjoy the smells of whatever he was cooking. It took him back to a time when he was just a boy, following along at Alfred’s heels every chance he got, just so that he did not have to be alone. But usually, he came here when he needed Alfred's help or advice. 

“I dare say, sir, that if you do not blink soon, you'll need to refresh your eyes with drops to get them working properly again.” Alfred pointed out quietly as he stepped up beside Bruce to top off his coffee, his free hand resting gently at the base of Bruce's neck. 

Bruce huffed as he found Alfred was right, it was hard to blink now that he finally did. “Alfred, can I ask you to be honest with me for a moment?” 

Alfred set the coffee carafe on a trivet on the counter and pulled out a chair next to Bruce at the small table, clearing his throat as he sat. “Very well sir, I will briefly leave off my lies and deceptions for a single moment as per your request.” 

Bruce rolled his eyes at Alfred's dry sarcasm and wrapped his other hand around his mug as well, his palms prickling at the heat in a satisfying, comforting manner. “Do you…? How… horrible… was I?”

Alfred blinked and shook his head a little. “Are you asking about a specific occurrence, or in general?” 

Bruce swallowed hard and kept his gaze locked on the dark liquid in his cup. “To Tim Alfred… when Jason came back the first time… how bad was I?” He asked haltingly, a deep ache pricking at his chest as he uttered the words since he knew he would not like the answer. 

Alfred's quizzical brow softened a little and he reached out to lay a gloved hand on Bruce's forearm. “Master Bruce, whipping yourself for actions past will do no good; that was a very trying time for us all, especially you in some ways.” 

“That isn't what I asked Alfred, I asked how badly I treated Tim,” Bruce demanded, frustrated by the snappiness of his tone but unable to rein it in quickly enough, so he softened it by laying a hand over Alfred's and forcing himself to make eye contact. “I… I hate to say this out loud Alfred, but I can't remember a lot of it. I remember major events, but day-to-day memories are just… gone. And I can't stand it because I know Tim remembers and is forced to live with it, but I can't and should have to bear it along with him. I want to be able to apologize for specifics, but I can't do that if I can't remember .” 

Alfred studied Bruce's face carefully and sighed. “That would seem to be a fairly common trauma response: the mind blocking out traumatic events to preserve the psyche and emotions.” 

“For other people maybe, but I've never had any trouble remembering other traumatic events, so why not this?” Bruce grumbled sullenly, looking back at the steam curling up from his coffee. 

“I would imagine, and forgive me for uttering something so shocking, that even you have your limits.” Alfred quipped with a small twitch of his lips into a smile before shaking his head. “I will be honest with you my boy, it was some of the worst times I had ever witnessed between you two. There were times… that I heavily considered sending Master Tim away until things calmed down or blew over.” He admitted quietly, not wavering when Bruce looked up at him in surprise. 

“Oh the boy would not hear of it, no matter how I tried to convince him,” Alfred explained, “but that does not negate the fact that I not only thought of it, but tried to do so. Your fallingouts were quite… abrupt and heated. I could see how it was hurting Tim, but he refused to leave your side through it all, insisting that he was the only one keeping you sane and safe.” Alfred patted Bruce's arm with sadness glinting in his grey eyes. “I'm afraid to admit that he was right in the end.”  

Bruce blinked hard, thinking that his eyes were pricking because of the dryness, but feeling rather dismayed at the tear that trailed down his cheek instead. He reached up and swiped it away before it had fallen even past his cheekbone, sniffing hard and looking back out the window. 

“But as I said, whipping yourself over it now will do nothing but send you into a depression, and that is the last thing anyone needs,” Alfred added as he squeezed Bruce's arm insistently. 

“You should have seen him last night, Alfred,” Bruce mumbled as he continued to stare, this time not stopping the tear that followed the first, “I've never seen him so… afraid . Even in the med bay as he was telling me what had gone on between him and Jason, his hands wouldn't stop shaking and he had this horrible expression of fear that I never wanted to believe that I could put there.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed heavily, the breath shaking a little as it left his lungs. “And then he came to my room having the worst panic attack I've seen him have in years. His lips were blue , Alfred, and he barely even recognized what was happening around him. I never should have left him on his own, I should have just taken him to bed with me to begin with because I knew , I knew that he wasn’t in a good headspace and I knew that he was upset, and yet I still just left him on his own.” 

“You did the best you could, Master Bruce, of that I am sure, the boy can be quite insistent that he is perfectly fine and I’ll confide that he has fooled me a few times in that little falsehood.” Alfred comforted with another pat on Bruce’s arm to accompany it. “Things may have been tumultuous between the two of you at times, but the most important thing is what your choices are in your relationship now. Don’t forget that you were the first person he came to when he needed help last night; that stands for something in how he feels about you now.”  

Bruce nodded and wiped his nose and cheeks on the sleeve of his robe, smiling a little weakly at Alfred. “I appreciate that Alfred, although I must admit that it doesn't do much for the feelings of utter failure I have in this situation.” 

“I'm sure it doesn't, but I will repeat myself as many times as necessary until you begin to believe it. You mean a great deal to that boy, no matter how emotionally… constipated … he appears to be sometimes.” 

Bruce snorted at Alfred's description of Tim's emotional state. “That's a new one from you, did Dick teach you that?” 

Alfred stood and straightened out his black jacket with a slight upturn of his nose. “Truth is truth sir, so no matter the crudeness of the term it does fit the circumstance. It’s something that you and Master Tim have in common; it is honestly a wonder to me how you and that boy are not somehow related by blood for all the ways I see you in him.”

“Father! Pennyworth?”

Bruce sighed again and took a long drink from his mug at the sound of Damian's demanding, searching call from a few rooms over. “And yet it's that one who is actually mine…”

“Rest assured that they are all yours Bruce, whether by blood or not.” Alfred smiled as he patted Bruce's shoulder. “You have enough influence on them that they all reflect you one way or another; DNA, birth circumstance, and genetics completely aside.”

Bruce hummed as he stood, draining the last of his coffee from his mug. “Can you take Damian to school this morning? I want to be sure I'm here for Tim when he wakes up.” 

“Certainly, sir, I will combine it with my planned shopping trip,” Alfred replied as he pulled off his white gloves to tuck them into his jacket pocket and started pulling eggs and other ingredients from the fridge. 

“Thanks, Alfred, I'll go tell Damian so he knows what to expect,” Bruce said as he started for the kitchen door. 

“Might I offer a bit of advice?” 

Bruce turned the moment the words left Alfred's mouth, nodding but staying quiet so that he did not accidentally interrupt or speak over the older man. 

“It does not so much matter what specifics you recall, but the ones which caused the most hurt for Tim.” Alfred offered as he cracked an egg against the side of the counter and opened up the shell to allow the yolk and white to slip into the bowl. “If you feel the need to apologize for something in particular, might I suggest that you should ask Tim what he needs you to apologize for?” 

Bruce stood quietly considering Alfred’s words, and while the idea of confronting Tim so bluntly on the subject made his stomach turn, he nodded slowly. “Thank you, Alfred, I think you're right.”

“And I know I am, so that settles that.” Alfred quipped as he began beating the eggs, “Off you go now, breakfast will be served in jiff and I'm sure Master Damian will be impatient to see you this morning.” 

Bruce smiled at Alfred's bossy command and made his way into the dining room, where he found Damian sitting in his spot looking even more cross and grumpy than usual. “Good Morning, Damian. Did you slee-”

“Drake broke into my room last night.” Damian cut in, his voice right and a little higher than normal with indignation, “and when I demanded an explanation, he refused to give one and just left ! I went to find him afterward, but he wasn't in his own room or in the cave.” 

