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Chapter Text

A good detective knows that taking risks is part of the job. - Encyclopedia Brown

The Bat-Signal flicks on, a call for aid shining high above the city against the smoggy clouds that have been holding the soupy humidity of a New Jersey late spring hostage below in the dark streets and alleys of Gotham.

Dang it, thinks Tim.

He’s been sitting on his rooftop vantage point for an hour waiting for Batman and Robin to pass by. His algorithm, developed and refined over the last year, has become extremely accurate in predicting where the Bats will be on their normal patrol routes. 

Tim’s getting better at this hobby he’s invented. He uses the scientific method. He iterates. 

However, when the Bat-Signal flips on, the emergency could be anywhere in the city, and it could be hours until the Bats get back to patrolling again, if they do at all. Tim rustles in the pocket of his cargo pants, but when he swipes the screen on his phone to check Twitter and his police scanner apps to see what’s going on and where, the screen stays blank. Out of battery. 

Double dang it, he thinks, and curses Past Tim for playing Candy Crush while waiting for the Bats to cruise by when he got to his roof a bit early.

Portable phone battery charger, he adds mentally, to the next iteration of his night photography packing list. More granola bars. Tonight’s supply went to some people sleeping rough under the overpass coming off Kane Memorial Bridge. He had managed to find an elderly Kit-Kat bar in a smaller pocket of his backpack, though, which had led to his ill-fated Candy Crush campaign. Up several stories removed from the stench of moist, warm Gotham alleys at street level, it’s possible to both feel hungry without being nauseated and eat without barfing off the side of the roof.

The odds of whatever’s going down being anywhere near him, way up on the border on Newtown and Amusement Mile, are slim. He taps his fingers restlessly against the warm tar paper, not wanting to give up so early, but it’s a long shot that he’ll see anything tonight and he’s already out of snacks. Probably should just pack it in for the night, Tim thinks, and then hears, very faintly, the unmistakable sound of the Batmobile going like gangbusters.

No way. He goes still, listening. No freaking way. 

It is getting closer. Tim scrambles up, abandoning stealthy cover in order to get as high as he can. He’s selected his roof carefully, and has got a good vantage point down into the rest of the city. He brings the viewfinder to his eye, adjusting the zoom as far out as he can, scanning the north-south avenues, which are unusually empty, even for this time of night, which should make it easy to spot when the Batmobile screams into view. 

Nothing. Nothing. Wait - There!

“Oh my gosh,” Tim whispers to himself. It’s a car chase! A green sedan is barreling uptown. A few blocks behind is a motorcycle. No, now a second motorcycle has joined the chase, back end drifting through a corner at high speed. Robin and Batgirl?! Hardly daring to believe his luck, Tim’s shutter clicks in quick succession. The sound of the Batmobile, not yet visible, continues to grow, an almost tangible presence getting closer.

He thinks he gets some shots of the two motorbikes flanking the speeding car, and then they are past him, flying into Amusement Mile proper. The Batmobile itself careens by with a roar, a few moments later, and a second after that all of them are lost from view. Batman, Robin, and Batgirl, all of them at once, passing right by and about to capture a criminal right in front of him?! It’s the luckiest he’s ever been in all the weekends he’s spent photographing the local nightlife the last several months. 

There’s several sets of metallic crashes in quick succession, and tires screeching. Tim is already throwing himself down the fire escape and onto his skateboard, camera strap over his shoulder and around his torso like a bandolier. His skateboard is faster than walking, but much slower than a bike, and he briefly but bitterly regrets the trade off to something he could bring up on a roof with him, necessitated by the theft of his second bike despite being hidden behind a dumpster. 

By the time he catches up to the finish line of the chase, several blocks away, the vehicles have been abandoned. The green sedan’s bodywork is scraped up almost beyond recognition, having been apparently used as a battering ram to get through the barred and chained main gates of the abandoned amusement park that gives the borough its name. The driver’s side door of the sedan is open. The themed colors of the motorcycles, hastily parked nearby, contrast sharply with the forlorn and fading gaudy paint that remains of the park’s decor, victim of Gotham’s acid rainfall and the heavy soot-like patina that inevitably emerges on any open surface after years of uninterrupted exposure to the local chemically polluted smog.

The Batmobile is nowhere to be seen, but must be now either parked or running in stealth mode, as it’s also nowhere to be heard.

Tim himself enters stealth mode, wedging his skateboard into his backpack again and tiptoeing around the fountained glass and twisted scraps of metal that are what remain of the front gates, and into the deep shadows between the ticket booths and concession stands. He crouches beneath an anthropomorphic hot dog to do a quick reconnoiter, streaks of grime and bleached color giving the impression that it silently weeps above him. Looking around for signs of life and seeing none, he takes a few closer range photos of the motorcycles with the getaway car in the background.

He flinches deeper into cover when gunfire and sounds of sudden movement echo from further inside the park. 

Ugh. He’s missing all the action! 

Not for the first time counting on whatever it is about him that makes him virtually unnoticeable to others, Tim ducks and weaves his way through the park, guided by occasional gunfire and the voices of Batgirl and Robin, tones sarcastic and quippy. There’s other voices there too, but they are lower, harder to pick out in the acoustic knot of the open areas and partially collapsed structures.

Tim slides to a stop, back against the rusted metal side of the tilt-a-whirl. Lens first, he peers around the corner. He manages to get a decent shot of Batgirl leaping off a cotton candy stand, but she lands in darkness that obscures both her and whatever criminal she is fighting. There’s a dull thud that makes him wince in sympathy, and Batgirl goes flying backwards into view, tucking and rolling to land in a crouch. Running footsteps take advantage of her momentary need to recover, and then she’s gone, too, giving chase once again.

Tim follows. 

His camera, then the top of his head, peeks cautiously over the sill of an empty game stall a minute later, clicking silently as a cowled shadow moves across the light polluted sky, cape billowing into wings behind him as Batman himself drops onto the scene. He joins the dark silhouettes of Robin, Batgirl, and their foe, whirling and trading blows like a particularly violent shadow puppet play. 

Tim really needs to invest in a better telephoto lens. He can’t even get a good look at the criminal they’re chasing, and in the intensely dark areas, his photos are going to be blurry at best.

The lens he has tonight is a standard zoom, 70mm, but he’s been coveting a f1.8 200mm. He’ll have to get that as soon as expedited shipping will allow. He regrets not having it right this second, more than anything else he’s ever regretted, to capture better shots when he has three out of four Bats all together. Such a wasted opportunity. The only consolation is, at least Nightwing isn’t here. If Dick Grayson himself had been part of this, and Tim had too crappy a camera and angle on the scene to get good pictures of it? He would never have forgiven himself for being an idiot, the worst vigilante hero photographer ever, for the rest of his natural life.

The fourth shadow disappears into the left side of a building that was once, from Tim’s view of the front, some kind of house of mirrors. Several letters are missing now, and graffiti has taken its place. The peeling painted sign now reads “ass funhouse,” which Tim would snicker at if he was less of a professional at being sneaky.

Batman chases their perp inside, but not before using hand motions that send Batgirl around the back, and Robin quietly picking the lock on the entrance and slipping inside.

Tim is strongly tempted to follow, chewing on his lip in indecision. Practicality wins out eventually, as it’s pretty much guaranteed that he’ll either be caught or it will be too dark inside to get anything worthwhile, or both. Given the way the night has gone so far, the Bats will most likely capture the criminal inside, and perp walk him to the cops when the GCPD eventually shows up, or the chase will continue further into the park. Either way he’ll have a better chance of getting a good shot of it from out here.

He’ll have to get closer, or a better vantage point. Tim looks around, trying to get the lay of the land. He’s hiding in a ring toss stall almost at the end of the midway, closest to where most of the rides are. A centrifugal swing is in his foreground, all the seats long since removed and the remaining dangling chains creaking and jangling eerily in the humid night breeze. Next to that, the Sizzler, providing no cover whatsoever. The old bones of a seatless Ferris wheel reach up from behind, at the far end.

What I really need, Tim thinks, eyes settling on the curving hills and valleys of rotting wooden roller coaster tracks, is to get higher.

The sign reading Mad Flight spans above the stairs to the covered loading platform. The entrance to the stairs is fully blocked by padlocked chain link, so Tim climbs the three flights up the back side of the wooden superstructure slat by slat, until he can pull himself onto the decking. Panting slightly from the exertion, he moves to the front of the platform and takes a crouch, slightly hidden by the ride attendant’s station. 

Pulling his camera into position again, he finds his instincts were right: from here he’s got a great view of the midway, rides, and the house of mirrors. It’s not as high here on the platform as it would be from one of the peaks of the coaster tracks, but there’s nowhere to hide there. Here, there’s at least the attendant’s podium and a curved metal cover that arches in a half-circle over the platform,  which was probably meant to keep the worst of the sun and rain off riders waiting in line. It hasn’t stretched far enough to protect the wooden safety fences that are decaying on the ends of the loading deck, or the coaster cars, still in a row on the track, waiting endlessly for passengers who will never come. What once was probably bright red paint on the cars, their ends stylized into pairs of wings, is now dulled and faded to the color of dried blood.

After some sounds of combat in the funhouse while he climbed, it’s been quiet for what seems like a very long time. Suddenly anxious that he’s missed the end of the night’s excitement altogether, he leans out far from behind the attendant’s station, panning the camera around to check for movement.

He finds it. A shadow is separating from the side of the funhouse. It doesn’t have a cape on. Something must attract its attention, either Tim’s movement or a flare of light off his lens, because as he watches, the silhouette’s head turns in his direction.

Tim whips back into the shelter of the podium. At least it wasn’t a Bat. Even if they did make him, no run of the mill criminal is going to care about a kid with a camera who happens to be nearby. They’re just going to be focused on getting away as soon as they can. Must be an unusually lucky ne’er-do-well, honestly, managing to evade three Bats in an enclosed area. 

Maybe Tim should actually be trying to draw attention to the fact that their perp is escaping? Tim’s wondering how he could possibly accomplish this without getting himself caught by a Bat when the person laughs.

It’s as unmistakable to any Gothamite as the sound of the Batmobile at speed or the cackle of a Robin.

It’s Joker’s laugh.

The Bat-signal, all three Bats, together, at once, even though Batgirl isn’t a regular patrol partner anymore? The unusually empty streets? Someone skilled enough to outrun the Bats for this long? Tim is an idiot, a freaking moron, for not figuring it out sooner, for letting his phone die, unable to receive emergency texts from the city or check the internet to see if there were any rogues escaped from Arkham, for not getting the hell out of here when he still had the chance. He’s alone and mostly exposed on a rickety freaking roller coaster, in the middle of a defunct amusement park, without even his mace (used up on an alley raccoon in an embarrassing case of mistaken identity last weekend) to defend himself from the Joker. It’s too late to bail; there’s nowhere less exposed to run to without being immediately caught before he has any hope of getting there.

Laughter ringing through the empty park again chills his veins and sends the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Is the laughter getting closer? It’s hard to tell over his pounding heart. 

Surely that’s just the fear talking. He abandons the idea of taking pictures entirely, noiselessly putting his camera away in his bag both out of habit and for lack of anything better to do with his hands. 

More gleeful, softer laughter that sounds louder because it is definitely, absolutely much closer than it was before. The decking beneath his feet shifts slightly, with the weight of an adult beginning to climb the front side of the platform.

Desperately hoping that the Bats figure out the Joker’s no longer inside with them before Tim is brutally murdered, or captured and taken to a secondary location as bait and then brutally murdered, Tim frantically looks for places to hide. 

The sole advantage he has against the Joker right now is that while he’s climbing, he doesn’t have a visual on Tim.

Army crawling as quickly and quietly as he can, trying to keep his own vibrations to a minimum, Tim stuffs himself in the very last of the rollercoaster cars, shoving himself and his backpack under the seat as far as he can possibly go, in among the used chewing gum, leaves, and an ancient tin bottle cap. He curls up tight, knees to chest, breathing in ragged, short gusts. It smells like mold and rusting metal, and he puts a hand over his own mouth to silence any sounds that might give him away.

The slight swaying of the platform stops. There’s silence, for a long beat, and Tim squeezes the nails of his other hand into his opposite ankle painfully, to remind himself not to move, not to make a single decibel of sound.

“Batsy didn’t tell me there was a new one to play with,” Joker says, clicking his tongue chidingly. Tim can hear the cruel smile in his voice when the Joker entreats him, “Come out, come out, little birdie.”

The Joker, creepily talking to him in the dark, hasn’t realized that Tim is a photographer, not one of the Bats. Honestly, Tim can’t really even blame him for the mistake; no one who isn’t a Bat is going to be caught dead anywhere nearby if the Joker has escaped, if they can help it. No one could possibly have expected Tim to be as much of an idiot as he has proven himself to be tonight. The best case scenario for Tim, if - when - he gets found by the Joker, is that he ends up as a human shield hostage. There are many worse options that he can come up with without even trying, and his brain continues to list them out helpfully for him, one after the other, even as he tells himself firmly to shut up.

Wooden slats creak under the weight of footsteps, slowly getting closer. From his hiding spot, Tim can see a tiny sliver of reflection off the warped metal curvature of the weather cover. With another set of creaking footsteps, Joker’s image moves into, then out of sight. He’s checking the cars, one by one.

Tim’s breath is coming faster and faster, and he bites the inside of his knuckle hard to ground himself, keep his exhalations silent. Joker’s reflection is gone, but now a faint shadow, darker than the surrounding light pollution twilight, is growing as it moves closer and closer to Tim.

“Come and play, little birdie. I promise it will be fun! For me.” He laughs again, and the sound seems to be coming from all around him, it’s so close. Another shift of weight, and Tim sees the toe of Joker’s pointed shoe come into view in the opening to the car Tim’s hiding in.

“If you wanted to play, you should have stayed in the house of mirrors,” Robin says suddenly, and Tim wants to cry with relief. “The party was there, and you left early.” The brash young voice sounds like it might be coming from on top of the metal roof, but Tim’s not exactly in a position to say for sure.

“Ah, but you didn’t tell me there was a new tweety bird in the nest. Two of you, now: Robin and a little chick, fresh from the egg.”

There’s a noticeable pause, and then the platform gives a small shudder. Tim sees a red, yellow, and green figure drop lightly into view on the far side of the platform in the wavy, dim reflection. Joker turns to face him, blocking Tim’s view of what’s happening.

“You must be crazier than usual. Batman’s an empty nester, ‘cept for me.”

Joker laughs and clucks his tongue. “Hasn’t Batty Bat taught you it’s rude not to share?” He moves away from the cars, closer to Robin, but not before Tim catches a glimpse of the can of aerosol venom, a long range can like wasp spray, that Joker’s got hidden against the side of his leg. From this angle, Tim was briefly able to see it, but he’s very sure that Robin hasn’t. 

More afraid now than he has been the entire night, Tim unwraps his hand from where it’s been clawed into his opposite ankle, and slowly, noiselessly, reaches for the tin bottle cap.

Things happen fast, after that.

Tim whips the bottle cap as hard as he can, snapping it like a skipping stone against the sheet metal of the weather cover. The resulting twang, in the otherwise still night, is satisfyingly loud and distracting. Tim launches himself from his hiding spot at a four limbed crawling run, aiming to slide under the wooden safety rail and book it down the ride’s superstructure before the Joker can spray him, hopefully giving Robin the chance to subdue or apprehend him while he’s distracted.

It almost works.

Robin recovers faster than the Joker does. He throws something from his belt that explodes into a net, weighted with bolos that wrap around Joker and send him staggering backwards, off-balance, before he can bring the can of venom to bear on either Robin or Tim.

Robin reacts so quickly, in fact, that Tim is still directly behind the Joker, crouched and moving, as the Joker stumbles. The hard weight of the Joker’s legs crash into Tim’s side, and then over his back. There’s a loud crack as the rotted safety railing gives way, and then a short yell of surprise. Tim is shoved over the edge of the platform by the collision, rolling and miraculously catching the slats he originally climbed up with his hands, barking his shins painfully against the side before he can get his feet on a lower board as well, his stomach jumping into his throat at the near miss.

There’s a crunching thud below him. Tim looks under his arm to see the Joker on the ground below, bloody jaw working as though trying to laugh, even as his spine and legs are bent at unnatural angles. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Tim hears from above, and looks up, wide-eyed, at Robin, who is looking down at him, and then at the Joker, with an expression that holds just as much shock as Tim is sure he’s staring back at Robin with. 

Robin kneels suddenly, reaching a hand for Tim, but jerks his head over his shoulder as from far away, a growly voice bellows, “ROBIN!”

By the time Robin turns back, Tim is halfway down the ride, throwing himself onto the ground at an all-out sprint as soon as he thinks he can take the fall without breaking his legs. He looks back, once, and sees Batgirl running for the Mad Flight, Batman limping at a rapid pace behind her, one hand wrapped around his abdomen. Robin, above, is still knelt, hand extended, watching Tim go.

Tim runs half-blind through empty streets, police sirens chasing him out of Amusement Mile. He keeps running, turning east through Newtown, ignoring the stitch that develops in his side. He only slows for long enough to grab his skateboard out of his backpack when he starts to wheeze from the sustained exertion.

He’s halfway back over the bridge into Bristol before the blind fear powering his retreat turns into a sort of buzzing hum under his skin.

Holy crap. Tim pushes off the pavement, picking up more speed and leaning into a curve. He laughs out loud into the night air, relieved, disbelieving, exhilarated. That’s the most exciting thing that has ever happened in my whole entire life.

Chapter Text

Never underestimate the power of observation. -Encyclopedia Brown

There’s a heavy atmosphere in the Batcave that has nothing to do with the heatwave outside, which below the stalactites is kept fully at bay with the industrial recirculation of cool underground air. Face set and arms crossed, Jason leans against the wide curve of the desk below the Batcomputer and watches Alfred, whose lips are pursed disapprovingly, finish taping gauze over Bruce’s abdomen. The cowl is off and Bruce’s costume is unzipped to the waist to expose the “slight graze” the Joker had scored on him in the confusion of the house of mirrors earlier. 

Dick isn’t even here physically, but he’s got a small frown of his own going on as Bruce updates him on the night’s events over the video feed on the Batcomputer. Despite the cowl being off, Bruce hasn’t left the growly voice of the Bat behind ever since Jason left the mirror maze in pursuit of the Joker, while Babs slapped a field dressing on Bruce to keep his blood on the inside of his body. Jason’s quick decision there, as he had pointed out to Bruce several times after leaving the scene to emergency services, had been ultimately responsible for the capture of the Joker. 

It had not been, however, as Bruce seems to believe, a premeditated plan to take out the Joker with unreasonable amounts of violence. That result was the end of a pure chain of unexpected and, Jason will admit, extremely unlikely-sounding events. The only reason Bruce even kind of believed his story of a wild boy appearing from nowhere to get in the Joker’s way and trip him into a three story fall was that Babs had mentioned seeing movement that might have been someone small running from the scene. Adding insult to that injury, Bruce had not trusted him not to finish the job of making Joker into a corpse, ordering Batgirl to provide first aid while he, Batman, coordinated emergency response, despite being a bit shot. 

Alright, true, Jason couldn’t care less about the Joker’s well-being. But it still stung, not being trusted to have the self control to not go around murdering people, even if it was the Joker, so he feels justified in not trusting Bruce with certain information which Bruce would probably think was “irrelevant to the fact pattern at hand, Robin,” anyways. And to be completely fair to himself, Jason had tried to find a way of bringing up to Bruce, but Bruce had been too busy grilling him on the details of Joker’s fall, sidelining Jason, and giving him the “focus on controlling your anger, Robin, don’t let it control you,” lecture tonight on the way back to the Cave. 

The fact pattern at hand, okay, Bruce, was this: At first thinking Joker was lying about a second person to lure Robin out, Jason’s sudden horror at the reality of the kid leaping from his hiding spot had given the scene a freeze frame quality, time stopping for him as Jason raced to the broken rails, too far and too late to stop their fall. His soul had completely left his body in the few seconds between the dread of absolute certainty that he’d just caused a child’s death and finding the reality of him alive and well, clinging like a monkey to the side of the structure, staring straight up at him with a tiny, shocked face, and then scampering away the second Jason took his eyes off him.

The real kicker, though? The real kicker? Jason knows that face. He’s sure of it. He hasn’t been trained in observational skills for the past few years by Batman himself for nothing. He knows he’s seen that little kid somewhere before, and recently, too. Not from his old life, and not from his night life - prior to tonight, anyway, which narrows the pool of possible suspects down considerably. 

What Jason can’t for the life of him even begin to figure out is what the hell the kid thought he was doing running around Gotham at night, with the fucking Joker on the loose, no less. Had he somehow fallen in with a bad crowd, at the ripe old age of, Jason is guessing, seven? A gang using his innocent looks for their benefit as a drug mule? Some kind of grade school hazing, daring the kid to go in the old carnival after dark? When he finds whoever put the kid up to being in that kind of danger, good ol’ Robin’s gonna have some real harsh words to say to them. With his fists. 

Here’s the way Jason sees it: Joker’s out of commission, regardless of how he got that way, alright Bruce, so the only loose end that now really, really needs some serious attention is finding the kid and making damned sure he doesn’t go running around Gotham City at night again. And if Bruce doesn’t entirely believe that either the kid exists or that he’s important enough to worry about, well, then, that’s fine. Jason’s just gonna have to investigate the mystery of the kid on his own, and take care of it himself, thank you very much. Starting with looking through some online school yearbooks, and hopefully using the investigative powers of the Batcomputer when Bruce and Dick are done hogging it.

Bruce has, thankfully, finally moved on from debriefing Dick, and is now sticking his nose in Dick’s business, which is a nice change of pace from being on Jason’s case all the time. 

“Still having trouble tracking down the Young Blüd connections? I’ll do back end work from here once the Joker situation is fully resolved,” Bruce informs the Golden Boy.

In Jason’s opinion, the Joker situation is fully resolved; he’s not gonna be breaking himself out of custody and wreaking havoc anytime soon. He maturely refrains from saying so, however. Besides, in these kinds of keeping-villains-in-custody-despite-systemic-corruption situations Batman’s clinical case of overprotective paranoia can actually come in handy. Sometimes. 

Dick, head oversized on the massive screen, frowns and rolls his eyes. “Somehow your ‘trying to be helpful’ voice continues to sound identical to your ‘bossy and judgmental’ voice, Bruce. It’s a gift of yours, and I really wish you’d return it for store credit.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. Says, “Hnnn,” which is not a rebuttal.

Firmly, Dick continues, “Blüd is my town. Also, you’ve been shot. Take a seat. Take all the seats.”

“Barely a graze,” Bruce claims, and has the nerve to sound long-suffering about having to continue to defend himself on this.

Jason picks at his nails, shuffles slightly closer to the camera without looking up at it. “I could help. If you do want another set of eyes on it.”

Like the ruthless dictator he is, Bruce tries to stomp all over Jason’s plan before Dick can even respond. “I think it would be wise for you to keep your focus on your artistic and anger management endeavors right now.”

Jason groans in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest even tighter than before. “Jesus, Bruce, how many times do I have to say, I didn’t push him! I got him with the net, and he tripped over the kid!”

“I believe you,” Bruce grumbles, very unconvincingly.

Dick shakes his head and tsks, coming, for once, to Jason’s defense. “Lecturing on anger management again, B? That’s extremely rich, coming from you.”

“Thank you,” Jason says, pointing one hand emphatically at the video screen.

“I am extremely rich,” Bruce points out irrelevantly, which is the kind of thing that passes for a sense of humor, for him. Alfred turns to the side in a way that makes Jason think he’s probably hiding an eye roll.

The brothers ignore Bruce. “Thanks, Little Wing,” says Dick, smiling to soften the denial, “but I got this. Just might take a bit of grunt work for awhile.”

Jason shrugs carelessly to show how unimportant it is to him that Dick doesn’t trust him to help, either. 

“I’ll be there for your opening night, though!” Dick says cheerily, and clears his throat loudly. “I’ve gotta warm up my vocal cords for all the cheering that’s gonna happen when you’re on stage.” He gives a shrill whistle that momentarily blows out the speakers to demonstrate.

Cursing this sudden betrayal, Jason says, “Oh my God. No.”

Bruce informs Jason, “We’ve already ordered the flowers.” He turns to where Alfred is depositing used gauze in the red biohazards bin. “We did order the flowers, right?”

Alfred confirms, winking at Jason: “Three dozen roses.”

“You are all the most embarrassing people on the entire eastern seaboard,” Jason says, feeling his cheeks going pink. “You’re all uninvited.”

Dick chirps sunnily, “Too late! We already have tickets. Your theatrical debut is going to be fêted like there’s no tomorrow.”

Leaving the three of them to each other, Jason stomps out of the cave in annoyance, tossing over his shoulder, “I’m faking my death and leaving the country.”

“Get a good night’s sleep first,” calls Bruce after him, infuriatingly unperturbed.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Despite dragging himself and his skateboard back up the long hill leading to Drake Manor and the neighboring estates quite late, it’s still hours before Tim has to be concerned about being caught by Rosa when she gets in for the day. With his parents out of town, there’s no one to see him disengage the security system, come inside and lock back up behind himself. He doesn’t bother to keep his footsteps from echoing on the granite parquet of the foyer, and he’s too tired anyway to be successful even if he had tried. Tim’s legs start to cramp as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom, hauling himself up the long, curving iron banister with his hands. 

Tim ejects the camera’s memory card, leaving it carefully hidden behind the ventilation grate, and shoves his backpack and skateboard beneath the bed.

The adrenaline crash and overextended muscles catch up with him with a vengeance as soon as he hides his dirty clothes at the bottom of his hamper, and falls into bed. 

It seems to Tim only minutes later  when someone shakes him awake by the shoulder. 

“You slept through your alarm, Timothy! Get up, lazybones, you’re going to be late,” Rosa complains, frown lines deepening on her face. “Staying up late playing games again? On a school night?”

Baggy-eyed and drooping, Tim is wholly occupied with struggling to remember how to be human. “Just had a bad night’s sleep,” Tim mumbles, fighting with the sheets trapping him. Rosa brushes aside his excuses, pulling the covers out and flipping them back out of Tim’s reach. “Up,” she demands again, then turns on her heel, curls bouncing in her sloppy bun with the movement, leaving him to get dressed.

Ten minutes later, Tim’s still barely functioning, sleepwalking through morning ablutions, yawning as he attempts to fasten the school uniform’s tie with fingers still sore from taking the weight of his fall the night before. It takes all of his focus to force his fingers to work and not trip over his feet while he’s at it, so there’s no processing power in his brain left to pay attention to where he’s going. Tim walks straight into Rosa, who is backing out of his parents’ home office, and she jumps a mile, clutching her necklace at her breast and shrieking in surprise.

“Timothy, for God’s sake,” she says, flustered, over his apology. “Watch where you’re going!” She bustles him quickly away to the kitchen to get breakfast, muttering unflattering comments about sleeping in on a school day as she corrects his tie, pulling it tight enough that it feels choking, and he tugs it looser again as soon as she isn’t looking.

He grabs a soda on the way out, hoping the caffeine will wake him up a bit, and earning himself some more chastisement for his poor nutritional habits as he drags himself through eating what she’s made him for breakfast on the drive to school.

The blare of Rosa’s favorite morning Jesus-themed radio show and the chill of the air conditioning on high, fighting against the grueling heat and humidity present even this early in the morning, isn’t enough to keep him from drowsing. Tim leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, hoping to get a five minute nap in before they get to school. 

“Wishing for a break in the humidity?” The ultra perky radio personality asks during a break in the programming for local news and weather. Probably a villain in the making, thinks Tim uncharitably, as it should be biologically impossible to be that upbeat at this time of day. “You’re in luck. A cold front this afternoon should bring a drop in temperature, with scattered thunderstorms blowing through the area tomorrow.” 

Tim nods off for a bit during the traffic report, then tunes back in when he unexpectedly hears the Joker’s name. “The Clown Prince of Crime was re-captured late last night, after an altercation with the Batman. Official statement from the Police Commissioner says that the Joker is currently under heavy guard while in intensive care at an undisclosed hospital -“

“Wake up, Timothy,” says Rosa unfairly, as he actually had been conscious this time. “Get going, before you’re late.” They have pulled up by the wrought iron gates, and drooping crowds of identically-dressed youth trickle towards the sanctuary of air conditioning inside the various school buildings of Gotham Academy.

“I’m awake, I’m awake! Wait, I just want to hea-“

“Out!”

Tim gets out. The morning air feels like he’s stepping directly into a moist oven. He shuts the car door behind him, cutting off whatever the latest news on the Joker would have been, and Rosa drives away. 

Shrugging his book bag higher onto his shoulder and struggling not to melt onto the pavement, Tim reluctantly considers cutting going out Bat-spotting on Sunday nights, at least for the next few weeks until school gets out. He can’t wait to have the whole week to stay out late, if he wants, instead of just Friday and Saturday. Going out last night was pushing it, he knows that, and the weight of his eyelids are reinforcing the lesson, but he finds it hard to have any regrets. Last night was the coolest night ever. Even if he apparently accidentally contributed to giving the Joker a maiming significant enough to land him in the hospital. Which, whoops? But he had been trying to kill Tim and Robin at the time, so. Tim’s not super upset about it.

Luckily, no one knows about it being Tim’s fault but Tim. And Robin, of course. But Robin has no idea who he is. 

He’s walking into bio when it occurs to him that the Bats might still, somehow, manage to track him down, despite his precautions. It is Batman and Robin and Batgirl, after all. The World’s Greatest Detectives. Aside from Nightwing, obviously.

Tim chews on the end of his pencil as the teacher draws on the whiteboard. But then again, why would the Bats bother? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time isn’t a crime. Although Tim supposes trespassing is, which he technically was guilty of, being in the amusement park. But so were the Bats! So it would be pretty darn hypocritical of them to quibble about that.

Paranoia plagues Tim off and on throughout the morning, but as second period comes and goes without him being summoned into the principal’s office to answer to Batman - or worse, his parents - for his actions the night before, he becomes more successful at talking himself into being chill about this. Yes, okay, the Joker’s been hospitalized from tripping over Tim. And yeah, alright, it’s suddenly mildly unsettling now instead of being just pure unadulterated awesome that the actual Robin (the second) happens to go to Tim’s actual school and could theoretically recognize him. If Tim wasn’t generally invisible to the naked eye as far as other human beings are concerned, which luckily, he is.

Besides, Gotham Academy’s huge, as far as elite prestigious upper crust private institutions go, and it’s not like they run in the same circles. Tim’s a proud nerd who keeps his public-facing hobbies as close to what he secretly thinks might be useful to a crime-fighting vigilante, while still being parent-approved for eventual acceptance to an Ivy League university. Computer programming, gymnastics, basic karate have all counted to his mom and dad as being admissions fodder and individual-focused. Teams can drag you down, Timothy, his parents have often advised. 

Jason Todd? Well, Tim’s not positive what circles and activities Robin runs with in the light of day, Tim’s not that kind of creepy stalker type, but he’s one hundred percent sure they’re cool. He’s - he’s Robin. It’s physically impossible for him not to be super cool. 

Their social lives do not intertwine, is basically what Tim’s saying. And since Tim’s penchant for invisibility in both day and night life rarely lets him down (last night notwithstanding, that being a complete outlier in the evidence), it’s not like Tim will even need to lay low, per se. He’s a total non-entity, as far as Robin is concerned. It was dark and he had a view of Tim’s face for like, a second or two at most. Tim figures Jason Todd wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up if he had a magnifying glass and the entire day to think about it. As long as Tim doesn’t run up to the guy and announce “It was me! I was hiding from the Joker on an abandoned rollercoaster last night! Don’t ask me why I was there, it’s completely irrelevant and also totally normal!” he’s got away clean and has nothing to worry about.

It’s definitely Tim’s overactive paranoid imagination that makes it seem like Jason Todd happens to pop up like a meerkat from a hole in the corner of his eye in the shared corridors and quad of the Academy as he passes between classes several times throughout the rest of the day. Tim has always noticed Robin - how can he not be hyper aware of any of the Bats? - and they share the same general geographical location for eight hours a day every day except holidays and weekends. So. They are bound to cross paths every once in awhile, purely by coincidence. He’s just reading into things. Being jumpy.

All the same, Tim heads to the relatively hidden quiet of the library study area, behind the stacks, for his free period in the afternoon. 

The air conditioning is on so high in the library, it feels like the arctic tundra. Tim is a bony iceberg perched on a cushy deep blue armchair, which isn’t super conducive to the quick nap he was hoping to take. Nor is being interrupted by classmates, also taking advantage of the library for their own reasons, probably more wholesome than Tim’s.

Almost everyone who has the same study period as Tim is taller than he is, a hazard of both skipping a few grades and sharing the period with a few of the upper grades. He already has to sit in the front row of all his classes if he wants to see any of the whiteboard, so the fact that someone is towering over him, again, and interrupting his attempt at drifting off for the second time in five minutes isn’t startling. 

What is a shock is that when he opens his eyes in response to the pointedly cleared throat this time, it isn’t anyone he shares a class with. 

Jason Todd stands over him, wearing a white and light blue seersucker double breasted suit. Even more implausibly, he’s got an old timey straw brimmed hat on his head. It’s… definitely not standard Gotham Academy uniform attire. 

“Um,” says Tim, intelligently, struggling to process all of this at once. “Hi?”

Despite all the rationalizing Tim’s been doing, he has a very bad feeling about why Jason has chosen today of all days to take note of Tim’s existence. 

Nope, he insists to himself doggedly. It’s just a coincidence. A sheer, crazy coincidence, that’s all. 

Tim has, however, no feelings at all that might explain the mystery of Jason’s current ensemble.

“Hey,” says Jason, managing to sound more cool than anyone in a straw brimmed hat has any right to, in Tim’s opinion. Jason - Robin! In the flesh! Looking right at him in broad daylight! - hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Was that dude bothering you?”

With some difficulty, Tim moves his gaze away from Robin to follow the direction he’s pointing. 

“Oh. No?” Tim answers, deeply relieved that he’s not getting grilled on his whereabouts last night. “He’s in bio with me?” Why am I answering everything in the form of a question, like on Jeopardy? Tim wonders, and wills himself to be less of a huge dork in front of Robin. “Josh forgot to copy down the homework question pages for tonight, and wanted to know if I had them.” 

Jason looks between Josh and Tim, like he’s reassessing. “That’s… good,” he finally says. “Some of the meathead crowd don’t realize Lord of the Flies isn’t a how-to book.” 

It’s an understandable misreading of the situation. Josh, who is on the wrestling team, is approaching twice Tim’s height and is easily three times his width. 

“Josh is cool, though. I, um, I don’t usually have problems like that.” Mostly because Tim isn’t a noticeable kind of guy, despite the obvious discrepancies in size he’s got going on to greater or lesser extent with nearly all of his classmates. He’s extremely good at staying off people’s radar. 

In the general sense. Current situation notwithstanding.

“That’s good,” Jason says again, and sits down in the armchair next to Tim. “Jason,” he says, and sticks a hand out to Tim, who takes it, slowly, feeling a strong sense of unreality. 

“Tim,” he replies, willing his voice not to squeak at suddenly being on a first name basis with Robin. He thinks he succeeds.

Then Jason squints at Tim, like he’s trying to place him from somewhere.

Oh. Oh no. Maybe he does know it was Tim after all, but he can’t just come out and say so without compromising his secret identity? 

Feeling sweat starting to break out on the back of his neck, Tim tries to look as innocent as physically possible. Tim does not want Robin to think he’s an idiot. But he also doesn’t want to get anywhere near admitting to, what, okay, seen from a very unflattering angle, might possibly be considered kind of sort of lightly stalking Jason and the guy’s entire family, either. Oh, and contributing heavily to last night’s accidental maiming, which sounds bad, even if it was the Joker and thus hardly counts as a mortal sin, in Tim’s book. Right?

But maybe the Bats don’t see it that way.

Playing dumb it is, Tim decides.

Tim tilts his head to the side, raising his eyebrows gormlessly. “Do you have something in your eye? I bet you could ask the nurse for some eyedrops.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Jason says, still looking at him much too assessingly.

Tim tries desperately to think of something to say that isn’t a confession of all the things he’s been doing at night every weekend for the last year or so. “Is there a new school uniform or something?”

This does distract Jason from pinning Tim like a dead beetle with what Tim is horribly afraid is the detective stare. Jason instead looks down, plucks the seersucker fabric with two fingers like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Dress rehearsal is today. You know, The Music Man?”

That makes a lot of sense, actually. Now that Tim thinks about it, there have been a lot of flyers around  announcing this year’s school play. “That’s really cool,” he offers.

Jason looks down at his seersucker outfit again, and snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Tim would be willing to go so far as to say anything an actual Robin chose to do was cool by default. “Who do you play?”

“Tommy Djilas,” Jason says, and with some irony adds, “The kid from the wrong side of town.” 

Unfamiliar with most musicals, Tim has no idea who this is, other than it must be a vital character to the play.

Jason seems to misinterpret Tim’s expression. “Yeah, I got typecast. But it’s better than just being in the chorus, I guess. At least it’s a speaking role.”

Tim finds himself suddenly filled with righteous anger. “That’s just - that’s some shenanigans right there! I bet you could have got the lead if they weren’t so dumb around here.”

Jason’s face moves somewhere between surprised and touched, ends up landing on amused. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bullshit.’ But then, seven year olds shouldn’t swear.”

Tim corrects this unflattering guess: “I’m nine. And five sixths.”

“Oh. Well. My mistake. You’re ancient.” Jason looks like he’s trying not to smile too widely.

Miffed, Tim returns, “What does that make you, then?”

Jason leans back further in the chair, now grinning. “I’ve got one foot in the grave. Maybe two.”

Tim narrows his eyes at this, but curiosity wins out over continuing to defend his honor. “What made you try out for the play?”

“My brother would say it’s because I’m ‘dramatic AF.’” Jason shrugs. “I like stories, I guess. And my dad likes me to have ‘expressive interests.’ He says I need to channel my temper into ‘productive outlets.’ I think he’s full of shit.” He shrugs again, tipping the back of his hat up so it sits at a more jaunty angle, then crossing his arms. “But I will say, theatre has been fun. Except for all the kids who really are dramatic AF.”

Tim’s brain breaks slightly in the attempt to imagine Batman, the Dark Knight himself, suggesting the Boy Wonder pursue emotionally healthy anger management coping strategies. 