Bruce sat down and folded his hands on the table while leveling Damian with a stern look that he hoped wasn't just coming off as angry. “Damian, Tim was having a panic attack, that's why he didn't answer you, and he came to me after he apparently stumbled into your room by mistake which is why you couldn't find him.” Bruce knew Tim might not appreciate him sharing with Damian that he had experienced a panic attack, but given the circumstances, he decided honesty and forthrightness were the best way to go about things. 

Damian stared at Bruce with a slightly stunned expression, then huffed hard and crossed his arms tightly over his chest with an eye roll. “Regardless, you'd think he could keep his unstable emotions in check enough to not barge into my bedroom.” 

“A panic attack is more than just emotions Damian,” Bruce responded firmly, “and did you stop and consider for a moment that for the past several years he has only been a door away from my room if he needs me, and now suddenly is not?” 

 Damian blinked, his face relaxing from its pinched state into the closest thing Bruce had ever seen to a guilty expression. “I… oh…”

“So perhaps,” Bruce continued as he unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap, “you have more of a part in what happened last night than you previously considered.” 

Damian’s eyes cut to Bruce as his brows furrowed, not quite in a glare, but certainly a frustrated expression. “Are you saying that it was my fault?” 

“I might be pointing out that you have fault,” Bruce replied, “so partly, yes. Every action has a consequence, Damian, and personally, I think Tim accidentally ‘barging’ into your room last night is a fairly mild one considering the circumstances.” 

Damian looked as if he wanted to argue, and likely argue loudly , but something made him clamp down and glare at his orange juice as if it had greatly offended him by simply being there.

Bruce flashed a quick smile at Alfred as he brought him another mug of coffee, then looked back to Damian. “Alfred will be taking you to school this morning, I’m taking the day off and will be staying home. I might come to pick you up though.” 

Damian’s eyes cut toward Bruce with a shocking resemblance to a snake. “So you can stay home with him ?” 

Bruce nodded as he took a sip from his mug. “I just want to be sure Tim is doing alright before I leave him here.” He set the mug down thoughtfully, then risked reaching out and petting Damian’s cheek with the backs of his fingers as he smiled. “I’d do the same for you, you know.” 

Damian quickly caught himself from leaning into Bruce’s touch and stared openly at Bruce as he took in the statement. His face darkened just slightly as he quickly reached for his juice as a distraction. 

After breakfast, Bruce walked Alfred and Damian to the door and helped Damian with his backpack in spite of his son’s mumbled assurance that he could handle it himself. 

“Have a good day at school, Son,” Bruce called as he leaned against the door frame watching Damian start down the steps, “Do your best, and try to find something positive in the day, alright?”

Damian paused with one foot on the second step and his other on the first, then turned to look at Bruce carefully for a moment. Then, as if he wanted to outrun his better judgment, turned and bolted back to slam into Bruce’s front with his arms around Bruce’s waist. 

Bruce barely had time to blink and reach down to return the embrace before Damian pulled away and ran down the steps, throwing his backpack in ahead of him as he practically dove into the open door of the limo. 

Alfred closed the door and walked around the hood, pausing to look over the top of the car and wink at Bruce before he climbed in. 

Bruce smiled and waved as the limo pulled out, unsure if Damian was watching him since the limo windows were so dark, but he decided not to take the chance and stood in the doorway until they pulled out onto the highway at the end of the long drive. He then stepped back inside and sighed, feeling slightly relieved for a few quiet hours in the house with nothing too pressing to do besides make sure that Tim was still functioning. 

After returning to the table long enough to finish the last drink of coffee from his mug, Bruce jogged upstairs before walking quietly down the hall to his room. He eased the door open slowly and stepped into the cool darkness of the bedroom, placing his steps carefully to avoid creaking floorboards, and leaned over to check on the indiscernible lump in the middle of his bed. Carefully, hoping to not wake Tim up, Bruce pulled the blanket up and back slightly while peeking under it. 

Tim was curled into a ball in the middle of the bed with his hair spread out on the sheets and covering most of his face, one lock fluttering ever so often in time with his breathing; his arms were tucked tightly around himself, and his nightshirt hiked up clear to his armpits. 

Bruce sat on the side of the bed and shook his head as he watched his son sleep, something he didn’t get to see very often outside of a medically induced sort of sleep. His gaze traveled over Tim’s pale mid-drift, which was striped with paler, shiny scar tissue from an array of past injuries, and peppered with dark bruises over his ribs; likely from slamming into the side of a building with someone the size of a full-grown man hanging from his dislocated arm. The thought made Bruce a little sick, and before he could stop himself reached out to run a light hand over Tim’s bruise-darkened ribcage. 

The action made Tim twitch heavily, his torso contorting to pull away from the apparently ticklish touch and his eyes darting behind his eyelids for a moment before his eyelids lifted just enough for Bruce to see two little slits of blue. 

Bruce laid over onto his side so he was laying face to face with Tim and reached up to sweep his hair back out of his eyes, then rested his hand along the side of his face, his thumb tracing over Tim's eyebrow. “Good morning sweetheart; you can sleep longer if you want to, I was just checking to make sure you were okay.” He whispered gently, not wanting to disturb Tim farther out of his sleep pattern if it wasn’t necessary. 

Tim pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to cover a wide yawn, then turned his face into the sheets and rubbed his nose against the bed before turning back and smiling sleepily at Bruce. “Mornin’...” 

“Do you want to go back to sleep? I'm sorry I woke you.” Bruce apologized, his voice rising just above a whisper as he started petting Tim's hair, smoothing it back from his face. 

“M'no… I'm sorta awake now.” Tim replied, even though his drooping eyelids very much told a different story. He reached up and grabbed Bruce's hand, holding it to his chest as he wrinkled his nose a little. “But I won't be for much longer if you keep that up.” 

“Sorry,” Bruce chuckled, “I can't help myself sometimes.” He searched Tim's face for a moment and was relieved to find it relaxed and peaceful; he didn't want to ruin that, but… “How are you feeling this morning?” 

The drowsy smile wilted a little as Tim took in a deep breath through his nose. “I… I feel really tired. Like, not sleepy, but tired … bone tired.” 

Bruce propped himself up on his elbow so that he was looking down at Tim a little. “As much as I hate it, that seems fairly normal considering what you went through last night. A hard evac mission, emotional stress, and a real doozy of a panic attack; you have every reason to be feeling the effects.” 

Tim rolled over onto his back and started to lace his fingers behind his head, but winced and settled for just his left hand tucked underneath his head while his right hand remained resting on his chest, his right shoulder smarting at the attempt. He huffed heavily and frowned up at the ceiling. “Yeah… it was a doozy alright…” 

Bruce nodded and reached out to take Tim's hand. “Are you hungry?”

Tim turned to look at him with a face that screamed surprise since he was apparently sure that Bruce would push forward on the topic. “I… yeah, I guess. I could probably eat something.” 

“Good,” Bruce sat up and held out a hand to Tim to help him sit up before standing. “Why don't you come downstairs then? Alfred left you some breakfast to heat up.” 

Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pulling his shirt down so that it settled down to his mid-thigh, his cheeks coloring a little. “I, uh, I should probably go get dressed first.” 

Bruce held out his hand at his sides and smirked. “Does it look like I care about attire today? Come on, kiddo, you look fine, and comfortable. I have no plans on going anywhere or doing anything that requires anything other than pajamas; if you feel like going to get dressed later, then you can, but let's get some food in you first. What do you say?”  

Tim stared at him for a moment with an expression that spoke of both surprise and delight, and after he found that Bruce wasn't going to change his mind, grinned and nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can deal with that. What about work?” 

Bruce draped an arm around Tim's shoulders as Tim met him at the foot of the bed and walked with him toward the door. “Dealt with; today is ours to do with as we please.” 

Tim cut a suspicious sort of glance at Bruce as they walked down the hallway. “Shouldn't you be taking Damian to school by now?” 

“Alfred drove him to school actually, they just left,” Bruce replied lightly, feeling a strange sort of pride and giddy to see the expressions of shock and joy flit across Tim's face. “And Damian won't be home until four thirty since he has a debate team meeting after school.” 

“Damian's part of the debate team ?” Tim asked, his tone edged with disbelief. “When did that happen?” 

“A few months ago actually. His school counselor was pushing for him to join some sort of club or extracurricular team, and after discussing a few options, we settled on debate.” Bruce explained as they stepped into the kitchen and he waved Tim toward the small table by the window. “He's actually quite good.”

Tim sat and settled his chin in the palm of his hand as he leaned his elbow on the tabletop as he watched Bruce pull the plate of leftovers from the fridge. “On the one hand, I can see that he would be good on a debate team, on the other hand, I’m shocked that someone hasn't been killed yet.”   

“Well, that was sorta part of the deal.” Bruce shrugged as he put the plate in the microwave and started it for forty-five seconds. “Honestly, I think it has taught him more about self-control than it has anything else.” 

Tim smiled as Bruce brought his plate to the table with a bottle of ketchup in hand, even though his opinion about ketchup on eggs was quite similar to Alfred's, and took the offered plate. “Thanks, Bruce, you… you don't have to sit with me if you have something to do.” He offered hesitantly. 

Bruce crossed the kitchen to the cabinets, having to open a few before he located the one with the glassware and took down two mugs, smiling gently at Tim as he filled them both with coffee before joining him at the table. “I already told you, Tim, I don't have any plans for the day; in fact, you are my plan. How often do we have the house to ourselves anymore?” 

Tim finished chewing his bite of scrambled egg and swallowed before smiling sheepishly. “Not… often.” He admitted as he reached for the coffee Bruce had poured for him. 

“Did you want cream or anything? I forgot to ask, I just fixed it black.” Bruce apologized. 

Tim sipped at the dark, steaming liquid and smiled with a hum. “Nah, black is great this morning.” He took another sip, then held the mug just slightly in front of his face so that he was peeking over at Bruce with slightly squinted eyes. 

Bruce smiled and leaned his elbow against the table so that he could hold his chin in his palm. “What? You're thinking very hard on something.” 

Tim hesitated to answer, then set his cup down with his hands still wrapped around it, his expression slightly disgruntled. “Are you mad at me?” 

The question was delivered so bluntly that it took Bruce a moment to process it, and a moment more to figure out how on earth he was supposed to answer that. 

“Why would I be mad at you?” Bruce finally asked, his tone slightly aghast at the fact he was even having to ask such a thing. 

“Because... you have a lot of conceivable reasons that you could be mad at me,” Tim reasoned as he slowly turned his mug in his hands as he stared intently at the contents, “and you are being… really calculated. Careful. Cautious. You usually only act that way when one of two things has or is about to happen; one, you’re mad at me and trying to hide it, or two, you’re about to tell me something that I really will not like hearing.” 

Bruce was sure that his heart had ripped open a little and begun to bleed within his chest as he stared at Tim's unbothered expression and listened to his nonchalant tone as he explained. He swallowed hard and reached out to take one of Tim's hands from his mug so that he could hold it firmly, which brought Tim's gaze up from his mug. “Tim, son, I am not mad at you, nor do I have anything to tell you that you'll dislike. The fact that you feel that way just proves to me further that I have a lot of work to do.” 

Tim stared at Bruce with a look that was almost blank, except for the small twitch at the right side of his mouth that indicated uncertainty. “What… What do you mean? What work?” 

Bruce squeezed Tim's hand and then pointed at his forgotten plate. “Why don't you finish eating, then we can go sit in the den for a little while.” 

Tim shoved his plate further away and stood, his eyes darting quickly over Bruce's face in the careful, searching manner that had been trained into him. “I'm finished now.”

“I'll sit with you if you want to eat more.” Bruce offered, remaining sitting as he looked up at Tim with a hopefully open and calm expression. 

“No, I'm finished.” Tim insisted, reaching for his coffee and offering up a small smile. “I'll take this with me though.”

Bruce nodded and took his own mug as he stood, reaching out to put an arm around Tim's shoulders and hating the tension he felt in them. 

They walked together to the first den off the dining room, then Tim pulled out from under Bruce's arm and climbed onto the couch to settle down with his legs pulled up to his chest and underneath his nightshirt, his coffee held to his chest so that it was available for him to sip on. Bruce sat on the other side of the couch and set his coffee mug on a coaster on the end table.

Tim's gaze was growing in intensity as he stared over his mug and knees at Bruce as if just waiting for something to explode before his eyes. 

Bruce took a deep breath and met that gaze steadily no matter how much it made his stomach clench with appreciation. “Tim, I know you had a rough night last night, and I don't really want to push you, but we do really need to talk if you feel up to it.” 

Tim swallowed hard enough that Bruce could see his small Adam's apple bob in a jerky manner, and his eyes lowered to stare at the diminishing steam rising from his mug. “About Jason?” 

“No, actually, about you.” Bruce replied, shrugging slightly as Tim looked up with surprise that he did not try to hide or conceal in some other sort of expression, “and me. I’d like to talk about us, I suppose is a better way to say it. We can deal with that… other matter… later. At any rate, it… certainly doesn't seem to be going anywhere.” 

Tim blinked hard, once, twice, then shook his head slightly to shake out of his stunned silence. “Oh-kay… What do you want to talk about then? In regards to… us?” 

Bruce took a long drink from his cooling coffee, Alfred's words echoing in his mind, then set aside his mug and shifted so that he was facing Tim more squarely. “I think that you'll agree with me that when it comes to handling emotional issues, I am not the most skilled, right?” 

A small smile pulled at Tim's mouth as he sipped at his own coffee, nodding but leaving the floor open for Bruce to continue, looking interested but still a little apprehensive. 

“So, I think that I have characteristically moved on past circumstances that were hard and painful without considering that there might have been hurts that have not been given the attention needed to properly heal.” Bruce paused as he steeled himself, then continued on before losing his nerve. “Tim, I would like to apologize for how I treated you when Jason came back, but more than that, I would like to know what you need me to acknowledge and apologize for rather than just giving you blanket statements and generalizations."  

Tim froze with his cup still held to his lips, his eyes widening a little as the color drained from his face, looking as if he had either been slapped across the face or told something completely earth-shattering and unbelievable. He swallowed his almost forgotten mouthful of coffee and turned slightly to set his coffee on the table behind him, then turned back to Bruce and clasped his hands around the fronts of his shins. He blinked slowly, his lids staying down a moment as he cleared his throat, and when his eyes opened to focus on the space between Bruce's chin and collarbone his face settled into an expression that Bruce was only familiar with in the board room of W.E. when he was trying to close a deal. 

The silence that followed was enough for Bruce to go through at least three crises and a small panic attack before Tim finally sighed and shook his head before speaking. 