“Dad and the rest of the family are gonna show up for the performance and be hugely cringe about it.” Jason scrunches his nose up at the thought. “So keep that in mind, if you’re thinking about trying out next year and your family’s got no shame.”

Tim’s brain breaks even further at the idea that Batman will be attending his kid’s high school play. And - wait - his whole family? Does that mean Dick Grayson will be in the audience too?! Wild ideas of getting a ticket and trying to sit near the original Dynamic Duo while the new Robin sings and dances on stage run through Tim’s head. Reining himself in with considerable difficulty, he concedes to himself that faced with that kind of temptation, there’s no way he can manage not to go full-on fanboy. And, from a more superstitious angle, the last time he and the first Robin had been at the same performance, it had ended in a horrific double murder that still haunts Tim’s dreams sometimes. It’s unscientific in the extreme, obviously, but Tim still can’t bring himself to risk a repeat.

Jason looks at him from beneath the tilted brim of his hat. “How ‘bout you? Your folks real invested in your hobbies?”

“Um. Not really? I guess they do have strong opinions on appropriate extracurriculars.” Tim scrunches the side of his mouth up. “But I wouldn’t say they’re, like, super involved with them.”

Jason props an elbow on the armrest casually, rests the side of his head on his fist. “Oh yeah? What kind of things do they like you to do?”

Where is this going? Tim wonders suspiciously.

“They just want me to have skills that will look good on a college application,” Tim explains, pulling one foot up on the armchair cushion with him and wrapping his arms around his knee. “Help me get into a good university. Computer programming, honor societies. You know. Stuff like that.”

Jason tilts his chin up, nodding understandingly. “Ah, I see.” He drops his propped arm onto his lap, leaning forward, suddenly seeming a bit conspiratorial. “You got any other hobbies? Not just the boring stuff that your folks want you to do. What do you do for fun, after school?”

This, whatever this is, is coming off like a cross between an interrogation and like Robin’s trying to lead into selling him weed under the bleachers this afternoon. Tim struggles to come up with a reply that isn’t as suspicious as the questions he’s being asked.

Hobbies. Yes. I have those. I have a strong interest in photographing the world’s greatest to capture their heroics for posterity and future generations.

“I like art,” he blurts out instead, like a nerd, inflection rising at the end like it’s a question, and has the sudden urge to stuff himself into a locker and never come out again.

Jason nods consideringly, like Tim hasn’t consistently proven himself to be ten pounds of embarrassment in a five pound bag throughout this entire conversation. “Art, huh. You tag?”

Um, wildly off the topic of artistic endeavors, but okay. 

Eyebrows coming together in slight confusion, Tim asks, “Like, as in, ‘you’re it?’ Not since I was little.”

Face otherwise neutral, but with a spark of humor in his eyes, Jason says: “So, yesterday.”

Tim’s jaw drops slightly at this unexpected burn. “Hey!”

Jason raises his eyes to the ceiling briefly, lip quirking up. “I meant street art, Timmy. Night spraying. Graffiti.”

Graffiti? What, why - oh my God. He does know it was me last night, and he’s trying to figure out why I was there! thinks Tim, wildly making inductive leaps worthy of the Olympic Track & Field team.  No, he doesn’t know. How could he possibly know for sure? He suspects. He thinks it was me, and this is an interrogation! Oh God. Don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious. Look innocent!!

Easier thought than done. Tim has suddenly and entirely forgotten how to do or say anything that isn’t screaming “It was me! I’m guilty as sin!”

Tim frantically runs through other possible responses in his head. “Why would I be doing anything at night other than sleeping?” No, that’s even worse. Plausible deniability! Just deny everything! “Nighttime? What’s that? Never heard of it. Who’s Tim? I’ve never met him.”

Tim ultimately settles on deflection, widening his eyes slightly and returning Jason’s gaze steadily, even though it makes him feel like his eyes are going to start watering any second from the effort of maintaining the facade of innocence. “Do I look like I would do graffiti?”

With brutal frankness, Jason answers, “You look like you just graduated from working with crayons and safety scissors.”

Tim can’t believe this. He’s getting roasted by Robin II. Dick Grayson would never. 

“If that’s what you think, I don’t know why you would assume I’m committing misdemeanors in my spare time,” Tim says, offended.

This seems to stump Jason. He pauses, then regroups. “Fair enough. What kind of art are you interested in?”

“Photography,” Tim says automatically, forgetting to lie.

Jason’s eyebrows go up. “Photography, huh? That’s pretty cool.”

Robin has just complimented Tim’s chosen vocation. This is amazing. “You really think so?”

The corners of Jason’s lips quirk up. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says, and Tim basks in this approbation until Jason continues, “What kinds of things do you take pictures of?”

Abort! “Local wildlife,” Tim says evenly, feeling his palms start to sweat.

“Nice,” Jason says, now seeming more curious than suspicious, at least. “So you take a lot of nature walks and stuff?”

Tim resists the urge to wipe his palms on his uniform pants. “Something like that, yeah.”

Jason seems about to ask more follow-up questions, so Tim decides it’s time to pre-empt the dangerous direction this is taking. 

He’s got Robin right in front of him, and the topic at hand; it’s the perfect opportunity to interrogate Jason as to his hobbies and potentially reverse engineer some Robin training for himself. “What do you do for fun?” 

“A little of a lot of things,” Jason evades. “Some Krav Maga, cross country, acrobatics. I like reading, and video games, too.”

Tim is almost vibrating with excitement at this inside look at what Robin training entails. He wonders if he could get away with surreptitiously taking notes on his phone? He doesn’t want to risk missing any of this.

Tim offers cautiously, “I like video games, too. I, um, I have a purple belt in karate. And I do some gymnastics.”

Jason relaxes a bit into the chair. “Good for you. My brother teaches gymnastics, actually. Down in Blüdhaven.”

Tim tries to look as though this is news to him.

“But, you gotta be careful with some of those dangerous sports.” Jason says lightly, but with an odd intensity behind it. “People can get real hurt in accidents. Speakin’ of, didja hear about the Joker? They say he’s paralyzed from the waist down now.”

Genuinely shocked, Tim exclaims much louder than the surrounding library environment, “What, seriously?!”

Joker had seemed in bad shape, but permanently paralyzed? Tim runs it back in his head. It had all happened so fast, and he had just been trying to get away before getting caught - he hadn’t thought -

Jason is looking closely at him, expression unreadable. “Yeah, really.”

Tim takes some time to think about it. 

Surprising himself, he says fiercely, “Good.”

Startled into a chuckle, Jason says, “Yeah, fuck that guy, right?”

More quietly, Tim says, “I’m glad he won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.”

“Me too,” says Jason. He gives Tim a last considering look, seeming like he might say something more, before changing his mind and slaps his knees, standing up. “I gotta get changed and get to class. See ya around, Tim.”

Tim breathes a mental sigh of relief. He must have obfuscated his way through the interrogation and come out looking innocent after all. It’s a shame, almost. He’s actually spent ten minutes in conversation, in person, with Robin himself! It’s basically a once in a lifetime opportunity. 

Tim’s just going to have to make doubly sure to stay in the shadows and out of sight when he goes out Bat-spotting.

“See ya,” echoes Tim, meaning it.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

After school ends without any more Robin interrogation or Batman appearing out of nowhere, Tim thinks he’s done with the unexpected happening for the day, having had more than his fair share of it over the past 24 hours.

Tim is wrong. 

He and Rosa are finishing up dinner at the kitchen island when there’s a faint rumble from the garage, then there’s the sound of rolling carry-ons, the clack of his mother’s high heels, and his dad’s imposingly loud voice carry across the vestibule. 

Tim straightens up at once, and they both stand and abandon their plates. Rosa goes to greet the elder Drakes, Tim trailing closely behind.

“Ah, Rosa. So glad you’re still here,” Janet says, looking tired and plastering on a half-wattage perfunctory company smile, her linen pants billowing gracefully behind her. “Would you mind terribly bringing in the rest of the luggage?”

It’s not a suggestion. 

Rosa nods, “Of course, Mrs. Drake,” and heads to the car, as Jack shoves his carryon towards a corner of the foyer for Rosa to take care of later. Janet glances with slight distaste after her at the velour tracksuit Rosa often wears when she doesn’t expect to be seen by her employers, who tend to prefer her in something more presentable and less comfortable to move around in. Tim can commiserate. Thankfully, he has yet to change out of his school clothes. 

“Mom, Dad,” Tim says, smiling widely, as his parents always appreciate seeing him looking happy when they get home. “I didn’t know you were getting back today?” 

Jack turns and gives him a heavy clap on the back. Tim tries not to stumble. “You make it sound like you aren’t happy to see us, Timothy!”

That wasn’t what Tim had meant at all! He smiles wider. “No, no, I’m really glad you’re back! Welcome home!” 

Jack laughs, his booming voice spreading to fill even the edges of the wide open spaces of the formal entryway, and Janet bends to kiss the air above Tim’s cheek. “Better,” Janet says, crossing to the dining room to pull out a wine glass and a tumbler. 

“How’ve your grades been?” asks Jack, the first part of the ritual that the family performs each time the Drakes return from business or archeological trips. 

“Straight A’s, Dad,” Tim answers truthfully, the second part.

“That’s my boy,” Jack says, as Janet selects a Cabernet and a whiskey. “Your mom and I could use some peace and quiet to unwind. How about you go and play in your room?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Good night, Timothy,” Janet says, holding the wine glass carefully aloft and out of the way as she gives Tim another air kiss, the last piece of the routine.

He hears Rosa pulling in the checked luggage as he heads upstairs.

Tim flops on his bed, settling on his elbows to carefully scroll social media for funny Wizards & Warriors memes to send Ives, knowing that he probably won’t receive a response. Tim hasn’t heard back from him in days, which probably means he’s in a down part of the chemo cycle. Mrs. Ives surely would have let him know if it was something else, something worse. Unless she was busy with the worse. 

No, when he’s recovered a little from the fatigue, Ives will text him back. Tim hopes.

The yelling downstairs starts just as he hits “send.”

Tim freezes. It can’t possibly be something he did. He hasn’t done anything to get them worked up lately? That they have any way of knowing about. Ice runs through his veins for a second before he gives himself a mental slap and reminds himself that short of one of the Bats having shown up at the front door, there’s very little reason to think they’re angry about his nighttime adventures.

Paranoia makes him check out his bedroom window for the Batmobile parked in the driveway, just in case, but there’s nothing except Rosa’s car parked in the usual place. 

Okay. Whatever has set them off, it’s very likely not Tim’s fault. Harry Potter Protocol goes into effect, then: making no noise and pretending he’s not there. 

Recently when Tim hasn’t quite managed to navigate things right when his parents are home, they have started talking about sending him to boarding school. Tim finds it impossible to imagine that, in that scenario, prolonged exposure to Tim will make him more likeable to perfect strangers if a few weeks here and there are enough for his parents to need a break from him for up to a few months at a time. And more importantly, if they do send him away, he’d lose the best part of his life: taking pictures of his heroes.

As the volume picks up downstairs - his father’s voice forcing its way through the edges of his doorframe, his mother’s, more shrill in her anger, curling under the gaps in the wood - makes him illogically consider leaving through the window to run rooftops. Tim knows it’s a bad idea, a terrible one, in fact. It’s a school night, and if they do come upstairs and find him gone, that would be the absolute worst case scenario. He’d be sentenced to boarding school for sure, at the very least.

A third angry voice now threads between his mother’s and father’s: Rosa.

Tim has never once heard her speak to his parents in anything but deferential tones, and is at a loss to explain the sudden change. He strains to hear, but he’s not able to pick out much but the tone and volume of what’s being yelled.

He doesn’t like not knowing what’s gone wrong. It’s like an itch under his skin he can’t reach, growing and spreading the longer he has to think about it. If Tim doesn’t know what’s happening or why, he can’t make a plan to fix it. With his senses on high alert, it’s impossible to focus on anything else to distract him, unless he puts on headphones, and then he wouldn’t be able to hear and prepare himself if anyone comes looking for him.

The yelling reaches a crescendo, and there’s a heavy slam that sounds like it could be the front door. Tim slips to the side of the window, leaning against the wall to minimize his silhouette just in case, and peeks out at his view of the driveway. Rosa is striding to her car, fists clenched. She throws open the door and climbs in, slamming it closed behind her. A moment later, she peels out of the driveway, swearing out the window as she goes. 

Tim’s heart races, jumping into his throat, as he hears stomping footsteps coming up the staircase. He quietly hurries across the room and turns out his lights, then quickly back to slide under his covers, to plausibly have the excuse of having gone to sleep early.

This proves unnecessary. Both sets of footsteps pass his room and head down the hall to the grand suite his parents use. This door also shuts loudly, just a hair short of another slam, and their tones are still upset, but now lower. Even at this closer range, he can only make out a few words about employees and the office. 

Tim lies awake in the dark, eventually going back to playing games on his phone to try and keep his mind occupied with something else. After an hour or so it becomes clear they aren’t going to come back out to drag him into their bad mood, to tell him they’ve found something he should have done better at while they were away. 

This is good, Tim silently tells the shadowy ceiling above him. It is. They aren’t annoyed with him, and maybe by tomorrow they’ll be in a better mood. He’ll just have to be extra careful to not do anything potentially annoying before he leaves for school. 

Tim ponders the implications. It doesn’t seem like Rosa will be coming back. Whatever has happened, Tim’s parents would never allow someone to argue with them like that and remain employed. Which means he’ll be getting another nanny. 

Rosa wasn’t the best nanny Tim’s ever had, or the kindest, but she had been a steady constant in Tim’s life for quite some time, and he feels a pang at not at least getting to say goodbye. 

Another horrible thought occurs then. Maybe it will be boarding school after all. 

But getting that set up would take more time and effort than getting someone to replace Rosa, surely? It’ll probably just be a little unsettled for a few days, Tim tries to convince himself, some added stress for them on top of the few days they always need to recover from travel, then things will get back to normal.

Still, thinking about the shouting and Rosa’s sudden departure start to eat away at his determination to be optimistic, or at least pragmatic, about what tomorrow will bring. He ends up only successful in distracting himself from the pit in his stomach when he starts making plans and revising his supply list for the next Bat-watching expedition. 

Despite the lingering exhaustion from the previous night pressing on his bones, it takes Tim a long, long time to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Don't be fooled by distractions - a sharp focus is key to cracking a case. -Encyclopedia Brown

The next morning, Tim is awake before his alarm. Listening closely, he uses the sounds of the house to gauge what kind of mood his parents are in. It’s an essential skill for him to navigate whether he needs to put in a cheerful appearance, to distract and diffuse, or a quiet and deferential one, staying out of their way as much as possible so as to not make things worse. 

Voices come from the direction of the home office. Not raised, but pitched to be firm and confident. A business call, then. Both his parents on it, so clearly of some importance. 

Quiet and unobtrusive morning it is, Tim decides. He sticks to the edges of the corridors and stairs, to avoid the creakier areas of the middle of the waxed wooden boards. 

Tim moves to silently pass by the doorway to the office, which is, he can’t help but notice, only mostly closed. There’s a sliver of space that offers a view into the room. Curiosity tugs him closer, and he risks a peek as he passes by.

His deductions were correct; his parents are on a video call with a striking looking scarred blonde man, talking about finalizing a deal. 

Before anyone can notice his presence, Tim goes to get himself breakfast on silent feet. He sits half-turned on the barstool, facing the doorway, absently eating his cereal and checking to see if Ives has responded to his text (he hasn’t). 

Distantly, the door to his parents’ office closes. Not slams. A good outcome to the call, then. Tim relaxes slightly, then stifles a reflexive jump when his father strides in, booming, “Didn’t hear you come down, son.” Before Tim can react, Jack has taken the cereal bowl from him. “Got something special for you today.”

This must be some kind of special occasion? Maybe they’ve closed a new partnership or something for Drake Industries. Tim is dying to know what happened to Rosa, but his parents don’t broach the subject, so it’s not a good idea to ask, especially when they are in a good mood, or at the least bothering to go to some effort to appear to be.

Jack pulls out a blue box with the lacy calligraphy of Bristol Bakery’s logo on top, and places it in front of Tim. The seal is already broken - his parents must have eaten earlier, but there are still several buttery golden blueberry danishes inside. These used to be Tim’s favorite, and his heart warms that his parents remembered. He selects one, and carefully puts a napkin underneath with his other hand to catch stray crumbs.

“Wow! Thanks so much, Dad,” Tim says, pleased.

“It was my idea,” Janet says, a little testily. 

“Thank you so much, Mom!” Tim adds hurriedly, and takes an enormous bite of the pastry to show how much he appreciates it. It chokes him slightly, but he forces it down and smiles, inwardly wishing for the cereal back, as the rich pastry sits heavily on his already unsettled stomach. “It’s great,” he says, after he finishes swallowing, and his parents seem satisfied.

“Good!” his mother says, clapping her hands together genteelly. “It’s a little celebration, isn’t it, Jack?”

His father claps him heartily on the back. “Jan and I think you’ve reached a milestone, Timothy.”

Tim can’t think of anything offhand that he’s done or achieved recently that could be considered a milestone, but this isn’t anywhere near as bad as he had pictured this morning going, unless the milestone they’re talking about is “ready for boarding school,” so he just raises his eyebrows and keeps his expression open. 

“We’re just so proud of you for being so responsible and independent,” his mom says, and Tim can feel his smile becoming wider and more real at the unexpected praise, and then feels a slight guilt at what they would be saying right now if they knew about his nighttime hobby. Tim brushes this aside, pragmatically reflecting that if anything, his secret pastime is even more proof of his independent thinking and ability to take care of himself. And the point is: they are proud of him! And saying so! With danishes!

“You’ve earned some more independence,” his dad informs him. “It’s time for you to be the man of the house when your mother and I are traveling. We’ve hired a car service to take you to and from school, and Mrs. Mac will continue to keep up the house. You’ll get an increase in allowance to pay for whatever food you’ll need. Don’t spend it all in one place,” Jack explains, and laughs heartily at his own joke. 

The increase in allowance is nice, but unnecessary; he must have forgotten that he gave Tim access to the joint credit card to buy Janet an expensive Mother’s Day gift last year when Jack had left it until the last minute and their personal shopper was on vacation.

His parents are both looking at him with unusual intensity for the breakfast table, smiles ever so slightly too hearty, the company version, the let’s-close-this-deal version. 

It’s clear that a response from him is expected. 

Tim smiles back, the equivalent of a deal sealing handshake. “Thank you,” he says, and means it; expecting boarding school and instead getting freedom previously unimaginable is a huge relief. So huge, in fact, that his body still hasn’t caught up, still taut and tense underneath the grateful smile on his face. “That’s very thoughtful. I appreciate it. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

Tim almost drops his danish as his mother grasps his shoulders gently, gives him a kiss on both cheeks, then rubs the lipstick off with a manicured finger. His father comes in next, for a brief side hug, gruffly squeezing him around the shoulders. Tim’s heart beats faster, and he almost says I love you, but his family has never been the sentimental and demonstrative type, and it would probably just make his parents uncomfortable.

“We’re so proud of you,” says Janet again. “We’ll have to go out to dinner to celebrate when we get back. Won’t we, Jack?” she prompts, and his father belatedly nods. 

“Of course we will.”

Tim tries not to let his face fall too obviously. “When you get back? Are you leaving again soon?”

“You know how business is,” his father waves a dismissive hand. “An opportunity has come up. Got to take advantage. Strike while the iron is hot.”

“Of course,” Tim says, dully.

“Our little man of the house,” Janet says approvingly. “Your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it? We’ll have to do something special. Maybe we could all take a weekend trip together, wouldn’t you like that?”

Tim would love that, and he says so. 

“Sweet,” his mother cooes. 

“When will you be back?” Tim asks hesitantly. They don’t always give an exact date, and when they do give him one, it more often than not doesn’t wind up being accurate anyway.

His parents exchange a glance. “Soon,” Jack says. 

“Late July, darling,” his mother specifies. “There’s an important gala we’ll have to attend. Our potential new business partners will be there, and we’ll be able to try and finalize things then. The most influential sorts of people prefer to do these things in person.”

Jack adds consideringly, “If you do well, it might just be time for you to join us. Start getting more experience learning the ropes.”

Tim has been to his share of society parties, but is largely expected only to show his family to advantage among the type of crowd that cares about heritage and lineage, and to make social connections among the younger generation of the upper echelons. This, though? Tim isn’t quite sure what to make of it, other than it seems to be an opportunity to become more involved with his parents and what they feel will be useful to their family’s future.

Tim nods. “I’d like that,” he says, with more hopefulness than certainty. 

“Of course you would. That’s my boy,” says his father, then looks at his watch. Janet looks at hers, and tsks. 

“We’ve got to get to the airport.” She gives Tim another air kiss, then goes for the large black umbrellas propped against the wall, handing one to Jack. “It’s going to rain today. Don’t forget your jacket, or you’ll ruin your uniform.”

“I won’t,” Tim says, watching them go.

Tim’s parents have explained the importance of leaving for their work at DI, and their hobbies, many, many times. He understands his own job equally as well. Almost as important, Tim is to be a good kid, which in this context means being well-behaved, getting grades and excelling in activities that will enable him to get into an Ivy League college and network his way into an equally prestigious career. He is very lucky, he knows perfectly well, that his parents are not strict enough to demand a specific career path for him. Aside from eliminating lower quality careers from consideration, and strongly encouraging him to areas that will provide him the best and most prosperous lifestyle. 

They just want what’s best for him. Tim knows this. They have explained it to him. It’s how they show they care.

He waves to his parents through the window as the driver opens their doors and they get into the black luxury car that will transport them to the airport. Occupied with their umbrellas and carry-on bags, they don’t see him, and the doors close. The car smoothly turns and pulls away.

Tim moves away from the windows, and runs his finger along one of the many glass-covered plinths that hold his parents’ favorite or most striking archeological treasures, holding pride of place and providing most of the decor and visual interest in the crisp white modern lines of the main floor of the manor. 

He has the sudden, inexplicable urge to open the display cases. To reach in, extract the precious, priceless artifacts, and smash them on the wood and marble floors. One at a time, until all of the treasure on display lies in shards, spread like loose diamonds on the marble floor. 

Tim is shaken by the ferocity of the impulse. He removes his hand from the display, and realizing he’s left a fingerprint on the glass, uses a sleeve to wipe it clean. 

Even if he did follow through on breaking something that wasn’t timeless and museum quality, he’d only have to clean it up himself, anyway. Tim’s not cruel enough to leave his messes to add to Mrs. Mac’s workload like that, for no reason at all.

Tim turns sharply on his heel, putting distance between himself and temptation. He won’t let his parents down. He can’t. Not if it means he gets to stay in Gotham. He wrenches his thoughts back under control. Besides, what more could Tim ask for? This is an unexpected but perfect opportunity for him to go all-in on Bat-spotting. And, he thinks, a smile starting to curl up one cheek, to start his own version of vigilante-chasing training in earnest.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The most difficult thing for Tim to get used to, in this new adult-free era, is not oversleeping, especially after late nights refining his Bat prediction algorithms for neighborhoods further abroad than Newtown. To compensate, he adds a new piece to his routine: Developing a taste for coffee, at least until summer starts. It really does feel satisfyingly adult to sit at the table sipping a cup of coffee in the morning, even though it tastes a lot worse than it smells. There’s got to be something to it, though, if so many people swear by it, so Tim persists, supplementing the caffeine intake with Zesti soda when he can’t quite force himself to finish the bitter bean brew. 

In the evenings when he isn’t Bat-spotting, Tim works on another piece of his crash course in adulting: cooking. He eats a lot of delivery and ready-made meals, and tries to follow You Suck At Cooking videos without burning a second pot. (The medium saucepan, bottom blackened and cracked, is in its final resting place at the bottom of the trash bin, disguised by papers and potato peels just in case Mrs. Mac looks too closely on garbage day.)

School remains the easiest part of Tim’s day, the least disrupted by the new regime. In the week following his parents’ departure, the senior prank is vastly overshadowed as the talk of the school by the anonymous evidence trove of bullying, hazing, and drug selling provided to Gotham Academy school administrators. The suspension of a not-insignificant amount of students moments before the end of the school year leads to uproar and rampant speculation among the student body, and relief from those targeted most. 

In brighter news, Jason Todd seems to be making a point of saying hello to Tim when passing by. The day after the news of the suspensions hits, Tim hears his name called as he’s walking to fourth period. He turns, and Jason, dressed normally in the khakis-and-tie of the school uniform, is leaning casually against one of the Doric column that props up the science building’s roof.

Tim dodges around a group of juniors, considers trying to match Jason’s cool lean before deciding it would just give pick-me vibes, and shuffling in place in front of the older boy instead. “Hey, Jason.”

“How’s it going?” Jason asks, shoving a hand into his pocket.

“Good?” Tim answers. “Um, how did the play go?”

Jason’s cheeks go ever so slightly pink. “Went fine. Worst part was the folks making a big deal out of it.” He changes the subject, which is a shame, as Tim would have quite liked to know more about Batman and Nightwing attending Robin’s musical performance. “Things going well for you? Anyone been bothering you lately at school?”

Confused at the odd question, Tim says truthfully, “No? School’s been fine. Normal.”

If he didn’t know better, Tim would think this was actually the wrong answer, as Jason purses his lips briefly, before smiling again, so maybe Tim’s just reading into things too much. “Glad to hear it, Timmy,” Jason says, seeming sincere, at least. “Things at home okay? Anyone been bugging you outside of school?”

Tim realizes slowly that this might be Robin, checking in on him. A thought that is as flattering as it is undeserved. “Everything’s fine,” Tim tells him, as there’s no one at home besides Tim himself to bother him. 

“Nice,” Jason says, shoving the other hand deep in his pocket as well. “You keepin’ out of trouble?”

“Absolutely,” Tim assures him.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Parkour!” Tim shrieks, taking giant running leaps up a series of progressively taller poles with wooden blocks on top, sticking out of the ground, and diving off the tallest pole to grab a tree branch, muscling himself over it.

He’s deep in the woods that make up the back acres of Drake Manor, adjoining the neighboring property. There’s no one to hear him, so he can be as loud as he likes. 

Tim’s spent hours setting up an adventure course in a grove of trees. Using a socket wrench, drill, and the power of YouTube, he’s taught himself how to fasten climbing nets, swinging ropes, horizontal and vertical grab bars, and obstacles. A set of chains with dozens of locks attached wraps around a nearby tree trunk, with a dry bag full of lock picks clipped up with a carabiner. He’s slowly made his way through half of them, and plans to test his skills on doors and items inside the house when he’s managed to get the chains entirely unlocked from one another.

Getting his feet under him on the branch, he leaps, catching a pipe drilled between two other trees, shouting “Parkour!” even louder. It feels forbidden, freeing, to use his voice like this. It’s harder to feel as free inside the house, somehow. There’s something too oppressive inside for his lungs to fully expand, to sing at the top of his lungs. He can’t dance like no one is watching when it feels as though the empty house is watching him shimmy around the kitchen, judging him for raising his voice to be heard. But here, outside? There aren’t any eyes or ears to find fault.

Tim takes an even deeper breath, inflating his lungs as deeply as they’ll go. He doesn’t bother with words this time, jumping and catching a rope with both hands. Swinging around the next tree trunk, he yells until it hurts his throat, imagining he’s grappling like Robin, flying free across the skies of his city.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Between Tim’s adulting skill-building, end of school exams, and extracurricular pastimes both officially sanctioned and secret, time passes quicker than he would have thought. By the time he feels like he’s getting the hang of his new routine, the school year is over and it’s summer.

Tim’s been careful, since his increased freedom in the last several weeks, to scope out better hidey-holes, vantage points, and escape routes, with a significant amount of assistance from Google Earth. He’s stocked up again with a flashlight taser, new mace, a better quality gas mask, his new telephoto lens, lots of extra snacks, and after seeing a victim of a gnarly mugging gone wrong the other weekend, a military grade first aid kit and multi-tool utility knife recommended by an extremely helpful Reddit thread. He’s managed to get some pretty decent shots with his new lens, not as blurry or underexposed as his first few months of weekend night excursions into the city. 

Tim’s on the bus out to Coventry, backpack with skateboard sticking out taking up the bench seat next to him. He accidentally makes eye contact with a burly man in a trenchcoat sitting opposite, underneath the overhead advertisement for dollar menu Batburger Jr. specials. 

Trenchcoat creeper takes the opportunity to smirk at Tim in a lusty manner Tim does not like at all. 

This, however, is not Tim’s first rodeo with the nighttime bus-riding unwholesome. He fingers the taser flashlight hidden in his pocket, and stares back unflinchingly. Smiles wide, wider, widest, stretching his cheeks, baring his teeth, doing his best to channel both the Joker and the girl from The Exorcist. Opens his eyes far past their normal size, maintaining aggressive eye contact until he goes the tiniest bit cross-eyed. Slowly, slowly rotates his head like the hands on a clock until his ear almost touches his shoulder, without moving any of the rest of his body.

The smirk drips from trenchcoat guy’s face like water down a drain. He clears his throat awkwardly, then abruptly stands, twitches the yellow string to alert the driver, and exits at the next stop.

No one gets off the bus with Tim three stops later, when the scrolling red LED letters on the screen show GU Westside Campus/GIA. He steps onto the curb, the bus pulls away, and Tim becomes one with the shadows. He follows the tall vinyl signs on each street light for the Gotham Institute of Arts’ new exhibit, Vlatavian Royal Jewelry Through The Ages. The GIA’s website had helpfully provided details of the finely carved and wrought pieces, including several matched sets of cymophane. Otherwise known, of course, as precious cat’s eye.

Not for the first time, Tim wonders if it wouldn’t be simpler for Gotham’s museums and galleries to just advertise “Rob me, please!” 

The police scanner frequency app he uses is quiet so far, at least in this part of town, for Gotham values of “quiet.” Tim’s got time to set up, and Google Earth has helpfully aided him in selecting a prime location for Bat-spotting. 

The white stone of the brutalist facade of the GIA is spot lit on the main entrance side, but around the back side and the opposing street is not. This block is Tim’s target. In addition to being helpfully dimly lit and thus catnip in terms of entry and exit points for an experienced thief, it also holds the highest building in the vicinity, which mostly consists of the law school campus of Gotham University. 

Tim sidles to the thin alley between the tall administration building and a mixed use storefront and, looking at the beer cans and frat signs in dirty windows, the upper floors are probably rented to students. Very few lights are on in either building. The administration building would be empty, this time of night and during the summer, and few students likely to be present in the gap between school years. The bottom floor storefront is also dark and in disuse, a restaurant that flopped. Tim speculates that the owners probably couldn’t pay both rent and protection money (in Gotham, often one and the same thing) from the local mob or the local police (also often one and the same). 

In other words, it’s perfect for Tim’s purposes. 

Giving a hesitant once-over to make sure he’s the only one lurking in the dark of the alley, he plugs his nose and uses his back to shove a reeking dumpster over a few feet in preparation to clamber on top and onto the fire escape of the administration building, the ladder of which doesn’t reach the ground. 

The dumpster moving makes more noise than he’s strictly comfortable with, and seemingly in response, from high above he hears a faint voice scream. 

Heart freezing, he hides in the shadow of the dumpster. 

A second later, the scream comes again, but this time without background noise it’s easier to tell that the sound is more animal than human, and it’s coming from one of the upper floors of the apartments on the other side of the alley.

Tim still feels really, really bad for accidentally macing that raccoon he thought was a person trying to mug him several weeks ago. He’s been trying to make up for it ever since by being extra nice to any other animal he runs into, which admittedly hasn’t been many. 

Also, Tim generally follows the philosophy WWRD: What Would Robin Do? and it hasn’t steered him wrong so far. He blows out a slightly exaggerated breath through his bottom lip, his bangs fluttering with the expelled air. Checking his police scanner app reveals no robbery in progress as of yet, and a quick look in the direction of the Arts building confirms things seem quiet so far, aside from the yowling. Tim crosses the few steps to the other side of the alley, and jumps for the bottom rung of the fire escape.

Four stories up, there’s a window partially propped open with a stick of wood. The inside, from what Tim can see with his taser flashlight, is largely empty except for a few piles of cardboard boxes. Pausing to listen again, as the animal has gone silent, Tim continues sweeping the beam around, until it catches on a tiny pair of reflective eyes.

“Wow. Loud kitty, screamy kitty, little ball of fur,” Tim whispers to the ball of fluff.

It screams at him again in offense.

Not seeing any other animals, and only seeing tiny fluff ball-sized paw prints in the dust liberally coating the floor, it doesn’t take the detecting prowess of Batman to conclude the kitten is probably abandoned and not exactly the cream of the crop when it comes to survival skills.

Something about the thought of this annoyingly loud furball being all alone and stuck in this dusty place makes him angry. Tim fights with the window sash, which sticks and makes a horrible noise when he forces it up further. The block of wood that was propping it up falls inside, sending the cat scrambling into a nearby box. 

The window sticks again after Tim gets it another six inches, but it’s now open enough for him to shimmy through headfirst. 

He gets fully half his body inside, hips resting on the frame, when the window slams closed on him like a blunt guillotine. 

Tim gives a squealing wheeze of pain and surprise, understanding too late why the window was propped open in the first place. The severity and ignominy of his position becomes evident in very short order: his toes can only brush the ground of the fire escape, not enough to give him any purchase, and his fingers are in the same predicament on the inside. Wriggling results in nothing but splinters through his shirt. He’d need several more elbows than he’s got on each arm in order to reach back and push up on the window, or through the narrow gap. His cell phone is in his pants pocket, completely inaccessible to his hands. No one knows where he is. He wiggles again, more desperately, and absolutely nothing about his situation changes.

He’s completely trapped, upside down, hanging out the window butt-first, in the middle of Gotham. 

The kitten comes out of the box as he goes limp, trying to think of a plan of action, and paws at his face, which is starting to throb unpleasantly from the blood rushing downward with the pull of gravity. It meows at full volume, directly in his ear. It sounds like it’s a shriek of laughter.

Tim turns his head to glare at it, upside down. “I’m here to rescue you,” he complains bitterly.

The sharp report of gunfire rings out in the night, slightly muffled but still much too close at hand, sending Tim into a frenzy of thought and frantic motion. 

Here lies Timothy Drake, shot in the butt; died too young.

Tim scrabbles his left hand toward the fallen piece of wood.

The inexplicable demise of Drake scion, done in by starvation while stuck in a window: News at 11.

Tim shoves himself as far as he can with his right hand against the wall, straining, and seizes the wooden prop. With paroxysms of extensive squirming that nearly dislocates both shoulders and elbows, squeezing his knees against the wall for stability, he’s eventually, after a considerable amount of time and effort, able to use the prop against the window sash as a wedge and lever. Gracelessly, he uses both hands to shove himself the rest of the way through the window like a cork from a bottle, rolls and sprawls on the dirty floor, sending up a cloud of dust that makes him sneeze.

He waits several minutes, heart pounding and kitten mercifully hidden and quiet in the cardboard box. There are some sirens wailing, and some quiet sounds here and there, but no more gunfire. Waiting for the coast to be clear, Tim rustles a handful of band-aids out of his first aid kit, sticks a few over the most annoying scrapes on his belly, sticks the rest in a pocket. When Tim dares to think the disturbance is over and it’s safe to come out, he gingerly moves toward the stack of boxes. 

“Alright, cat. Moving day’s here. Time to go somewhere with food.” He sniffs distastefully. “And kitty litter.”

Tim reaches in slowly, thinking it’s going pretty well when the kitten lets him do it without protest, but it all goes to heck when he closes his grip. The kitten resumes its screaming and does its best to maul his hand with needle sharp teeth and claws, even through his gloves. “Shh - ow!” Tim whispers, outraged at this ingratitude. “Shh, cat, I’m trying to help you!” 

He carefully tucks the yowling kitten in his shirt, and uses the other hand to force and hold the window all the way open this time. Being clawed over his bellyful of splinters, Tim swings his legs out onto the fire escape, determined not to make the same mistake twice, and is greeted by a cat of a very different color.

Selina Kyle, Catwoman herself, is nearly indistinguishable from the shadows of the fire escape she is gracefully leaning against. Tim stares, motionless, startled into silence.

She is incognito, though still dressed in all black: a lightweight hoodie covers the whip that must be wrapped around her waist, and the cat ears are nowhere to be seen. Probably in the bag she is carrying, which bulges suspiciously. 

She holds empty hands up. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” She tilts her head slightly. “Younger than the average burglar, aren’t you?”

“You would know,” Tim says, mouth working faster than his brain, and when he realizes what he’s said, half-wishes for the quick death via gunshot to the butt he had avoided earlier as her eyes narrow, turning assessing.

“Very interesting,” she says slowly. Tim says nothing, waiting for his face to get clawed off for his audacity.

The kitten chooses this moment to scream from the depths of Tim’s undershirt again. Catwoman’s gaze turns to Tim’s midriff. “Yours?” she asks, and it takes him a second to realize what she means. 

He shakes his head. “No. I just heard it when I walked by. It’s really loud,” he says, stating the obvious, and when her lip quirks up it occurs to him that she’s on the fire escape for the same reason he was.

“Little one’s got a lot of chutzpah,” she says. “You know where you’re gonna take them?”

Tim hadn’t quite gotten that far in the planning process, actually. He shakes his head no, and she nods like maybe she’d expected as much. 

“Let me, then,” she says, and with unhurried movements opens her bag wide, offering it to him. He catches a glimpse of velvet drawstring bags and what might be the faintest hint of something glittering inside, and tactfully pretends not to notice. When Tim hesitates, she smiles, but it’s not a hard or unkind thing, despite coming from a villain. “It’s kind of my thing,” she says dryly, continuing to hold the bag open while he decides.

The kitten yowls again, clawing him on the belly button, and without further delay he transfers the cat into the bag, where it presumably rests among the trappings of royalty, out of sight as Catwoman fastens the bag securely. 

She moves, and thinking she’s about to leap away, Tim says quickly, “Wait.”

She does.

“You’re bleeding,” he points out, gesturing to his own forehead.

“Hazards of the job, kitten,” she says, touching her own forehead gently and rubbing her fingers together to get rid of the liquid as a bit of blood comes away on the tips of her gloves. “Cops are more and more on the take nowadays. Getting a bit shoot-first-ask-questions-never. I had to take a bit of a shortcut.”

Not sure what to make of this explanation, Tim says nothing. He reaches a hand into his pocket, then turns it palm-up, offering her a band-aid. 

She takes it, expression hard to read, and applies it. While she’s occupied, Tim shuffles his feet.  He gestures vaguely at her presence on the fire escape. “Shouldn’t you, um, be getting away before Batman catches you?”

She shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting to find a stray.” The kitten mewls from the bag. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

For a second, Tim thinks she’s talking to the cat. Politely, Tim explains, “I’m not homeless. I have a place to go.”

Catwoman presses, “But are you safe there?” She taps a gloved finger under her lips. “I happen to know someone tall, dark, and broody who’s been known to be helpful in those kinds of situations. I could maybe call in a favor. If you need it.”

Reeling from this Shyamalan-style twist in his understanding of Catwoman and Batman’s stance as enemies, Tim manages, “No, thank you, ma’am. You don’t need to put yourself to any trouble. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Selina hums, unconvinced, “If you say so.” She reaches out a hand. “Your phone, then?”

Tim doesn’t move. He tries to think about this. Batman seems to kind of like her, despite her technically being a criminal, so he feels better about following his heroes’ lead in not attempting to immediately turn her in or anything like that. Catwoman… actually seems kind of nice? 

“Good caution,” she approves, unoffended, dropping her hand again before he can say anything one way or another. “Then write this down.” She recites a series of numbers, and Tim obediently taps them into his notes app.

“What is it,” he asks, when she doesn’t immediately explain.

“A phone number,” Catwoman tells him. “In case you ever aren’t fine on your own.”

Tim looks down at his phone again in surprise, and in brief time he’s distracted, she’s gotten out her whip and is balanced on the railing.

“Be safe, kitten.” She’s gone the next second, as silently as she came.

Catwoman swings away, and moments later, he hears her laughing loudly from a few buildings south. As he listens, a shadowy figure flies overhead. 

Oh man! This is it, Batman is chasing Catwoman, this is the whole reason he’s here tonight, and Tim’s missing it! 

A small portion of his brain, the part that isn’t occupied with flinging his backpack on and scrambling onto the railing, really hopes the kitten doesn’t get motion-sick. 

The alley Tim’s in is hardly even wide enough for a car to get through. He can make this. Feet in between his hands on the rail, he whispers to himself, “parkour,” and launches his body to the fire escape to the one on the administration building opposite, one flight down. He lands precariously, throws his head forward to tip himself fully over onto the metal grating, instead of backward to become street pizza. Exhilarated, Tim races up the rest of the flights to try and get a picture as the Bat and the Cat go, but no luck. He catches the tail (ha) end of the chase visible from this vantage point just as his head crests the top of the roof, but then the two of them swing around the side of the GIA, one after the other, and are lost to view before he can even get his camera out.

“Dang it,” he mumbles irritably, but on the whole, the night doesn’t feel like a complete waste. No longer in a rush, he takes a short rest leaning against one of the posts to the giant billboard advertising personal injury lawyer specializing in Arkham inmate attacks, which has been defaced with some lewd graffiti. 

Once he’s stretched his legs a bit, Tim moves over to the edge, thinking maybe he might catch a tiny glimpse of Batman or Robin in the distance. He doesn’t, but is gratified that at least he hadn’t been wrong: this is a really good roof for photography. 

It’s a relatively modern building with a very low and flat safety edge, and the skyline as he looks further downtown features clouds pleasingly backlit by the full moon. He’s considering some city shots, even without heroes in them, trying out some different settings with his new lens, when a voice yells “Hey!” from directly behind him.

Tim jumps out of his skin, figuratively, and trips over his own feet, literally. The low edge of the roof jabs his shin, and the street below rushes up alarmingly towards his face as he starts to tip over the side of the building. Crap, he thinks, and then there’s a strong hand grabbing his arm, yanking him upright and back a safe distance from the edge.

“Jesus, kid,” says Robin, still holding his upper arm and continuing to speak much more loudly than Tim feels is strictly necessary. “You make a habit of trying to break your neck?! What the hell are you doing out here?”

Catching his breath, Tim’s mind races for a reason that isn’t “looking for you and Batman.”

Glancing up at Robin, and the billboard behind him, Tim is reminded that Jason himself has already provided him with a helpful excuse. Jutting out his chin, Tim says confidently, “Street art. Y’know. Graffiti.”

Jason, under the domino mask, still manages to look taken aback. In a tone that suggests he’s grinding his teeth, he says, “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“I get that a lot,” Tim bluffs, enjoying Jason’s inability to directly contradict him without giving away his civilian identity. “I have a baby face. It’s an affliction.”

Jason tilts his head in a way that makes it clear he’s rolling his eyes beneath the white-out lenses. “Oh really. How old are you, then, cause it seems to me like you’re at least ten years too young to be wandering around Gotham unsupervised?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Tim asserts mendaciously.

“Course you don’t. Look… kid. What’s your name?”

“Jack,” Tim says, straight faced, and feels it serves Jason right to be forced to play along after he almost scared Tim into falling off a roof.

“Jack,” Jason grits out. “Alright. Fine. Look, Jack, this is Gotham. It’s dangerous out here. You almost got killed by the Joker! What were you thinking?!”

It seems obvious from the vehemence of his delivery that Jason’s been hanging on to this question for a while, and now that he’s free of the shackles of his civilian identity, who isn’t supposed to know what happened on the Mad Flight, he no longer has to hold it in.

With some asperity, given the complete lack of gratitude on display, Tim informs Robin, “I was thinking you were about to get sprayed by Joker venom and I didn’t want that to happen.”

Unprepared for that answer, Jason sputters a bit before trying to regain his momentum. “I meant, what were you thinking being out in Amusement Mile at night when there was an Arkham breakout in the first place?”

“I didn’t know the Joker was out,” Tim says, with perfect honesty. “My phone ran out of battery.”

“Your phone ran out of battery.” Jason repeats flatly. “Was that before or after you were hanging around an abandoned amusement park?”

“Before.”

Jason goes to scrub his face with gloved hands, and is stymied by the mask. He flips up the lenses, exposing blue eyes that flash with annoyance. “Look. If you’re going to be out anywhere in Gotham City, at least make sure you’ve got your freaking phone charged up, okay? And whoever encouraged you to get into trouble, whoever you were meeting up with? They aren’t your friends, not if they’re putting you in dangerous situations.”

Tim is genuinely confused. “…but I wasn’t meeting up with anybody?”

From the look on Robin’s face, Tim belatedly senses that there had been several possible responses, and Tim has chosen the worst one of all. This is what he gets for telling the truth.

Slowly, Jason clarifies: “You were hanging out in Gotham, in the middle of the night, totally alone? Let me guess. You’re running around downtown Gotham tonight alone, too.”

Shiftily, Tim dodges, “Graffiti’s not exactly a team sport, is it?”

“It’s not a sport at all.” Jason crosses his arms. “If you’re that into it, where’s your spray cans?”

Crap, thinks Tim, again.

Aloud, Tim claims, “In my backpack.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see ‘em.”

“What are you, a cop?” Tim blusters. “Get a warrant. I don’t have to let you see in my bag.”

“I ain’t no cop,” Jason says, Crime Alley drawl becoming more pronounced with offense, “And I ain’t no narc, either. All I’m saying is, it’s dangerous out here and I don’t like seeing kids get hurt. Pick a less dumbass way to spend your time. Like photography. I hear that’s a great hobby.”

At this last, Tim can’t help himself from looking up through his eyelashes and asking, “Do you really think it’s cool?”

Jason blinks several times in a row. “Yeah. Course I do.”

Tim clears his throat in a way he hopes comes across as gruff. “I’ll think about it.”

Jason heaves a put upon sigh. “You’re at least less likely to get yourself, or me, in trouble with photography than tagging shit in the middle of the night.”

“Uh huh,” Tim agrees squeakily, and coughs. “Yeah, sure. You’re right.”

Jason narrows his eyes.

Running that back through his head again, Tim asks, “Wait, what do you mean, get you in trouble?”

Jason’s expression becomes stony, and he turns his head away slightly. “Batman doesn’t like it when Robin gives people permanent injuries.”

“What?! But it wasn’t your fault!”

“Yeah, well, Robin gets held to a high standard, kid.”

There’s a heavy weight of guilt in Tim’s belly, at the thought of Robin being punished by Batman for Tim’s mistakes. “But it was my fault! You shouldn’t get in trouble with Batman because of something I did. That’s not fair. I’ll - I’ll tell him that.” Tim swallows hard, unable to picture what terrible consequences the Dark Knight, justice and vengeance personified, might heap upon Tim, but ready to bear them for fairness, for Robin’s sake. “I’ll tell him it was me.”

Jason gives him a long, considering look. Slowly, he says, “Yeah, I think you would.”

That’s what I just said? thinks Tim, confused.

Dropping his hands to his sides, Jason sighs. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says, more gentle, but still firmly. “It was an accident. ‘Sides, I told you. I ain’t no snitch. You stay out of trouble, we’ll call it even, alright?”

Relieved he won’t have to answer to Batman for his crimes, but still feeling guilty, Tim whispers, “I’m really sorry.”

Robin shrugs this off, cape twitching with the movement. “Alright. Bedtime, Jack. You’re out past your curfew.”

“I don’t have a curfew,” Tim points out.

“You do now,” Jason informs him. “Hop to it. Straight home, no stops.”

Tim nods, salutes, lies out his butt: “Sure, Robin. Will do.”

Jason gives him a heavy stare. “On second thought, I’ll walk you home. Make sure you get there safe.”

Dang it. “I’m sure you have way more important things to do than walking me back. Crimes to fight, Batman to partner with?”

In a tone that doesn’t leave much room for argument, Robin insists, “It’s a slow night. Batman’s off chasing Catwoman. It’s …gonna be awhile.”

Tim tries the art of compromise. “You can walk me back to my bus. The most danger I’ve been in all night was when you scared me into falling off a roof.”

Actually, it had been when he’d almost gotten stuck forever, slowly starving to an inglorious death with his butt hanging out a window, but Tim will be taking that to his grave before admitting that to anyone, let alone Robin.

“If you hadn’t been on the roof it wouldn’t have been a problem.”

Tim can’t believe how victim-blamey Robin is being. “If you hadn’t snuck up on me it wouldn’t have been a problem!” Tim points out indignantly. “Do you do that a lot? Scare people into danger?”

Not answering what Tim feels is a very valid point, Jason makes a counter-offer instead. “Look, how about I buy you a milkshake and I walk you to your bus, you never come out to Gotham at night again, and we call it even?”

This gives Tim pause. “…What kind of milkshake are we talking about? Crazy Shake with the slice of cake on top from I-Screamery?”

Jason has been walking him over to the fire escape, and now gestures him down. “Takeout from Batburger, you little gremlin. Don’t get greedy.”

Well. In that case, Tim feels that this renders the agreement for him not to come out at night again null and void. He also doesn’t see the need to mention as much to Jason. 

Smiling happily around the wide straw on the bus back to Bristol, as he slurps the concrete looking but surprisingly tasty neopolitan milkshake that turns out to be Robin’s favorite, Tim decides it’s been the new best night of his life.

Chapter Text

A little bit of curiosity can go a long way.

- Encyclopedia Brown

Mrs. Mac is just starting to wax the wood flooring when the doorbell chimes sonorously, echoing through the wide hallways and open spaces of Drake Manor. Brows furrowing in confusion, Tim looks out the window, but the only car in the drive is Mrs. Mac’s gray Subaru.

Mrs. Mac’s routines, developed over the fifteen years she’s been working for the Drakes, are inviolate. The grand dining room, in the back of the house and hardly ever in use, is always first. She will have her headphones in, listening to either Wagner or Dolly Parton for the duration. Deliveries don’t ring the doorbell, and with his parents gone and Ives in Maine, there’s no social calls for her to expect to have to answer the door.

Tim goes to see if someone’s got the wrong address, which is unusual but not unheard of in this neighborhood. Carefully skirting the areas Mrs. Mac has already dry-mopped, Tim stretches up on tiptoe to look through the peephole carefully disguised in the decorative carved wood of the front doors. Cursing his pre-pubescent stature, Tim can only see the top of a dark-haired head from this angle. Only one person, short for an adult male, no car, in the middle of the day; probably not a kidnapping for ransom or robbery attempt. Tim opens the door.

Jason Todd-Wayne is standing there, and his eyes widen when he sees Tim holding open one of the elaborately carved ebony doors.

“Tim? Whoa! You’re our neighbor? What a crazy coincidence.”

Tim has long felt the same way.

“Jason? Wow, yeah, that is pretty crazy,” he says, trying to look as though this is news to him. His genuine surprise at Jason deciding to ring his doorbell for reasons unknown probably helps sell it. “Um, why are you here?” Tim’s ears go pink at his own rudeness, and he quickly corrects, “I mean, how can I help you?”

Jason doesn’t seem offended, luckily. “I’m good, but I was taking Ace for a walk and I think the heat is getting to him. He’s getting up there in years. I was hoping maybe I could get a bowl of water for him?”

For the first time since opening the door, Tim looks down. Sitting on the step by Jason’s feet, pointed ears reaching only partway up to Jason’s knee, is a dog that looks like a Doberman got in a fight with the machine from Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and lost. 

As far as Tim can tell, Ace looks alert and calm. He does seem very drooly around his slightly graying jowls, so maybe that’s how he’s getting dehydrated? How should Tim know, he’s never had a pet. 

“Hello, Ace,” Tim says politely. Ace appears to take this as an invitation and comes in to lean against Tim’s leg, like he’s seen bigger dogs do, to ask for pats. Tim bends down to oblige with some tentative head scritches, which make Ace dissolve in bliss, leaning his whole (insignificant) body weight against Tim’s shin.

Tim glances up at Jason hesitantly to check if he’s doing this right, and is reassured to find the older boy smiling. “He likes you,” Jason says, which gives Tim the courage to go for some larger strokes. Ace flops over on Tim’s foot and wags his whip-like tail, begging for a belly rub, which makes Tim giggle and give in to his non-verbal demand. “You’re kind of ridiculous, Ace.”

“Excuse you,” Jason says, but he’s still smiling, so he probably isn’t too annoyed. “Ace is the noblest of hounds,” Jason defends loyally. “Tell him, Ace. Sprechen!”

Ace obediently rolls back over, leans his bat-like ears back, opens his snout, and emits a tremendous, deep “HAWOOOOOF!”

It echoes through the vestibule, the envy of any full-sized Doberman. Tim watches, jaw slack, as Jason smirks and tosses a treat from his pocket for a job well done. “Good boy, Ace.” 

Catching the treat mid-air, Ace gobbles it, then pants happily, miniature tongue flopping from the side of his mouth. Tim thinks briefly that Ace and the kitten he’d recently almost died stuck in a window for would be a perfectly matched set of unreasonably large voices in improbably tiny packages.

The panting reminds Tim of the reason Jason and Ace are here. “Oh my gosh. I’m sorry, you needed water!” He takes off, skidding into the kitchen and throwing open cabinets looking for an appropriately sized bowl. Despite the volume of Ace’s hound-like baying, while Tim runs the tap he can see Mrs. Mac through the back hallway, still bobbing her earphoned head rhythmically as she runs the mop handle back and forth.

Jason is still waiting patiently in the immaculate vestibule when he gets back. Ace dips his head to the bowl and slurps it up appreciatively. Tim carefully wipes up the water left on the floor when he’s done, out of habit. 

“I think Ace is all done walking for today,” Jason observes. “It’s too hot to be outside for long, for anyone, really.” 

Tim believes it. The humidity had been oppressive even just in the short time he’d had the front door open.

As though the thought has just occurred to him, Jason suddenly offers, “Hey, you like video games, right? You wanna come over and play smash? It’d be nice to play against someone instead of the CPU.”

Wanting to kick himself for turning down what is probably his only chance of hanging out with The Actual Robin, Tim tells himself emphatically it’s probably best to stay away. He doesn’t need to potentially give Robin any more reasons to be suspicious of him than he is already. “I wish I could, but my nanny is taking me to karate soon.” 

That’s what Tim means to say, at least. What actually comes out of his mouth instead is: “Sure, okay!”

Who is he kidding, it’s Robin. Robin wants to hang out with him! 

Tim goes to Robin’s house. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The tippy tippy taps of Ace’s nails don’t echo through lonely, manicured architectural spans like they would in Tim’s home. 

Wayne Manor is immense and richly furnished, but in a deliberate, warm sort of way that speaks of successions of generations carefully choosing items precious to them, rather than the museum-like display of other countries’ priceless antiques surrounded by modern, crisp white lines and leather of the Drake manse. 

It’s really nice, Tim thinks. Makes it seem less intimidating. Homey. 

Jason yodels a hello to a sharply dressed, gray-haired man as they pass by the kitchen. A cook, or housekeeper, perhaps. The elderly man gives Jason a stern but fond look. “Your indoor voice, if you please, Master Jason,” he entreats, though it does not sound like a suggestion. 

“Sorry, Alfie,” Jason says irrepressively, voice hardly much lower. “This is Tim we’re going to be in the game room playing smash,” he says in a single breath without any pauses, and drags Tim down the corridor before he can do more than wave as a greeting to “Alfie.”

Tim tries to keep a hold on his desperate curiosity as they go further inside the mansion, head already swiveling around in probably an off-putting and not very normal way as he peeks into rooms they pass, wondering where they keep all their Bat things. They can’t just keep the Batmobile parked in the garage, right? Surely not. Right? No. 

Stop, Tim. Be cool, he tries to tell himself as they meander through wood paneled hallways. They’re not going to keep their costumes and Bat-gear where anyone visiting might see it.

This line of thought backfires, as the part of Tim’s psyche that sends him creeping out into the night after Jason’s family is delighted at the prospect of the challenge of finding the secrets of the Bats that more than likely are hidden within these very walls!

He almost misses a turn and has to scurry to catch up to Jason, and forces himself to get an iron grip and pay attention to the casual questions Jason is directing Tim’s way. 

It turns out there’s a whole room dedicated to the tastes of the kids in Wayne Manor, aside from their bedrooms, presumably. A comfy couch the depth of a king bed takes up half the width of the already cavernous room, and an enormous television screen on the opposite wall is hooked up to half a dozen gaming consoles. Framed posters, signed memorabilia, clearly well-loved Funko Pops and games decorate the walls and shelves.

“Wow,” Tim says, impressed, not least by the fact that Bruce Wayne appears to give his kids an incredible amount of say over the decor and furnishings in at least part of the house.

“Yeah, it’s a real nice set-up,” Jason says, understating it by a wide margin, though, if Tim’s not misinterpreting things, seeming pleased that Tim likes it? Which would be cool, if true.

One corner of the room has a small stool set up next to an electric guitar on a stand with a microphone and amp in front. An acoustic guitar hangs by the neck from a forked hook on the wall. 

Jason takes a leap and flops onto the middle of the couch, rolling over and grabbing a controller and pulling up the game on-screen, tossing another controller to the side of the sectional closer to Tim. 

Tim follows his lead more slowly, and Ace jumps up as well, turning around in a circle twice, stick-like legs and feet having hardly enough weight to push into the surface of the couch. Once in position, curled in a little mound of dog next to Tim, he rests his snout on Tim’s leg, letting out a sigh of contentment. The little pressure of Ace’s head makes a pleasantly warm spot on his thigh.

It doesn’t take many rounds for the two of them to come to a gentleman’s agreement that no one plays as Kirby. Jason has just settled on Bowser for the next bout of violence, and Tim is trying to decide between Sheik and Toon Link, when there’s a polite knock on the door. The gentleman from the kitchen earlier enters, with a large platter of artistically arrayed snacks in his hands. Tim realizes suddenly that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast (coffee and a microwave burrito), and his stomach rumbles. He feels his cheeks heat slightly at the rudeness, but luckily no one mentions it.

Jason pauses the screen, pulling his legs up criss cross applesauce to get a better look at the food. “An Alfred special afternoon tea spread!” He whistles appreciatively, reaching for what looks like beef Wellington wrapped in delicate pastry. “What’s the occasion?”

“Offering a polite welcome to your guest,” says the gentleman, somewhat pointedly. “I noted that you did not mention during your,” he clears his throat genteelly, “hurried introduction, if Master Tim had eaten before his arrival.”

Jason has the grace to look abashed. “I forgot to ask.” 

Tim quickly assures, “It’s fine! It’s totally fine. Um, thank you so much, sir, you didn’t have to go to all the trouble. It looks delicious though!”

“It was no trouble at all. Please, there is no need to call me sir. Alfred Pennyworth, at your service, Master Tim. I am majordomo of Wayne Manor.”

“Thank you, Mister Pennyworth,” Tim says again, automatically, and takes what turns out to be a delicious homemade chocolate cookie.

The older man does something complicated with white haired eyebrows that somehow manages to indicate his approval of Tim’s manners, at Jason’s expense. Jason appears to take this silent rebuke in stride, to Tim’s relief.

“Alfie’s the best,” Jason says loyally, grabbing a miniature crustless sandwich. “Just wait until you try his white chocolate macadamia cookies.”

Tim is confused but warmed by the implication that he’ll be welcomed back in the future to try them. Mr. Pennyworth departs after insisting that the boys let him know if they require anything further.

By the time they’ve consumed half the platter, switched over to the newest Luigi’s Mansion and gotten several levels in, Tim’s relaxed into the awesome oddity of hanging out one on one with Robin. It’s almost like hanging out with Ives before he got sick, if Sebastian were secretly a heroic vigilante. And a thousand times more sweary.

Jason mashes buttons, Luigi turning slowly in wobbling arcs, and yelping in dismay as several grinning ghosts gleefully molest him. “Left, goddammit, left! Why do you handle like a fucking bumper car?! For fuck’s sake, Luigi. I’m pressing A!!”

Tim laughs hard enough to snort, squelching Gooigi through a series of spike traps while Jason finally manages to face Luigi in the correct direction and vacuum up a struggling ghost. 

“Who installs spike pits, and saw traps, and acid pits in their mansions anyway?” Tim wonders.

Jason is smiling, despite his continued mumbled sweary complaints to his character wobbling around on-screen. “Right? Who even does that?”

“And like, hidden basement sublevels?” Tim wonders, encouraged by Jason’s levity. “Just - why?”

Jason coughs, shooting a plunger harmlessly down a mansion corridor, seemingly by accident. “Totally ridiculous. Though, you know what? I could totally see Joker or the Penguin doing shit like that. I bet Penguin’s got a bigass pool full of killer whales in a secret basement of his mansion somewhere.” 

This inevitably leads to a debate over what types of improbable and lethal traps Gotham’s most infamous criminals might choose to install in their villainous lairs. Tim gets so deeply committed to the topic that he startles badly when there is a knock on the door.  

Tim feels his entire body stiffen up when Batman, Bruce Wayne himself, enters instead of Mr. Pennyworth. 

“Hey dad,” Jason says casually, and when Tim looks over to gauge from his reaction whether Tim should stand to greet Mr. Wayne, sees Jason side-eyeing him in return. 

Mr. Wayne comes over to perch on the edge of the sectional while Tim is debating. “Hey, chum,” he says, giving Jason’s foot, the only part of him in easy reach given the depth of the furniture, an affectionate tousle. Ace uncurls himself, thin tail wagging, and gives a big stretch before padding over to receive scritches from the newcomer. 

Mr. Wayne’s smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes slightly, surprising Tim, who hadn’t until this moment realized Batman could smile. For real, anyway. Not just the magazine Brucie Wayne smirk, or the business smiles like the ones his parents have perfected.

“This is my friend, Tim,” Jason says, and Tim whips his head around, eyes wide, before some sanity returns and he realizes Jason’s probably just being polite. 

Tim does an awkward maneuver that probably makes him look like an inchworm in order to get close enough to sit up straight and offer Batman a firm, business-like handshake. “Timothy Drake, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne. I go to Gotham Academy with Jason. We’re neighbors, as it turns out. Jason was kind enough to ask me over this afternoon.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Tim,” Mr. Wayne says kindly, returning Tim’s handshake and sending a speaking glance Tim can’t interpret briefly over at Jason.

“If you’re done with work, siddown and let me and Timmy here kick your butt in Mario Kart,” Jason instructs.

Shockingly, Mr. Wayne looks like he’s considering it. The thought of playing Mario Kart with, and sitting on the same couch as Batman himself, however, is several bridges too far for Tim.

Tim scoots again, inchworming off the sectional entirely. “Actually, my nanny will be expecting me for dinner soon. Thanks for inviting me over, Jason. I had a lot of fun.” He tries not to emphasize this last as much as he’s actually feeling - he spent the afternoon hanging out with Robin! He’ll probably need the rest of the night to properly geek out about that. If he were the diary writing type, he’d be writing a novel in it this evening. Maybe he should start a diary, just to write about this? But the level of encryption he would need to use in order to protect the secrets of the Bats would make that impractical, really.

“No problem, Timmers.” Jason starts to move off the couch like he’s going to walk Tim out, somehow managing to look much cooler and significantly less invertebrate than Tim had. More intimidatingly, Mr. Wayne unfolds himself to his full height as though to join them. Tim’s head comes up to approximately Batman’s waist. 

“Um, it’s okay? I’ll see myself out.” He’s not sure he can find his way out, in fact, but the totally innocent thought occurs that if he does happen to get lost, he might, maybe, perhaps be able to stumble upon some hidden secrets purely by accident.

Jason stops him. “Hold up, Timmers. What’s your number? I’ll text you mine.”

Tim blinks twice, needing the brief moment to wrap his head around having Robin’s phone number, before rattling off his own and receiving the text in return as promised. 

In the short time this exchange takes, Mr. Pennyworth has silently materialized by the door.

“Alfred, Tim needs to head home. Would you mind showing him out?” asks Mr. Wayne. 

“Oh, uh, it’s just next door, I can walk,” Tim demurs.

“Of course I shall escort Master Tim.” The elderly man smiles down at him. When Tim is about to decline more firmly, he continues in a tone that precludes further argument, “I’m afraid I really must insist; the weather looks as though it may turn poorly soon.”

A very few minutes later, Tim is waving goodbye and watching the Porsche disappear down the drive, and walking into his empty house, arms laden with leftover sandwiches and homemade dessert for him and the nonexistent nanny. 

Tim begins to suspect the most formidable member of the Bat-family is neither Nightwing nor Batman.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim expects that Jason will forget all about having Tim’s number, so it’s startling to see a text show up the following morning that isn’t just an alert that Sebastian Ives has liked a message. 

It’s from ‘Jason Todd-Wayne.’ Not so hot today. Going on a long walk with Ace. Want to come with?

There’s a large decorative stone shaped roughly like a high, thin sort of trapezoid at the end of Tim’s driveway among other shrubs in a sort of manicured rock garden. It makes a very decent seat for him to rest on as he texts Ives some funny animal videos while he waits for Jason and Ace. 

He sees Ace first, gamboling easily near Jason’s side in a sort of cross between an energetic but well trained heel and a prancing military goose step. When Ace is close enough, he gives Tim’s hand some slightly slobbery kisses while he permits Tim to make a big deal over him. 

Jason had been correct about the weather. Walking along the road that winds through the neighborhood’s estates is pleasant exercise, especially in the shade, and Ace seems wholly content and in his element.

“How was your night?” asks Jason casually. “Do anything fun?”

Tim had stayed in, plotting new potential Bat-spotting viewing areas around The Hill, west of Otisburg. “Not much. Doing some stuff on my computer,” he says vaguely, sticking close to the truth. 

Jason nods. “Cool. I forgot to ask yesterday - I hope your nanny didn’t mind you hanging out somewhere else with short notice?” 

Rosa would have loved having more unexpected paid time to herself, and Mrs. Mac, to Tim’s knowledge, hadn’t noticed he had left.

“Nah, she didn’t care,” Tim says, but it must be a shade too casual, because Jason looks at him slightly askance. 

“Huh. Must be a very hands-off nanny?” 

Palms getting slightly sweaty, despite the cooler weather, Tim asserts firmly, “I’m very mature for my age.” 

“Hmm,” Jason says noncommittally, but doesn’t push it further, to Tim’s relief. 

Tim resolves to set the timed interior lights on the security system so it looks like the house is inhabited by people other than himself, as soon as he gets back home. 

Jason turns the topic of conversation to less fraught topics for the rest of the walk, thankfully. Though he does ask Tim how his parkour is going, which makes Tim want to die of embarrassment at having been overheard, having forgotten that the estate bordering theirs on the side closest to his homemade course belongs to the Waynes.

Tips of his ears still burning slightly, Tim flips the subject, both to stop talking about Tim and also to try and satisfy his own curiosity. “I wonder what the Batmobile is like on the inside,” he muses in a tone he hopes is appropriately casual and hypothetical. “Do you think it can turn into an airplane? Like a transformer?”

Jason takes a second to respond. “I dunno. Probably nobody knows except Batman and Robin and Batgirl. But I bet maybe it does. And I bet it has autopilot, so Robin can drive around in it by himself.”

Tim feels his eyes getting round and bugged out. This confirmation, and the revelation that Batman lets his kids drive around the actual Batmobile, is almost too amazing to comprehend. His parents would murder him for even silently entertaining in the privacy of his own head the hypothetical concept of taking one of their cars for a joyride. “No way!”

Jason gives him a sideways smile. “Way.”

Tim has so, so many follow up questions. “Do you think it has laser cannons?”

Jason stops to let Ace sniff at a mailbox post. “Ehh, probably not.” Seeing Tim looking slightly disappointed, he adds: “Bet it has regular cannons, though.”

Ace finishes checking the messages left by the other neighborhood dogs, and they move on down the sidewalk. “Uh, not to be rude,” Tim says, “but everybody knows that.” There was a whole op-ed recently about the Batmobile accidentally blowing up part of City Hall the last time Mr. Freeze went on a rampage that had made it to the front page of r/Gotham.

Jason seems highly amused. “Brat. If you know so much about it, what do you think the Batmobile’s got on board?”

It’s silly telling his theories to Robin, who obviously knows full well what the Batmobile is and isn’t capable of, but Tim just has so many ideas and theories, and hasn’t had anyone interested in listening to them, not since Ives got too sick to have long conversations. So he walks next to Jason, hands flying to illustrate his points, and tells Robin about all of them. 

Jason turns out to be a really good listener on the subject, asking follow-up questions that show he’s paying attention to what Tim is saying, and not sounding bored even once. Tim hesitates to even think it, but maybe if the Batmobile doesn’t already have cool stuff like heat rays for anti-icing, surface-to-air missiles, and an automatic traffic light rerouting system, Tim might be giving the Bats some ideas they hadn’t even thought of yet? Incredibly awesome, if true.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The most surprising thing of all is that Jason doesn’t seem to get bored of being in Tim’s presence quickly. Hanging out together becomes a fairly regular thing over the next few weeks of summer. 

Jason seems perfectly happy to show off to Tim Ace’s tracking skills, and his impressively wide repertoire of tricks. They get close to finishing Luigi’s Mansion 3 when it’s too hot to be outside, and take Ace on regular walks around Wayne Manor’s grounds and the surrounding neighborhood when it isn’t. Ace has a special floatie to recline on when they splash in the Manor’s indoor pool, and between the two of them, they eventually manage to teach Ace to ride on Tim’s skateboard. 

Tim doesn’t make any headway in exploring the manor for signs of Bat infestation, which is disappointing, but on the other hand, Ace turns out to be an extremely adept photographic subject. Jason encourages Tim in this pastime, although Tim uses his phone instead of his real camera and array of professional quality lenses, which would undoubtedly raise suspicions about what Tim continues to get up to in his spare time.

Ace manages to imbue improbable poses, that other dogs might find demeaning or beneath them, with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor portraying Hamlet upon the stage. Jason, under the mildest of pressure from Tim, is even persuaded to unearth a box of miniature costumes for Ace, that he takes pains to ensure that Tim knows were curated in Dick’s time as primary Ace caregiver. Hilariously, there is a tiny black cape and cowl set (with cutouts for his perky, bat-like ears) that Ace models with aplomb, and the resulting pictures Tim crows over with delight.

In mid-July, the two of them sit under a shade sail in the back garden, drinking from large chilled glasses of Mr. Pennyworth’s hand squeezed lemonade. While Ace undertakes an afternoon patrol of the yard, Tim drums up the courage to ask: “You’re pretty good at self-defense, right?”

“I do alright for myself, yeah,” Jason answers modestly.

“Would you - um. Can you maybe teach me a bit?”

Jason looks at him measuringly, considering. “It’s good for everyone to know how to defend themselves,” he allows.

Not wanting Jason to think him some complete newb who can’t take care of himself at all, Tim says, “I’m a purple belt in karate.”

“I remember, you told me,” Jason says, delighting Tim with this evidence that his friend (they are friends for real by now, probably, Tim guesses) has been paying attention to things Tim mentions about himself. “Not bad, kiddo,” Jason praises, and Tim thinks it’s possible he can die happy.

Jason hops upright, dusting his hands off, and motions for Tim to do the same, which he does, almost tripping over himself in eagerness. 

“I’m gonna teach you the absolute best way to defend yourself,” Jason says confidently. “Are you ready?”

Is Tim ready? Is Tim ready. Tim was born ready for this. 

This is it. My whole life has led up to this, Tim thinks.

Aloud, Tim says fervently, “I’m ready.”

Jason settles in to a relaxed stance, feet shoulder width apart, arms in front. “Okay. Here it is.”

Tim mirrors his stance, trying not to vibrate with excitement.

Jason takes a deep breath in, makes eye contact with Tim, releases it, intoning seriously: “Don’t put yourself in dangerous situations.”

Tim waits.

Jason maintains eye contact. He doesn’t move.

It takes a long moment before Tim realizes with indignation that’s all he’s going to get.

Tim drops out of the ready stance, frowning as ferociously as he can. “You disappoint me,” he says crushingly, crossing his arms.

Jason laughs.

Also dropping the pretense of fighting readiness, Jason doubles down. “It’s true. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Tim half-turns in preparation to stalk back to his lemonade, and Jason moves in to give him a friendly shoulder punch. Tim dodges, slapping his hand out of the way. Jason allows this, then flows with the movement to grab his wrist and gently but firmly put him in a hammerlock hold.

“Hey!” Tim says, annoyed.

Jason doesn’t move, standing directly behind Tim, grip loose enough not to hurt but still sturdy enough to pin him. “Alright, Timbo. Can you get out of this one?”

Tim wriggles energetically, and Jason specifies, “Without hurting yourself.”

Tim corrects him huffily, “No, not without hurting you.”

Jason snorts. “Ay. Stone cold killer over here.”

Irritated enough to no longer mind if he does rough up Jason a bit in order to get free, Tim warns, “You know what?” He steps to the left side of Jason’s foot, and takes full advantage of being small and bendy. Tim folds his right leg at the knee to bring his heel back and high, as though aiming to kick himself in the butt, in order to nail Jason directly in the sausage and beans.

At the last possible second, Jason deflects by turning a thigh inward, releasing Tim. Taken off guard, Jason laughs, a Robin cackle that seems almost proud. “Alright, Timetrious Johnson! Small yet scrappy. We can definitely work with that.”

Jason is walking him through some moves that definitely wouldn’t be sanctioned by the North American Sport Karate Association when Tim’s phone rings.

He pulls it out of his pocket, sees who it is, and tells Jason apologetically, “I’m sorry, I really need to take this,” and speed-walks to a more secluded area of the yard before Jason has a chance to say anything.

When he comes back several minutes later, Jason is sitting next to his empty lemonade glass, Ace on his lap, wearing a look of concern. He drops his hand from where he’s been chewing on his thumbnail. “Everything ok, Timmy?”

“Yeah,” says Tim, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Jason looks at him closely. “You sure? It looked like it might have been bad news. Was it your parents?”

Tim sits down, fiddles with the reusable straw in his lemonade. “No, nothing like that. It was Ives. Um, my closest friend? He got really sick and moved away to be near more of his relatives awhile back. He hasn’t felt well enough to talk or text much lately, so …I thought it might have been his mom, with bad news. But it wasn’t!”

Is Tim rambling? He might be rambling.

“Just… it’s the same, right now, basically, which I guess is good news, right? But he was feeling a little better today, which is great, actually, he had enough energy for a phone call.” Tim realizes belatedly that practically racing for privacy and then ignoring his host to have a phone conversation wasn’t the most polite move. “I’m sorry, I needed to talk to him. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Jason doesn’t look offended, though.“Dude. Timmy. You don’t need to apologize. Like, at all. I’m really glad you got to talk to your friend. I’m just sorry he’s not feeling well.”

Tim is relieved to see Jason sounds sincere and has a look of compassion that he’s seen on Robin’s face when talking to people who need help. Which, like, Tim’s not a victim or anything. It’s just nice to see. Like Jason really cares.

Jason points at Tim and instructs, “Schoß,” and Ace obligingly transfers to curl up in Tim’s lap.

Scratching the always-itchy spot on the side of Ace’s neck, Tim says, “Me too. We used to hang out a lot, before he got sick and moved. I just miss having him around, I guess, you know?”

Jason nods.

Realizing that this might be making him sound like some sort of social pariah, Tim assures Jason, “I have friends! Just not like, the hang out all the time kind, mostly. I have online friends, and a couple karate and gymnastics friends. And classmate friends! We talk about schoolwork and stuff, but a lot of the older kids have already formed their friend groups, you know, years of being in the same grade with each other, so they’re not really pressed to make new ones? Coming into it new, skipping a couple grades, it’s kind of hard to break into that sometimes.”

“I definitely know what you mean,” Jason says, and Tim remembers his background and that he’s a recent transplant to Gotham Academy too. Tim thinks, Maybe he really does.

“I, um, I don’t take it personally, though,” Tim hurries to explain. “I’m not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. I mean, not everyone’s going to like you or want to spend a lot of time with you, right? It’s not a big deal.”

Jason is looking at him with an expression Tim can’t read. But then he smiles. “Well, I like you. And I want to spend time with you.”

Tim feels his face brightening like the sun coming out.

Standing up, Jason squeezes Tim’s shoulder, then clears his throat and grabs the remains of the lemonade glasses to bring inside. “Wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks. “Alfie’s pulling out all the stops cause Dick’s coming home.”

It’s only having several weeks of practice being cool around Jason that allows Tim’s heart to continue beating even sort of steadily. Does Tim want to meet and have dinner with his all time favorite hero? In addition to Jason and Batman, at the same table, all at once? Tim wants to, so badly, but he knows himself well enough to be 100% sure he will be unable to keep from either embarrassing himself in front of his heroes, or from doing something extremely stupid like letting on he knows their secret identities.

“Um, no thanks,” says Tim despondently, carrying Ace through the French doors to the conservatory in Jason’s wake.