“B, you don't have to apologize for anything.” His voice was small, and wavered just slightly, which was enough for Bruce to know that he was struggling to hold back his true emotions. “What we went through during that time was hard, and trying, and hurtful for both of us. I don't blame you for anything that happened, so I don't need an apology.”

Bruce swallowed hard to dislodge the tightness in his throat, then scooted over to sit on the section of the couch right next to Tim, draping his arm around Tim's knees. “Timmy, I know it's hard, but you deserve and need to be able to demand an apology from me for the things that I did that hurt you.” He reached out with his bicep resting on top of Tim's knee and laid his hand against the side of Tim's face, petting his thumb over Tim's cheekbone as his son stared at him with as much shock as if he had been hit (yikes, and ouch). “I owe that much to you, to make the space for you to be able to demand what you deserve no matter how hard it is, which is what I want to do right now. I appreciate and respect the maturity you've shown in not doing so up to now, but I want you to, Tim; I want you to be honest, and harsh, and brutally straightforward in the way that I know you are capable of being.”

Tim's eyes had started to glimmer in an odd way as Bruce spoke, and at first, Bruce thought that the sunlight in the room was to blame, until a single tear beaded in the inner corner of Tim's eye and began to waver as it gained weight and slipped down to follow the curved trail of his nose. Before Bruce could do anything about it, Tim swallowed hard and shifted so that he could tuck himself under Bruce's arm with his face pressed against his chest and one of his hands fisted into Bruce's robe, his knees still drawn up tightly against his chest as he curled into Bruce.  

Bruce wrapped his arms around Tim and held him tightly in an effort to quell his own rising panic that perhaps he had gone too far, or said something wrong; he badly wanted to say something as he felt Tim's shoulders shake a little, but if Bruce knew anything about Tim (and he hoped to heaven that he did), sometimes Tim needed time to sort through his thoughts enough to speak. So he waited, even though Bruce thought it might drive him mad, he waited quietly and simply held on. 

“You… you didn't want me anymore…” 

The statement was nearly whispered, more than half mumbled, quivering with emotion, but as sharp and painful as a switchblade to Bruce's heart; he was halfway convinced he could feel the razor edges as his heart tried to beat around it.

“When Jason came back,” Tim continued brokenly, “he was all you could think about. All that we had built, all that I had tried so hard to gain, was just gone. Jason kept calling me replacement, and pretender, and when you stopped listening to anything I had to say, or wanting me around, and shoving me away from you at every turn, I started to believe him. It hurt Bruce, it hurt so badly because I thought we were partners, I thought we were more than partners, and you just didn't want me anymore.” 

Bruce swallowed hard and reached down to pull Tim's legs over so that he was cradling Tim completely in his lap, his lips pressed to the top of Tim's head and eyes smarting with tears begging to be shed as he listened to each word that Tim spoke and hated that he knew the truth that they held. 

Tim’s sentence was broken and strained as he hiccuped hard against the sob that desperately wanted to escape his chest. “Even when you came to Titan Tower after… after our fight… it felt as if you were mad at me for letting him hurt me the way he had, and worse than that, that you were disappointed that I hadn't been able to stop him.” 

“No, Tim, oh no…” Bruce finally interjected, reaching up to press his hand against the back of Tim's head, absently starting to rock them both back and forth a little. “Never, I was never angry or disappointed in you. I was furious to find you so badly hurt, furious that I hadn't been there to stop it or prevent it, but that was never meant for you. None of it was ever meant for you, but I… I know that it was my doing that made you feel that way.” 

Tim seemed to be trying to slow his hiccuping sobs in an effort to listen, and he pressed himself closer to Bruce rather than pull away, so Bruce took a deep breath and pressed on. 

“I was pushing you away, I was trying to distance myself, but not because of anything you did. I was… I was terrified Tim, terrified of losing you. My fear of seeing you hurt or worse was why I kept you at arm's length from the very beginning, it was why I refused to let you take on Robin for so long, it was why I treated you with such horrible, selfish coldness. I thought that if I could only keep you far enough away, that maybe I could protect you.” Bruce paused as he took in a deep breath and pressed a long kiss to Tim's forehead. “I'm sorry Tim, I'm so sorry; if I had been willing to be more open with you in spite of how I was feeling, maybe I could have spared you this pain.” 

Tim didn't respond or answer for a long time, but the shaking of his shoulders and back slowly began to ease and the tight tension in his body began melting away as he relaxed into Bruce's hold rather than desperately pressing himself into Bruce's chest as though at any moment he might be shoved away. 

Bruce rubbed his cheek against the top of Tim's head as he breathed in the scent of his son's shampoo, and gently massaged slow circles into Tim's back. “I love you Tim; the truth is I always have loved you, from the moment I met you.” 

Tim sat up and looked at Bruce with a blotchy, tear-stained face and red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes that were wide with curiosity and question. “The moment you met me? Bruce, that was years before I even came to you asking to be Robin.”

Bruce smiled and nodded, smoothing back Tim's hair and wiping away the tear trails from his cheeks. “I know, but it's true; even if I didn't know it at the time, I loved you from the first time I met you. Do you remember?” 

The redness in Tim's face evened out a little as he blushed, his eyes dropping as a shy sort of smile pulled at his lips. “Yeah, I do, actually. I was pretty little, and it was the first time my parents brought me to a fundraiser gala.” His eyes raised to meet Bruce's gaze as his smile widened. “You got me cake and sat with me while my parents danced and talked to people. I, uh, I fell asleep holding your tie, and you let me keep it so that you didn't have to wake me up; I still have it.”

Bruce smiled and ran his fingers through Tim's hair from his hairline to the back of his head. “You do? You still have that old tie? Why did you keep it?” 

Tim shrugged a little, the shy smile still in place. “I don’t really know. I just liked it; I was really excited when I woke up with it, and my parents didn't care or try to take it from me, so I kept it.” 

Bruce cupped the back of Tim's neck with both his hands, his thumbs rubbing circles at the base of Tim's ears, looking earnestly into Tim's face as Tim met his gaze. “Tim, I hope you really feel it and believe it when I tell you how sorry I am; you are so dear to me, and I hate myself for not showing it from the very beginning. I love you Tim; I love you now, I loved you then, and I have loved you always. I just… I just haven't shown it in a way that you would feel or understand. I've done what I always do; I push those I love away because I think that is the only way I can protect them instead of just being honest and actually opening up for a change. I suppose you and I both know that my way never tends to work out very well, does it?”

Tim huffed and reached up to hold Bruce's wrists, a small smirk taking the place of the shyness. “Yeah, there’s really no other way to put it: you really suck at this whole feelings and emotions thing. But… but I appreciate that you are trying now; that's the important part.” He threaded his arms through Bruce to break the light hold so he could lean forward and wrap his arms around Bruce's neck. “And we're going to do it better, right? This time, we'll do it better.” 

Bruce returned Tim's embrace and nodded before kissing Tim's cheek. “I promise you that sweetheart, from the bottom of my heart, I promise.” 

Tim sat back again and smiled, reaching out hesitantly to brush away a tear that Bruce hadn't realized had escaped. “I'll hold you to that, you know.” 

“I fully expect you to,” Bruce agreed, “and if I start straying back to my old way, you will and have full permission to smack sense into me in any way you see fit.” 

Tim chuckled and waggled his brows at Bruce with a wink. “Are you sure you want me to do that? My bo staff has a taser function now.” 