“You sure? Dickie’s a dweeb, but he’s really nice. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

“He’s not a dweeb!” Tim says, much more insistently and confidently than the situation calls for, and too late berates himself that this is exactly what he was afraid of happening.

Jason turns to stare at Tim. “What makes you say that?”

“Transitive property,” Tim’s brain supplies, and he thinks he manages to say it with very nearly as much confidence as his unthinking defense of Nightwing’s honor.

“Transitive property,” Jason echoes, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. Transitive property,” Tim repeats. “Like in math? Or logic?” Tim is determined to babble his way through this. “You know. Because you, obviously, you’re really cool. And if you’re cool, then your brother must be cool. If not even cooler.”

Seeming less suspicious and more like he’s pleased but trying not to show it, Jason turns back to continue walking toward the kitchen to deposit the dirty dishes. “Well, he’s definitely not cooler than me. But okay, genius. You do you. Offer’ll still be open, if you change your mind.”

Mr. Pennyworth isn’t there when they get to the kitchen, but Mr. Wayne is, reading the Wall Street Journal on a propped up tablet. 

Seeing Jason putting the lemonade glasses in the dishwasher, Mr. Wayne raises his eyebrows and turns to Tim. “You’re a good influence on him.”

“Hey,” Jason objects, but is ignored.

“Thank you, sir,” Tim says.

“Just Bruce is fine,” Mr. Wayne says, not for the first time, and Tim nods in acknowledgment, also not for the first time. “Will you be staying for dinner tonight, Tim?”

“No, thank you. It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to impose.”

Standing to his full and intimidating height in order to hand Jason his empty coffee cup while he’s still near the dishwasher, Mr. Wayne exchanges a brief glance with his son. “It’s no imposition.”

Uncomfortable with contradicting the older man, but even more uncomfortable at the idea of staying, Tim adds quietly, “Besides, it’s a family meal. I would be out of place.”

Jason steps in, to Tim’s relief. “I already offered, B.”

Mr. Wayne gives a shrug of reluctant acquiescence. “If you’re sure?”

“Thank you, but I - I should be getting home. Thank you for having me over,” he says to the room at large, and flees before the big guns can be pulled out, in the form of Mr. Pennyworth’s look of disappointment that Tim won’t be staying to eat something he’s painstakingly prepared.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Jason closes the dishwasher, and meets Bruce’s questioning gaze. In Jason’s experience, Tim always seems to be particularly squirrelly around B, and to a lesser extent Alfred, but his deer-like nope out was slightly unusual, even by Timmy standards.

“I don’t think he likes it when adults loom, B,” he explains quietly, leaning against the countertop. “Or talk loudly. Or ask him questions he’s afraid to get wrong.”

Bruce’s curious look shifts subtly until Jason’s looking at Batman’s keen stare.  “…Should I be taking action?” 

Jason shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know yet. His parents are out of town right now, I think for a couple more weeks. It’s just the nanny there now, and I don’t get the impression she’s the spare the rod, spoil the child grueling taskmaster type. But when they get back?” He looks at Bruce steadily. “I think maybe Bruce Wayne should get to know them better.”

Bruce nods, looking like he’d rather press for more information, but for now accepting this without further question. “I will.”

Jason shuffles over to sit down on the tall stool next to his dad’s. Bruce waits him out, seeming to sense he’s got more on his mind. 

Jason chews on his lip, then heaves a sigh. “He’s just a kid, B.”

Bruce’s expression softens, and he puts a hand on the back of Jason’s neck, almost like he’s scruffing a kitten. “But he’s got you looking out for him. And whatever he’ll accept from me. And Alfred.”

Jason sighs again, leaning slightly into Bruce. 

They are both quiet. “Thanks,” Jason says eventually, after the moment stretches a bit too long. 

“For what, Jay-lad?”

Jason shrugs. “For being here.”

Bruce‘s hand squeezes his neck comfortingly. “Always. Whenever you need me to be.”

Jason allows it. The hum of the refrigerator working and the sound of Ace padding over to lap at his water bowl fill the silence.

“I love you, son,” Bruce says.

“Love you too, dad,” Jason says gruffly.

Bruce’s quiet stillness is suddenly very loud.

“God, stop being such a sap,” Jason demands, not moving. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No,” says Bruce, leaning over slightly to press a kiss to Jason’s hair. “Your complaints have been noted, and dismissed.”

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? Not necessarily the way Bruce means it here and now, as an affectionate joke, but when it matters. When they should be partners, not father and son. 

Jason stiffens slowly, and pulls away from his dad’s gentle grip.

“What is it?” Bruce asks.

“Nothing,” Jason says, moving to leave the room, but Bruce’s voice stops him in the doorway.

“Jay?”

Not looking at him, Jason taps the doorframe lightly, with a closed fist. “I just - I wish love was the same thing as trust.”

“Jay-lad,” Bruce starts, but this time Jason cuts him off.

”Later, B.”

Jason thinks he hears a deep sigh from the kitchen as he walks away.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Jason sprawls on the enormous sectional with Dick, trying to digest the equally enormous dinner Alfred had prepared. Dick is cross-legged, absently playing his acoustic guitar and watching Jason menacing an English countryside with a horrible goose. Jason has turned off the game music, because as much as he would die before admitting it, Dick is actually pretty good, and Jason doesn’t necessarily hate hearing him play.

“I found the kid,” Jason says, flapping his goose’s wings and honking menacingly at a shopkeeper wielding a broom.

Dick plucks out a few bars of Homeward Bound while parsing this out of nowhere statement, before Jason sees him come to the correct conclusion out of the corner of his eye. He turns more fully in Jason’s direction. “The one from Joker’s fall.” Dick pauses, plays another riff. “Did you tell B?”

Jason’s goose ducks stealthily through a hole in a lattice trim. “Nah. He either trusts me, or he doesn’t, y’know?”

Dick hums, switching songs. “Might be easier to trust with proof you’re trustworthy,” he says thoughtfully. Jason abruptly recognizes the new song as Billy Joel’s Honesty.

Jason makes his goose honk angrily. “Whose side are you on?” he accuses.

“This isn’t a two sides situation,” Dick claims. “It’s more of a mobius strip. I’m on my side, which is also every side.”

Jason jabs him with an elbow. “Smart ass.”

Dick shrugs cheerfully. “Better than being a dumbass.”

They tussle for a bit, until Dick yelps that his guitar is in danger.

Jason waits to continue the conversation until he’s working on loading a shopping basket with stolen goods with his beak. “Kid offered to come clean about it to Batman. Take the heat off me. Shaking like a leaf at the thought, but he would have done it.”

Dick whistles, low. “Brave kid.”

Jason snorts, then sighs heavily. “Yeah. He is.”

Dick looks at him intently, seeming to sense there’s more to the story than what Jason’s telling him.

Unwilling to give anything else away to his brother, Jason says, “What.”

Dick segues into a Sara Bareilles tune. “This kid.” He seems to sort through responses, then discard them. “Is he doing okay?”

“He’s a little shit,” Jason informs him baldly, but it comes out sounding more fond than annoyed.

“So you have things in common, then.”

“Asshole,” Jason says, honking as a villager puts out a NO GEESE ALLOWED sign. He answers Dick’s original question: “I’m taking care of it. I made him promise not to go out at night again.”

Dick nods, and takes his time going through the chorus. “If you need help,” he starts, and Jason cuts him off. 

“I said I’ve got it.”

“Jay… That wasn’t what I meant. I only meant,” Dick stops playing, gives him an open look that Jason refuses to meet, staring at the screen determinedly instead. “I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

Cheeks flushing, Jason grumbles, “I know.”

Dick cups a hand around one ear. “What was that? Sorry, I’m not fluent in grumpy teenager.”

“I said I know, Dickface.”

Dick pushes his bottom lip out and bats his eyelashes. “Awww, I love you too, lil bro.”

Jason tosses the controller aside and makes a spirited attempt to repeatedly punch Dick in the face with a nearby squishmallow Companion Cube.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bruce’s mood, unsettled by the outcome of his pre-dinner conversation with his youngest, sours further when Barbara reports in on her interviews with the medical staff involved with the attempted breakout of the Joker from the prison hospital earlier in the day.

“Seems like he’s getting progressively more cruel and crazy. Didn’t think that was even possible,” Barbara notes ruefully, over a short bit of downtime in the video playback of her cowl footage. The unfortunate physical therapist intern assigned to the Joker had been caught in the crossfire. She appears bruised and shaken as she describes what she can recall of the argument between the Joker and some of his minions, resulting in a chaotic rout.

“They - some of them were talking about getting better offers elsewhere,” the intern says, teeth chattering slightly. “He didn’t like that. Um, that was when - that was when he told the others to ‘deal with them.’ Some tried to run, but, um, I don’t think they made it? They, uh, all of them started pulling out guns. That was when, when I curled up behind the desk - it’s bulletproof, thank God.” She laughs, the sound tilting towards hysteria. “I thought it was overkill when they had us do the safety trainings, but now?” She swallows convulsively. “Maybe I’ll just move to Metropolis after this internship. Or New York. It’s more expensive, but I don’t care. Anything’s worth it at this point to never, ever have to worry about the Joker again.”

“I don’t think anyone could blame you, Dana,” Barbara’s voice comes through kindly, a voiceover from the first person perspective of the cowl, and the real life Barbara reaches over to pause playback on the Bat-Computer. 

“That was the most I got out of any of the staff involved,” Barbara sums up her afternoon. 

“Hn,” Bruce says, unhappy that Joker came so close to escaping custody, despite only being a month into recovery from grievous injury. The fact that the growing manifestations of infighting and turf wars amongst the most well connected criminal organizations of Gotham appear to have been the sole reason the attempt had failed only serve to deepen his displeasure.

“Anything else to report,” Bruce asks tersely, despite knowing from experience with his boys that his unhappiness tends to come across as accusatory to the listener. 

Barbara crosses her arms, leans back against the desk, appearing unruffled by his curt demeanor. “Still working on the influx of high quality smuggled goods. Instinct says it’s either Black Mask, or Penguin, or both behind the majority of the increase.” She crosses one foot over the other, brow furrowed in concentration. Probably three steps ahead into planning as she’s been reporting in, if Bruce knows Barbara.

“I’ve got some allies working on it. They’ll be going undercover; we’ve got several ops lined up already. The next big underground fenced items auction is in a few days. My people will be there.”

“These allies,” Bruce begins, but is forestalled by Barbara lifting up a flat hand in the universal “stop” motion. 

“I know you don’t like some of their methods, Bruce. But I trust them, and they deliver results.”

Bruce turns back to the Bat-computer. “I don’t like it,” he informs her.

She snorts, shaking her head, sending an auburn ponytail flicking over one shoulder. “Good thing I don’t work for you.”

“Hnn,” Bruce says, but doesn’t dispute it; which is just as well, as any argument would have been interrupted by the sub-sonic buzz of his watch.

Barbara glances at her own wrist resignedly, then at Bruce as he reaches behind his neck and flips up the cowl.

The Bat-signal is on. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes the key to solving a mystery lies in understanding human nature.

- Encyclopedia Brown

The sound of the unforgiving current sucking at the muddy banks of Gotham River is almost overpowered by the mechanical hum of the police motorboats idling in the water, shining bright spotlights into the depths, and the sound of professional voices, shouting terse instructions to one another. A dozen bodies in various states of decomposition are lying in a row on the riverbank, tagged and shrouded in black plastic. Bruce can see the telltale shine of Vicks vapor rub on the upper lip of crime scene technicians squelching through the mud, which should help keep the stench of both the river and the bloated, decaying bodies nearby from overwhelming their sense of smell. 

“We got an anonymous tip about an underworld body dump site recently used,” says Commissioner Gordon, supervising grimly while standing in the shadows in order to speak to the Batman in some semblance of privacy. His mustache is shiny and mentholated. “Recovery team is still working on dredging for more bodies.“

“Preliminary IDs on any of the victims?“ Bruce growls, from his habitual position camouflaged in the deepest of concealing darkness.

Gordon chews on the toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth. “Most we’ve recovered so far have been in the river too long. We’ll need DNA or dental or both. There were some personal belongings on a few, though, that match details of a high profile missing persons case.“

Bruce grunts with interest. Gordon correctly interprets this as a request to continue.

“James Fielding, former state legislator and his wife, Nora Fielding. Whereabouts unknown since June 15. Body decomp puts their time of death roughly ten to twenty days ago.”

That’s still a significant amount of time unaccounted for pre-mortem.

“They’re not the only members of the local hoi polloi to run into some bad luck lately,” Jim adds, looking at Bruce from the corner of his eye to see if this is news to him. It is not, but Bruce lets him continue in case Gordon divulges any details of which the Bats are not already aware. “In April, Arthur Brady suddenly sells off the family business, all his local properties, and departs for the Caribbean for unknown reasons. Real riches to rags type story. Similar stories for the Vandenburgs and the Fredricksons.”

“Where did all the money go?” Bruce asks, knowing better than to expect an actual answer at this stage, but hoping Gordon has managed to scent a lead nonetheless.

Bruce’s hopes are in vain. “That’s the question, isn’t it? There’s a metric ton of money changing hands all of a sudden, and flooding into Gotham through the black market, and yet nobody seems to want to talk about where it’s going.”

Barbara’s information has already confirmed additional suspicious shipments not appearing on official harbor records coming in from overseas, and via trains routed through Blüdhaven. Illegal gambling rings and auctions of magical and mundane items have been becoming more popular among the well-connected crowd lately. Besides all that, nothing says organized crime louder than every potential stool pigeon in the city remaining silent.

“Lots of the one percent suddenly deciding it’s time to take extended overseas vacations these days,“ Gordon muses.

“Rats fleeing a burning building?“ The burning building in question being Gotham. 

Gordon grunts an affirmative. “That, or trying to outrun paying the piper.”

Bruce looks grimly at the black covered bodies stacked in a row on the riverbank. “Seems some of them weren’t able to run fast enough.”

A recovery diver surfaces, spitting out his rebreather. “We’ve got a kid,” the diver calls roughly, and the energy in the air changes instantly. The night’s atmosphere now even more grim and oppressive, several staff in hazmat suits wade into the water to help pull the smaller body onto the bank. Gordon swears under his breath, spitting his toothpick onto the mud, grinding it beneath the toe of his boot until it snaps. A fierce urge to check in on both of his boys right this very moment strikes Bruce, to make absolutely sure they are safe, professionalism and secrecy be damned. He resists only narrowly, and from the corner of his eye sees Gordon’s hand fiddling next to his pants pocket. Barbara will undoubtedly be getting a check-in call from her father at some point tonight.

Bruce has been allies with Gordon for many years now, and he can tell when there’s more he has yet to say. “What else?”

Watching the team pull the body out of the river, Gordon’s lips are so flat they disappear beneath his mustache. “Our friendly neighborhood anonymous tipster has been pretty chatty lately. Sending us on raids all over the city in just about every gang territory that I can think of, that strangely don’t seem to lead to as many arrests and convictions as I would like. But they do seem to be succeeding in making life inconvenient for the local criminal elements. The information is good, but they’ve got us stepping on everyone’s toes.“

“And the tipster?”

“Sure as hell isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart,” Gordon snorts derisively, then sighs. “He’s a ghost. Montoya brought in one of Black Mask’s people, trying to get him to turn State’s evidence against his boss. Told us that there was a guy on the inside high up in one of the top organizations who’s been double dealing, calling in tips to sabotage the most powerful heads of organized crime in Gotham. Black Mask’s guy thinks the new guy’s endgame is setting up shop for himself as a new kingpin in town. Wouldn’t give us a name until we could promise immunity. All we got out of him was breadcrumbs: blonde man with scars on his arm. “ 

“And you’d like Batman to pay him a visit? See if I can turn up any more information? “

Gordon huffs a breath through his nose. “Only if you conduct séances now. Witness turned up dead in his cell.”

Bruce’s frown deepens.

“GCPD is getting leaky as a sieve. Evidence disappearing, informants turning up dead. I’m having trouble finding and plugging it.”

Bruce is unpleasantly reminded of the pervasive corruption in the early days of being Batman. He has no desire to return to them. “Who’s been growing roots deep enough into the GCPD to murder someone in police custody?”

“Black Mask. The Penguin. Who knows who else.” Gordon shrugs unhappily. “I sure as hell intend to do some pruning once we find that out.”

Bruce will bring the shears.

“In the meantime, turf rumbles are getting bigger. Every crime syndicate in the city’s beating their chests like gorillas over their territory. Cutting off heads and sticking them on pikes to show what happens to those who step a toe out of line: snitching, defecting, refusing to pay protection money.“

Bruce finds his back molars are grinding together. “Does all this have anything to do with why the police commissioner’s casual uniform now includes a bulletproof vest?” Kevlar weave is just visible between Gordon’s button down shirt and his overcoat.

“There have been some threats,“ Gordon admits reluctantly. 

Bruce stares him down. Gordon,  one of the most unflappable people he knows, has never since his first days as a beat cop been overly cautious regarding threats to his life. “Threats?”

Gordon pulls a new toothpick from his pocket, chews some more on it before answering. “Warning note in my desk. Pipe bomb in the commissioner’s on duty car.” Bruce stiffens, but Gordon waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “Help me find the leaks and keep the city from going up like a powder keg in a gang war. Let me worry about me.” Gordon frowns and jabs his chin in the direction of the riverbank. “You take care of your boy.”

Bruce follows his gaze. Dismayed to see a familiar red and yellow figure bending over the newest body resting uncovered on the muddy shore, Bruce wishes ruefully that it was more surprising to find a Robin popping up somewhere he would infinitely prefer they not be. Swallowing a curse and familiar regret that his boys are in any position to witness scenes like this, Bruce leaves Gordon with a curt instruction to take care of himself. 

The watery grave and the bullet wounds to the head, entry and exit, have not been kind to what remains of the young man’s body. Bruce’s only consolation is that it seems likely the boy died quickly.

“Robin,” Bruce says quietly, putting a gauntleted hand on his son‘s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here.“

Instead of moving away from the ghastly sight, as Bruce had been hoping, his son meets his eyes with the stoic professionalism each Robin has been taught, that does not quite completely veil the anguish and fury in his eyes. With no rebreather or Vicks to aid him, Jason‘s nostrils are flaring with the unpleasant and overpowering aroma. “Yeah, I should, actually. I thought I recognized the jacket. I’ve got an ID for this kid. He is - he was Joshua Hamill.”

Bruce is deliberately not thinking about how closely his son must’ve been looking, and how close he must’ve been to the deceased in life, in order to be that sure. “How do you know that?“

Jason snorts out an annoyed breath, then looks as though he has regrets about inhaling afterwards. “What, don’t believe me? He was on the wrestling team at Gotham Academy.“

Bruce finally succeeds in pulling him aside, as Jason tries to subtly rub a knuckle under his nose to block out some of the smell. Afraid of the answer, he asks, “Was he a friend?”

His younger son gives a rough shake of his head. “No, not me. But I’m still pretty damn sure. He was two grades behind me. A classmate of a friend.“

Bruce reaches up to his ear. “Batgirl. If you have the time, I’d recommend you check into what connections to Gotham’s underworld that the Hamill family had.” 

Barbara responds quickly, her crisp voice coming over the line. “I’ll do some cross referencing, see what I can find.”

Bruce turns back to his son, who is still staring at the remains of his schoolmate, though one of the crime scene techs is now shrouding the body. “Robin… take five. Get some fresh air. Somewhere that isn’t here.” 

Feathers already ruffling, Jason demands, “For what? I grew up in Crime Alley, B. Dead bodies ain’t nothing I ain’t seen before.“

For all his bravado, it’s clear to his father that Jason is not as unaffected as he’s trying to seem. It’s different when it’s a child, Bruce thinks. It’s different when it’s someone you know.

Jason has nothing to prove to him. Bruce only wishes he could finally get his son to believe that.

“I could really use some fries and a milkshake from Batburger,” Bruce says instead, shooting for conciliation, but this also backfires.

Jason puts his hands on his hips pugnaciously. “What, I’m getting demoted to delivery driver for your snack breaks now?“

Bruce sighs through his nose. Quietly, he says, “I think you could use one, too.“

Jason’s eyebrows furrow together even further beneath the domino mask. “I’m not five. You can’t just distract me with ice cream when you don’t like what I’m doing.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce tries to keep the frustration from his voice. “Robin. I think we’d both be better off getting some distance before we talk about this.”

Clearly unhappy, Jason stares at him through narrowed eyes for a long moment before capitulating with ill grace. “Fine.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Reluctant as Jason is to admit it, it’s genuinely hard to maintain a good head of steam on righteous anger while eating fries and sipping on a milkshake. The best he can manage is pensive brooding, frowning as fiercely as the gargoyle on a nearby corner of the roof he’s sitting on. Shifting into a crosslegged position, elbows on knees, sends up a whiff of slightly acidic tang from the tar paper covering the roof, still tacky and slightly warm to the touch from the oppressive heat of the day.

His stomach had settled before getting the fast food from a teenage employee not paid well enough to have the energy to care about serving food to Caped Crusaders. With the clearer air up high among the skyscrapers and away from the river dump site, Jason’s found a strong hunger despite his unpleasant state of mind. He sucks up a huge mouthful of ice cream, puffing out his cheeks and letting it melt on his tongue until his teeth start to hurt from the cold. 

Jason knows he’s the pale imitation, all right, he’s not really under any illusions about it, though he would challenge anyone to live up to the platonic ideal of Robin that his older brother was. The golden boy. The original. 

He’s worked hard to be a good Robin, though, even if Jason can’t be the Robin that Dick was. And until recently, he thought he’d been getting there. But maybe he’s wrong. Or at least, Batman thinks so, regardless of how Jason himself feels about it. And ultimately, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? If Batman can’t trust Robin’s judgment, if he doesn’t trust that Jason can handle himself, then - then maybe he’ll decide Jason shouldn’t be Robin at all. 

Jason shoves a fistful of french fries into his mouth and chews, angry and morose, gazing out onto the city skyline. He takes a long, noisy sip, pulling up the dregs of the chocolate-strawberry-vanilla ice cream.

Soft footsteps creep up from behind, and without turning to look Jason pushes the paper Batburger bag further to his right. Not a peace offering, but not an invitation to fight either.

Cape draping heavily around him as he sits next to Jason on the rooftop edge, Bruce unrolls the top of the bag and removes his own large fries. 

Despite the studied neutrality of his movements, Bruce must either be secretly spoiling for a fight, or just incapable of removing his own foot from his mouth, because he starts off with: “I wish you hadn’t come to the river.“

Jason leans back on his hands, turning his face up to the polluted night sky, and gives a frustrated groan. “Jesus Christ, B. You think I can’t handle it, is that it? You really don’t trust me at all, do you?”

“Not at all.“ Bruce says matter of factly, and for a hot second Jason thinks he might literally explode from rage and other emotions he’s less willing to think about at this time. Seeing Jason inhaling deeply in preparation for a bit of yelling, Bruce quickly corrects, “That’s not what I meant!” and then immediately ruins the brief moment of patience Jason allows him by explaining pedantically, “I ran afoul of the confusion of a double negative. This is why proper grammar is essential, Robin.”

“I will slap you. Don’t test me.”

Bruce sighs in defeat, tries again. “Robin… You did well.”

Stunned into speechlessness at this unexpected direction change, Jason subtly puts his slapping hand further away.

“You’ve been managing your emotions well lately. Focusing your anger.”

Only slightly mollified at this bit of qualified praise, Jason informs him haughtily, “I already had been, B.” He takes a long pause, the quiet from Bruce’s end indicating his adoptive father is not sure what to say. “I didn’t push Joker.”

“I believe you,” Bruce rumbles, voice neutral.

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t feel like it from over here. Look,” Jason blows out a loud breath, not wanting it to come to this, but sick and tired of not being trusted, “I found the kid. The one who was there that night.” He made a deal with Tim, and unlike what some people might think, he actually is trustworthy, and his decade and a half of life has taught him how to keep his yap shut. At the same time, it’s also taught him how to compromise in order to get shit taken care of, one way or another. “I can get a statement from him. If you can’t fully trust me as your partner without it.”

There. He’s thrown it out there. Put up or shut up time, Bruce. Jason shoves a fry in his mouth and chews aggressively to cover the fact that his hands are a bit shaky at wondering what happens next if Bruce really doesn’t trust him to be Robin after all, when push comes to shove. Figuratively.

Bruce turns to stare at him, flipping his whiteouts up after a moment, so he can look Jason in the eyes. “You don’t need a character witness,” he says firmly, letting Jason see the honesty in his face. “I believed you then.”

The sudden relief is a palpable force draining the tension from Jason’s body. He inhales a deep breath, exhaling heavily through the nose. “Then why were you being such an asshole about it?” he’d still like to know.

“Language,” Bruce warns, seemingly out of dad habit.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Then why were you being such a fully dilated anal sphincter about it?” he rephrases. 

Bruce gives a long-suffering sigh, the one that indicates he’s deeply regretting having children. Jason finds it necessary to remind him with some regularity that if Bruce doesn’t want his kids annoying him, he should stop capturing them off the streets like Pokémon Go for dark haired orphan boys.

After a thoughtful silence, like he’s considering his words carefully, Bruce pins him with an unexpectedly serious, melancholy gaze. “Because, like tonight, I wished you didn’t have to see the worst this world has to offer. Or be tempted because of it.“

Whatever Jason had thought Bruce would say, it wasn’t that.

“I recognize what seeing that kind of darkness does to you, in you boys. The anger at injustice. I recognize it as what’s in myself. My own drive for vengeance, for retribution against the horrors people visit upon one another - every moment, it is a struggle to keep myself in check. To make sure it is justice and not just wrath I mete out. I think - I know that once I take the first step down that path, I will never come back from it.” 

There is something awful and remote behind Bruce’s eyes, and it makes Jason swallow hard.

“It terrifies me,” Bruce admits. “And what terrifies me even more is the thought of either of you boys being tempted to go down that path yourselves. Even though I know you both have kinder souls than mine. Still - when you see the worst of humanity every day, it wears on you. Especially on those days where nothing seems to ever change. It can become so, so tempting to take an easier, more dimly lit path.”

Jason has absolutely no idea what to say to this baring of his father’s soul, so he says nothing, only watching Bruce with wide eyes. Something in Bruce’s face softens, and he shifts closer to Jason.

“I want better for my sons,” Bruce says softly, with an emphasis that hangs just on the very edge of desperation. “A better life, for you. I don’t want you to struggle walking on that line the way I do.”

When Bruce takes a long time before saying anything else, Jason scoots a few inches closer, nudges his shoulder companionably. Bruce nudges back, the shadow of a smile hovering around the edges of his lips.

Bruce’s voice is warmer when he continues. “You boys are the light in my life. I love you both so much, and I don’t tell you that nearly enough. You remind me of what’s good. Of how to be good.”

Abandoning any further attempt at maintaining a facade of teenage aloof coolness, Jason leans more fully against his father, and after a second, Bruce wraps an arm, and his cape, around Jason’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter. Settling in against his dad, Jason reaches a hand into a small pocket of his utility belt, running his fingers around the rough edge and sharp ridges of a malformed tin bottle cap. He thinks of wanting to keep someone safe, keep them far away from the dangerous, tragic, and gruesome parts of life.  “I think I get it,” he says gruffly.

Bruce looks at him, searching, and must find whatever it is he’s looking for, because a corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked half-smile. “Yes, I think you do.”

Jason runs the bottle cap across his fingers. “B, about the kid,” he starts slowly, but in the same moment, Dick materializes from nowhere, throwing one arm over Bruce’s around Jason’s shoulders and using the other to snatch the remainder of Jason‘s fries from his lap. 

“Hey!”

It’s too late. Dick has already emptied the container down his gullet, and has the nerve to pull a face. “These are cold,” he complains, garbled due to his mouth being full.

“Those were mine,” Jason points out indignantly. 

“You’re not an only child anymore,” Dick counters. “Hasn’t B taught you how to share yet?” 

“If you don’t stop stealing my shit, I’ll find a way to be an only child again,” Jason warns vengefully.

“Nightwing, stop stealing your brother’s food,” Bruce instructs mildly. “Robin, you’re not allowed to murder your brother.”

“As if he could,” Dick scoffs, reaching over Jason for Bruce’s fries, and squawks as he gets his hand slapped ungently with a gauntleted palm.

“Wanna bet?” Jason challenges.

“No attempted fratricide or petty larceny. Either of you,” Bruce intones, and when both sons seem in no way intimidated, “or I’ll be forced to tell Agent A.”

Finally cowed, Dick shrugs easily. “Low blow, B. In that case, Little Wing, we’ll have to settle this with a race to the top of the WE building.”

Jason takes off immediately before Dick can even finish the sentence, leaving his older brother scrambling to catch up. “Loser doesn’t get to pick the movie on movie night for the next month!” Jason calls over his shoulder, cackling as Dick shouts “You’re on!” and dives after him through the night sky.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim’s got a pretty good system down now for Newtown and Amusement Mile, the northeast areas of the city closest to the bridge into Bristol, not counting Crime Alley. Emboldened with this success, he has expanded the parameters of his algorithm to include neighborhoods farther afield. There’s a surfeit of buildings that are high enough to provide good sightlines for photography between Old Gotham and the Fashion District, and more again between the Diamond District and the Upper West Side. The algorithm expansion hasn’t let him down yet, Tim notes with pride, as it had been there last night he’d had the amazing luck of choosing a building directly across from where Jason, Batman, and Nightwing had briefly landed partway through the night. 

Tim shuffles through his favorite shots of those few moments, laptop open on the kitchen island, one hand absently feeding himself egg rolls from Moon Wok’s carefully folded thick paper takeout boxes.

The only problem lately is that for some reason, the time that he isn’t spending with Jason at Wayne Manor has started feeling more and more lonely. Tim should be feeling happier, right, because he is spending so much time having fun? 

Perversely, though, somehow the opposite is true. Spending time with Jason and Ace is awesome while it’s happening, but when Tim gets home, the house feels a hundred times more empty. It feels like he’s the last drop of blood moving around inside a dead body when he comes back to a huge space that is silent as the grave. 

Tim has been spending less and less time in the house, in fact, going out increasingly often throughout the last few weeks, until every night now finds him chasing after the Bats. Out there, he’s alone, but surrounded by the heartbeat of the city. And in an admittedly kind of weird, parasocial kind of way, he gets to be part of something, something important. The Bats take care of the city, and of each other. They are not alone, never alone for long. Even when it seems like they are, he’ll catch sight of Robin tilting his head like the actual bird, listening to someone in his ear, smiling and laughing. 

Looking at his pictures of last night, Tim carefully crops and enlarges a few of his favorites. Jason, snug against Batman, whose arm and cape curl protective and warm over his shoulder. Batman, looking fondly at his sons, Jason squished with mild annoyance between the larger men, Nightwing grinning irrepressibly. The Robins current and former, smirking widely as they fly, with Batman caught shaking his head in the background, a tolerant half-smile on his face.

After they had departed,Tim had stayed out in the city until the sun finally came up to keep him company, until it was waiting for him, peeking through the windows and warming the large and lonely spaces of Drake Manor.

They travel and work long hours because they love me, he reminds himself.  His parents want him to be well cared for and have a good life. So they have to leave him behind. That’s just - the way it has to work. Otherwise why would they do it?

There’s a voice in Tim’s head, which sounds a bit like Jason, that tries to offer a negative counterpoint, but he shoves it down ruthlessly before he has the chance to listen to what it has to say. He’s a good son. Good kids don’t think poorly of their parents. 

He’s already outrageously privileged. It would be incredibly selfish for Tim to wish for more when he already has so much. Besides, all his parents are asking of him in return for all this is that he do well in school, doesn’t embarrass them socially, and take responsibility for himself by being independent. These aren’t unreasonable asks; Tim is certainly capable of all of those things. 

Still hungry after the eggrolls are gone, he cracks open the fortune cookie and shoves the pieces into his mouth, unfolds the crackly paper while he chews. “You must make sacrifices for those who are most important to you,” it reads. 

The usual cryptic patter that could apply to anyone. He is crumpling it up and dropping it back in the to-go bag when his phone beeps with an alert from his Gotham emergency services app. The Bat-Signal is on again, the second night in a row! Switching over quickly, GCPD Scanner has a crime in progress occurring in the East End. Could be unrelated, but Tim is willing to take that bet. If he hurries, he might be able to catch up in time to get some action shots!

Crouching to build up speed coasting downhill on his skateboard, Tim narrowly escapes being flattened by a van when he crosses a side street too quickly. Focusing on navigating the uneven sidewalk just before the bridge out of Bristol, he hears the sound of a motorcycle engine revving behind him. Before Tim gets the chance to do more than tug up the collar of his lightweight jacket around his chin, Robin’s red chrome motorcycle is speeding by. It might be his imagination, but it seems to slow down, and he thinks he sees the helmet turn in his direction as it passes by in a blink. 

Dang it, Tim thinks.

He rolls to a halt and considers heading for the cover of a culvert just in case Jason turns around and comes back to question what he’s doing out at night. But the Bat-Signal is on, so he wouldn’t come back for basically no reason, right? Tim hasn’t even left the neighborhood, really. In the technical sense.

He dithers for a moment, before scuffing his toe in the dirt and admitting defeat. I’m not that lucky, Tim thinks. He’s underestimated Jason’s observational skills before, and it seems likely that Robin will now be on high alert for anyone who looks like a Tim. Ugh. Might be best to lay low tonight.

Admitting defeat, he turns around, steps on the back of his skateboard to pop up the front. Grabbing it and stuffing it in his backpack, he begins trudging up the hill back toward Drake Manor.

The near miss with Jason leaves him a vague sense of paranoia. It’s probably due to this that he sees a vehicle that looks a lot like the van that almost hit him parked in the driveway of Drake Manor in enough time to stealthily creep closer and take cover behind a large bush next to the rock garden at the end of the drive. The side door of the vehicle is open, and Tim can see two shadowy figures pacing surreptitiously around the lawn on either side of the manor. Tim worries his lower lip between his teeth, trying to come up with a plan of action.

Tim only just manages to stifle a shriek when he suddenly hears rustling noises in the shrubs directly behind him. Something cold and wet touching his hand sends him overbalancing onto his butt in the mulch. 

Ace takes the opportunity to put his forepaws on Tim’s chest and lick excitedly at his chin.

“What are you doing here?” hisses Tim, but Ace has no answers, only lifting his head, nose twitching, to stare with deep suspicion at the strangers in Tim’s poorly lit yard. 

There’s no one else in sight when Tim scopes out the scene on the street beside Drake Manor, only a scant few headlights at the very bottom and top of the hill.

Tim presses his lips together in thought, looks at Ace consideringly. 

He looks at the figures around his house, then back at the tiny dog, coming to a decision.

“Ace,” Tim whispers, putting his hands over his ears. “Sprich Deutsch.” 

Ace does not disappoint. A cavalry charge of ferocious howling issues from his snout, sounding like a full sled dog team’s worth of professional junkyard dogs coming in hot to tear some throats out in an orgy of bloodletting. Peeking through leafy branches, Tim is gratified to see heads poking out from the van in the alarm and the two figures that had disappeared around the sides of his house come back at speed, heads swiveling wildly in response to the noise.

“Danke,” says Tim, stroking his head, and Ace quiets at the hold command. While the strangers are still confused, Tim points a finger, quickly whispering, “Pfoten hoch,” and Ace obediently puts his paws up as high as he can reach on the narrow trapezoidal rock, head poking up over the tallest point. Pressing himself deeper into the cover of the hydrangeas, Tim fiddles with the home security app on his phone, and the ground floodlight at the base of the driveway snaps on.

It works even better than Tim had dared to hope. The shadow of Ace’s head over the decorative boulder in the rock garden stretches up toward the mansion, dozens of times larger than life. Ace’s batlike ears are cast from behind, a perfect replica of Batman’s cowl, with the silhouette of the decorative stone falling away like firm shoulders and broad cape. 

“It’s the Bat!” someone yells, and shouts of confusion and alarm echo from inside the van. The two men in the yard run and jump inside, the rolling side door slamming behind them. The van’s engine turns over, and tires squeal as it burns rubber out of the driveway and down the hill back towards Gotham. Tim risks a peek out of his bush, but between squinting through the spotlight he’s just turned on, and the dark gaps between streetlights, he is only able to make out a number or two of the license plate.

The noise of the van peeling away covers up that of a second car pulling up behind him. Tim jumps a mile, scattering hydrangea petals everywhere, when a cultured, slightly congested British voice asks, “Mr. Drake, is everything quite alright?” 

The Waynes’ zippy looking Porsche has pulled up on the street behind, driver door open, dome light on. Mr. Pennyworth looks at Tim with concern, flitting over all of him and pausing on Ace sitting proudly by his ankle, before his gaze turns to follow the tail lights of the van, already halfway down the hill, eyes narrowing. 

“What has happened here?” he continues, when Tim fails to answer immediately. 

“Everything’s fine,” Tim hastens to assure the grandfatherly man. 

Mr. Pennyworth does not look reassured.

“I was coming back from the skate park,” Tim improvises, and seeing the flat look in response, adds exculpatory details. “I like to practice in the evening, when it’s not crowded. I was just getting home when I saw a van I didn’t recognize in the driveway. Ace came up, I’m not sure why? The security lights came on, and then they just drove away.” All technically true, the last bits anyway.

“Yes, Ace became loose, and decided to take a an unauthorized holiday,” Alfred lies blandly, with an ease that shouldn’t be as surprising to Tim as it is, given the secrets the man is responsible for keeping. “I had taken the car out in order to look for him. Fortunately, it seems he had only decided to visit his favorite neighbor.” For his part, Ace does not react to this blatant slander, not moving from Tim‘s side, exactly as he has been trained to after finding something or someone he has been asked to track. 

“I shall phone the police, and inform your parents,” Mr. Pennyworth says alarmingly, but before he can ask for Tim’s parents’ number, Tim tries to regain control of the situation.

“That’s kind of you, really, but I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Tim says calmly, brushing some hydrangea petals off his jacket. “I’m sure it’s nothing, just someone with the wrong address. I’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry.” 

Mr. Pennyworth looks as though he is about to object, then hesitates. Turning to one side, he closes his eyes, then sneezes, blowing his nose genteelly with a crisp silk handkerchief he produces from a pocket. “You must excuse me, sir, my apologies.” 

“Geshundheit,” Tim responds, and blesses the foresight of Past Tim in activating the automatic indoor light settings on the security system, as with perfect timing, a light blinks on in an upper window. Shame they didn’t kick on earlier to scare away whoever was inside the van, but better late than never, Tim supposes. “That’s my nanny,” Tim lies with relief. “I’ll go right in and tell her what happened.”

Mr. Pennyworth pauses a long moment, seeming dissatisfied, before ultimately allowing this to pass. “You will be sure to inform your parents as soon as they become free,” he orders Tim, impeccably polite, but with steel underneath. “They may call Wayne Manor if they have further questions. And your nanny,” he says this word with an impressive amount of disdain, “would be wise to accompany you on your evening excursions in the future.” 

If the stuff Tim is made of was any less stern, he would be quaking in his boots. If his parents were around for Alfred to give them a piece of his mind, and his nanny actually existed, he would be very concerned for their employment status. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“No bother at all, Mister Drake.”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “Tim is fine.”

Mr. Pennyworth’s professional expression softens into a warm smile. “Very well, Master Tim. And I insist, you really must call me Alfred.”

“Okay,” Tim says uncertainly.

Alfred raises one white eyebrow reproachfully.

“Okay, Alfred,” Tim corrects himself.

He is rewarded with another smile. “Let me know if there is any further trouble,” Alfred orders Tim sternly, after making sure Ace, having jumped into the Porsche, is settled comfortably on a plaid blanket in the passenger seat. “I am at your service.”

Tim says, “I will, thank you.” He won’t. But it is nice of Alfred to think of him.

After he’s sure Alfred has left, Tim takes the further precaution of leaving one of his parents’ less expensive cars visibly parked in the driveway to further the illusion of an adult presence inside. It’s a hazardous undertaking that requires Tim to stand up on tiptoes to reach the pedals, even with the seat shoved all the way in. His entire life flashes before his eyes when he comes within an inch of scraping the right side mirror pulling out of the garage. 

Tim shoves the gear stick into park, finds and sets the emergency brake shakily. He’s not meant to drive yet, got it. But he’s done it, which will hopefully be enough to prevent any casual criminals from thinking the house empty, and pulling back in the garage forwards before his parents get back will surely be much easier than backing out. 

He rechecks the locks on every exterior door, triple checks the security system, and locks his bedroom door before he climbs into bed.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

It’s dark, and Tim is being hunted by something he cannot escape. Footsteps and awful, hungry laughter chase him. He runs for home, for the safety of his mom and dad, but when he opens the carved wood doors, there’s chaos instead.

Tim is alone in a sea of strangers, seething around him. He’s unseen, invisible, untouched by a swirling jumble of color, cheerful music, happiness and excitement.

“I see you!” says a kind voice, and he’s scooped up into the warm arms of a laughing older boy. A dark head presses into his, squeezes tight and gentle. It’s a moment of peaceful affection that lasts for years and ends in seconds. 

“Special, just for you,” the voice says, and then Tim is watching magic happen. The boy is flying, a bird in the sky, twirling brightly in four dazzling revolutions of green-gold-red. He returns to his perch high in the air, and his parents catch him joyfully, smiling with pride.

The cheerful music changes, missing notes and falling into a minor key, an unsettling reprise of itself. The kaleidoscopic colors and lights start to blind Tim, blurring nauseatingly. Only the boy remains clear and focused in Tim’s sight.

The once joyful boy is screaming, sobbing, keening next to the crumpled forms of his parents, grounded forever. Tim turns away, tries to hide his face in his own parents’ arms, but he finds only empty space and faceless strangers surrounding him.

The magic boy still weeps, but a strong, broad figure has now appeared beside him, offering his protection with open arms. The boy flies into them, receiving the warm embrace he had earlier given to Tim. 

Alone in the swarming crowd of people, Tim watches as the Batman gently wraps up the boy in protection, empathy, and love, and carries him away from the horror.

Crying, Tim waits patiently for someone to come for him, too, and is still waiting when he wakes up in his bed, sweaty and red eyed, with the sheets tangled around him. 

Giving up entirely on getting back to sleep anytime soon, Tim instead spends the next half hour painstakingly creating a blanket fortress in his room, a bit of whimsy Tim has not allowed himself in years, and setting up his laptop and a few pillows to rest on inside. It’s not as though there’s anyone around to complain he’s too old for it now, Tim figures.

Dim warm light provided by the pocket flashlight he has propped up to shine on the ceiling of his blanket fortress, and the open computer screen surrounds Tim. His father had either forgotten to change the password, or trusts him to have continued access, after the Mother’s Day gift incident, because Tim has no issue pulling up his parents’ credit card information to see if they have booked a flight back to Gotham yet. 

He’s extremely glad he checked, because it turns out they have. Their plans must have changed, because their flight gets in tomorrow, instead of closer to the end of the month.

A smile slowly spreads across Tim’s face. They remembered that it’s his birthday tomorrow, and they must be coming back as a surprise! He laughs in delight. This is amazing! Tim wonders excitedly where they will all go on the weekend trip for his birthday that his parents had promised.

In the quiet of the house, Tim hears a purring motor kick up along the street outside, the only traffic on the hill in the wee hours of the morning. Smile dimming slightly, Tim looks out the window. 

In the darkness, the sound slows to an idle, movement just visible on the road outside the purview of the lights in the yard and drive, which Tim had earlier set to full brightness. A second quiet motor in low gear pulls up behind, and with the added light from the motorcycle headlamp, Tim is able to make out matte black and chrome metal red.

The Batmobile and Robin’s motorcycle are patrolling by his house, making sure he’s safe. Tim’s smile returns full force as the Dynamic Duo slowly continue on their way. 

He’s still smiling as he finally falls asleep. 

Chapter Text

Solving mysteries isn't just about finding clues - it's about having the courage to ask questions and think outside the box.

- Encyclopedia Brown

Tim throws open the right side of the heavy wooden double doors, hastily dry swallowing the last bite of his Eggos. “Morning, Jay!” he says, beaming widely. 

“Hey there, Timmers! Technically, it’s afternoon.” Jason pushes his sunglasses up onto his hair, eyebrows raising as though trying to follow. “Someone’s sure in a good mood today.”

Tim shrugs breezily. “It’s a good day.”

Bemused, Jason nods, smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like Tim‘s good mood is somehow contagious. “Oh yeah? What makes today so good?”

Tim bounces on his heels, rocking up onto his toes. “My parents are coming home early for my birthday today.”

Jason‘s face moves through several expressions, from surprise, to consternation, and back to something else Tim can’t quite make out. “Wait. Today is your birthday?”

“Yup,” Tim says proudly, popping the P. “ I’m officially 10.”

“Ancient,” Jason declares, clapping a hand over his heart and pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “My boy! He’s growing up so fast.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, bending down to pet Ace, who licks his hand in greeting before stretching his lip wide and doing an imaginary air scratch with his back leg when Tim finds the itchy spot on his neck. 

“Well, happy birthday!” Tone becoming more chiding, Jason clucks his tongue. “But Timmy, you gotta tell people these things. If I’da known I woulda brought you something.”

Embarrassed, Tim gives another shrug, picking up Ace to pet him more easily. He closes the door behind him to keep the air conditioning from continuing to escape. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jason says airily. “So what are you gonna do to celebrate? Did your nanny bring you a cake?”

“Um, no?” Tim says, and when Jason gets a mutinous look that seems to indicate a willingness to fight someone in a Denny’s parking lot, adds quickly, “But I think my parents might be planning on taking us out to dinner. As a surprise.” 

Jason hmmms, looking more approving. “Well, maybe your parents will get you a cake tonight.” He tilts his chin to the left, indicating the car that had nearly shaved the entire decade off Tim’s life when backing out of the garage the previous night. “Someone else here today?”

“Just my nanny,” Tim lies.

“Doesn’t she drive a Subaru?” Jason wonders, and it takes Tim a second to remember he’s seen Mrs. Mac’s car. 

Darn Robin for being so observant. “Um, she just got a new car.”

Jason eyes the Mazda. “Your parents must pay her well.”

“Mmhmm,” Tim agrees noncommittally, and switches gears before the conversation takes more dangerous turns. “So where do you want to walk Ace today? Mountain Drive loop?”

Jason uses a t-shirted shoulder to wipe a bead of sweat starting to drip down his temple. “I’ve got a better idea.”

The midday humidity makes oppressive stew out of the air, the kind that makes walking outdoors feel like wading facefirst through bathtub water, the sort of moist heat usually only broken by a bad afternoon thunderstorm. 

At Jason‘s suggestion, Tim turns on the sprinklers in the backyard for Ace to run through and snap at the rushing water. Both boys, sweating, watch the dog jealously for a moment, before Jason breaks the silence.

“Think fast, birthday boy,” Jason says, putting a hand between Tim’s shoulder blades and shoving him in the spray mid-sentence before Tim has the chance to dodge.

Jason then makes the mistake of doubling over to laugh at Tim’s forbidding expression underneath his now sopping wet bangs, and Tim loses no time in getting a foot against the toes of Jason’s sneakers, grabbing the older boy’s shoulder with both hands and hauling forward to trip him straight into the water as well. 

Jason retaliates by trying to go in for a noogie with a headlock. Tim eels out of his hold. Ace joyfully splashes around them, spinning in circles with the excitement. 

All three quickly become thoroughly soaked in a romping, rowdy game of chase, which Ace wins handily. Soaked clothes now thoroughly covered in muddy paw prints, they eventually head into the shade of the woods behind Drake Manor to finish Ace’s daily constitutional.

Changing the subject with another playful shove that nearly sends Tim stumbling into a patch of skunk cabbage, Jason says casually, “Alfie told me you had something weird going on at your house last night. Everything okay?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Tim says awkwardly, shoving Jason in return. To Tim’s annoyance, it has absolutely no effect. “It was no big deal. Just someone who probably had the wrong address.”

Jason purses his lips doubtfully, picking up a good stick and giving it a theatrical twirl before throwing it further into the woods. Ace frolics after it, leaping majestically over a protruding root. “What did your nanny have to say about it?”

“She said it was nothing to worry about,” Tim says dismissively, speeding up to outpace Jason a step or two, pushing a tree limb out of his way and sending it snapping back in the direction of Jason’s face.

Jason catches it easily, but his expression darkens, eyebrows pulling together. “She must be a very laid-back person.”

“She’s originally from California,” Tim dissembles weakly, but it serves his purpose. Jason sniffs derisively with all the disdain natural to someone raised in the rough streets of Gotham towards the general naïveté of those born into the cushy Eden of the West Coast. Ace returns, stick in mouth, with only a brief pause to navigate becoming stuck between two saplings closer together than his stick is wide.

Rounding another grove of trees, Tim sees ropes and pipes, trotting off excitedly, turning back to make sure Jason is following.

He scales the handholds secured to the largest tree, monkey quick, prepares to jump over to the horizontal rope set of his parkour course. “Hey Jay! Watch this!” Leaping and catching hold without immediately hearing an answer, he calls over a shoulder, “Are you watching?”

“I got both eyeballs on ya, Timmy.” Jason’s voice has a tone he can’t quite interpret, but when Tim looks back the older boy is smiling. 

Tim grins back. “Are you gonna come up?” It would be so cool to watch Jason’s Robin skills in action up close!

“Nah, someone’s gotta keep Ace company on the ground,” Jason demurs, though Tim sees his eyes roving over the course. 

Tim hangs upside down from a metal pipe by his knees. “You suuuure?” he wheedles.

“Sure I’m sure.”

Tim flips upright, blows his bangs off his forehead. “Lame.”

“Not cool to make fun of someone’s fear of heights,” Jason says loftily, and Tim realizes he’s being overly cautious about protecting his secret identity.

Tim takes the opportunity to take running leaps up the ladder of vertical spikes. “Hey, you know who isn’t afraid of heights?”

“You?” Jason guesses blandly, leaning against a maple trunk. Nearby, Ace snuffles around for interesting twigs.

“No, I am. Or I was, I trained myself out of it. The first Robin wasn’t afraid of heights,” Tim informs him.

“I guess,” Jason says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. After another second, he flips a fist inward to inspect his fingernails. Too casually, he asks, “What about the second Robin?”

“What about him?” Tim blithely calls back.

Jason fumes silently, and Tim tries not to laugh.

Changing the subject, Jason questions, “Why’s your death trap jungle gym so far out in the woods?”

“I like privacy for these things.”

“Uh huh. Has nothing to do with this being unsanctioned, I bet.”

Tim swings on a rope, letting go at the apex to grab another horizontal pipe, grunting with the effort. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”

Ace selects a twig, bringing it over to Jason, who throws it dutifully, sending the dog tearing off in gleeful pursuit. “How’d you get someone to build this way back here without your parents finding out? Did your nanny help you?”

Pride stung, Tim scowls down from his perch on a high branch. “No. I did it all myself.”

Jason rubs two fingers over his forehead. “Of course you did. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Upside down again, Tim wonders, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean you’re smart, scrappy, and you got skills.” 

Tim beams.

Jason continues, “and you’re also a reckless little punk with the self-care skills of a depressed lemming.”

Tim scowls.

“What happens if you got hurt all the way out here, Timmers?” Jason points out. “No one knows you’re out here trying to break your neck in style.” 

Tim hadn’t thought of that, and is unwilling to admit it. “That’s not true.”

“Someone knows about this, and okayed it?” Jason clarifies.

Tim hedges. “More or less.”

Jason gives him a deadpan stare.  “…Is it me?”

“It counts! You’re a someone!”

“TIM.”

“Oh, like you’ve never done cool stuff that haters say is ‘risky’ or ‘dangerous.’” Tim makes his voice mocking on the last part, like the SpongeBob meme.

“That’s not the point,” Jason claims. “I also get the feeling this isn’t the only risky-ass shit you shouldn’t be doing.”

Tim’s not worried about getting called out. Robin’s the one who’s seen him out at night. “Oh yeah? Like what? What exactly is it you think I’m doing that’s so dangerous?”

Unfortunately, Jason seems unwilling to let the subject go, and attempts an approach from a different angle. “I heard that you go out to the skate park at night.”

Dang. Tim had forgotten that Jason could mention that without compromising his identity.

“Yeah.” Seen in a dim light, with a bit of a squint, Tim’s airtight alibi is almost not even a lie. He has to pass the skatepark he used to frequent in order to get to the rest of Gotham, after all.

“Timothy Drake,” Jason says, with strong disapproval and hypocrisy so intense it surprises Tim he can finish the sentence without being smited by a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky. “Going out in Gotham at night is a death wish.” The implication that Tim should know better, even if his nanny doesn’t, is both heavy and offensive.

“I can take care of myself,” Tim retorts crossly, only just managing to keep himself from snapping. 

“Should probably keep that kind of thing to the afternoon,” Jason presses, refusing to read the room. “Or have a buddy to go with, if your nanny won’t.” With false lightness, he adds leadingly, “Do you make a habit of going out at night?”

“If you wanted me to teach you how to skateboard, all you had to do was ask. What nights are you free to come with?” Tim asks coolly, clambering up a knotted rope and wondering what excuse Robin will come up with to avoid making evening plans.

Caught off guard, Jason splutters for a moment. “Um, maybe. I’ll think about it. I dunno if I’m the skateboarding type.”

“I think you’d be great at it!” Tim insists encouragingly.

Trying to salvage his line of questioning, Jason attempts to bulldoze his way back on topic. “Look, I’m just saying. What else do you like to do at night?” 

Tim turns to stare in a way that suggests if he was wearing pearls, he’d be clutching them. Jason seems to hear what he’s just said and hurriedly rephrases. “It’s good to have healthy habits and hobbies. Less dangerous ones. At all times of day. But especially after dark.”

Rapidly losing respect for Robin II’s interrogation skills, Tim is undaunted. He pretends to consider Jason’s stellar idea and plays an Uno reverse. “Hmm, true. That’s a good point. Sometimes I do a workout, go for a run or whatever. You know, keep active. What things do you do at night?”

Jason opens his mouth, closes it, and finally says, “Same,” through gritted teeth, and finally, blessedly, drops the issue. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

After Jason leaves, cradling like a football a tiny dog belly up, stick legs in the air, determinedly faking the inability to walk home, Tim is too amped up to eat lunch. He’s got too much to do anyway, even if he were hungry. 

This time thinking ahead and taking the extra precautions of grabbing a sofa cushion to sit on and using masking tape to strap empty coffee tins to the bottom of his shoes for extra height, Tim puts his parents’ Mazda back in the garage. Though there are a few tense moments, holding his breath and gripping the steering wheel tightly enough to leave indentations while the side mirrors pass the edge of the garage, it thankfully does turn out to be significantly easier pulling in forward than it had been backwards.

It’s unlikely but not impossible that his parents will see the inside of his room anytime soon, so Tim takes out the thumbtacks and folds the sheet that made up his blanket fort into crisp corners, and puts the pillows back on his bed. 

Mrs. Mac knows her business, so there isn’t a huge amount to really clean up, except for tidying away the bits and bobs of stuff that inevitably accumulate as signs of Tim’s presence living in the house. He cranks up “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” as a soundtrack for his work. He impresses an imaginary audience with his running sock slide distance down the main hall in time to the beat, Intro to Forensic Science & Criminalistics and Cryptography and Network Security 8th ed. held tightly in hand to return to his room from where he’d left them on the couch in the lounge. 

His playlist has moved on to “Turn Down For What” by the time Tim is satisfied that he has made sure everything is absolutely perfect and there’s plentiful evidence that he has been successfully independent and responsible in his parents’ absence. The pristine foyer gleams starkly crisp, cool white, not a speck of dust out of place and tchotchke corners in crisp alignment to one another. Grinning at his favorite ancient Mycenaean funereal mask, displayed behind glass on a nearby plinth, Tim pretends it’s smiling back at him. “Great job,” he says, out of the corner of his mouth, in an artificially deep voice. “Thanks!” he chirps back, normally. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim’s phone buzzes with a text message just as he’s getting out of the shower. He scrambles for it, thinking it’s his mom or dad letting him know they’re on their way, even though their flight isn’t supposed to land for another hour. 

It’s not them, though; it’s a message from Jason, telling him to check the porch, and a gif of a corgi stamping its paws excitedly and captioned “happy birthday.”

Correctly guessing that Jason actually means their porte-cochere, a freshly dressed Tim opens the front door and discovers it’s started to drizzle, and that there is a delicately wrapped Tupperware of cookies on the marble steps that lead to the entryway. 

Tim picks up the package carefully in both hands and places it as a centerpiece on the kitchen island. Feeling even more warm than the summer day outside, he sends back a thank you gif of a Shiba Inu smiling so hard its eyes are squinted completely shut.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Six o’clock is when his parents’ flight is supposed to get in. Sitting on a kitchen barstool, swinging his feet idly, Tim checks his phone. No new messages from his parents yet. Not a surprise if they’re trying to keep their early arrival a secret. There is a text from Ives, HBD dude!, putting a smile on Tim’s face; and a few of his friends who must have gotten automatic alerts have posted on his socials, which is nice. 

Tim consults Google Maps. With evening traffic, if they’re coming straight home, they should be here in about 45 minutes. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

At 8 o’clock, thunderstorms start to roll in, and his empty belly begins to churn unpleasantly. Not wanting to spoil any surprises, Tim sends his mom a text: Miss you, wanted to check in and say hi. When there’s no response back, he risks a call to his dad. It goes straight to voicemail. 

Maybe the flight got delayed, Tim reasons to himself.

He looks it up. On time arrival. 

Taking out the leftover carton of lo mein from the night before, Tim eats a quarter of it, not wanting to fill up on food in case his parents have somewhere in mind for a late dinner. 

It tastes a bit like ash, and doesn’t settle his stomach at all.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

When 11 PM passes with no sign of his parents, Tim begins to more seriously worry. 

Maybe they didn’t get on the flight? Or took a different one?

Tim pulls up their credit card information again, a small corner of his mind idly wondering if stalking his parents is better or worse in the grand scheme of things than keeping track of the Bats. 

There is an Uber ride on the credit card statement in Gotham from 6:30pm. Which means they definitely made it here.

There’s a sinking feeling in his gut. Maybe something happened to them, a car accident in the storm? 

Tim goes through several different apps and local social media sites, chewing on a knuckle, before coming to the conclusion that there haven’t been any major traffic accidents in the vicinity of the airport, Bristol, points in between, or anywhere his parents might reasonably have decided to go. 

The ticking of the kitchen clock, showing 11:20 in Roman numerals, is very loud as Tim sits in silence, finally unable to put off facing the inevitable conclusion for any longer. 

His parents coming home today had nothing to do with him. They haven’t returned his call or text, which isn’t unusual. They haven’t reached out to him at any point because they have, in fact, entirely forgotten that it’s his birthday. Most likely, they are networking for business or pleasure in the Diamond District at this very moment, and can’t be expected back before the wee hours, if they don’t get a hotel or stay in a fancy guest room in an associate’s shiny penthouse overnight instead. 

Tim’s head buzzes a bit, and cold trickles of shame sluice down his fingers and toes for having expected anything different. It was his own fault for assuming, getting his hopes up. He’s not a little kid anymore, needing to be coddled and made a big deal of on a birthday. He’s independent now, that’s been the whole point of the last few weeks, hasn’t it? 

Still, what hurts is that he had stupidly built it up in his head, and now he has to live with the disappointment. 

Suddenly shoving back from the island, his stool wobbling and almost falling over from the force of his abrupt departure, Tim stalks through the empty mansion, room by room, turning on every light in the house. When that’s done, he does the same for the outside of it, from backyard patio fairy lights to security spotlights. The AC he cranks down to 60.

His next stop is the guest room next to his own bedroom, where he turns on a home and food channel on the tv, loud enough for the hum of voices to be heard faintly through his wall. After that, the linen closet; and finally rummaging through boxes stuffed into the back corner of his own closet, for a well loved item rescued from the trash when it was decided he was too old for it anymore. He piles a stack of sheets, several extra blankets, and an enormous mound of pillows in the middle of his floor, and he gets to work with binder clips, elastic bands, and push pin thumbtacks.

At 11:59, Tim is sitting inside the gently draping walls of the most elaborate blanket fortress he has ever constructed. Possibly that has ever been constructed, period. 

There’s roughly a million pillows covering the hardwood planks of his bedroom floor, and his head and hands are the only things poking out of the fat cocoon of the softest blankets he could find.

A blanket fort-sized table made of stacks of his old Encyclopedia Brown, Nancy Drew, and Gray Ghost novels, topped with a pillowcase tablecloth, is in front of him. He solemnly opens the Tupperware container set on top of the book table, and selects a white chocolate macadamia cookie from within, wishing he had eaten it when today was still a good day, and gotten to appreciate it as it should have been. Happy birthday to me, he thinks, and puts it in his mouth. 

He chews slowly, until midnight passes. 

This cookie, Tim thinks, sniffing loudly, is fucking delicious. 

Abruptly and out of nowhere, it’s the last straw. There’s a burning behind his eyes, and then tears are rolling down his cheeks, and he coughs, hiccuping in the effort to swallow the harsh sob trying to bubble up his throat. 

Tim holds his breath and looks up at the artfully draped ceiling sheet until the burning of his lungs overpowers the urge to cry. Exhaling shakily, he wipes the rest of the saltwater away from his cheeks furiously with a fist, and ignores the tingling feeling that stubbornly remains behind his eyes.

Shoving a second cookie in his mouth, trying to focus on savoring the flavor melting over his tongue, he hits play on his laptop, letting the mellow optimism of Captain Picard and his crew start to fill the remaining empty spaces between the safe barricades of high thread count Egyptian cotton. 

He curls up tightly around the freshly microwaved bean bag heating pad, tucks Stuart the stuffed Bat-Goose under one arm, and quietly cries himself to sleep.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bleary eyed, Jason makes his own breakfast in a desultory manner. Alfred is resting in his room after downing several gallons of tea and bringing yet another pot in with him. It sounds like a distant foghorn every time he uses his handkerchief.

The costumed Bats have all been kept busy the last few nights. Tracking down leads on where the Hamills had been kept while they worked on liquidating enough assets to (presumably) pay off debt or blackmail, finding cops on the take, putting down turf wars, finding evidence on who the new player in Gotham’s organized crime circles might be. It’s a lot of whack-a-mole to play, even with the addition of Babs’ new friends, who Jason still has yet to meet, due to Bruce’s paranoid and overprotective ways. 

Dick claims to be making progress tracking shipments on the Blüdhaven side, finding evidence tying one of his local gangs to the increase in black market goods coming across the bay. Jason has the uncharitable suspicion that Dick is getting off easy while he, Jason, runs around like a chump burning the candle at both ends. Or he would be, anyway, if anyone was letting him be useful today.

Babs is running an undercover sting with an operative code named Black Canary, working inside the Iceberg Lounge. “Matches Malone” is wandering around Black Mask territory trawling for information. 

And where is Jason in all this daytime drama? Stuck home eating oatmeal, just because you can’t pass for old enough to work at a bar yet, Robin, and you need to get some sleep, Robin. It rankles, being coddled, but after Bruce’s weirdly vulnerable admissions the other night, Jason is allowing it. For now. For Bruce’s sake.

Robin’s also been stuck on the most basic of boring patrols, assisting civilians and instructed to engage as little as possible with intra gang violence that might pop up en route, all because Black Mask and Penguin and the other kingpins are Big Mad and have decided to make that everyone else’s problem. Eyebrows in a tight v, Jason chews his oatmeal, unnecessarily. It’s a waste of his talents, really.

With Alfred trying to confine his pestilence to his own rooms, Jason’s bored and alone in the house, except for Ace. With nothing better to do, the vague feeling of general antsiness picks a direction without Jason’s consent, and his thoughts turn to the little kid next door. 

If Jason’s being honest with himself, this kind of thing has been happening more and more frequently lately. The kid is a tiny lying enigma wrapped in a hilariously excitable, nerdy mystery, and he’s somehow insidiously burrowed his way under Jason‘s skin, like an adorable big blue eyed splinter. 

Jason keeps going about his day, minding his own business, and suddenly he’ll find himself worrying about Tim for reasons he can’t entirely put his finger on. Though to be fair, Tim’s obvious lack of adequate supervision and the hair raising things he’s already managed to get up to, in Jason’s certain knowledge, are troubling, to put it mildly.  

Frustratingly, the kid is pricklier than a cactus whenever Jason or Jason-in-a-cape tries to press him for anything like direct answers. As far as Jason’s been able to make out, despite having sub-par adult guardianship, Tim seems generally healthy and happy. It feels like until Bruce has a chance to grill the Drakes in person, or Tim stops jumping between doing his tight lipped oyster impression and lying his ass off, Jason’s hands are tied. 

After catching Tim falling off a downtown rooftop, Jason’d come up with a two-pronged plan that, if hr does say so himself, was pretty impressive on short notice: Extract a promise, as Robin, from Tim not to go out in the city at night; and spend a bit more time with the kid so that he’s got some kind of oversight, seeing as no one else seems to be bothering, and encourage his pursuit of hobbies less dangerous than inexplicably deciding to provoke the city’s worst supervillain into child murder. Not that Joker needed an excuse, but still.

Somewhere along the line, though, his excellent plan had gotten a bit hazier, in that Jason was no closer to figuring what had driven the kid’s former insane nighttime habits than when he’d started. And worse, maybe, Jason had at some point started to badger himself into Tim’s life just because the little pipsqueak had the audacity to be kind of actually fun to hang out with, when not actively being a little shit. 

And even when he was being a little shit, well, game recognizes game. Jason is man enough to admit, to himself and absolutely no one else, that the kid is pretty funny even when he’s being a shit at Jason’s expense. And no one could deny the kid’s got balls of steel, trying to distract Joker for Jason’s benefit. Well, they wouldn’t be able to deny it if anyone other than Jason and Tim himself knew about that, which they don’t. 

In any case, Jason’s plan had seemed to be more or less working well, or so he had thought, right up until he had happened to spot Tim tearing off out of the relative safety of Bristol on his skateboard after sunset. Jason had brought several curse words out of retirement, and made up several more, and by a very narrow margin ended up not completely ignoring the Bat-signal to turn around and give the little danger monkey a piece of his mind. Instead, he had asked Alfred to take Ace and his GPS signal enabled collar and get him to track down Tim by scent like an unruly, skateboarding fox. Jason had added for good measure a strongly worded suggestion that Alfred drag him back home by the ear in disgrace if he was found anywhere that he shouldn’t be. Alfred‘s bewildering report of finding Tim on his own property, and the strange occurrence of the car in his driveway two nights ago was alarming in an entirely different direction than Jason had anticipated. He’s been on the back foot trying to make sense of it all ever since. All taken together, it’s an itch in the back of his brain he can’t quite scratch.

Jason heads down to the cave to use the high quality printer attached to the Bat-Computer and does some precise folding, before coming back up to where Ace has been working diligently on an antler. He gives a sharp whistle, grabs a leash, and heads outside.

It doesn’t take training from the World’s Greatest Detective to immediately tell something has gone wrong as soon as he sets eyes on Timmy. The too-slow opening of the Drakes’ overly designed front door is the first clue, but the smoking gun is the dark circles under his eyes and hollow expression making him look even more like a Dickensian orphan seconds away from selling matchsticks barefoot on a street corner than usual. 

When Tim doesn’t offer anything more than a pitiful attempt at a smile and a “Hey,” Jason tries to keep it light, so Tim doesn’t immediately spook like a wounded gazelle. “Happy day after double digit day, Tiny Tim!”

Jason hands over the card he’s made, which is just a selfie of the two of them and Ace in his Bat dog costume with Happy 10th Birthday Timmy! on the inside. 

Tim stares at it a long time, long enough for Jason to worry that maybe he actually hates it. It’s probably pretty cheap compared to the other cards he’s gotten for his birthday, Jason thinks belatedly, chewing on his lower lip.

“Thank you,” Tim finally says, in a quiet voice that’s almost a whisper. 

“No problem, Timmy.  Hey …is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Tim mumbles, obviously lying. “Um, just give me a second to put this away.”

It seems wrong on an instinctual level, seeing Tim so subdued, retreating up a sharp-edged staircase. Jason shuffles further inside, feeling like he’s dirtying the stark white space by existing in it. He’s been inside decontamination rooms cozier and more lived-in than Drake Manor. 

Lifeless is right, actually. He looks back outside to double-check; no, no cars in the driveway. Aside from the small woodland creature-like noises of Tim puttering around upstairs, the place is silent as a tomb. He’s suddenly positive there’s no one else in the house, even though there’s supposed to be a Lazy California Nanny hanging around somewhere. Aside from the two of them, of course, and Ace, who also seems unnerved by the museum-like quality of the home, and is sitting quietly at Jason’s foot.

Soft footsteps announce Tim coming back downstairs. Ace’s tail thumps the floor, but Jason’s weirded out by the ventriloquist dummy smile Tim’s got going on. He seems to think it’s passing for the real thing.

It’s not, and it’s making Jason’s skin crawl. Taking a stab in the dark, he asks, “How’d it go with your parents? Did you do something nice for dinner?”

Now Tim’s face does something even worse, fake smile freezing like it’s painted on a pane of glass while the rest of his expression dims behind it, telling Jason more than Tim’s apparently willling to admit out loud. “Oh. Um. Something came up, and they weren’t able to make it. They delayed their trip back for a bit.”

Jason hopes his face is doing a better job than Tim’s is of concealing how he’s feeling, which is angry, for the record. “What about your nanny? Did you guys have fun?”

Monotone, Tim says abruptly, like he’s trying to shut down further questioning about his night, “She quit.”

Too bad, because Jason’s now got more questions than ever, and no one’s ever accused him of being capable of politely restraining his curiosity. “On your birthday?!” he demands, voice treacherously rising into a scandalized squeak at the end. “The Reasons You Suck” speech that Jason has been mentally composing over the last several weeks grows by several pages in the span of half a second, and he mentally prepares to deliver it personally and with relish to Tim’s parents as soon as physically possible.

Clearly feeling like he’s said too much, Tim’s face shutters into blankness. He shrugs.

Baby gazelle, Jason reminds himself. As calmly and lightly as Jason can manage, he asks, “So when’s your new nanny getting here?”

Tim has bent down so Jason can’t make eye contact anymore. “They haven’t arranged for another nanny,” he mumbles to Ace, who is giving his fingers doggy kisses.

Jason takes a sharp breath in, but before he can say something unflattering to Tim’s parentage, Tim continues, “…because my Uncle Eddie is coming to stay until they get back.”

Jason blows the breath out. “Okay. Well. That’s good. When are they gonna be back?” He’s got a whole lotta words waiting for them.

Tim shrugs again, not looking up. 

Jason bends down instead, trying to make eye contact, which Tim avoids. The kid looks tired, in a way that ten year olds shouldn’t have to be.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Tim tells Ace, still quiet, still not looking at Jason. “Can we please just …not?”

Something in Jason’s chest twinges painfully. Fine. I’m the only responsible one around here, so he’s my kid now.

Already kneeling next to Ace and Tim, Jason scoots closer. He aggressively grabs Tim’s head, before he can try to escape, and presses it to his chest, using his other hand to pin Tim in place.

Sure enough, Tim immediately tries to flee.

“Stop wiggling, Timbit,” Jason orders.

Voice muffled, Tim asks confusedly: “What is happening?”

“I’m giving you a hug, idiot. Stop making it weird.”

Tim slowly stops struggling, and Jason grips him tighter for a moment, waiting until there’s a long exhale and a relaxation of Tim’s stiff posture, though not as much as Jason would like. 

Standing and pulling the smaller boy up with him, Jason shoves an unresisting  Ace into Tim’s arms. He’s not above using a dog to restrict Tim’s ability to chivvy himself out of uncomfortable situations. 

“Alrighty, Timmers. Time to go.”

Maybe having learned his lesson from the hug, Tim takes being bullied out of his house and frogmarched in the direction of Wayne Manor without much fuss. All he does is ask, “Is everything okay?”

“Just swell. Peachy keen, jellybean,” Jason informs him. “You’re coming over and I’m baking you a cake.”

“Um. Why?”

“Because Alfred is sick. Lucky for you he’s taught me everything I know about baking. What flavor birthday cake you want?”

“I usually get chocolate or vanilla cakes. Store bought.” Tim hesitates. “Baking a cake sounds like a lot of work.”

Having several weeks to become wise to Tim’s ways, Jason does not fail to notice that this phrasing dances around the edges of the question he was asked. Jason does not like it, and refuses to even acknowledge the implication that Tim isn’t necessarily worth going to the effort of making something time-consuming.

“Okay, but what kind of birthday cake did you actually want to get?”

“Why does this feel like a trick question,” Tim evades, warily.

“Probably because you’re the most paranoid ten year old in Gotham.”

“…I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Tim eventually says, eyeing Jason.

“Okay,” Jason says, thinking, Baby deer. Alarmed meerkat looking for a hole to swan-dive into. “Okay, fine. Forget it.”

“Alright,” Tim says, sounding relieved.

“Tell me this, Timmary Berry,” Jason barrels on, unable to help himself. “What’s your favorite flavor of cupcake shake at I-Screamery?”

“Strawberry with cream cheese frosting,” Tim says immediately.

Jason nods. “Next question: Do you like to bake?”

“Um,” Tim says uncertainly. “I dunno. I made a Pillsbury Break’n’Bake. Once. Does being good at chemistry count?”

Jason gives him an evaluating once-over. “How good are you at putting in Instacart orders and following one step, very specific directions I’m gonna give you?”

Here, Tim seems to be on solid ground. “Excellent.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Jason says confidently. “Let’s do this.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

They manage not to commit any crimes against Alfred’s kitchen in the next few hours, which the man himself thanks them for when he emerges for more tea and soup. They also manage to finish off two thirds of the strawberry cream cheese cake between them for both dinner and, later, second dinner and dessert. 

It’s not until Jason leans over to let Ace lick the cream cheese frosting off his plate and Tim’s head lolls against his shoulder that he realizes Tim’s fallen asleep on the sectional while Jason has been unsuccessfully trying to sneak up on a stag in Breath of the Wild.

Jason freezes, staring at Tim, who wrinkles his nose and lets out a quiet snore. 

He’s so tiny, Jason thinks, even his snores are small. 

Tim looks relaxed and trusting in a way that Awake Tim has never managed, in Jason’s presence at least. With the jigsaw puzzle pieces of Tim’s life that Jason’s managed to collect so far, he’s willing to make a substantial bet that Awake Tim hasn’t had a lot of other people he can trust enough to relax around, either.

Thinking about this makes Jason’s chest twist up in a tight knot.

He considers trying to scootch Tim into a more comfortable position for his neck, but the risk of waking him up and getting Alert and Wary Tim back, or worse, Sad Chimney Sweep Tim, seems too high to be worth the effort. Cat rules apply, Jason decides, turning the volume down on the TV and carefully shifting so he can use the controller without disturbing the kid drooling on his shirt.

Tim’s phone has been on the coffee table all evening, and Jason’s been keeping an eye on it. No one has called or texted to check in on Tim or wonder where he is. 

The knot in Jason’s chest winds tighter.

Maybe he texted his parents to tell them where he is when I wasn’t looking. Or maybe he didn’t, and they don’t care. His blood boils at the thought, but he forces himself to try and think it through. If they think it’s just for one night he’s alone until the uncle gets there, then, still shitty but maybe not super unreasonable? 

There’s a soft knock, and Alfred comes in quietly before Jason can turn this over in his mind too much more. His kind and knowing gaze takes in the scene, Jason trapped under a sleeping kid just before he would normally start getting ready for patrol.

Sounding vaguely like an especially posh frog given his congestion, Alfred tells him quietly, “Your brother is in town for the night to assist Master Bruce with some mutual business interests. I shall inform them that you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Are you sure,” Jason asks, feeling guilty over not helping out with the trash fire going on in the city at the moment, but at the same time knowing he’d just be distracted about having left Tim all night if he went out. 

“Quite sure,” Alfred says, somehow imbuing it with a hint of steel despite the clogged and nasally delivery. “Shall I make up the room next to yours?”

Jason looks down at the limp puddle of Tim again. “…that might be a good idea. Thanks, Alfie.”

There’s more than a slight hint of amusement in the crinkles at the corners of the older man’s eyes. “And shall I take the liberty of informing Master Bruce that you have adopted another child on his behalf?”

“Alfred.” At the last second Jason makes it a hissed whisper instead of half-shouty.

Alfred raises an eyebrow, silently daring Jason to tell him he’s wrong.

“Let me talk to Tim tomorrow. Maybe we can get B to convince his folks he’s better off staying here for now,” Jason mutters sheepishly. 

“As you will,” says Alfred, and leaves, but in a way that implies it’ll all be the same in the end.