Bruce planted a hand on either side of Tim's face and pulled him a little closer, squinching Tim's cheeks a little as he did so. “If I do anything to hurt you, no matter my reasoning, I will be most disappointed in you if you don't use the taser.”  

Tim giggled and fell forward into Bruce's chest, snuggling down as Bruce enveloped him in his arms once more. After a moment, his voice came drifting back muffled but light, happy even. “Bruce?” 

“Hm?”

“Did you mean it when you said you didn't have any plans for the day?” 

“I did, in fact; I also meant it when I said that you are my plan. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

Tim sat up and smiled; bright, genuine, and, thank all that was holy, without an ounce of hidden tension or buried emotion. “Actually, I do. When Damian decided to take over my room, he dropped my camera and cracked the lens. I'd like to take it downtown to a repair shop I know of and get it repaired.” 

Bruce winced and frowned deeply. “You didn't tell me he broke your camera.” 

“I really didn't see the point of saying anything at the time,” Tim replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, “but I've been meaning to take it to get it fixed for a bit yet and just haven't taken the time to do so. I'm also in the mood for sushi.” 

Bruce raised his brows as he chuckled and shook his head. “Well, sushi for lunch it is. And I'll gladly take you to get your camera repaired, but I'd also buy you a new one if you like.” 

“No, I want the old one repaired.” Tim replied decidedly, “It's… it's special. I don't even use it anymore, I have a different one for actual use, I just want the old one in usable condition because it has special memories attached to it, you know? I would also like to go on a drive down to the beach.” 

Bruce nodded, amused by Tim's technique of slipping in little demands into his statements without missing a beat and the knowledge of why that old camera was so special and important. “So, repair shop, sushi, then the beach, or are we picking up sushi to eat at the beach?” 

Tim thought for a moment and nodded with a grin. “That last option sounds good.” He untucked his legs and crawled out of Bruce's lap, nearly tripping over himself as he did so. “I'll go get dressed, then we can…” He stopped in the doorway and turned, looking a little sheepish and nervous. “I mean, if that's okay with you?” 

Bruce smiled and stood. “It's more than okay with me, kiddo; in fact, I think that sounds like the perfect day. I'll go right upstairs and get dressed as well so that I'm ready when you are.” 

Tim's face broke into a type of grin that smacked of a much younger boy who used to run ahead of Bruce, ready for anything, making Bruce's heart twist with grief at not enjoying that joy more in the years past, then he turned and jogged up the stairs. 

“Great! Maybe I'll bring along my other camera too; I could take some pictures down by the shore. I haven't had a chance to just take pictures for fun in months! We’ll go to the private beach, right? I always see more water birds there, and the rocks are better for ocean action captures…” 

Bruce couldn't keep the smile from his face as he followed along behind Tim and listened to his excited rambling as he practically skipped up the last of the stairs and down the hall. 

Alfred had been right, of course, that the best course of action was asking Tim what Bruce could apologize for specifically, as it had not only allowed Tim to feel that he had some say so and autonomy in the conversation, but it had also painfully rekindled Bruce's memory of just how badly he had treated Tim when his once lost son had returned. It hurt, and in a way, Bruce would have much more preferred not remembering, but the pain allowed him to truly take accountability for what he had done. 

And Tim, true to nature and character, had accepted his apology and forgiven him regardless of how horrible the wrongs were that had been done against him. Bruce worried that his ease of forgiveness came from years of conditioning, but he had seemed earnest and honest in his forgiveness; it wasn't just the act of burying his feelings and giving lip service in order to move past the discomfort of confrontation but true, honest forgiveness. 

Bruce had promised to do things differently, and better, and he fully intended to. He had to; there simply wasn't another option. Tim had a deep capacity for understanding and forgiveness, but Bruce in no way wanted to risk pushing his boy to the edge of his ability. He couldn't lose Tim in an effort to gain something back that might not ever be attainable again; in fact, the thought of losing Tim over anything at all made Bruce's stomach turn with panic. 

Bruce would be better. He would be more open, even if it was against his nature. He would be more open, honest, and genuine. Tim had earned that from Bruce… no… Tim deserved that much.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Conner always insisted that Tim was an optimist, even though Tim had always considered himself to be more of a realist leaning towards being a slight pessimist, but today, Tim couldn't help but feel optimistic about life in general. The night before he had certainly been… rough… to say the least, considering he had suffered through having to spill his guts to Bruce about everything he had been keeping from him and then had the granddaddy of all panic attacks an hour or so later, but the follow up had been just short of perfect. 

Tim wasn't sure what had spurred Bruce into practically begging him to demand an apology for what had happened between them, nor was he sure he really wanted to know since Bruce had the ability to spiral into the deepest, darkest pits of guilt and regret that Tim had ever seen, but it had been like a weight lifted from his somewhere deep in his chest to actually speak into words the hurt that he had felt for so long.

The rest of the day had been spent by Bruce doing anything and saying yes to everything that Tim even so much as suggested that he might like to do. Tim couldn't remember the last time he had felt so satisfied and at ease, and not even Damian's eventual arrival back home from school did much to alter his mood; he was even able to get in an actual nap for a few hours before wandering almost leisurely down to the cave.  

Bruce looked up from typing in a password into the computer and smiled. “Hello, did you get any sleep?” 

Tim nodded and ran his fingers back through his hair to smooth it back before gathering it into a haphazard half bun as he joined Bruce at the computer. “I did actually, a solid three hours' worth.” 

Bruce nodded and hummed in a pleased manner as he started downloading fresh data into his gauntlet computer chip. “Three hours, huh? That's a full night's sleep for you.” 

“Ha. Ha.” Tim replied in a snarky, but good-natured manner. The smile that had been in place for most of the day wilted just slightly when he looked over at the uniform cases and saw that the Robin case was open and empty. “Is, um… is Damian unbenched?” 

Bruce turned and leaned his hips against the control panel, his arms crossed lightly over his chest as the right corner of his mouth turned down just a little. “It's a careful balance of keeping him grounded long enough that he gets uncomfortable but not so long that he does something… unthought-out.” 

Tim huffed and nodded as he scratched the back of his neck with a shrug. “Yeah, I guess it would be. And by the way, the word you were searching for is ‘stupid’, before he does something ‘stupid’.” 

Bruce smirked and raised his brows briefly. “The word I'm searching for probably shouldn't be said in mixed company nor in front of my children, in whom I have tried very hard to encourage clean language.”

Tim chuckled and started toward his uniform case with a wave of his hand. “Ah, come on, Bruce, let loose once in a while. I won’t tell Alfred, I promise.” 

“Tim?” 

Tim stopped and turned at the tone with which his name was spoken: deeper, a little more stern, and a lot more tense. Bruce's expression had darkened, and if Tim wasn't mistaken, he was detecting just a slight saddened downturn in his mouth. “Bruce?” 

“We haven't talked about it today because I didn't want to dampen the mood or disrupt our time together, but since we are about to go out on patrol, I need to check in with you about a bit of an unpleasant subject.” Bruce started as he crossed the platform to lean his forearms on the railing so that he was looking down slightly at Tim, who was standing halfway down the stairs to the uniform platform.

Tim swallowed hard and nodded. “Jason?” 

Bruce nodded in agreement and loosely laced his fingers together. “Jason. From what you told me and what I have gathered, he seems to be drawn to you for some reason since returning.” 