The guest room doesn’t end up being used, and Jason must be more tired than he’d realized, because in the morning he wakes up and both he and Tim are still where they’d left off, except the TV is off, the room is tidier and there’s a blanket covering both of them. Mostly Tim, though, who has burritoed himself in two thirds of it in his sleep. 

Trying to steal back more of the blanket wakes up Tim, who yawns and then sits upright, looking around at his surroundings in confusion, hair sticking up wildly in all directions, blinking owlishly at Jason.

“I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep,” Tim says, sounding oddly upset about it. 

Jason snorts, mostly because Tim looks like an electrocuted porcupine. “No worries, Timmy. ’s not against the law.”

“No, but you - shouldn’t you have - you didn’t have to stay with me,” Tim says disjointedly.

This kid.

Jason shakes his head slowly, doing an exaggeratedly wide yawn and stretch. “Relax. You’re fine. Accidental sleepovers are no big deal.”

When Tim still looks unconvinced, Jason rolls his eyes and gives a hard yank of the blanket, forcibly unburritoing the smaller boy with a yelp. “Up and at ‘em. Whaddaya want for breakfast?”

Reluctantly, Tim clambers upright. “Coffee?”

“Absolutely not,” Jason says immediately, poking him in the back when Tim doesn’t head for the kitchen quickly enough for Jason’s liking. “No one has ever needed a caffeine addiction less than you, Timblebean.”

With heroic patience, Jason waits until Tim has eaten his fill of scrambled eggs, and then half of the additional scoop Jason had half-bullied, half cajoled him into, before beginning the interrogation.

“So, Timmy. When’s your uncle showing up?”

Tim chews and swallows, shiftily. “Soon. He just had some trouble getting out of work on short notice, but he’ll be here when he can.”

“And you’ll be alone in the house until then?”

Already sensing the implications Jason’s trying to carefully lead up to, Tim’s expression closes off and his hackles raise. “I can take care of myself.”

“Tim…” Jason starts, but he’s apparently prodded the Timmy Bear.

“It’s not a big deal!” Tim insists, putting his fork down with a clatter. 

Determinedly, Jason says: “I think maybe it is a big deal, actually.”

Voice getting progressively more strident, Tim retorts, “Well, then, you think wrong! You’re just - you’re so wrong, okay? Things are fine. Why are you acting like there’s a problem when there isn’t?”

A little aggrieved at how willfully obtuse and stubborn Tim is being, for someone so smart, Jason starts to match Tim’s energy. “Because I’m getting the feeling there probably is a problem.” Admittedly, Jason’s making something of an educated guess from the shape the negative space between the puzzle pieces of Tim’s life is making, but his gut is getting more and more insistent that it’s the truth. Of course, it would be more helpful if Tim would just give him something to work with. “Like, in the objective, legal definition of child abuse, sense of a problem.” Jason makes an effort to soften his tone a bit, resting an open palm on the island in Tim’s direction. “And I know. Like, I get it, not wanting to ask for help. But there are people who can help, you know? If they knew your parents are assholes. They would help you.”

Unfortunately, Tim takes this in the opposite direction than Jason was hoping. His face clearly says: and I took that personally.

Tim says coldly, “I don’t need help, because my parents love me. If I was being abused, I would ask for help. But I’m not, like, getting beat up or whatever you think is going on.” His voice has crescendoed through this, and he’s halfway to a shout when he claims, “You don’t know anything about my mom and dad!”

“How would I?” Jason counters, arms crossed. “They’d have to be around for that to happen.”

Tim is now so upset he’s shaking, continuing as though he hadn’t heard Jason. “So whatever you’re trying to do here, you can just quit it, alright? Cause I’m fine, they’re fine, everything is fine!”  Now he’s yelling for real, no half-measures.

Never at his best when being screamed at, Jason pushes back, trying to get it through Tim’s stubborn skull. “Kids are supposed to have people around who actually give a shit about you, who know and care if you’re in trouble or putting yourself at risk. I know all about that, alright? Neglect is a form of abuse, Timbo.”

Tim scoffs, disbelieving. “Whatever happened to you, that sucks, okay, but we aren’t the same! Take a look at my house, dude! Does it look like I’m in danger here? It’s not like I’m out starving in the street.”

Jason has taken punches to the jaw that hurt less. 

“Sure. What do I know, anyway?” he says sarcastically, pushing his chair back. “Guess you think I’m just some dumb poor. Just a stupid street rat who thought maybe you could use a friend.”

Tim looks stricken, face going pale. “I didn’t mean -“

Jason puts a hand up, cutting him off. “I gotta go,” he says, and walks out to ‘cool off’ like Bruce is always insisting will help when an argument is getting too heated, before he says something else he will regret. 

It doesn’t take a lot of stewing and pacing in the nearest empty room before he calms down enough to picture Tim sitting there still furious with Jason, or worse, looking like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel, which sobers him up the rest of the way. Taking a deep breath, Jason heads back.

Tim surprises him though, because the Tim he returns to isn’t Little Matchstick Tim, Coldly Furious Tim, or any of the other Tims he’s seen so far. In fact, it isn’t any Tim at all, because he’s gone. 

A quick check at a half-run reveals none of Tim’s things are here any longer either, except for the last of the birthday cake the two of them had baked together.

He gets to the front door, thinking maybe he can catch him and resolve this right away, but in the far distance down the hill Jason can only just make out a small figure, retreating at speed. Part of Jason wants to chase him down, make him listen, but the more logical part that’s been on the other side of far too many arguments with Bruce is forced to admit giving them both a chance to cool down more before talking about it is the smarter move. You’re such a fuckup at communicating, you managed to make Tim yell, Jason thinks caustically. And probably completely ruined any trust he had. Spectacularly shitty job, there, Jay-lad.

Jason considers for the first time that maybe Bruce has a point about his anger management issues.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

The only way to solve a mystery is to follow the evidence.
- Encyclopedia Brown

Walking back up his driveway in agitation, Tim tries to quell the rising nausea at having probably ruined things with Jason, who now very likely hates him. His guts are all jumbled up with anger and disappointment, at himself, and his parents, and his hero-turned-friend.

Opening the side door as quietly as he can, Tim hopes he can get a chance to get hold of himself in privacy for a bit before he encounters his parents. They’ll be home by now, but might still be asleep, depending on how jet lagged they are and how late they returned last night.

Tim gets his wish: The house is quiet, no parents in sight. 

Actually… it’s very quiet. And there’s no luggage put to the side of the foyer, waiting to be unpacked. 

He peeks his head into the garage, thinking maybe they’ve come and gone again, to another meeting or appointment or social occasion.

None of the cars are gone or look like they’ve been moved. Nothing is out of place from where he’d last left it.

Tim turns and moves through the kitchen. No sets of keys rest on the hooks; no shoes are by the door. Not even his own shoes are there, due to his frenzied clean up yesterday, having put them tidily back in his closet.

Padding up the stairs and looking down the hall, the door to his parents’ suite is open. It’s clearly still unoccupied and untouched.

They stayed the night at a hotel, then, Tim concludes. A weird choice for people who own a mansion in the same town, but maybe they stayed out late, and weren’t in a fit state to drive home. 

…But then, why not just Uber back?

Tim narrows his eyes. Well, there’s one way to find out. If his mom and dad are too darn busy to answer his messages, his old standby of unobtrusive stalking will get him the answers.

Consulting the mobile version of their credit card platform, Tim finds no charges for a hotel, or for a meal, or even drinks. There have been no charges at all on their cards since the Uber from the airport, in fact. 

The jumbled up feeling of anger and disappointment in his belly flips and flops into the start of something else, a Rubik’s cube of emotion trying to get solved.

Jason’s needling comes back to him. You’re the most paranoid ten year old in Gotham.

He isn’t! They - they must have stayed with a friend, that’s all. Take that, Jason. Tim’s a perfectly reasonable ten year old.

…And then they decided not to come home or go do anything else afterwards, his treacherous brain pipes up. For some reason.

When no other reason immediately leaps to mind, Tim drums his fingers on the side of his cargo shorts, knowing he’s overthinking this. And yet, he knows very well curiosity is his besetting sin. 

That, and maybe risk-taking. 

And lying. 

Okay, curiosity, risk-taking, and lying are his besetting sins, but mostly curiosity!

Giving in to his sinful nature, Tim calls the Drake Industries office before he can second, third, and fourth-guess himself, punching in the extension for the direct line to his parents’ admin assistant. 

Hannah answers immediately. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she asks what she can do for him. 

“Can you tell me what time my parents will be in today?”

Hannah sounds apologetic but very confused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drake. I don’t have that on the schedule for today. We aren’t anticipating they will return to the office until the 31st?”

“Oh,” Tim says. “Uh, my mistake. I must have gotten the dates mixed up. Sorry for the confusion. Thanks, Hannah.” He hangs up before she has the chance to ask any follow-up questions.

Tim does some more fingertip drumming, then calls his parents again. 

It goes to voicemail. His text has still not been answered; despite knowing how much repeated disturbances irritate them, he texts again, to both numbers: can you call me back when you get this please? It’s important. He’ll make something up if they get back to him. When. When they get back to him.

Phone dropping back down to his side, Tim stands still in the middle of the upstairs hallway for several seconds. Thinking, weighing, processing.

When that doesn’t seem to be helping, he marches into his room. 

Sherlock Holmes retreats to his mind palace to think. Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, reportedly. Tim Drake has his Blanket Fortress. The fortress is the best place to be when serious thinking, sleuthing, and planning is necessary. 

He doesn’t have a deerstalker hat, or a tobacco pipe, obviously. But he makes do with a brown plaid newsboy cap and a sequence of Kit-Kat halves to stick out of the side of his mouth, which get slowly eaten as they melt while he paces, deep in thought. Two Kit-Kats in, he adds his plush red and yellow Robin-themed slippers when his toes get cold from walking on hardwood with the AC on high. Three Kit-Kats in, he adds a blanket over his shoulders like a cape.

Five minutes later, Tim stands in the hallway again, twiddling nervously with the dry bag of lock picks in hand. 

Watch, they’re gonna come home right now and catch me breaking into their office. 

But they don’t.

The house remains still and empty as Tim kneels, tongue poking out the side of his mouth, and twiddles around with the interior mechanisms until there’s a tinny click. The door swings wide, and still kneeling on the hardwood, the industrial chic space is open to him for the first time in many weeks. 

The most difficult part of the entire operation is getting over the nerves at being in a forbidden room belonging to his parents. He stands up, frozen on the threshold, listening intently for sounds in the driveway, for anyone returning home. 

There’s nothing. He hesitates for another long moment, then steps inside.

Getting into their computers is comparatively simple. Their laptops travel with them, but the metal desks on opposite ends of the space both hold thin desktops. All of their electronics are synced, and once he clears the password protection, he immediately opens up their calendars - shared, and for each individual, in side by side windows.

Half days are sectioned off with blue to be spent at Biyalian dig sites; green for meetings for permits and with staff for yesterday, today and tomorrow. The latter are all marked cancelled or rescheduled. 

They don’t have any events scheduled in Gotham, either. Their earliest appointment in town is for a benefit gala tomorrow evening, marked with a red dot to indicate high importance, with an afterparty appointment, an early morning spa treatment and lunch meeting with a business partner for his mother, and a golf outing for his father the following day, before a flight back to Biyalia that evening. It looks as though they planned to return to their dig for another week or so, before coming back, as Hannah had mentioned.

Their social and business schedules are always full when they come back to Gotham, even if it’s just for an overnight stay. He double-checks their calendars on the dates of their last few returns home, and as he expects, nearly every minute of every day is filled with social networking, various appointments, or spent at DI. 

Except for this trip home.

Having exhausted the information available on their calendars, he switches over to check their work emails for clues, but from all indications, everyone else at Drake Industries thinks they are still abroad. 

Tim takes a quick look at their outboxes. No sent emails since their flight arrived in Gotham. Work or personal. 

He drums his fingers lightly on the desk, then pulls up the phone app that’s also shared to all their devices through their individual accounts for easy access on their travels, for both parents. He split screens them to cross reference. 

There’s a text from his parents’ local aide, confirming their meeting for today with embassy officials, who were understanding about their being called back home early for an emergency business meeting. The aide wishes them safe travels.

Okay, mystery solved, Tim tells himself. Not a big deal. They came back for business of some kind.  

…and haven’t come back, or gone anywhere else, or done anything requiring spending money since. Tim also can’t help but note there had been a big fat bit of nothing on their calendars where any kind of business meeting in Gotham should be.

All of Tim’s own recent texts are here. Unread. His incoming calls are there too, and his voicemail from the evening of his birthday. It isn’t that unusual for them not to return his messages for awhile. Or to get busy and forget about them entirely. What is unusual is, there’s an unread text from a C suite executive at DI to his father from an hour ago, following up on a time-sensitive matter after not receiving a return call earlier this morning. 

Tim skims through a couple more social texts and voicemails, several business related, from the last few days. Nothing else stands out.

Alright. Time to dig a little deeper for clues. Tim checks their deleted trash folder, and stops scrolling when he sees a familiar name. It’s a voicemail, five days ago, from Rosa Ackroyd. 

Odd that they would hear from her after this long, considering how her departure had gone, especially given that she hadn’t even contacted Tim to say goodbye. 

He presses play. 

It’s Rosa, all right. She’s upset. Angry. Like she had been on her last day. “I’ll give you both one more chance to keep your secret business private, or I’ll tell someone who will make you regret it.”

There’s no greeting or goodbye, just dead air and a click. 

Tim sits back heavily in the chair, hands falling to his lap. He chews on his lower lip, thoughts racing. He looks up and to the left, pulling up in his mind the weeks old memory of bumping into Rosa coming out of his parents’ office that morning. The argument that night. 

Rosa must have gone in here, thought she found something bad, and confronted mom and dad. They had fought about it, whatever it was, and either she quit or, much more likely, they fired her. And then they locked the office up tight ever since, even though no one except Mrs. Mac, employed since they moved into Drake Manor, and Tim himself would be in a position to enter if they hadn’t. 

Tim switches to chewing on a knuckle. Not that he wants to think it, but it sounds an awful lot like Rosa has been threatening to blackmail his parents. She wasn’t the greatest nanny, sure, but wow. He never would have expected this. Blackmail seems pretty far out there for someone who liked Jesus so much, but he supposes wearing a cross and going to church doesn’t make you a good person any more than sleeping in a garage makes you a car.

Also wild? The implication that Rosa thinks she has something to blackmail his parents with, which - which is just ridiculous. 

It must be some kind of horrible misunderstanding between all of them. His parents haven’t done anything wrong. Obviously. They couldn’t have been. They’re his mom and dad! He would know if they were bad people. This should all go without saying. Really. It’s so stupid he’s even kind of thinking about this.

It’s a laughable thought. It’s so laughable, he’s going to laugh out loud. 

“Ha ha!”

Okay, no, that just sounded weird.

It’s so laughable, he’s going to prove it wrong. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. His parents are innocent bystanders, if anything! 

Tim keeps scrolling back through months of deleted text and voice messages, but nothing else strikes him as out of the ordinary.

Probably not, but just to be sure… Tapping his finger on his chin, he hesitantly runs a search for hidden apps.

To his surprise, he finds one. The same one, on both his mom and dad’s accounts. It’s an end to end encrypted messaging app, recently used, per the metadata, but when he opens them up, they are completely empty of call and text logs. 

This time, when he digs deeper into the code to retrieve deleted information, he finds there has been communication through the encrypted app in the last few days. No name associated, just the numbers. Local area codes.

(640): I hope what you bring back is as lucrative as promised. Looking forward to finalizing our new partnership in person after the auction.

Strange to be so secretive about a business partner financing future digs, but not outrageous. Silent partners might want to be, you know. Silent. Anonymous donors and all that.

The most recent voicemail, however, is a bit more difficult to explain away. 

(609): I’ve received some disturbing information regarding your loyalty to our partnership.
It would be in your best interests to return to Gotham to clear this unfortunate situation up, immediately. You will receive further details on your arrival.

There’s nothing else.

Okay. Well. That sounds ominous, but - it’s like they said, probably some kind of mistake that needs to get cleared up, he tells himself, convincingly.

The log indicates there’s an outgoing call to that same number soon after the voicemail was left. He checks again: His parents’ flight left two hours after that call. There’s another outgoing call to that number, right after their flight arrived in Gotham, and just before their Uber ride. But after that? Nothing. No texts, calls, messages of any kind. Either encrypted, or through normal means.

Tim takes a deep breath, pushes it back out between his lips with a hiss. He sets the swivel chair spinning, slowly.

Okay. Okay. So. His parents have gone slightly missing as of yesterday, and so far, Tim seems to be the only one who has even noticed.

Don’t panic, Tim tells himself. There’s still, maybe, other explanations for why they haven’t come home yet without leaping to worst case scenarios. 

It’s still possible that his parents will come home tonight, safe and sound. 

Maybe it’s the kind of business meeting that goes overnight and well into the next day. Tim scrunches up the side of his mouth. That sounds like it maybe could be a thing, right?

Debating with himself, Tim eventually decides that no, it probably doesn’t sound like it could be a thing. Alright, then. They must just be in a little bit of trouble, is all. Maybe the meeting didn’t go so great, and they’re just  …lying low. 

Yeah! They wouldn’t want to bring any trouble back home, to Tim, because they’re good parents! 

This is a warming thought, so he expands on it. It’s really sweet of them, wanting to protect him and keep him out of the line of whatever fire they’re in. But he’s not a little kid. He can help! All he has to do is follow the lead of his heroes, do a little detective work, like Batman and Robin would, until he figures out what the problem is, what misunderstanding has happened, and comes up with a plan to solve it. 

Like Dad said, he’s a smart kid. Smart enough to be trusted with independence, to take care of business. He’ll figure out what’s gone wrong, clear his parents’ names and rescue them, whichever turns out to be necessary. And! And, since mom and dad will be back, Jason will see how wrong he was, and we can be friends again. Me and Mom and Dad will go out for the weekend trip for my birthday. And then it will all be fine.

Optimism! It could turn out to be true. Who’s to say, anyway? It’s - it’s like a scientific theory. He’s gonna proceed on the assumption and see if he’s proven right. Perfectly logical. Science never lies!

Maybe - does he even dare to think it - maybe they’ll even be so impressed with him after he takes care of this for them, they’ll realize Tim’s mature enough to take with them when they travel. 

These are such happy, motivating thoughts that he finds himself wiggling back and forth in the swivel chair, before he realizes what he’s doing and stops. 

Dignity, he reminds himself, schooling his face into a mature look. There. Better.

Settling the newsboy cap more jauntily on his head, Tim puts his elbows on his mom’s desk and steeples his hands together, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers and mentally preparing himself to do some hard boiled gumshoeing.

It’s clear his next step is to track down his most obvious lead: Rosa. Tim laces his fingers together, flipping his hands inside out to stretch and crack his knuckles, then shakes them out and gets to work.

A few more minutes of rooting through file trees, checking for payment receipts, and then he pumps a fist in the air in victory: he’s come up with Rosa’s street address.

It’s almost a shame that his sleuthing will have to remain secret, given the circumstances. He’s positive that if things were slightly different, Batman and Robin would approve wholeheartedly. Well, Robin I would. Jason seems overly hung up on antiquated ideas about child safety, for being a kid vigilante himself.

Solving puzzles has always been Tim’s bread and butter. It’s his whole entire deal, basically. He may not be a particularly likeable person, or strong, or anything like that, but what Tim is, is darn good at solving a mystery.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Not many minutes later, Tim pokes the garage door button harshly, thinking: Past Tim has much to answer for. A rookie mistake, letting slip that Rosa was gone, even if the date of departure had been off by several weeks.

If Present Tim is overreacting to this parental situation, his mom and dad are gonna come back tonight, realize he’s been joyriding into the driveway with their vehicles, and he will be lucky to be sent to a boarding school somewhere in the continental United States.

When he’d blurted out an imaginary uncle to Jason to get him off Tim’s case, he’d thought the problems about to befall Future Tim would be figuring out how to prevent Jason from ever mentioning “Uncle Eddie” to his parents once they got home, or to any other adults who might catch him in the lie. But now it seems the more immediate issue is convincing Jason, or any other Wayne who might pass by before he’s able to find his parents, that there is in fact an uncle on site, for as long as it takes until he can find Mom and Dad. Tim does not need any more well meaning angry busybodies afflicted with the inability to just leave well enough alone buzzing around at this time, please and thank you. 

Now he’s going to need to simulate some “proof” that Uncle Eddie is home. The Mazda will have to stay hidden now that Jason thinks it was his imaginary nanny’s new car. Past Tim had been a complete idiot in the depths of his moping. 

Present Tim, coffee tin stilts strapped to his sneakers and couch cushion under one arm, looks assessingly at the three remaining cars in the garage. Yeah, he thinks. Uncle Eddie’s a Lexus kinda guy. 

Given the givens, he barely has enough anxiety left over to stress about backing it out, which he manages successfully on the first try, and carefully sets the emergency brake. He’s getting good at this!

It should worry him, actually. Not how good he’s getting at backing out a car from a garage, as that can only be a head start on his teenage years, but how good he’s getting at deceit. He’s practically the king of misdirection, at this point. Right now, he’s sitting not only on a couch cushion, but on his throne of lies, each one a Jenga block of deception piled high and precarious, swaying with the uncertain wind of plausible deniability. 

Look, it’s not something he’s proud of, per se. But he’s a practical guy. He’s independent. And he does what’s necessary. 

And right now, if it turns out Tim is under reacting to his parents disappearing? 

Well. He’s decided he’s just not going to be thinking about that. He’ll skateboard over that burning bridge when he comes to it. If. If he comes to it. Optimism!

Unpeeling his shoes from the coffee tins, Tim runs back upstairs to grab his lock picks, just in case. Stashing the dry bag and a new set of snacks, Tim slings his backpack over his shoulders. He’s gonna do some interrogation of his old nanny, search for clues that will resolve the misunderstanding, and get this all taken care of. 

Sherlock, Nancy, Hercule, Spade? Encyclopedia Brown? Pssh. Amateurs, all of them. 

As he starts rolling down the long, winding hill that leads to Gotham City, he crouches to pick up speed, fingers lightly brushing the nose of the board. 

Who actually figured out the best kept secret in the world? 

Tim Drake, that’s who. 

He does a triple kickflip over a gap in the sidewalk, landing easily and leaning his weight back to make the turn onto Kane Bridge. 

Detective Drake is on the case. Time to pay Crime Alley a visit.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

It’s early enough to still be daylight, though not by much, so Tim’s not the only kid walking around this neighborhood. Just ahead of Tim, a gaunt man exits a restaurant with purposeful strides, crossing the short width of the sidewalk and sitting down abruptly on the curb. There’s a very organic noise and a splatter just as Tim passes by behind him, and he risks a look over hhs shoulder to see the guy focused avidly on adding more volume to the puddle of vomit in the gutter between his own shoes. 

All the buildings on this block, including the church, have heavy bars on the first floor (and sometimes upper floor) windows. Most have crisscross metal expanding walls that at night cover doorways and storefronts, but are now retracted modestly to allow the public access. 

The city doesn’t care enough about this part of town for there to be much in the way of pedestrian services, so potholes and uneven or missing sidewalks are plenty, and crosswalks and safety signals are few. Tim is on foot, both because the uneven terrain isn’t great for skating and because he is going as incognito as possible. People will pay more attention to a kid on a skateboard than one walking around minding his business, he figures.

For similar reasons, and because Tim has not brought enough snacks or cash, he steps around without interacting with all the people with cardboard, handwritten signs, and someone sleeping curled up under an awning. 

Catching sight of Rosa’s apartment building on the next block, he jaywalks across, given the lack of designated pedestrian crossings. On this side of the street, he’s eyed with disinterest by a group of bored older men sitting on a stoop rolling loosies. A pair of sex workers gossip on the corner as he waits for a car to pass. 

“Y’all keep safe, sweet baby,” one of them tells him, and he thanks her politely as he scurries away through the break in traffic. 

The right side of the doorway gate of the apartment complex seems loose, but the entryway is clean. The interior door is locked, with the intercom board on the right wall, names scrawled in various handwriting next to each button and apartment number. 

Subtly consulting his note to remind himself of the apartment number, Tim reaches up to press the button marked 3G/Ackroyd. He runs through the questions he has for her, while he waits for her to get to the intercom buzz him through. His cover story - that he wanted to get a chance to say goodbye, isn’t entirely even a lie.

The wait stretches interminably. 

No answer. 

Tim frowns. He presses the button again, in case she’s in the bathroom or occupied, and it might be hard to hear the intercom.

Same result.

Would Batman and Robin give up that easily? No. And neither will Detective Drake. 

Undeterred, Tim turns to social engineering. There is no answer at two other apartments he picks at random, and the first actual person he talks to does not give a single darn about his sob story of going out for groceries and his mom in 5B having probably fallen asleep before she could buzz him back in the building. Instead, he gets yelled at for bothering the person, who sounds drunk. This is a bit of a setback, emotionally, but he soldiers on, and succeeds on the fourth try with a tired and  elderly sounding woman. A loud electronic buzz sounds, and the deadbolt unlocks with a metallic click. He’s in.

It’s a third floor walk-up, with apartment G being at the far end of a hallway. There’s a bright yellow note stick to the door, which on closer inspection turns out to be a final notice of eviction. It’s dated the day before yesterday.

Tim feels a slight twinge of unease, that Rosa hasn’t taken the note off the door since. 

Circumstantial evidence, Detective Drake. Maybe she’s staying with a friend. Or having one of those overnight emergency business meetings. 

This isn’t the kind of building that spends money on having cameras in the inside hallways, so after knocking on Rosa’s door, just to be sure, and checking for signs of life elsewhere in the hallway, he holds his breath and picks the lock.

It’s about what he expected inside, honestly. Not too neat, not dirty either. Well lived in. 

A picture of Jesus and his friends having dinner hangs on a wall near the door. A basket of yarn and crochet hooks is on the couch. Weekly flyers from a local church near the trash. There’s an open bodega bag on its side, with some muffins next to it on the counter, slowly starting to grow mold. 

A small kitchen table has what looks like a ratty choir music book under one leg to keep it level. More important is what’s on the table: Rosa’s laptop.

It’s open, and the battery is dead. Tim has to find the charger and wait, but once it has enough battery to turn on again, it takes even less effort to get in than it did his parents’.

Having used the time waiting for the laptop to charge to snoop around and not find anything of much interest, except more indications that Rosa hasn’t been back in some time, but didn’t expect to be gone so long when she left, Tim is pinning his hopes on finding better clues on the computer.

Unfortunately, Rosa’s texts and calls are not synced with her computer, and she doesn’t have any hidden apps on it, which doesn’t surprise Tim, who had never suspected Rosa of being particularly tech savvy. But if she had been up to anything nefarious, like blackmail, she was smart enough to not keep any obvious records of it. Very annoyingly, there’s also no indication of what she had found or been looking for in his parents’ office. 

Most of her recent emails are rejection letters from employment applications, and messages from Christian dating sites, which she seems to be having similar luck with. 

Her Google calendar, on the other hand, is a bit more useful. There’s an appointment from two nights ago. No title, just a time and an address. 

The rest are job interviews and recurring weekly events at her church. With interest, he notices that one, labeled St. Aloysius Hookers, is happening - he checks the desktop clock - right now.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Nah, honey,” says one of several church crotchet group members, who are all sitting on cheap metal chairs around a folding table in the church basement. This one is silver haired and has deep laugh lines and worry lines etched onto her face, and seems to be the spokesperson of the group. “I ain’t seen her since last week.”

A middle-aged woman with a deep voice and long, stringy hair adds, “Didn’t show for contemporary choir practice yesterday, neither. Only had one soprano, and Shelly can’t hit a high C if God himself asked her to.” This last seems more directed to the other crotcheters, who make various noises of agreement. “True dat,” one says, “S’a cryin’ shame,” says another, and several more give knowing, judgmental “Mmmmmmm-hms.”

A tiny, stooped woman with swollen joints looks at Tim through enormous round glasses that magnify her squinting eyes several dozen times, flipping and knotting yarn with impressive speed. “Rosie-girl, she been havin’ some troubles. She had them horrible bosses, fired her widdout a reference.” Tim winces inwardly, glad his cover story had glossed over his exact relationship to Rosa. The other Hookers shake their heads and tut with disapproval. “Couldn’t scrape up rent for the month, and couldn’t find a new place without a current pay stub. She been askin’ for help from the church, but  … times are tough for alla us.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

All of this sleuthing has taken quite some time. Night has fallen fully by the time he extracts himself from the clutches of the Hookers and exits St. Aloysius.

Wishing it was cool enough outside to wear a hood to pull up, Tim sticks to the shadows and keeps a hand on his taser. Staying alert and sidestepping anyone who gets too close, he heads for the nearest bus stop. 

Detective Drake needs some time to wrap his mind around all this and figure out his next move. Not being able to interview Rosa herself is a setback to his investigation. The Optimism Theory is nudging closer to the rocks. 

Not for the first time, it occurs to him that apologizing to Jason and asking for his help might not be the worst move, despite how uncomfortable and risky it might be. Surely even Jason wouldn’t use his parents disappearing as ammunition against them. And asking Jason for help would mean getting Robin’s help, and maybe Batgirl’s or even Batman’s as well.

There’s a large part of him that is still upset with Jason and that rails against being dependent on anyone else, even a Robin, but Tim decides, If I get home and my parents still aren’t back, I’ll go over and ask him for help.

There’s a brief feeling of a burden lifting slightly, before this small bubble of relief is popped unceremoniously by a furious, familiar voice accosting him from above. “JACK. What the fuck do you think you’re doing in CRIME ALLEY?!”

Jason drops out of the sky next to him vengefully. Even his cape somehow manages to flutter with rage. 

Tim opens his mouth to explain, to ask for Robin’s help, but it was apparently a rhetorical question, because Jason is having none of it.

“I thought you were smarter than this,” Jason snaps, too angry to remember that Jack isn’t known to Robin for his intelligence. “I can’t believe you are being this stupid, this reckless, this idiotic. You promised me you were never going to come out to Gotham at night alone again. You lied to me.”

Tim swallows hard, heart rate picking up speed at his hero berating him, livid, for the second time in the same day. And to be fair, Tim has lied to him about quite a lot of things, actually. 

His Jenga tower of falsehoods wobbles, a skyscraper in high wind. Inwardly shrinking from the truth in Jason’s accusations, and flinching away from the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Tim replaces it with anger. 

“That’s pretty freaking rich coming from Robin. And I never promised not to. You just ordered, and assumed I would.”

 “I thought you were better than this,” Jason says belligerently, having become selectively deaf to Tim’s rebuttals. “I guess I was wrong. You’re a naive child, who thinks he’s got everything figured out, who thinks he’s invincible, and nothing bad is ever gonna happen to him.”

Deeply wounded, Tim is silent.

Jason continues, tone icy and cutting. “Guess what, short stuff: you’re not special. I see kids like you every day. In the hospital. In body bags.”

Breath becoming stuck behind his ribs, Tim is flayed to the bone by this scathing assessment of himself, from his hero. From his friend. Now Tim sees clearly he has gotten it all wrong: he and Jason were never friends after all. Or if they were, Tim has ruined it beyond repair. He really was stupid and naive, to ever have thought otherwise. 

Jason has broken this part of his optimism theory unequivocally into pieces. This heavy blow, on top of everything else that’s happened in the last few days, feels like it’s on the edge of knocking him over a bottomless pit. 

There’s no one left, except one good friend who is probably dying hundreds of miles away, and parents I can’t find.

Jason is still talking, voice tired and cold. “You’re a blinking red target with the self preservation skills of a wet paper bag. Go home, kid, and stay there.”

Tim feels embarrassingly close to tears, and tries to cover the fact with more anger. “Who died and left you in charge of who’s allowed to be out after dark?”

Jason’s parents, actually, Tim remembers too late,  but it doesn’t seem to matter, as Robin steamrolls right over this. “Sure seems like someone’s got to! What are your parents thinking? Do they not know or just not care that their little gremlin is out here running around Gotham all night?”

This pierces straight through Tim’s chest, hitting way, way too close to his heart. Jason doesn’t even have any idea, and Tim can’t tell him about it now. 

He refuses to acknowledge any merit to this question, turning it around instead. “Batman lets you run around Gotham all night. You’re saying he doesn’t care about you?”

Jason swells up with affront, expanding like a bullfrog, before almost visibly grabbing hold of his temper with both hands. “Listen here, you little,” he seems to self-edit on the fly, “menace. Batman’s an overprotective old mother hen who’d keep us all indoors cocooned in bubble wrap if he thought he could get away with it. He cares, alright? He keeps us safe by training us to protect ourselves and others, and he’s always there for us.” 

Tim tries not to react, and the effort keeps him from being able to come up with a response. 

Jason presses his advantage. “What’s your parents’ excuse?”

Still trying to put on any kind of protective armor mid-battle, Tim ignores this last shot. “Then where is Batman now? Don’t see him here supervising.”

“He’s around. All I have to do is call, he’ll be here. In a heartbeat.”

“Yeah?” Tim challenges. “Then why don’t you go ahead and do that. I’d like to lodge an official complaint, actually.”

Jason has the audacity to snort in amusement. “Oh yeah, twerp? Let’s hear it.”

“You can tell him from me: the old Robin was better. The new one’s a real jerk.”

The smirk drops off Jason’s face like it’s fallen from the edge of a cliff. Tim tries to feel satisfied at finally succeeding in stopping Jason’s self-righteous tirade, but all he truly feels is sick to his stomach.

A second mask of neutral professionalism forms underneath the domino. “I’m taking you home,” Jason says, serious and implacable.

But Tim’s the unstoppable force to Jason’s attempt at being an immovable object. Tim’s got too much to do, too many lies to keep juggling in the air, and he doesn’t have the energy left to deal with Jason, the hero he stupidly thought was his friend, getting in the way. 

Fuming, Tim starts moving, quick and determined, back to the bus stop. “Leave me alone, Robin.”

Flaring Tim’s temper up even more, Jason’s longer strides catch up immediately, keeping pace next to him, but not close enough for the nut shot Tim is sorely tempted to administer. “I think you’ve had too much of that, actually. A lot too much time unsupervised.”

The ball of heat behind Tim’s eyes drops down his throat, turning into a belly full of pure fury, and with the feeling of someone at sea swimming for a life preserver, he grabs hold of what he does best: plotting and lying.

Tim increases his speed, subtly scanning the surrounding buildings until he finds what he’s looking for. Jason continues to follow, for once blessedly silent.

Turning sharply on his heel, Tim moves down an alley next to an apartment building, and stops, crossing his arms and glaring at Robin. 

“Thanks for walking me home, Robin,” Tim says sarcastically. “This is my stop.”

Jason scoffs. “No, it’s not.”

Tim counters pointedly: “How would you know, Robin?”

Between clenched teeth, Jason claims, “I’m gonna walk you straight to the door. Have a little chat with whoever’s supposed to be keeping you safe.”

Tim rolls his eyes theatrically. “I didn’t leave by my door, I’m not an idiot.”

Jason crosses his own arms, mirroring Tim. “Coulda fooled me.”

Clenching his jaw, Tim reminds him, “Thought you weren’t a narc.”

“And I thought you could be trusted to keep a promise. Guess we were both wrong.”

Tim is outraged. He never specifically indicated verbal agreement to Jason’s terms! And if Jason had wanted Tim to enter into the contract to never set foot in the city after dark, he should have had the decency to set better terms than a Batburger milkshake. 

Enraged, Tim starts to point this out again, it having been summarily ignored earlier: “I never -” before deciding there’s no point and cutting himself off. “Bye,” he finishes wrathfully, stalking towards the building’s fire escape and starting to climb.

Jason leans with studied casualness against the brick wall. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Tim sees his intent. If Tim tries to climb all the way up and escape onto the roof, Jason can grapple up to cut him off before Tim can take more than a few steps. And there’s no way Tim can win a foot race against Robin on street level if he comes back down the fire escape in defeat.

Doggedly, Tim climbs up four flights, checking over his shoulder to see Jason still there, the set of his chin clearly indicating he’s calling Tim’s bluff, waiting with grim satisfaction for him to stop being stubborn and admit he’s lying so Robin can escort Tim to his real home. 

Probably wants to chat with Uncle Eddie, Tim figures. Well, he’s destined for disappointment. 

Tim’s arrived at his destination: one of the apartment windows over the fire escape has been left open, in a hopeful attempt to let in a breeze to counteract the summer’s muggy hot air. Wrinkling his nose as he gets close, Tim reassesses: or to let out the skunky scent of marijuana wafting from inside.

But that actually works better for his purposes. Hopefully whoever’s in there will be relaxed enough to give him an increased element of surprise.

Tim resists the strong temptation to turn around and flip Jason the bird. He needs as much head start as he can get.

Without hesitation, Tim hops smoothly in the window, quickly and feet first this time, having learned his lesson well, so it doesn’t get the chance to close and trap him. Once through and into what turns out to be a messy bedroom, Tim slams the sill down and races out into a hallway.

There are people here, as he suspected, because he hears a lazy voice ask, “Didju hear that?”

It only takes a second to get his bearings and deduce the door to the apartment is in the same direction as the mumbled voices. With that in mind, Tim opts for speed over stealth.

Tim races down the hallway, which opens into a common area where the inhabitants are watching TV through a foggy haze over the bowl of pot. 

“Da fuck?” one of them questions, all eves turning to Tim. Another man starts to unfold from a ratty armchair at Tim’s sudden entrance, but it’s too late. With a very brief fumble, Tim turns the lock and throws open the door, hearing commotion pick up behind him. He might be imagining the much fainter squeak of a window opening underneath the sounds of confusion and furniture protesting sudden changes in their occupants’ positions.

“You guys need to keep your windows closed! It’s Gotham, that’s dangerous!” he calls helpfully over his shoulder, all in one breath, words squishing together, and then he’s conserving all his air to run. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim spends the bus ride back to Bristol and the fast paced return home, during which he avoids the streets and cuts through backyards in case Robin catches up to him before he makes it back, trying to breathe life into his optimism theory again. Maybe when he walks up the driveway, he’ll be greeted by the Lexus back in the garage and apoplectic parents intent on tearing into Tim for messing with their car.

Tim jumps a fence, and Drake Manor comes into view. His heart sinks; the Lexus is right where he left it, and the automatic lights are illuminating some of the yard and random rooms in the house. 

His parents aren’t there.

There is, however, a bag of food dangling from the front doorknob with a neighborly note attached, from Bruce Wayne. It’s handwritten. He wants to introduce himself to Uncle Eddie. 

Tim crumples the note in his hand, but can’t bring himself to waste food from Alfred. Unlocking the door and heading inside, the sound of a speeding motorcycle picks up. 

The reversal of Tim’s feelings in the last few days is stark. Now the idea of Robin checking in on him only makes him angry. The motorcycle slows to an idle, and for a brief moment Tim stares down the blank face of Robin’s helmet, unpleasantly surprised that Jason’s decided it’s time that Tim knows that Robin knows where he lives. Like this upping of the ante will cow him into submission.

Tim glares ferociously, hoping that Robin can see it even at a distance, then pointedly slams the front door behind him. He locks it angrily, throws on all the floodlights, and arms the security system to the teeth. With some satisfaction, after a few long moments, he hears the motorcycle slowly pull away, down the road.

Tim stomps upstairs, pulls the sheet front door of his Blanket Fortress aside, does the same with the door to  the sheet that sections off the blanket cabana that now makes up his bedroom within the blanket fort, and flings himself facedown on his bed. 

He’s got too much adrenaline and sloppy feelings sloshing around inside to make it easy, but he tries to force himself to go to sleep. 

Optimism Theory is on its last legs, but maybe, maybe he’ll wake up and his mom and dad will be home. 

If not, Tim’s got a lot to do tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Being a detective is not just a job - it's a calling that requires courage, intelligence, and a dedication to justice.

- Encyclopedia Brown

Bruce likes to imagine he is not alone, as a single parent, in his heart skipping a beat when their child calls out of nowhere after dark and opens with an ominously vague statement.

“Hey B,” his younger, brasher son says in Bruce’s earpiece, an odd note in his voice. “Uh, so there’s kinda a bit of a situation.”

“What kind of situation,” Bruce demands. Jason is supposed to be doing an abridged version of patrol through the north half of the city tonight. This could be anything from I burned one of Alfred’s pans, the same criminal offense that had culminated in Bruce’s permanent ban from using his own kitchen, to I’m handcuffed to a chair, Scarecrow dosed me with something and I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating this conversation or not. “Report. Are you safe?”

The annoyed teenage huff he receives in response is comforting. “Jeez. You gotta give me a chance to respond. Yeah, B, I’m fine.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow under the cowl lenses. The lack of a complete answer raises his suspicions of what isn’t covered under the phrase I’m fine. “Who is hurt? Do you need backup?”

Jason again hesitates, raising Bruce’s blood pressure. His gauntleted knuckles clench around the curve of padded imitation leather, twisting the steering wheel in a circle to barrel around a warehouse district turn, expertly drifting the back end of the Batmobile. “Nobody’s hurt. At the moment.”

Less comforting.

“And not really? I mean I guess, maybe, I need some help. But like, more advice. Probably.”

In Bruce’s other ear, which is currently tuned to the frequency Batgirl and her team are sharing, Huntress is updating the status of Gordon and his team, ambushed on a planned bust over in Tricorner. Huntress and Black Canary are providing support. Non-lethally, Bruce grimly hopes, rather than expects. “Retreating to find cover,” Huntress updates. There are pops that sound to Bruce’s ear like M16 fire, followed by several twangs of a crossbow in retaliation.

Batgirl reports in, having been first on the scene in the warehouse district, where Penguin’s well armed minions have taken out a Black Mask stronghold. Sounds of hand to hand combat, and more distant explosions, come through in the background when she speaks. “Heavy casualties on Black Mask’s end.” She grunts with exertion, and there’s a male shriek of pain and a dull meaty thud. “ETA, Batman?”

Bruce clicks over to unmute his mic on their line. “Forty-five seconds,” he says, accelerating, and almost misses Jason’s next sentence in his other ear.

“Nah, B. Everyone’s okay.”

Something explodes behind the block the Batmobile is rounding. He toggles the mic back to Jason’s line. “Is it time sensitive, Robin?”

“Are you serious,” Babs says rhetorically, seemingly to herself, continuing: “Well, I’m pretty sure I know where some of all that laundered money coming into Gotham’s gone.”

“Not - at the moment. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow morning,” Jason allows.

Black Canary asks Batgirl, “Where?” as Bruce rounds the corner, back tires leaving stripes on the pavement, and sees for himself.

“Black Mask’s got a fucking tank. Penguin’s folks have one upped them with crazy ass themed weaponry. Looks like March of the Penguins out here, if the penguins were also Daleks with tommy gun umbrellas,” Batgirl informs Huntress and Black Canary.

“Copy that, Robin. In that case, return to the Batcave,” Bruce orders, arming the antipersonnel stun defenses on the exterior of the Batmobile and ramming through a flotilla of robotic penguins blocking the street from end to end, sending them flying to either side like bowling pins, neon strands of electrical current arcing between them.

“Backup finally inbound,” Black Canary reports, police sirens tinny in her background. “Will continue to guard the Commissioner until the situation is fully clear.”

“Acknowledged. Thank you,” Batgirl replies, then sardonically, “Glad you could join in the fun, Batman.” Bruce sees her retracting her grapple line as she swings, retreating to a roof to get out of the immediate line of fire. “Don’t hold back on my account. I’ve got eyes on Penguin, moving to engage.”

Revving the engines, Bruce sends the Batmobile into a carefully controlled donut directly in the middle of the action, clearing space and simultaneously releasing a cloaking screen of thick smoke. The turret of the tank turns ominously, attempting to target the new player, but is obscured by the fog flowing copiously from beneath the Batmobile before it can get a lock.

Bruce switches the HUD, which obligingly now displays the outlines of the chaotic mass of the opposing low level human forces of Penguin and Black Mask; the tank; the burning buildings; and the army of robotic penguins, whose stilted waddling and mechanical squawking lends an eerie undertone to the bloody scene. Quickly selecting targets on the HUD with a finger, he jabs a thumb, hearing the mechanical rumble of the cannon ports opening.

Jason’s annoyed voice comes through. “Look, I know I wasn’t out last night, but you don’t need to bench me. Whatever’s going on right now, I can help. Especially since Nightwing’s back in ‘haven.”

The Batmobile shudders as the first volley is released, Black Mask’s tank rocking heavily from the assault. Squawking robot penguins waddle aimlessly through the the fog, the glowing outlines revealing some have irised open metallic umbrellas as shields, while others are using the machine gun tip of theirs to fire blindly. “You’re right,” Bruce admits. “I could use your help.”

A few robo-penguins waddle blindly into the side of the Batmobile, and rebound at twice the speed with sparks flying off. Bruce fires a second volley, rocking the tank again, which returns fire, missing widely and sending several robo-penguins soaring into the air in pieces. As with their organic counterparts, despite the wings flailing madly on those with appendages still attached, the power of flight continues to be beyond their ken.

“You feeling ok there, B?” Jason asks, and Bruce can hear the grin.

Ignoring this dig, Bruce orders, “Switch to frequency Delta-7,” the shared line he and the others are using tonight. “Gordon was ambushed in Tricorner. Black Canary and Huntress are mitigating the situation. Batgirl and I are in the Warehouse District and currently engaged with Penguin and Black Mask forces.”

“Jesus, way to bury the lede,” Jason says, at the same time as Batgirl reports, “Penguin is in retreat.” A thin outline of a oddly small and umbrella shaped helicopter is exiting the scene on Bruce’s HUD. “I don’t have eyes on Black Mask.”

Bruce ignores Jason’s commentary again. “Robin, go back to the cave and pilot the Batplane. We need aerial reinforcement with anti-tank weaponry.”

Theres an inhale and Jason’s line cuts out, but not before Bruce hears the start of a gleeful eeeeeeeee!

Bruce immediately and sternly clarifies, “Remotely. Pilot the Batplane remotely,” and annihilates several robo-penguins with prejudice under the tires as he drifts the Batmobile in a circle around Black Mask’s tank, cannon fire jamming the mechanisms powering the left treads.

Considerably more disgruntled, Jason asks, “Have I mentioned lately you’re absolutely no fun?”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce reminds his son, because him being the sober voice of reason and justice should really be self-evident, over and above being Jason’s only parent, which would be hair-raising enough even without him also being Robin. “And not in the past hour, no.”

Much later, so far into the night it’s become morning again, smoking husks are all that remain of the vast majority of the robot penguin flock and Black Mask’s heavy artillery, littering the war-torn block. He and Batgirl sit on a less damaged rooftop nearby to debrief the night’s events, watching emergency vehicles transport the living wounded to nearby hospitals.

“Black Canary got results from her undercover work at the Iceberg Lounge. Her source let slip that the new guy making waves calls himself Emperor. According to the source, he’s high up in Penguin’s chain of command.”

A dangerous long game of double-cross to be playing. A coup, in fact, not only for his employer, but also for the rest of the heads of organized crime in the city. That this Emperor has been managing to succeed for this long does not bode well for Gotham.

“Emperor’s been planting false evidence for Penguin to find that indicates he’s one of Black Mask’s cronies instead.”

Which had likely been the spark to tonight’s powderkeg.

“Black Canary trussed her source up and hand-delivered them to GCPD this evening, along with some of her recordings of their conversations, before I called her in along with Huntress to provide backup in Tricorner.” Barbara, obviously relieved that her father escaped the ambush unscathed, is grim in reporting the aftermath. “But by the time they got the commissioner and Montoya to safety, the witness was dead in custody.”

Bruce feels frown lines etching themselves all the way down into his skull.

“All the recordings BC attached, and of the holding cells at the time of the murders, were destroyed or have gone missing.”

Bruce can imagine, at this very moment, somewhere in GCPD HQ, Gordon’s moustache bristling in absolute fury.

Bruce tells her, “He’s asked me to help clean house. Hinted that he’ll turn a blind eye to Batman collecting evidence from GCPD itself.”

“I’ll take point on that investigation,” Barbara states, not requests, a steely glint in her eye.

Unknown someones on the force trying to kill her father is a powerful motivator to take care of the situation quickly, and Barbara isn’t one to lose her head when things get personal. He grunts an acknowledgment, then asks, “What were you able to find on the Hamills?”

“Similar to most of the others. Looks like they’ve been financing or doing some kind of business with shell companies for a few months, then in the lasts few weeks, making deposits to a new account. I found some emails, just before estimated time of death, from the wife trying to sell off their properties. Seems like since the properties were titled in both husband and wife’s names, she couldn’t sell without the husband signing off, which he apparently refused to do when the lawyers called. Instead, they all went on what was supposed to be an extended vacation to the Pacific Northwest.”

Bruce shakes his head, a theory forming in his mind of a wife trying to liquidate assets to pay some kind of debt or perhaps punishment for lack of sufficient loyalty to “The Organization,” and the husband planning instead to run from the problems back home.

“I tracked down video from Tacoma Narrows, a private airport outside Seattle. Captured some professionals using the son as hostage to get his parents back on a flight back to Gotham.”

Where all three of their bodies would later be dragged from the polluted river.

Mind already on next steps of the investigation, Bruce growls, “Who do the shell companies belong to?”

Barbara tilts her head in his direction on a way that communicates clearly the eye roll obscured behind her white out lenses. “‘Golly gee, thank you for all the hard work, Batgirl,’” she says sarcastically, in a frankly hurtful mockery of Bruce’s voice. “I’ve been a little busy, Batman. I haven’t been able to spend all my time behind the computer screen, seeing as I’m also out here trying to keep my father alive and the city in one piece. There’s only so many hours of the day, and a little bit of gratitude for the people you work with wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Duly noted.”

Barbara twitches, looking murderous, and Bruce hastily corrects, “Thank you for your hard work and support, Batgirl.”

Whiteout lenses narrowing, she says, “That’s what I thought.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The same part of Tim that had posited the Optimism Theory had wished fervently while getting into bed that he’d wake up to the sound of his parents coming home.

Tim sleeps in as long as possible, trying to will this wish into existence.

His head hurts, and his phone clock now reads 10:20. Tim rolls over, mangling his pillow into a more comfortable shape. Maybe he can just stay here until they get back. Just lying safe in bed, under the covers, in his fortress, in his room, until he hears the door open and them calling him from down the hall.

This new plan is sounding more and more appealing. Tim pulls the covers all the way over his head and the pillow as well, for good measure, but this dark and peaceful retreat from reality is interrupted by a buzz, his phone lighting up with a text. Throwing the covers back and sitting up straight, he scrambles to unlock it, only to be disappointed.

It’s from Jason.

He groans and flops back onto his lumpy pillow, throwing an arm over his eyes, but eventually morbid curiosity impels him to see what Jason has to say for himself.

Hey Timmers. I’m sorry about how things went down yesterday. Can we talk?

Tim stares tiredly at the phone, not sure how he feels about this.

It’s too much too soon, he eventually decides. At this point he’d rather have his parents back to prove Jason wrong before they talk again.

Tim responds, Busy day today. Hanging out with Uncle Eddie.

To spite Jason in absentia, Tim emerges blearily from his Fortress to have some coffee in the empty, gleaming kitchen. Mrs. Mac will be in tomorrow, but she’ll find there’s really nothing for her to clean.

When he’s pouring a mug of coffee down his throat doublehanded, Jason texts back: Okay. Maybe later then. Bruce sends his regards to Uncle Eddie btw.

Tim reflects on how long dodging him via text will stop Jason and his Bat-trained curiosity from meddling in Tim’s life, and doesn’t like the probable duration he comes up with. Batman, too, won’t be put off for long if he doesn’t hear back from Uncle Eddie, and suspicions will be raised sooner rather than later.

After a moment of thought on how to get a reasonably convincing message to Mr. Wayne from Uncle Eddie, Tim googles some local businesses, and executes a plan that should buy him at least a little bit of Wayne-free time in which to find his parents.

If he doesn’t find them in the next few hours, he’ll have to spend tonight researching local community theatre actors. He doesn’t have the height or the skills with cosmetics and prosthetics to pull off a convincing forty year old uncle, but he does put a mental pin in those to add to his list of useful skills to learn.

Tim’s head aches a bit less, and he feels slightly more human, after the coffee and a bowl of cheerios. He heads back into the Fortress, fastening the sheet doors closed with binder clips behind him, to come up with a stronger game plan than hide under the covers indefinitely.

With a resurgence in consciousness and blood sugar, and reading the progressively more annoyed emails from his parents’ colleagues at their lack of communication, his last strands of hope that this situation is all just somehow a big misunderstanding and no big deal after all threaten to break.

There’s likewise still been no response to his own texts or phone calls, and the credit card activity remains non-existent. Sitting crosslegged at his book table, he calls again. Tim presses his mother’s number in on the keypad by memory instead of just pressing her contact, like a ritual, superstitiously hoping it will somehow make a difference this time.

The coffee and cereal roil in his stomach when her voicemail message starts to play. “Please call me back,” is all Tim says into the phone this time. “Please.”

There’s been no more word from Rosa, and given the tone of her last messages, he’s not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one. He hopes she’s been out visiting a friend, distracted from focusing on blackmailing people.

Just for the sake of argument: if his parents are doing something bad or illegal, which they are not, then… then what? Would he be getting them into trouble with the law, by reporting them missing?

Tim blows out a frustrated huff of breath, fluttering his bangs in the process. If he thought they would be upset about him pulling the cars into the driveway; his mom and dad would not stop until they found a way to jettison Tim straight into the sun, salt the earth of his grave, and posthumously ruin his reputation after all of the rest of it, if he got them arrested.

But, on the other hand, if he does nothing, and bad things happen to them, and he could have helped them, but didn’t…

Tim rests his chin on fingertips pressed together. Since telling Robin is out, he’s left with official channels. Filing an official report: That’s the first step, right, for this to be taken seriously? By someone other than just Detective Drake, that is. Tim will just have to do some careful editing around the exact reasons he’s certain there’s trouble and stick to the facts: it’s been more than 48 hours that they’ve been gone.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

It’s been drizzling outside since he woke up, and his sneakers now squeak loudly on the tile as he walks through the reinforced glass and steel doors of GCPD HQ, squaring his shoulders and heading for the reception desk.

The reception countertop is unnecessarily tall, and topped with bulletproof glass. Tim has to take the undignified step of standing on tiptoes to make sure his whole head and shoulders can be clearly seen as he speaks to the desk sergeant.

“I’d like to speak to Commissioner Gordon, please,” he says firmly. “If he’s not currently available, I’m prepared to wait.”

The desk sergeant’s salt and pepper eyebrows rise into his hairline. He has a slight smirk, like he’s poorly restraining an incredulous smile as he eyes the parts of Tim visible over the counter up and down.

“Commissioner Gordon’s a very busy man. Whaddaya need to talk to him about, kid?”

Tim grits his back teeth at the condescension, but remains outwardly calm. “I need to report my parents missing.”

This makes the desk sergeant’s eyebrows come down again. “I’m real sorry to hear that, sport. But in that case, you don’t need to waste your time waiting for the Commissioner. He doesn’t get involved in stuff like that personally anyway.”

“I’d really prefer -“ Tim starts, but is interrupted.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Timothy Drake. I -“

The desk sergeant is uninterested in what Tim wants. He cuts his eyes over to Tim, then rolls back his chair and stands up. “There’s chairs over there.” He nods in the direction of a row of chipped plastic seating. A grimacing man with shaved head and tattoos is cuffed to the chair on the right end of the row. “Wait here. I’ll getcha a detective who can help ya.”

He leaves and disappears into a bullpen crowded with desks before Tim can object again.

Tim has time to learn that the other guy on the bench is named Rodney and he got nabbed for jaywalking before a man wearing a badge, a button down shirt, and what looks like a permanent expression of vague surliness strides over to him with a look of intent. “Timothy Drake?”

Detective Sergeant Bosco leads him back to a cluttered desk on the back end of a bullpen busy with chatter and phones ringing, and gestures Tim into the seat on the opposite side, sitting down into a worn wheelie chair behind a computer monitor himself.

Beginning to feel a bit like taking the bus all the way downtown might have been a waste, part of Tim wishes he’d just snuck in, found the Commissioner’s office and hid there until the man himself showed up. But Tim’s here now, and he supposes as long as the report gets made one way or another, it’s all the same, probably.

He hopes.

Tim takes Bosco through the heavily edited version of his parents’ disappearance, focusing on the “missing” part and glossing over or leaving out the aspects of the case that might, if looked at through an unflattering lens, reflect badly on his parents.

Bosco lets him talk until he runs out of words, tapping his pen on the desk as Tim talks. Tim would suspect him of boredom, but his attention never wanders from Tim, and he seems to be listening, which he thinks must be a good sign.

When Tim stops talking, Bosco waits to see if he’ll continue, and when he doesn’t, leans back in the wheelie chair heavily, which squeals in protest.

Still intently focused on Tim, Bosco eventually sighs. “Kid, look. You said it yourself, your parents are out of the country all the time, in out of the way places. What makes this time any different?”

Heart sinking, frustration rising, Tim repeats what he’s already told the man, more firmly, still unwilling to allude to the worse parts that might incriminate Tim or his family, such as the light B&E he committed against Rosa’s apartment, trying to find a way to impress on Bosco the severity of the problem. “Because I can’t get a hold of them, and I - they called and told me they were coming back early, one of their business deals had gone wrong. They said they were coming back to handle it. It sounded bad.” There. Verisimilitude without getting into the blackmail bits or sounding like he’s implicating them. “But no one at work has heard from them. No one else at the office has heard from them recently, either. They came back to Gotham, but never made it home.”

Bosco taps his pen on the desk again thoughtfully, then leans forward, elderly chair protesting again, and pulls over a pale yellow pad of sticky notes. “Why don’t you give me the number of your nanny, or whoever’s looking after you, and I’ll get back to them, alright?”

Darn it. He should have anticipated this might come up. But unlike Jason, Bosco doesn’t have any reason to be bent out of shape about it, as he doesn’t know about Tim’s after dark hobbies, and Tim hasn’t already built him a Jenga tower of lies. Only selective omissions, thus far. And, he’s a cop that Tim’s deliberately asking to investigate his family, so the no nanny/no imaginary uncle thing is bound to be found out soon if Tim tries to fudge this now.

Tim sits up straighter, hands folded in his lap, straining to exude an air of confident maturity. “I no longer have a nanny. My parents recognized I was old enough to be independent while they are out of town.”

Maybe he’s not as successful as he’d assumed, because Bosco lets the pen fall on the desk and looks at Tim for a long, long moment. Tim matches his look, calmly waiting him out, though his palms are starting to sweat, clasped together between his thighs.

“I really think your parents will be in touch soon, and there’s nothing to worry about here.”

Tim tries to keep hold of the frustration and disappointment warring underneath his rib cage.

“So you can go on back home and rest easy,” Bosco continues, then leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Unless what you’re telling me is that your parents have left you alone with no caregiver for an extended period of time. Because that would be illegal, you see, and your parents could get in a lot of trouble for that. You might even get taken away from your big expensive house on the hill, and put in a crummy little place with a whole buncha other kids whose parents maybe been treating them a whole lot worse than how you’ve got it, and they don’t have a mansion to go home to.”

Something ice cold is starting to slide down Tim’s spine.

“You see,” Bosco says again, “if I were to look into your parents being away for work just a little bit longer than you thought they’d be, I might have to look into those other things, too.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’m not sure that’s what you’re telling me, buddy. So why don’t you clear that up for me? Are you saying your parents have abandoned you and we need to do a whole lot of paperwork and talk to some nice social workers to take you somewhere else?”

Sitting ramrod straight, eyes now focused on the middle distance over Bosco’s shoulder, Tim says very quietly, “No, sir.”

Bosco gives an exaggerated sigh of relief, cheeks puffing out with the movement. “I gotta say, I’m real happy to hear that. In that case, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, bud. You go on home, okay, and I’m sure you’ll hear from Mom and Dad real soon.”

“Thank you for your time,” Tim says woodenly, and leaves, looking back only briefly back as he opens the double doors that separate the bullpen from the hallway to the lobby. Bosco is talking on the phone, tapping his pen on his desk again, but he’s watching Tim go.

The drizzle has picked up into a light rain, and Tim pulls the hood of his rain jacket up mechanically, feet taking him without much input from his brain down the sidewalk that will lead him to the nearest bus stop on the line that has the most direct route back to Bristol, several blocks away off Commerce Street.

Alright. Alright, that went poorly. Tim’s thoughts shuffle in time with his steps, trying to salvage what he can and figure out what’s next. Maybe he should turn around, try and infiltrate the Commissioner’s office after all? He hasn’t got his backpack of tools with him, though, because he hadn’t anticipated needing any of them in the early afternoon at police headquarters, of all places. A rookie mistake, in retrospect. Detective Drake won’t be caught out like that again.

There’s an intrusive thought, just out of reach in the back of Tim’s brain, though, that he can’t quite grab hold of yet. Something is off, he can’t help but feel, over and above being thought of as a dumb kid overreacting, and still being no closer to knowing where his parents actually are.

“Hey! You Timmy Drake?” an unfamiliar bass voice calls, and Tim is pulled rudely from his processing. Irked at the nickname in a way he never had been when Jason had used it, Tim turns around to see what’s pretty obviously an unmarked police sedan rolling to a halt on the street near him with two men in polo shirts inside. The one in the driver’s seat has an elbow and part of his head out of the rolled-down window to call out to him, despite the rain.

“It’s Tim,” he corrects automatically.

The driver doesn’t acknowledge the correction, but he gives a little sort of relieved smile and double pat of the window frame that they’ve got the right kid.

“Good news, kid. We got in touch with your mom and dad. They’re home now, and were getting worried aboutcha not bein’ there right when we called. Funny coincidence, huh?” The cops in the passenger seat chuckles along with the driver obediently.

“Yes sir,” Tim says. “Real funny.”

Evidently Tim’s delivery wasn’t as effusively joyous as they had been hoping for, because both of their smiles become a bit fixed. “Come on, kid, hop in,” passenger side cop says. “We’ll bring you to ‘em, save you a trip.”

Tim’s feet remain glued in place. Warning bells have been going off in Tim’s head the whole walk, but he can’t figure out why. Aside from, now, the obvious.

The feeling there’s something he’s missing intensifies, and it finally comes back to him: ‘your big expensive house on the hill.’ A very accurate description of where Tim lives. But how would Bosco know? Unless it was just a good guess. Or metaphorical, like Camelot and the shining city on the hill.

He also remembers, too late, Catwoman mentioning an uptick in corruption at the GCPD, which at the time he had thought was just hyperbole from a known criminal. Now, he’s reconsidering.

They have a car. And weapons. Tim doesn’t even have his taser.

What he does have are his old standbys: Surprise, and cheesing it the heck out of there.

“No thanks. I’m good,” Tim says politely, and turns on his heel, running for the nearest alley too small for a car.

There’s shouting behind him, some cursing, and tires squeal, and he pounds through the alley, dodging trash cans and jumping over what he hopes is a pile of blankets and clothing and not a body. Bursting through and out onto the opposite block, Tim scans his new surroundings frantically. Sushi place, tire store, fro-yo, laundromat - furniture store!

Hoping he’s imagining the sound of a car speeding around the corner already, Tim throws open the door to Ottoman Empire. A startled sales attendant looks over at him past a dining set and over several sofas.

“IBS emergency! Where’s your bathroom?” Tim gasps, clutching his midriff.

The young woman points to the back corner of the store, grimacing in commiseration with his fake gastric woes.

Down a short hallway are two single stall bathrooms. He hurtles into one, slamming and locking the stall door.

Tim is dialing 911 to report almost being kidnapped before he realizes the potential futility. But what else is he supposed to do? Surely even in Gotham not every single person in dispatch or on the force is on the take. Maybe, for once, he’ll get lucky, and someone not crooked will believe him?

Okay, yeah, he hears it as he’s thinking it. Nothing that’s happened in the past several days indicates he’s that lucky.

Someone’s already picked up, though. Improvising it is, then.

“Gotham City Police Department. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“This is Robin,” Tim lies, trying to pitch his voice a little deeper and imitate Jason’s Crime Alley accent. “This needs ta go right to Commissioner Gordon, ya got it? We got two cops, who ain’t in uniform, tryin’ to abduct a little kid right in broad daylight.” Tim describes the color of the vehicle and the last four numbers and letters on the license plate he’d managed to catch before hotfooting it out of reach. “Ya got all that? Right to Gordon, no stops.”

He hangs up and mutes the ringer as the dispatcher is mid-follow up question, hoping it’s enough. Tim puts his back to the wall and slides down until he’s crouched.

He spends a few moments getting distracted from what comes next by the weird patterns in the linoleum. Then the thought occurs to him that at some point the 911 call will probably be traced back to him. Or rather, whichever of his parents’ names is on the phone account.

This is a problem for Future Tim. Right Now Tim has enough problems. For instance, the two gruff male voices he can faintly hear, followed by heavy treads coming down the corridor to the bathrooms.

There’s a loud pounding on the door to his stall. “Police. Open up,” one of them demands rudely.

This is bad. But Detective Drake is not going to give up without a fight.

Robin’s not going to help him this time. Instead, Tim channels old Ms. Andrews, a short and stout lady of means he’d once spent an interminable twenty minutes dancing consecutive foxtrots with at a society party while she reminisced over her great nephew, who apparently had looked just like Tim at that age.

“Occupied, young heathens!” Tim cries, with an indignant falsetto. “How very dare you!”

Ms. Andrews had also afterwards seen his parents drag him away from the dessert table before he’d had a chance to get any, and had later passed him a plate of chocolate crème puffs behind their back with a wink. He hopes she wouldn’t be offended that he’s imitating her. He also hopes she’s not dead yet. There’s not enough nice people in the world, even if some of them smell overwhelmingly of perfume.

There’s a lot of people lately he hopes aren’t dead yet, actually. Some nicer than others.

Outside the door, there’s come confused muttering, and then an emphatic beep and static crackle of their radios crackling in stereo. “Costa, Stentley. This is base.”

One voice curses in annoyance. A click as a radio line is toggled open.

“Roger, base. This is Costa.”

“Return to HQ immediately. Repeat, return to HQ.”

There’s a long groan, and more swearing, but finally, as Tim holds his breath: “Roger that, base. Returning to HQ.”

After another moment that feels like an eternity, Tim hears the sound of two sets of footsteps walking away.

Tim thunks his head back against the wall, arms around his knees, in profound relief that at least one thing has gone right today. Even so, he’s not going to risk exiting the bathroom until he’s absolutely convinced the coast is clear.

The question now is, why would cops try to abduct him? Are they in league with the person or person responsible for whatever is happening with his parents? Were his parents abducted, and now someone’s going for the Drake trifecta? The van of people snooping around his house doesn’t seem like just a coincidental foiled attempt at casual burglary anymore. Tim heartily wishes he’d gotten more of a chance to learn combat moves from Robin when he had the chance.

Another, much more lowering thought presents itself.

Or no. Oh no. Maybe it’s much, much simpler than that. Belatedly, Tim recalls that he has made the horrible mistake of announcing in a wide open bullpen that he, Tim, is not only a rich scion of missing parents, but also is currently living at home completely alone.

It’s a blow, a huge blow, a massive self-inflicted own goal. Anyone on the force, or really anyone in the room, like a Rodney in for jaywalking or someone much worse, who has access to Google and heard his last name can easily figure out his address. And home security can only get you so far.

Tim exits the store as surreptitiously as possible, looking over his shoulders as he scurries to the bus stop.

Alright. Okay. What’s done is done. The important thing is not to panic. Tim just needs a new plan, that’s all.

Step 1 of Tim’s new plan: make sure no one is already lying in wait for him at his home.

Tim pulls up the external camera feed that shows Drake Manor’s driveway on his phone. It captures part of the street and also includes Uncle Eddie’s Lexus, still outside and untouched.

Hunched into the plastic bus seat sideways, back to the wall and peripheral vision on the doors, Tim keeps an eye on the manor cameras for absolutely anything out of place the entire bus ride home.

Opening up his laptop quickly once inside his Blanket Fortress office, Tim executes Step 2: figure out if Bosco was telling the truth. If he was lying about Tim’s parents being technically neglectful and the whole social worker foster home thing, then he’ll switch over to step 2A: infiltrate the GCPD and hole up in the Commissioner’s office, him being the only law enforcement official Tim knows for sure he can trust.

Tim scrolls through the relevant statutes in Gotham’s penal code twice, to make sure he’s understood it properly, pulling one knee up and chewing on a knuckle the second time through. When he’s sure he didn’t make a mistake the first time around, he closes his laptop and sits back.

Mom and Dad must not know it’s wrong, Tim thinks uneasily. He is even more unsettled a moment later, when he remembers some of the things said in the argument he’d had with Jason after falling asleep in Wayne Manor.

Tim’s not allergic to making apologies when they’re warranted. Jason’s been brutally clear as Robin, though, that Tim’s not actually his friend. He’s just some kind of case Robin’s been working, trying to figure out why he was out that night with the Joker. Looking back on it, it’s obvious his alter ego was getting close to Tim for that purpose, Tim even knew it at the time; he’d just managed to subconsciously forget about that, to convince himself that the friendship was real. And Jason’s been equally as clear in both identities that he thinks Tim’s mom and dad are terrible people, which - which just isn’t true, okay? They’re good people who have done some not-good things, is all. Probably accidentally, even. Nobody’s perfect. It’s not like his mom and dad are in league with a supervillain or something. When they’re back, all of this can get cleared up, and then he can apologize to Jason for not believing him about the legal definition of neglect. In retrospect, he should have realized that a Robin would undoubtedly be much more familiar with Gotham’s criminal code than Tim.

Thinking of the devil, when Tim opens his phone to check the outdoor cameras again, which are still clear, he sees he’s gotten another text from Jason.

Wanna come on an evening walk with Ace?

Tim declines with prejudice. No thanks. Spending the night with a friend.

This is Step 2B. In the short term, no one’s going to be taking Tim to any secondary locations tonight, or finding Tim home at all, is what Tim has to say about that. If someone comes looking, they’ll find that Tim’s made plans to spend the night with a friend. Any friend; friend TBD. Tim briefly and wholeheartedly wishes Ives were here, and healthy; so many things would be different, would be better, if he had been. But he isn’t, and it’s not like Tim doesn’t have other options, though not nearly as great: he could always ask a friend from gymnastics or karate if he can stay for a night or two, until he can figure something else out, if there’s anyone poking around while he’s gone. He’s also got a couple classmates who still owe him some favors for tutoring, one or more would be willing to give him an alibi that would satisfy a nosy Wayne, if not an actual place to stay.

Tim shrugs to himself. That piece he can figure out as he goes.

Jason replies: oh, nice. Maybe tomorrow, then?

Tim leaves him on read, and refuses to feel bad about it. He’s on a time crunch and he’s got a lot on his plate right now. There will be time to obsess about social anxieties later.

Tim instead moves along to Step 3: find his parents before he has to figure out how to Home Alone himself an abductor-proof Drake Manor.

Tim grabs his night backpack, which he should have brought with him earlier today, and starts stuffing it full of contingency items, keeping his phone open to the camera feeds as he does. As he packs, the lurking feeling of running out of time grows.

A change of clothes, couple extra sets of underwear, his yellow ball cap with the karate gym logo on it, and a tuxedo rolled tightly to prevent as many wrinkles as possible go in the backpack.

Nothing has gone to plan so far. He hasn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but things are starting to feel like they are falling apart around Tim, like he’s trying to grab hold of water by squeezing it in his fist. If he spends too much time thinking about this, though, he’s going to… He doesn’t even know. Fall apart? Lose it? Hide under the sheets forever until future archeologists uncover his skeletal remains?

He doesn’t have time for that nonsense, the creeping dread pulling his stomach down. Tim’s Detective Drake, gosh dang it, and he’s got this.

Tim opens the air conditioning vent, and both the encrypted flash drive with all his Bat-spotting photos and a clean backup one get moved into a hidden interior pocket of his backpack, just in case someone does get into the house and does an incredibly thorough job of burglarizing it. In also goes the hard case that now contains his laptop and a Ziploc bag with photo of him and his parents and the flying Graysons, which is irreplaceable and therefore can’t be left behind, for the same reason. An old picture of him and Ives, and after waffling for a minute, the birthday card Jason had given him go in next, for luck.

Tim brings the security camera feed with him as he crosses the hallway into his parents’ office, setting it down nearby on his father’s desk. The huge framed abstract art piece that hangs on the wall between the desks gets leaned carefully against his mother’s.

It only takes Tim six tries to correctly guess the combination to the safe. He swings the thick door open, exposing a bunch of artifacts with handwritten tags looped on loosely, which Tim presumes they haven’t gotten around to putting out or finding buyers for yet. Creepily, one has very striking green eyes that, if he were a much less scientifically minded person, he would almost imagine glow slightly and follow his movements as he reaches in for what he’s actually here for: a wad of cash.

Tim imagines, more realistically, that his mom and dad would approve of this if they knew. His parents have always talked about what they call “the Gotham tax,” for when it becomes necessary to “grease the wheels” and do slightly less than above board things like a bit of extra tipping in order to “get shit done.”

And, well. Tim now needs to get shit done, and the shit that currently needs doing is getting his parents back, which obviously is a thing his parents would agree is necessary.

There’s still nothing on the monitors, and Tim resets the office to its usual arrangement before going back to the Fortress and dividing the cash up between his wallet, his socks, the laptop hard case and several of the more subtle pockets of the backpack.

Being prepared, having some kind of plan in the face of the unknown, even if it ends up going as off-rails as the other ones he’s made lately, still makes him feel slightly better.

Even though he has serious doubts that any self-respecting housebreaker or potential abductor would take Stuart the goose, impulse has him trying to stuff his becowled beak in regardless.

Stuart won’t fit. Which is completely fine, because Tim is not a child and he no longer needs stuffed animals for his emotional wellbeing.

Tim puts the goose in pride of place on the pillowcase covered book table instead, and fluffs out the replica Batman cape until it’s as fearsome as it’s possible for a stuffed goose to be. In the small bit of space remaining in the backpack, Tim instead shoves in snacks and his camera on top of that.

“Guard the house, Bat-Goose,” Tim orders, and heads out.

Looking outside, the coast is still clear of sinister ne’er-do-wells, but the storm that’s been threatening all afternoon is approaching. Not wanting the several valuable things currently in his backpack to get damaged, Tim rummages through the coat closet, considering and discarding a few large umbrellas before grabbing his dad’s old rain jacket instead. It’s huge on him; big enough to wear over his backpack. It’ll make him look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but it’ll get the job done.

Shutting the front door and re-arming the security system, Tim takes a deep breath. It’s time for Step 4: track down his two remaining leads.

Tim’s a detective. A gumshoe. A problem solver. A planner. He’s clever and independent and has access to cash, his parents’ credit card, and a bus pass. He can take care of himself, and do what it takes to solve the case and get his parents back.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The thunderstorm that’s been threatening all afternoon has blown in by the time the bus arrives, and spends most of its fury on the ride to Miller Harbor.

Tim descends the three wet steps of the bus and hops onto the street. Hood up and dripping, Tim weaves between the sea of umbrellas down the sidewalk, until the foot traffic eventually starts to fade as he gets close to the address he’d copied off Rosa’s calendar, the location of the meeting she’d had several days ago.

Tim’s eyebrows come together as he slowly makes his way through the block. It seems unusually abandoned for this section of town. It’s getting late in the day, but not so late that hardly anyone is outdoors.

Meandering closer, he finds the street number corresponds to a hole in the wall restaurant that seems decently maintained. A nautically themed sign over the door reads Adelie’s. Peering through the windows as he slowly passes the storefront, Tim notes no obvious dust, chairs are set out at tables, but it somehow still lacks the feel of an actively used restaurant. Tim’s vibe check is confirmed by the closed sign hanging over the sign where the hours are posted, which lists that Adelie’s should be open now.

Lots of restaurants in Gotham are fronts for mob activity, and this couldn’t be more clearly one if it tried. Which begs the question: why was Rosa meeting someone here?

Seeing a security camera covering the front door, Tim keeps moving down the sidewalk, turning the corner and peeking down the alley that provides a service route for the storefronts on this block. What it does not cover, Tim is pleased to note, is the upper floors.

This block was built before modern construction standards, and the buildings are squeezed together closely enough that it’s easy for someone motivated and fit to find a fire escape at one end of the block that doesn’t have video cameras pointed at it to climb up and leap across some rooftop gaps back to Adelie’s. Simple as well for Tim to go down a fire escape here, above camera range, find an unlocked window and shimmy inside the second floor. Feet first.

It’s obvious no one is here; Tim’s basically an expert witness on that particular brand of silence. Still, he’s not any louder than he needs to be, going down a back set of stairs, which turn out to lead through the kitchen.