“I told you before, Bruce, he hasn't been violent toward me. I'll be careful, and I’ll be fine, I promise.” Tim insisted, unsure of where Bruce was going to go with this and wanting to get ahead of the topic if possible, “I can't be sure, but he seems really different than last time. I mean, come on, he helped me save all of those people, he’s saved my butt a few times now when he didn't have to, and he didn't even-”

“Tim, I'm not benching you or suggesting any restrictions.” Bruce interrupted with his hands slightly raised without having to straighten from his leaning position, a slightly amused smirk on his face. “I only want to talk about a game plan, not how I don't think you'll be careful, or that I don't want you out on your own. I just want us to be careful moving forward and be on the same page with how we want to deal with this.” 

Tim blinked in surprise (because he had fully expected a benching) and nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, we can do that.”

“So,” Bruce opened his hands a moment before letting them fall back to their relaxed laced finger position, “what are your thoughts?” 

Had Tim’s Bruce gotten replaced by another dimension's? Because this was really not how Tim expected this to go…  

“Um, well, I…” Tim internally shook himself out of his shocked stupor and set his hands on his hips as he twisted his lips thoughtfully for a moment before starting over. “He seems to be trying to lay relatively low. I don't know why, but you're right, he does seem to end up around me whenever I'm out on my own, which could mean he is actively seeking me out. You might not be completely on board with this thought, but I think that he might be trying to test the waters and see how we are going to react to him being back in Gotham.” 

Bruce nodded, listening to Tim with a mostly willing and open expression, his teeth working at his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from interjecting. “I would agree with that, although I will mention that it is odd that it would be with you that he is testing the waters with, since he had an obvious vendetta against you before.” 

Tim scoffed lightly and nodded his head from side to side. “ Obviously . I don't know the reasons, but… but I think that we should let him if he will. You know as well as I the severity of Pit Madness in someone like Ra's; now just imagine the intensity in someone that was… well… dead.” Tim gulped and pressed forward before that ugly word could settle for too long in the air. “My theory is that the pit poison has had a chance to run its course through his system, and now he's coming down on that other side of it, wondering what the heck to do with himself. And I don't know about you, but I'm not going to condemn him without giving him a chance first.” 

Bruce stared down at Tim with a look of mild surprise and more than a little concern, then sighed and let his head hang for a moment before looking up with a nod. “Yeah, no, I get it, I hear you. I… as hard as it is to trust him to not go off on another insane sort of vengeance spree again, I feel the same way to a degree. I would love to believe that he might be coming back to himself a little, but I won't lie and not tell you that I can't quite get to that point just now.” 

“I know, I’m not jumping off the bridge and just assuming that he's completely trustworthy, but I want to give him the room to prove himself as well,” Tim replied, stepping up a few steps so that he was closer to the same level as Bruce. 

Bruce turned to face him and sighed, then reached out in an ask for Tim's hand, rubbing his thumb over Tim's knuckles when he received it. “I don't want you getting hurt, but I also trust your judgement. So here's my thoughts: as much as I do not want you to be alone with Jason, I can clearly see that he is avoiding me, so the only way we might get any information or an idea as to his mental state will be to allow him to approach whenever he feels comfortable to do so. That being said, I want you to signal me somehow if and when he makes an appearance, and we need another signal for if or when things escalate.” 

Tim returned the firm pressure on Bruce's hand and nodded. “Okay, how about this: I'll tap into the comm link twice for an occurrence, and I'll send out my S.O.S signal if I need emergency backup or bailout.” 

Bruce pulled in a deep breath and held it a moment before nodding in agreement. “Alright, twice for an occurrence, S.O.S if things get bad.” 

Tim smiled and squeezed Bruce's hand a little tighter before releasing it and walking down the steps backwards to maintain eye contact with Bruce. “Perfect, plan is made.” 

He turned to start down the stairs, then paused and jogged back up them to collide into Bruce with his arms wrapped around his middle. 

Bruce chuckled and returned the embrace, looking down at Tim with a little confusion. “You okay, kiddo?”

Tim nodded and looked up so that his chin was propped up against Bruce's chest. “Yeah, I'm okay. I just forgot to tell you something.” 

Bruce smoothed back a lock of hair from Tim's forehead and tilted his head as he looked down at him. “Oh? What's that?” 

Tim grinned and turned his head to smoosh his cheek over Bruce's heart. “I love you, Dad. Thank you for today, it was… it was great.” 

Bruce raised his brows in surprise, then leaned down to kiss the top of Tim's head. “I love you, too, Son.” 

Tim stepped back and started backward down the stairs once more. “So, are we on the same page with everything?” 

Bruce nodded with a smile as he watched Tim descend to the lower platform. “Same page.” 

“Good, then let's get going while the night is young.” Tim winked as he turned and jumped down the last two steps before turning and grabbing his uniform. 

“Are you sure your shoulders are up to this tonight? You could stand to lay off another night or two.”

“I'll be careful,” Tim replied with a wave of his hand as he continued walking. “I’m gonna wear my braces under my suit, and I just won't swing much. I also promise to stay out of any major scraps or wrestling matches with Bane. I'll call you in for that.” 

Just as Tim started into the changing rooms, Damian stepped out quickly, his face darkened just enough for Tim to know that he had been standing very still and carefully listening to the previous conversation. 

Tim smirked and stepped around the caught, staring pre-teen. “Eavesdropping, Damian? That's a new low.” 

“I was not eavesdropping.” Damian snapped, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “And even if I was, it would be called espenoge , which is very much a part of my job and therefore not a ‘low’ as you call it.” 

“Sure, kid, nice cover up.” Tim winked cheekily as he stepped into one of the changing rooms and yanked the curtain closed with an unnecessary flourish. He could hear Damain's jaw click closed before the sound of his stomping steps retreating toward the computer platform. 

It shouldn't, but knowing that he had flustered Damian even a little gave Tim a giddy little thrill of victory.

Once changed into his uniform, Tim returned to the computer platform and plunked down into the chair to propel himself over to the keyboard, grinning slightly as the chair stopped rolling and ceased spinning in just the right spot. Bingo. 

“Are you coming with us in the car or are you taking a bike?” Bruce asked as he reached over Tim and retrieved his gauntlet chip from the update panel. 

Tim inserted his chip and sat back as he waited for it to download the updated report data, lacing his fingers behind his head, then sat forward again with a grunt as he pulled the band from his hair and shook his head to relax the bunched-up locks. “I think I need a haircut.” 

Bruce smiled and reached out to take the band from Tim's hand, then circled around his chair and started running his fingers through the front of Tim's hair to gather it up into a half ponytail to hold it back out of his face. “Or you could just start trying some different options for holding it back. I've always preferred your hair longer, but maybe you could pin Alfred down for a trim this week to keep it a little more tame.” 

Tim sat frozen in surprise while a pleased smile crept across his face as he sat still, letting Bruce have his way with his hair, then looked up when he felt Bruce's hands on his shoulders. He reached up to feel the secure job Bruce had done and raised a curious brow. “How, where, and when did you learn anything about hair ?” 

Bruce shrugged and patted Tim on the shoulder as he walked over to where his cape was draped on a railing. “Oh, I wouldn't say I really know anything; I've just picked up some tricks here and there, I suppose.” 

Tim stood and stole a peek at his reflection in one of the dark monitors and grinned at the sight of the neat little updo. “Quite the trick you just ‘picked up’. Tell me, was it from one of your lady friends at some late-night date or from Arthur during a post-mission debrief?"

Bruce glanced at Tim over his shoulder, and when he saw the smirk on his face, he huffed and rolled his eyes slightly as he swept his cape off the rail to put it on. “Neither.” He turned as he pulled up his cowl and smiled (a look that could strike fear into anyone else's heart, but only made Tim smile back). “It was Diana, actually.”

Tim pressed his domino mask into place as he trotted down the stairs to the parking deck. “My bad, I shoulda known honestly.”

Damian slid down from where he had been perched on the Batmobile's hood and yanked open the front passenger door, giving Tim a once-over with his sharp green eyes before pressing on his domino. “Just when I think you cannot look any more ridiculous, you step it up a notch with a hairstyle like… that.” 

Bruce sighed and shook his head wearily. “Damian…” 

Before Bruce could continue, Tim grinned and flicked his gloved hand through the short back fringe of his hair near his neck, purposefully swinging into what he had been told was a surprisingly good model walk. “What can I say, not everyone can pull off the ‘Spikey Demon’ look like you can.” He swung a leg over his bike and pulled on his helmet, sticking his tongue out at a glaring Damian and winking at a quietly smiling Bruce before flicking down his visor and revving his engine. 

It might have just been the fact that he had the pressure of keeping a secret from Bruce and trying to decide the best time to reveal it off his chest, or perhaps it was the fact that he had actually gotten a few good hours of sleep, or maybe it was the blissful day he had gotten to spend with Bruce; whatever it was, Tim felt entirely revived and recharged. 

 Tim took a ride through the center of the city and then took an exit into the south side, knowing full well that he would be more likely to have ‘an occurrence’ if he went to ‘his’ side of town. And who was he kidding, he was just as actively seeking out Jason at this point as Jason was seeking him out. 

Parking his bike in a dark, unlit alley, Tim stowed his helmet away in the locking compartment on the back of his bike's seat and then walked down the sidewalk to the rubble that had once been a mid-sized apartment building. He clicked his tongue as he climbed up onto a mostly intact concrete pylon and looked over the remains, taking a knee and typing in a few commands into his gauntlet before holding it out and allowing the sensor to take a scan of the area. 

“Hey dude!” 

Tim concealed the start he felt in his chest at the call, and turned slightly to see a twenty-something-year-old in ripped jeans and, ironically, a Red Robin t-shirt waving at him enthusiastically from the sidewalk. 

Tim flicked him a two-fingered salute and smiled a little. “Hey dude, to you too.” 

The guy's face was eager and hopeful, and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other in anxious anticipation. He held up his phone and gave it a little shake. “Can I grab a pic? You look sick in all that wreckage. And I'm, like, probably your biggest fan! I run one of your fan pages on Instagram!” 

Tim nodded and shifted so that he was squatting on his heels with his forearms resting on his knees, amused by the mention of one of his fan pages. He was aware of them, and frankly, tried to avoid them to spare himself secondhand embarrassment or self-consciousness, but he still thought it was funny that they existed at all. “Sure, man, go for it. Just get my good side in the photo, wouldja? Especially if this is gonna end up on the world wide web.” 

“Ah, come on, dude! You don't have a bad side!” The man grinned as he held up his phone and started taking multiple pictures. 

Tim stayed serious for a few, switching up his pose every once in a while and even pulling out his bo staff briefly, grinned and held up a peace sign for a few more, then jumped down from the pylon and waved the man over with his hand. “Here, I betcha would like a selfie too?” 

“Are you kidding me? Heck yeah! Oh man, the boys are never gonna believe me! They're gonna think I photoshopped these!” 

Tim took the phone from the ecstatic civilian’s hand and held it up, grinning and letting the man lean in to throw up a peace sign. After taking a few photos, Tim handed the phone back and patted the man on the back. “Stay safe out there, it's a bit late for a casual walk.” 

The guy pocketed his phone and waved as he started walking away backwards down the sidewalk. “Yeah, thanks! And it's no problem, man! I don't have much to worry about with the Red Team on the streets!” 

Tim cocked his head and raised a brow as he waved absently. “The… the what team?”  He didn’t get an answer since the man was already sending the photos in texts and likely posting them to his social media pages. “Huh… that was… weird…” He muttered as he turned back to the rubble and continued his examination. 

After he collected a few samples, took a few scans and pictures, and kicked around the remains of the building for several hours, Tim took to the rooftops to patrol through a few of the routes using the grappling gun mounted in the center of his crossed belt fastener so that he did not have to use his shoulders to bare his weight. 

Thankfully for Tim's healing shoulders, and unfortunately for Tim's mood and hopes, the south side of Gotham decided to be unusually quiet and abysmally crimeless besides a few attempted break ins that were easily thwarted with a mild threat, and a couple of teens that were daring each other to try and pick a lock on a liquor store who were soundly lectured on the unwise choice of breaking and entering, theft, and underaged drinking and sent on their way home. 

After making his way through a few of the inner limit patrol routes with little to no activity or trouble, Tim started back toward his bike, slightly annoyed. It was becoming apparent that when Tim wanted to see Jason, he was nowhere to be seen, but if Jason wanted to see Tim, he seemed to pop up out of the pavement on a whim. 

The comment by the Red Robin Fan Tim had met earlier kept rising in his mind, and the longer he had thought about it, the more he was starting to wonder if one or more of the survivors from the apartment fire had started talking about Red Hood and Red Robin working together to save them; it was the only outcome Tim could figure the term ‘The Red Team’ could have come from. The thought was… a little amusing, honestly, and it would be more so if Tim wasn't so annoyed that Jason had decided to-

“Yo.” 

The casual greeting spoken through a modulator and the sight of two glowing white eyes hovering by his bike sent a bolt of electric, hot adrenaline through Tim's veins as he jumped back several steps with a yelp and flicked out his bo staff while pressing a button to activate the taser at the end.  

A rumble of a chuckle preceded Jason stepping away from Tim's bike and into the slight cast of light from the streetlamp outside the alley. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, flipping his white bangs off his forehead with a jerk of his head. “A little jumpy, aren't ya, Baby Bird?” 

Tim gripped his staff so hard that his arm trembled slightly from the strain, then let out a frustrated grunt as he deactivated the sparking electricity in the end and collapsed it to stick in his belt with a huff. “I am not jumpy.” Came his very mid retort. 

Jason tucked his helmet under his arm and cocked out his right hip with a smirk. “Really? That wasn't being jumpy? Oh, I see, you were just doing your best impersonation of a cat stepping onto a hot tin roof, right?” 

Tim tucked a lock of hair behind his ear that had slipped out of the updo he was wearing, a convenient cover to covertly tap the com piece in his ear twice before folding his arms firmly over his chest. “Ha. Ha. Hilarious. Fine, I'll be the bigger man and admit it: finding a lurking figure by my bike in the dark wearing a freaky mask with glowing eyes and a Darth Vader voice is a little startling, and I am not ashamed in the least to say so. So there.” 

Jason continued stalking casually toward Tim and stopped just an arm's length away, towering over and looking down at Tim with a smirk. “Bigger man ya say? Interesting word choice, small fry.” 

Tim narrowed his eyes and tried not to look up too much in an effort to avoid exaggerating their height difference, not flinching or making any move to back up. “Not all of us can be built like sarcastic brick walls.”

Jason chuckled and side-stepped to lean his shoulder against the wall of the building to his left, pointing toward Tim with the hand that was dangling over his helmet. “How's the shoulders? I'm kinda surprised the Big B let you out of the roost after the night you had last night.” 

“They're… fine,” Tim replied, surprised once more by how annoyingly casual Jason was acting. “It might surprise you to know that communication can work really well when done by both parties. It went something like this: he asked if I was up to going out, I said yes, he asked if I was sure, and I said I was sure and would be fine.” Tim held his hands out to the side and performed an elegant and snarky little bow before standing straight and cocking his head slightly with a smirk. “And tada, wouldn't you know it, here I am.”   

Jason's smirk had lessened slightly into a little more of a put-off grimace. “Huh, aren't you special? Must be nice since my last experience in communication with the old man went a little more like: He chased me, I shot at him, he tackled me, I punched him, he threw a bomb of some kind at me, I threw one back at him, he-” 

“Hence why I said it works well when it is done by both parties.” Tim interrupted, his arms returning to their curt position of being crossed tightly across his chest as he frowned. “What happened between you two the last time you were within stabbing and shooting distance did not involve communication from either of you; in fact, it might have been the best example of what happens when two people don't communicate at all that I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing.” 

Jason tilted his head a little as he stared at Tim in consideration. “Yeah, an’ I guess you're the expert on the topic? Pff , sure, is that why you're not Robin anymore? Your stellar communication skills?” 

Tim opened his mouth to snap back at the comment, then clicked his jaw shut and deepened his frown into a glare before turning and starting toward his bike. “Honestly, I could do this all night, but I don't really owe you , of all people, a pointless argument just to allow you to feel better about yourself."

“Hey, Ti- I mean, Red, wait…” Jason called as he pushed off the wall and stepped forward after Tim, an unmistakable grunt of discomfort escaping him and making Tim pause and look back. “I… I didn't come here for an argument, really.” 

Tim turned and tilted his head as he started examining Jason a little closer. “Okay, what did you come for then?” 

Jason hefted his helmet a little further up under his arm and swallowed hard, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I need… I need your help.” 

Tim was fairly certain that a light breeze could have knocked him over for how shocked he was at hearing those words from the man in front of him. “You want… me?” He knew that he sounded far from eloquent, but his mind and tongue seemed to disagree on how to form an actual sentence. 

Jason gulped again and nodded. “Yeah. I, uh, I need some help, and you're the only one I can ask. So… sorry, I guess…” 

Tim blinked out of his stupor and rested his hands on his hips, his head tilted to the side a little in curiosity. “Sorry? You haven't even told me what you need help with yet, and you're already apologizing? How bad is this favor exactly?” 

“I'll let you be the judge of that, I suppose,” Jason huffed, a small smile returning to his face, “I need you to… well… I'm figuring that you've…” He paused and sighed hard, shaking his head a little. “I got shot, Red, a few times, and I’ve got a couple that I wasn't able to reach.” 

“Wha- you're…?” Tim closed the distance between them again and frowned as he looked Jason over and was fully disturbed to find that nothing in his body language besides the previous grunt that there was anything wrong. “Right now ? When? How long have you been-?” Tim shook his head and waved off his own disjointed questions. “Never mind, I guess, we can deal with that later. Where were you shot?” 

Jason sighed and stepped back to lean his shoulder against the brick wall once more, looking almost embarrassed as he kicked the toe of his boot into the loose gravel. “In the back, just under my shoulder blade. There were a couple more in my side that I took care of, but I can't reach the ones further back there.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait… how many times did you get hit?” Tim asked as his caution seemed to be slipping away, stepping closer still and just barely stopping himself from reaching out to lay a hand on Jason's arm. “And when did this happen?”

“Four,” Jason replied flatly, seeming loath to admit it, but he didn’t back away from Tim or seem to be planning on going anywhere. “I pulled two out myself, but the other two are too far back for me to reach. And it happened last night, while I was on my way home; I got jumped by… a few thugs.” He winced as he rolled his shoulder, his jaw setting firmly. “They uh… they're really startin’ to bug me.”

“I would imagine that would be if they've been sitting in there since last night!” Tim exclaimed, shaking his head as his surprise began to be replaced by the urgency of the situation. “We, uh, well… Do you have a place you'd be okay with letting me follow you to so I can take a look at what we're working with?” 

Now it was Jason's turn to look shocked, with his brows raising and his lips opening just slightly with no words on them. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I guess. Um, do you… You can follow me. My bike’s just in the alley over, I'll meet you on the street.” He stared openly at Tim a moment longer, then took a few retreating steps before turning and pulling on his helmet as he walked down the sidewalk.  

Tim stood watching him until he disappeared around the corner, then turned to jog to his bike and pull on his helmet, and climb on his bike. He pulled to the opening of the alley and waited until Jason drove out in front of him and gave him a little ‘follow me’ wave. 

The realization of what he was about to do made Tim swallow thickly and take a tighter grip on his handlebars to steady himself. He reached up and tapped into his and Bruce's private line. “Batman? You read me?” 

“I'm here, Red.” Bruce's voice was tense and fast to respond, “Are you okay? Do you need backup?” 

“Did I send out an S.O.S?” Tim asked with a small smirk as he kept his eyes on Jason's broad, leather-jacketed back as they drove the practically abandoned streets. 

“No.” Bruce responded stiffly after a slight pause, “My first question stands: are you okay?” 

“I’m… fine.” Tim replied hesitantly as he tried to consider his words carefully so as not to send Bruce into a further panic, “The ‘occurrence’ is still occurring. He… actually came to me for help.”

“Help? What do you mean?”  

“He got shot, B. Apparently, he got jumped last night and took four hits. He was able to remove two, but couldn't access the other two.” Tim took a deep breath and tilted his head in surprise that he was about to say the words that were hovering on his tongue. “And he came to me for help taking care of them.” 

There was a long pause of static on Bruce's end of the communication link, then… “No, Red, don't you dare. Do not go into his territory alone. Do you hear me, Red Robin? Back down now.” 

Tim sighed and shook his head. “Bats, it's gonna be fine. He needs my help, and I'm not gonna let him-” 

“Did you see the GSWs?” Bruce cut in tersely, his tone making Tim's stomach flip. 

“I… no. No, I didn't, not yet.” Tim replied as he gripped his handlebars tighter, his mouth twisting in frustration. “But B, we talked about this. He’s not exhibiting any signs of distress, violence, or agitation.” 

“Red, this could easily be a trap. He could be using this to lure you in.” Bruce insisted, sounding a little desperate if Tim wasn't mistaken. 

“That's true, and we have a protocol in place if that's the case, remember?” Tim insisted right back, “If something seems off or risky, I will send you an S.O.S. Okay? I got this, Bats.”

Silence. A really long moment of very tense silence, then a long audible sigh. “Alright, Red, alright. But I want you on high alert, do you hear me? Do not take anything for granted, and do not brush off any unsettling senses or feelings. I will be watching your tracking beacon and vitals, and at the slightest hint of aggression or suspicion of ambush, you hit that call button. Do. Not. Hesitate.” 

Tim smiled and lifted two fingers from one of his handlebars in a wave as Jason looked back over his shoulder as if checking to see if Tim was still following him. “Okay, Dad , I got it. I promise, I won't take any chances and I won't turn off my paranoia.” 

“I want a check-in as soon as you leave the location, got it?” 

“Got it, Bats, I'll be fine. Don't freak out on me, okay? Red Robin over and out.” 

“Alright, Red, be careful. Over and out.” 

Tim reached up to end the call line and focused on following Jason closely, but not close enough to make him uncomfortable. 

Well, he had wanted to see Jason tonight, and he had more questions than answers up until now, but this wasn't really how Tim expected to settle either of his desires. But regardless, Jason had come looking for him in need of help. Surely that said something in regard to his motives, right? This wasn't a setup, it wasn't a trap or an ambush… right ?