Of course, Tim isn’t an expert on restaurant management, but at first glance nothing seems super obviously out of place, except the smell is a bit unpleasant, even for a fish restaurant. Even in the dim light of his phone flashlight, Tim can tell the kitchen is kept very clean. Spotless, in fact. Stainless steel prep surfaces shine, with pots and pans and tools hung up and sets of knives neatly pressed against magnetic strips of metal on the walls.

Tim wrinkles his nose. It’s just the smell that seems kind of off. A mix of fish odor and industrial cleaning supplies. But then, he reasons, fish smell bad generally, right? No one’s going around wearing fish scented cologne.

With the vague thought of checking for office areas to see if maybe there’s a record of the meeting with Rosa, or clues about why the meeting was held here instead of somewhere less fishy, Tim doesn’t bother inspecting the kitchen more thoroughly.

Past the kitchen is another hallway that might lead to an office, with extra storage freezers humming in the rooms closest. On this side of the kitchen, though, the smell gets worse.

It’s like rotting fish, or what Tim imagines that would smell like. He’s a detective, not a fisherman. How would he know.

The odor grows instead of decreases as Tim leaves the kitchen.

The hairs start to raise on the back of Tim’s neck.

Something is wrong.

Hesitating, he ignores his better instincts and follows his nose into the storage room, which holds a walk-in freezer.

Detective Drake goes where the evidence leads, even when he has a really, really bad feeling about it.

Tim stretches out a hand, and opens up the freezer door. The shelves are filled with crates of frozen fish, perishable ingredients neatly stacked side by side.

On the floor of the freezer, though, is something long and wrapped in clear plastic, secured with duct tape.

Rosa’s empty eyes stare up at him beneath the plastic.

Chapter Text

A true detective never gives up, no matter how tough the case may seem.
- Encyclopedia Brown

It’s definitely Rosa. Beneath the clear plastic, which is slightly frosted at the edges, her frown lines are permanent in death. She is still wearing her cross necklace, and her curls have slipped out of a messy bun. Her filmy eyes are open, frozen forever in dull surprise.

Tim has a very, very close call with throwing up right there in the freezer. His vision is starting to do strange things around the edges. He backs away, and barely makes it back into the enormous stainless steel dish sink in the kitchen before giving up his last few meals. 

When his stomach stops convulsing, Tim rinses the sick down the drain and takes some deep breaths, trying to gather himself. 

It seems Tim’s somehow piloting his shaking body from slightly outside of it, like the mystical lady from Doctor Strange has punched Tim six inches behind himself, and he’s watching the rest of his body moving around from behind a pane of glass. 

Tim and Tim’s body take hitching breaths, then slowly, reluctantly, go back to the door of the freezer. There’s very little Tim can do for Rosa now, but he takes pictures with shaking hands for evidence. Maybe it will help when someone finds who did this to her, in case whoever murdered her gets rid of Rosa’s remains before Batman or the police get there. Or in case the police get rid of the evidence when they get there, which seems pretty likely to Tim at this point.

It’s hard to zip back up his padded camera case and then his backpack over it, with his fingers feeling tingly and numb, not entirely attached to wherever real Tim is at the moment. 

“I’m sorry, Rosa,” his body whispers, voice wavering up and down jaggedly through the sentence. 

Panic starts to swell up in him at the thought of his parents stuffed in another freezer somewhere, wrapped up in plastic and duct tape. Tim should have moved faster, figured this out sooner, taken it seriously instead of wallowing in selfish misery as soon as they never made it home from the airport. 48 hours, the golden hours, have passed. He’s read enough about criminology to know what that means for the odds of finding them alive.

Tim blinks, and his body is walking down a street, quickly, but not quickly enough to attract attention. The storm cell has blown through, but instead of breaking the humidity, it’s left behind puddles and a muggy cloud cover that brings twilight several hours early.

Tim absently hopes his body had remembered to avoid the cameras on the way out of the restaurant. 

Tim’s beginning to accept he might seriously be in over his head. The past few days, he’s been walking further and further out onto damp sand, looking for clues, and while he’s been searching for his mom and dad, high tide has come in around him. All at once, he’s extremely alone, trying to get back to dry land in the far distance. As he tries desperately to swim to safety, though, bigger and bigger waves keep breaking over his head, threatening to drag him under the sea to drown.

Tim also starts to admit to himself what he’s been doing his absolute best to ignore for what feels like forever now: he’s scared. 

He’s beyond scared, really. He’s terrified, and he’s completely alone, and he’s never felt more like a little kid who wants an adult to step in and take care of things in his entire life.

Tim needs help, quickly, help that the police aren’t going to give him. 

Tim’s brain is trailing along behind his body like a balloon on a string. He doesn’t know what to do, or what’s coming next, and for someone whose best thing in life is figuring out these kinds of things, that’s almost scarier than everything else.

Think, Tim, think. His warm molasses thoughts ooze sluggishly inside his brain, refusing to obey. The only thing that bubbles to the top of his mind is the old standby: What would Robin do?

If Robin got in trouble, he’d call Batman for backup, Tim thinks. 

Even Robin needs help sometimes. Even Batman needs help sometimes - that’s like the whole point of Robin, isn’t it?

For a long moment, Tim thinks about just coming clean: making a run for Wayne Manor, laying it all out. His breath starts coming faster again, and he feels even more queasy at the idea of kindly Alfred opening the door, guiding him into the warm and cozy spaces, all unknowing that Tim’s a massive liar, and then having to confess to Jason, who now dislikes him, and Batman himself, the Dark Knight of Justice, to their faces that he knows their deepest secrets and has been offered their kindness over the past several weeks under false pretenses.

Though actually, it’s Jason that has betrayed Tim’s trust by pretending to be his friend, by yelling at him and insulting him, by thinking Tim’s parents are bad people! And now, knowing what Tim knows, and finding out the terrible thing that’s happened to Rosa - if he tells Jason that, Jason will think - Jason will think his parents - that they have been doing - maybe even that Tim has…

No. He can’t. He’s getting lightheaded just thinking about it.

Tim just needs to find a way to talk to Batman without letting either of them know that Tim knows, is all. Without Jason finding out about any of the rest of it and thinking even worse things about Tim and his parents, and then Batman can track down his mom and dad, who - who are alive, and waiting for him. And in the meantime, while Batman takes care of things and after Tim finishes tracking down his last lead and can give that piece to Batman too, Tim can find somewhere to lay low for a bit. He’ll stay with a friend, where the cops and whoever else hurt Rosa and are keeping his parents from coming home won’t ever think to look. And then - and then things can just - get back to normal. 

Tim swallows hard. Except for poor Rosa. Things will never be the same for her.

The panic starts to swell up again even more forcefully, Tim’s heart beating so fast he can hear it rushing in his ears. 

Tim is so scared he can hardly think straight. Tim is not in any state to handle things right now. Maybe this is how Jason and Dick feel sometimes, Tim thinks. Maybe that’s part of why they become Robin and Nightwing instead. 

This is a comforting thought, regardless of how true it is.

Detective Drake isn’t overwhelmed by fear. Detective Drake can put all the rest of it aside to deal with later, and move on to get things done.

Detective Drake packages the parts of Tim that aren’t useful to him right now and shoves them to the side, to deal with when he’s safe and has everything else taken care of.

Okay, Detective Drake. Solve this mystery: How to get Batman a message to meet, alone, without involving the police or Jason, and without tipping off Batman about knowing their identities?

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Sleeping well into the day after their late night, Jason has spent most of the rainy afternoon in his favorite armchair in a secluded corner of the main library, knees bent over one armrest and shoulders against the other. 

Rainy days are the best days to curl up and read in a safe, warm, quiet space, Jason has always found, especially when there’s something shitty weighing on his mind.

Ace has curled up on a nest of Dick’s old sweatshirts in a basket nearby, drying off from the dripping wet walk Jason had dragged him on, that just so happened to pass the neighbors. He’d knocked on the door to Drake Manor, hoping to put a bug in Uncle Eddie’s ear about Timmy’s early onset teenage rebellion nighttime wanderings, but no one had been home. Or at least, no one had answered. So maybe Tim had been telling the truth about spending the day with his uncle after all.

When brooding over thorny problems such as how to solve a problem like Tim  and the curious incidents of a Drake in the night-time, Jason often has found it helpful to page through the classics while he thinks, waiting for inspiration to strike. And waiting for Tim to text him back.

Instead of being helpful, however, he’s been stuck on The Outsiders. There’s a bit in it that’s always rubbed him a bit on the raw, where Sodapop tells Ponyboy not to mind too much being yelled at by Darry, that he’s ‘just got more worries than somebody his age ought to.’

Jason has always felt that Ponyboy had every right to be upset at being yelled at, in fact. The irony of it isn’t a comfortable thing to ruminate on at the moment, though, given how badly he’s mishandled trying to help Tim, who clearly doesn’t understand how fucked up his parents are and how insanely dangerous his hobby of running around the worst parts of Gotham after dark is, which he’s apparently bullheadedly insistent on continuing for reasons Jason still doesn’t understand. 

Annoyed with himself and his apparent inability to keep his worst habits from getting the better of him when Tim finds a way to get under his skin, Jason skims more pages of the book absently, stopping again when another phrase grabs him. 

“Sixteen years on the streets and you can learn a lot. But all the wrong things, not the things you wanna learn."

A summer storm comes and goes while Jason broods, the novel spine down and open on his lap, propped against his thighs. His thoughts randomly jump from point to point like the lightning outside, between a boy from Bristol wandering Crime Alley, syringes and broken beer bottles, raised voices and empty promises, vanilla and chocolate birthday cakes, and a boy from Crime Alley wandering around Bristol. 

Mostly, though, his thoughts keep unwillingly coming back to Bruce repeating: focus on controlling your anger, Robin, don’t let it control you. 

Jason is starting to understand that Bruce has more of a point than he’s entirely willing to admit out loud yet. And that even knowing it, being fully aware when not in the moment that it might be the worst possible way to react to clever, feisty, loyal, squirrelly as fuck Timmy Drake, anger is a feeling that’s still a hell of a lot easier for Jason to manage than helpless fear. And what does that say about Jason? 

Nothing good.

Jason’s still thinking about this when an enormous pile of flowers the size of a large bush walks into the room and stops in front of his armchair. 

Bruce’s head appears from behind the blossoms, and he sets down the urn that contains them heavily on the closest marble topped side table that isn’t stacked with Jason’s to-be-read piles. Bruce stands grimly next to the cheery flowers, folding his arms across his chest and staring expectantly down at his son.

Jason doesn’t have the brain space right now to muster much enthusiasm for Bruce’s new date of the week sending him flowers. Still, Jason tries to be polite. “Got another secret admirer?”

“Not an admirer,” Bruce says stoically. “Not sure about the secret.”

Ah. Bruce is in a cryptic mood. It takes him like that sometimes. Jason shrugs indifferently, changing gears. “Got another public enemy sending you flowers?”

Bruce gives him a look that’s several shades lighter, but still recognizably a cousin of the Bat-Glare, then flicks him an embossed card from between two fingers, like a batarang. 

Jason catches it easily. “Thank you for the thoughtful gesture, Mr. Wayne,” it reads. “I am often busy with work and caregiving for young Timothy, but I look forward to making your acquaintance.”

It’s signed “Edwin Drake.”

“Ooookay,” Jason says, trying to make sense of this, slotting this oddly shaped new piece into the puzzle of Timmy Drake. “Is sending your neighbors giant funereal flower arrangements with a calling card like it’s 19th century London another disgustingly-rich-person thing I don’t understand?”

“It’s not generally known to be, no,” Bruce says flatly.

“These flowers were delivered to me late this morning, according to Alfred, who felt unable to leave such an unusually large arrangement outside, despite being virulently unwell.”

Jason frowns. “Alfie should really be staying in bed.”

Bruce is still looking at him like an interrogation technique, waiting for the suspect to fill the silence with a confession.

It’s as good a time as any to come clean and admit he’s royally fucked up in re: Tim. “Okay, look,” Jason sighs. “I’ve been trying to handle this on my own, but that thing I told you I need your help with? There’s a problem, and I think I messed up big time trying to solve it, and now I don’t know how to fix it. It’s about Tim.”

Bruce’s expression does not change. “I had a suspicion it might be.”

“Well. If you’re going to be like that about it,” Jason starts, but Bruce talks over him.

“I also just got an extremely interesting text from Selina Kyle.”

What the hell does that have to do with anything? Jason wonders, clapping his hands over his ears. “I don’t need to hear about your gross sexploits, B.”

Instead of sternly telling him to be more respectful towards all women, especially Catwoman, as he expects, Bruce says, Bat-Glare cousin becoming a very close sibling: “The text was regarding Tim Drake.”

Dropping his hands, Jason feels his eyes bugging out of his head and his jaw going slack. For once, he finds himself at a complete loss for words.

Eyebrows moving from suspicion to confusion, expression softening as Jason continues gaping like a beached trout, Bruce correctly infers, “But you don’t have any idea why our young neighbor, only child of rich parents Timothy Jackson Drake, straight A student, polite and well-mannered to a fault, is cashing in a favor he has somehow earned from Catwoman to set up a clandestine meet with Batman. Alone, without Robin, specifically. At a bus depot in midtown.”

After several moments, Jason regains the power of speech, by a razor thin margin. “What the fuck has he done now. Oh my God. How the fuck - why the fuck - when did he fucking - Fuck that. I’m coming. Let’s go! Step on it, old man.”

Allowing himself to be shoved out of the library, Bruce insists, “I believe I deserve an explanation.”

Deliberately misinterpreting this in favor of the bigger picture, which is Tim Sneaky-Ass Fucking Drake and his increasingly alarming hobbies and habits, Jason says, “Yeah, well, so do I. Get in line.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Selina answers right away, and comes through for him very few questions asked, which Tim is very grateful for. Now all he has to do is wait on the corner of a roof over the main bus depot in Gotham, where the railroad line stops at the botanical gardens, on the border of Burnley and Newtown. 

It’s a central location, well populated even in the evening, and will make it easy for Tim to grab a bus to the Diamond District when he’s done. Most importantly, all this without giving away that he knows where Batman’s home base is by arranging a meet too close to Bristol. 

Tim spends the wait sitting with his back pressed against the corner of the roof, so no one can sneak up on him, mechanically compiling all the evidence he has and putting it on the spare jump drive.

He’s spent so many nights unseen, invisibly following Batman and Robin around the city, that it isn’t as startling as it could be when Batman’s form materializes onto the roof from the shadows, which in spite of everything still manages to look incredibly cool.

Tim stands up, shouldering on his backpack and darting a wary glance around the area as he walks towards the much larger figure.

“Timothy Drake,” Batman says, and the rough edged granite growl saying his name, not the erudite baritone of ‘just Bruce’ sends goosebumps up his arms, even though he knows Batman doesn’t hurt kids.

“Tim,” he corrects quietly, though of course Mr. Wayne already knows this. “I prefer Tim.”

“And here I thought you liked being called Jack,” a confident, brash, and annoyed voice says from the side, making Tim jump. “So what’s Tim Drake doing tryna meet up with Batman after dark in the middla Gotham City?”

Jason is sitting on the edge of the roof, now, one foot up on the ledge, knee bent and elbow on it, with faux-nonchalance. He’s got the whiteouts up, but he’s obviously glaring at Tim. Feeling like he’s been startled halfway back into his body by Jason’s sudden and unwanted appearance, Tim glares right back.

“Robin,” Batman rumbles quellingly, “We agreed you would stay in the car.”

“Funny thing about that,” Robin says, flicking an imaginary piece of dirt carelessly off one arm with the other hand, then resting it back on the bent knee. “Got it on good authority that it doesn’t count if I don’t make no verbal agreement.”

Batman is looking between the two of them, the shrewd gaze noting the unsubtle undertones of prior conflict here.

“‘Sides. Figured you might need another set of eyes, B. Timmy here’s a little raccoon: nocturnal, sneaky, always getting into places and situations he’s got no business being in.”

Tim says truthfully, as cuttingly as he can manage, “I’m only out here alone at night right now to meet Batman because my parents are missing. I couldn’t be safer than right here with you, not that that’s the point.”

“That’s enough, Robin,” Batman says, then moves closer to Tim, cape swishing impressively, slightly blocking his view of Jason. 

“Tim, your parents are missing?”

Tim nods, with an even more intense feeling of unreality standing here in full view of Batman and Robin, no camera lenses between them, asking Batman to take his case.

“I see,” Batman says, low and distorted voice more gentle than Tim would have expected it could be. “That is distressing.”

Tim nods again.

“I understand you are currently staying with your uncle. Has he filed a missing persons report?”

Why does everyone keep asking about Uncle Eddie when Tim is the one who noticed them missing? “No,” Tim admits, feeling himself starting to fade back behind his body a bit, now that he doesn’t have the luxury of being actively angry with Jason. He’s got to be careful, mature, make Mr. Wayne listen, or it’ll be the GCPD all over again.

Batman frowns. “Why?”

“Because he doesn’t think there’s a problem,” Tim invents, based on his extensive experience with the adults in his life. But, he doesn’t want the adult currently in front of him to get the idea that Uncle Eddie is right to be blasé about it. “Yet,” he adds hurriedly. “Uncle Eddie just got here. I know it takes a while to really recover enough from travel to want to have a conversation with a kid. Even if it actually is, in this case, really important and time sensitive? I know better than to have bothered an adult right after they got here. He just thought it was kid problems I was trying to bug him with, but once he understands the situation a bit better I’m sure he will also be on board.”

Batman is very still. Behind him, in the silence, Jason says, “What the f-“

“I …appreciate your concerns, Tim,” says Batman, slowly, over Jason’s interruption. “I’d really like to speak with your Uncle Eddie, however, as soon as possible.”

Heart sinking, Tim regretfully figures, at this point, he really should have anticipated this. Nobody takes Tim seriously. Not even Batman and Robin. Make up an imaginary adult, and suddenly that’s the only person anybody ever wants to talk to.

“I really don’t think that will be necessary,” Tim says firmly, trying to hide his desperation. “He doesn’t know anything about my parents’ disappearance. He wasn’t here. He just got into town because my parents had asked him to keep an eye on things for a little while. He hasn’t been investigating, trying to find them, like I have.” Tim shuffles closer to Batman, having to crane his neck up as he gets close, offering him the jump drive on an open palm. “All the clues and information I’ve collated are there in the files. He won’t be able to give you any more than what I already have here. There’s more, too -“

Tim trails off as Batman takes the drive from his sweaty palm in the same gauntleted fist Tim had seen him use last week to punch a whole entire criminal straight through a plate glass window ten feet away. Tim takes two small steps back.

Jason must decide he’s been left in the background too long, because he pops out from behind Batman’s cape, face beneath the mask pinched like he’s been trying to swallow a lemon whole. “You’ve been investigating your parents’ disappearance? By yourself? Why didn’t you - aren’t there any friends nearby you could have asked for help?”

Performatively addressing Batman, Tim informs them icily: “The only close friend I could have gone to has cancer and moved out of state months ago.”

Jason seems to be having a hard time with the lemon-swallowing. “The only close friend?”

“Yeah. I thought I had another, and I was gonna tell him about it, but it turns out he wasn’t my friend after all.”

It’s hard to tell with the masks, but it seems that Batman’s attention subtly shifts to Jason, who is spluttering uncomfortably, and who Tim is still refusing to look at, having retreated behind the pane of glass that’s keeping Detective Drake in control. 

“Wh- but - I’m sure that’s not true. Wait, but why the hell didn’t you just tell me?”

Tim’s emotions are still mostly a few inches ahead, with his body, which is fortunate, because the small distance from them saves him from an eye roll massive enough to cause himself brain damage. 

Clearly someone needs to continue to remind Jason about the concept of secret identities. Wondering why he suddenly has to do absolutely everything around here, Tim widens his eyes innocently, finally making eye to whiteout contact with Jason. Tim asks mildly, “How would I possibly know how to contact Robin if I needed him?”

Stumped at this, Jason frowns, and Tim furthers the point, with more asperity. “Besides, the last time I saw you, you told me I was a naive idiot! Why the heck would I trust you? This is why I asked for only Batman’s help!”

Without moving, Batman has managed to increase his size menacingly over the last few exchanges, and is now looming over his son. 

“Robin,” he orders, voice like thunder. Tim quietly scoots further back. “Apologize, and explain yourself.”

Jason looks both upset and also like he’s about to commit murder, but otherwise unphased by having Batman’s ire turned on him. “Look, I was tryna keep you safe, because you keep fuckin’ around Gotham doing insane shit like being out on a rollercoaster tangling with the Joker. Or falling off a roof. Or out doing God-knows-what in Crime Alley after you promised me not to come out at night anymore!”

“I told you I never promised that!”

Unfortunately, this now draws Batman’s gaze over to pin Tim. “Exactly how many times have you come out to Gotham at night unsupervised, Tim?”

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Tim tries frantically to calculate an answer that won’t result in Batman being angry with him.

Taking this as vindication, Jason crosses his arms. “Yeah, Tim. I’d like to know that, too.”

This interjection brings Batman’s attention back to his son. “I’d also like to know why I wasn’t aware of the apparently multiple times you witnessed an unaccompanied minor at night in Gotham and omitted it from your mission reports, Robin. We will be discussing that later.”

Tim crosses his own arms, tilting up his chin defiantly in Jason’s direction. “Well, well, well. Look whose pants are on fire now.”

Forebodingly, Batman changes the angle of his looming to Tim again, who instinctively tries to make himself look smaller without moving any part of his body, an unsatisfactory meal for an over-large predator. Batman’s a hero. He doesn’t hurt kids, Tim reminds himself, because his body seems to be having a hard time remembering this tonight. 

“I’d still like an answer to my question, however, Tim,” Batman says, and Tim knows an order that expects instant obedience, phrased like a polite request, when he hears one.

“I have come out ..a time or two, on my own,” Tim equivocates. “And when my parents went missing, I started looking into where they went. Myself. I didn’t know at first if I was overthinking everything, they don’t usually tell me their schedule and I thought - it doesn’t matter what I thought. And when - and when I went to the GCPD earlier today to make the missing persons report - well. They wouldn’t let me talk to Commissioner Gordon or file a report, and also some other cops tried to abduct me off the street right after I tried. But I called in to 911 with their plate number and told dispatch I was Robin and to get it to Gordon about those guys being dirty. So hopefully the Commissioner has got that part taken care of. Um, I hope you don’t mind me impersonating Robin? I’m sorry, it was just a bit of an emergency.”

Tim hears Jason wheeze like an out of tune accordion. I guess he does mind me calling myself Robin, Tim thinks, shrinking inwardly even further, before remembering, wait, he’s mad at Jason.

Tim hurries on, before Jason can get them all sidetracked again. “So I tracked down another lead, when no one would listen. And that’s when,” he can’t finish the sentence, throat dry all of a sudden, the glass that’s keeping things at bay enough for Detective Drake to function cracking ominously, “that’s when I found out my nanny was murdered, and I think, I think I need help? I think my parents might be next, if they aren’t - if they haven’t already-“

The glass is abruptly shattering, gone. Tim’s suddenly falling back into himself, painful and shocking, breathing becoming ragged, and it’s awful, overwhelming, feeling everything all at once, now that he’s said it out loud, like he’s made it all real by speaking it into existence.

Batman makes a move like he’s reaching for Tim, and Tim shies back automatically.

Beside him, Jason has straightened, arms dropping to his sides. In an entirely different tone, he asks, “What do you mean, you found out your nanny is dead?”

Batman’s hand is back at his side, as though he’d never moved. “What evidence is there to indicate that your nanny is no longer alive?”

Before he can answer either of these questions, Jason is asking, redundantly, “How do you know?”

Tim’s starting to get the shakes again, and he tries to grab for Detective Drake’s calm, but it slips through his fingers this time. “Because I just found her body.”

Jason freezes. Batman repeats slowly, “You found her body.”

Tim has been trying hard this entire time to not keep picturing Rosa’s dead body, and maybe it’s the strain of that effort that results in his words now coming out like a verbal firehose. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. My parents - they had a big argument with Rosa. It was the night before they left for their dig. I don’t know what it was about, they didn’t say if they fired her or she quit or what, but she left without saying goodbye. And then there was a weird email from her, a week ago, that my parents read but didn’t respond to. It sounded - well, it sounded bad. Like maybe a threat. And - and then there was a text from someone else, telling my parents it was in their best interests to come home. They changed their flights and came back that same day. I thought - it was stupid, I thought at first they were coming back early for my birthday. They made it on the flight, and made it back to Gotham, but then they never came home. No one was expecting them back at work. They didn’t have anything on their DI or their social calendars, and that never happens. So - so I went looking for Rosa, to see if she knew anything about where my mom and dad went. She wasn’t home, but um, I looked on her computer, and she had a meeting on her calendar a few nights ago, it was the only thing that looked unusual. No one I could find had seen her after that. So after I tried to report my mom and dad missing and that went badly, I went to where the meeting was supposed to have been, and - and she was still there.” Tim’s eyes prickle, and he feels that sickly hot and cold at the same time feeling again. “Her body, I mean.” His breath hitches, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep talking about this. “There’s more, but - will you please just look into finding my mom and dad? Will you please take the case?”

Batman’s voice is completely unreadable to Tim, low and gravelly, rocks rolling downhill. “Much more concerning to me is your safety, at the moment.”

Tim’s stomach drops at Batman’s refusal to look into his parents, heart jackrabbiting. “But I’m fine now! Is this about the cops trying to nab me? Because I got away.”

No one seems to pay any  attention to this, which shouldn’t be surprising to Tim at this point, but it still manages to feel like a betrayal, coming from Batman and Robin.

Jason’s face is pale, with angry splotches of color beneath the domino on his cheeks. “What the f- Are you kidding me right now? Your nanny’s been gone since your parents left? In May?”

This is exactly why Tim hadn’t wanted Jason here, to knock over his Jenga tower of lies completely. Well, one of a few reasons.

Jason steps forward, getting further and further into Tim’s personal space as he talks. “You got no business running around Gotham at night, Timmy! Alone! With no one to help you, or even know you were out there at all!” Jason’s voice cracks with the force of his emotion. “What the fuck! The first and second times I saw you, you fell. You would have died if I hadn’t been there to save you, fer chrissake! You woulda died!”

Batman is next to Jason, also now partially in Tim’s space because of it, a quelling hand out. “Robin. Stand down.”

Backing away a few steps, heart racing, Tim rebuts defensively, aiming for bravado he does not feel, “You would have gotten sprayed with Joker venom if I hadn’t distracted him! I only fell the first time because you netted the Joker and he tripped on me, and I only fell the second time because you snuck up and jumpscared me! I would have been fine if you’d left me alone!”

None of this softens Jason, Tim’s refusal to back down riling the older boy up even more. “Oh yeah? And what woulda happened if I’da left you alone with the Joker? You gotta death wish, is that it, huh? If you’re not out knocking on death’s door every night, you sure as hell are running up his front porch steps! You’re barely out of diapers, Tiny Tim! A stiff breeze could take you out, look at you! You need supervision to keep you alive, you need a leash, you need a collar with a goddamn bell on it!”

Jason’s only prevented from getting directly in Tim’s face by Batman suddenly getting there instead, caped back to Tim, imposing and formidable, grabbing his son by both shoulders and booming: “Robin! Control yourself!”

Tim’s mind is instantly and completely filled with angry shouts, slamming doors, stomping footsteps, broken objects, departing taillights, cold chills and empty staring eyes under plastic. His brain is outside his body again, leaving his ability to plan, to figure out what to do next back inside it. 

His body decides for him while the others are distracted, and it chooses the only strategy that’s yet to fail him so far: Run. Hide.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim blinks, and his hands are shimmying down a drainpipe. 

He blinks again, and he’s under the awnings that keep the crowds waiting to board buses from the rain, weaving through queues as quickly as he dares.

He’s got seconds, at most. Tim makes a sharp turn around a corner and finds safety: a long distance bus, almost fully boarded, luggage doors folded up and open. He looks around; for the moment, no one is watching, no shapes are following him in the shadows yet. 

Tim silently dives in and scrambles behind a heap of large duffel bags. A quick peek confirms there are safety latches on the inside of the doors. 

He curls up tight, hugging his ankles close and thinking small thoughts. Every moment he’s positive an angry face will poke into the open cargo hold, but it doesn’t come. There’s no cries or surprise or alarm nearby, only the bustle of people moving, the rumble of engines and the occasional release of hydraulic brakes and exhaust, the dull sound of muted conversation and footsteps over his head.

It seems like ages but is probably only a few minutes before the legs of the driver come into view. Tim holds his breath, but nothing happens except the folding doors being pulled down, closing with metallic clicks.

Tim is left in total darkness. In another minute, the bus moves forward with a jolt.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Batman was supposed to help! But now that he’s messed things up and lied so much to Jason, he’s so angry with Tim and now Batman is mad at Jason, and now neither of them will help and now how is he supposed to save his parents?

His teeth are chattering despite the stifling warmth and stale, close, gasoline scented air. 

Tim just wants none of this to be happening anymore. He wants to go back to when he and Jason were playing in the backyard with Ace, and his parents were on their way to take him to dinner for his birthday. 

When he comes back to himself, his eyes are warm and staring into the darkness, and he’s making a soft, wobbly hnnnnnnn noise which is frankly unnerving. He stops, digs his fingernails into his ankles to get hold of himself again, and feels steadier after a bit.

Focus on what’s necessary. Just what’s necessary to get his parents back. Nothing else.

Okay. Okay. Alright. New plan. If they’re not going to help him, he’ll just have to take his business elsewhere. And honestly? He’ll be better off in a different city for the moment, his house is the first place they’ll look. 

Thank Past Tim for his planning and loaded backpack. He has a few hours before he has to get back to Gotham for the last piece of the investigation. He’s got just enough time to get to Blüdhaven and back, if he’s fast and very, very lucky. 

What is he saying - he doesn’t need luck. He’s a detective. All he needs is strategy and speed. And he’s good at both of those. 

Tim counts to a hundred, then dares to turn on the flashlight on his phone and crawl through the luggage maze and crouch by the door. The third time the bus comes to a stop, Tim takes a deep breath, finds the interior latches, pulls up the door, and darts around the other lanes stopped at the light to dive into the nearest shadowy corner and assess his situation.

After reorienting himself to the neighborhood he’s now in, he puts some more distance between himself and the bus lines, just in case he’s been tracked. Tim spends the entire walk looking over his shoulder, checking the reflection in store windows and puddles for anyone in pursuit. There’s a tense moment with a guy in an overcoat and mustache Tim finds bushy enough to be intensely suspicious on general principle, but after half a block he peels off to head into a bodega, leaving Tim to scurry on his way unmolested. He catches his breath several blocks later, finding a shadowy corner to wait for his new mode of transport to arrive. 

The Uber driver who pulls up to the curb has qualms about his age that are effectively dispersed with a liberal application of the Gotham Tax, just like his mom had always said. Besides, it’s an emergency situation and in this particular case a little spot of very mild bribery isn’t hurting anybody. He refuses to feel bad about a little cutting-corners pragmatism when his parents are missing and in danger or possibly worse. He’s running low on options, and time, at this point. He’s got the world’s best hero to convince to take his case, and a gala to crash. 

Detective Drake will make a plan for what comes after that later.

Chapter Text

In a world full of lies, the truth is your greatest weapon. - Encyclopedia Brown

Dick’s view of the Spine curving over Blüdhaven is clear and unbroken, as he soars above the city in a lazy arc, adding a full twisting layout to enjoy the sight. 

Dick is still getting used to this new cityscape, which sort of rhymes with Gotham’s, across the bay, but with its own unique quirks and landmarks. The smell, for example, is similar to what he’s used to, particularly in the middle of summer, but with less unwholesomely chemical fragrance notes, and more eau de raw sewage instead. 

Even so, a little thing like that isn’t going to stop Dick from enjoying half-price tacos on Fiesta Friday, a weekly institution around here. 

The distance from Gotham has been a welcome reprieve from the once-overwhelming chafing under the yoke of Batman’s control and overprotection. However, one of the ways Blüdhaven’s very unlike Gotham is that it hasn’t gotten used to having its own vigilante justice yet. The local gangs and mobs really don’t appreciate a new kid in town. Dick’s been enjoying the challenge of a new city and not having anyone breathing down his neck second-guessing his decisions, but on the flip side, he also doesn’t have any backup. He’s well aware he’s flying without a net. 

Dick has spent the first part of the night tracking down some loose ends left over from his recent bust of a Young Blüds shipment of cocaine and other black market items into Gotham. 

The YB are one of the major troublemakers plaguing Blüdhaven these days; originally formed by some surviving ex-Joker goons taking advantage of one of the clown’s stays in Arkham to move across the bay, they had put some distance between them and their former boss to start over new.

Dick can relate.

To be fair to Bruce, though, after the disasters culminating in Dick’s departure and Jason’s arrival, Bruce has recently seemed to at least be trying to do better by the both of them. An old, ornery, paranoid, and incredibly stubborn dog ungracefully and extremely begrudgingly learning new tricks.

Dick will admit to some regret that his …annoyance at Bruce has meant he hasn’t gotten to be there for Jason, to bond with his new brother, much as he probably should. If he’s honest with himself, even now it’s still a little weird seeing someone else wearing Dick’s colors and his parents’ nickname for him. He’s a reasonable enough man, in spite of all that, to admit the kid is doing a good job. A little quick on the draw, a bit of a chip on his shoulder, sure, but Dick’s starting to see those might just be character traits of a new Robin.

The worst downside of striking out on his own, without Batman and Robin to fly alongside? There’s no one Dick can steal snacks from out of capacious utility belt compartments. The lack of large cargo pockets on his own suit mean Dick is more aerodynamic, but it forces him take a more mainstream approach to mid-patrol noshing. The caution drilled into him through Bat-training still runs strong, though, and finds him generally in and out of local spots quickly at night, avoiding routines or making it obvious he has favorite places to eat, because the last thing he wants is for them to be targeted in revenge for his fledgling city clean-up efforts. 

Dick grapples high over a three-story building, releasing at the peak for the rush of free fall, before catching himself at the last instant. He drops the final few feet down to street level, stepping out of a front tuck to release the last of his momentum as he gets closer to tonight’s mid-patrol snack target.

“Nightwing?”

He turns sharply at the call.

There’s a small child staring at him, almost hidden in the shadows just outside the industrial lights shining through Mama Flór’s storefront windows. 

Young, male, with the sort of string bean wiriness of active and growing youth. Well kept, but rumpled, with a level of tense, nervous energy Dick doesn’t love to see. Main notable characteristics at first glance: an expensive-looking camera partially hidden under an enormous rain jacket, and pale blue eyes that are peering at him with a kind of star-struck look that’s rather sweet, for all its intensity.

Threat assessment complete, Dick gives the kid a winning smile. “Hello there.”

“Oh wow. Oh my gosh,” the kid says, and Dick would have to be less than human to not find this a bit flattering. “Can I take your picture?”

“Sure,” Dick is about to say, but doesn’t get a chance before the kid is raising the camera and snapping a picture from all of a foot away.

“Um, nice camera you got there, kiddo,” Dick says, blinking.

“Sorry,” the kid squeaks, “Force of habit.” He blinks back at Dick, and seems to become mortified by his own actions. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry, I’m being such a weirdo. It’s just -“ his voice gets higher and squeakier, “ - I’m a huge admirer of your work? I was going to say I was a big fan of yours, but then I thought that would sound childish, but I think maybe now I’ve made it even worse. I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous? I’ve had a really bad week and I am very stressed. And I really, really need your help. I probably should have started with that.”

There is, Dick thinks, a lot to unpack there.

Trying not to embarrass the kid further, Dick pulls out what seems to be the most relevant part of this extremely high strung child’s speech. “Well, I always like to help, if I can,” he says, aiming for calm and soothing. “It’s in the job description. What’s the trouble?”

It’s both more and less effective than he had hoped. The kid lets out a huge, shaky sigh of relief that seems to take a good deal of the bones holding him up out along with it. He abruptly looks close to tears, and a bit unsteady on his feet.

Now very concerned, Dick puts a gentle hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Whoa, hey. You alright?” The kid shudders, then peers up at Dick with enormous eyes through his bangs. At close range, it becomes obvious the shadows under his eyes aren’t a trick of the light.

“It’s a long story,” the kid says, still wobbly. “Um, if you have a minute? Only it’s kind of time sensitive.”

Dick would have to be an absolute monster to turn the boy down now. “Sure,” he says easily. “I’ve got a minute.”

It’s been raining on and off all day in Blüdhaven. It starts to drizzle again now, a fat plop of rain dropping right onto the boy’s upturned face. He wrinkles his nose, then hurries to put his camera away in a stuffed backpack underneath the jacket. This done, he pulls out a ball cap and puts it on as defense against the rain. 

“Ah,” Dick says, gently taking the hat off his head again. “You’re not from Blüdhaven.”

The kid allows it, looking on in confusion at Dick handing him back the hat. “No,” he confirms. “I’m from Gotham.”

Dick tries to hold off on the obvious question of what he’s doing here at this time of night, apparently looking for Nightwing. And for that matter, how the boy had successfully found him, which is suspicious, now that he thinks about it. He can’t seriously entertain more suspicion than curiosity, though, because the kid looks about five and also genuinely like he’s running on fumes. If this is some kind of diabolical trap laid by one of his enemies, well, it’s a damned good one. Kids are Dick’s kryptonite, he knows and accepts this about himself, and he’s prepared to throw himself on that grenade anyway, if it comes to it. But his finely honed investigator’s instincts are telling him the kid’s legit. Very intense, and a little odd, sure, but Dick’s willing to bet a significant amount of money the boy’s not some kind of sinister plant.

Maybe he’s a runaway? Wouldn’t be the first one Dick’s come across. Though it would be the first who had come across him.

“Around here yellow is the color for Young Blüds,” Dick explains. “It’s - not a color people wear if they don’t want people to know they’re gang-affiliated. So, how about we put that away for now.”

“Oh,” says the kid, obediently zipping it back into his bag and pawing more drizzle off his nose with his wrist. “Good to know.”

“What’s your name?” asks Dick.

The kid blinks rapidly for a second, like he’s momentarily forgotten. “Uh,” he says, then clears his throat, “I’m Tim. Tim Drake.”

Dick smiles. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”

Tim blinks again, then gives him a trembly, ingenuous smile. The effect is more than a little endearing.

“You hungry?” Dick asks.

Dick ushers him through the door into Mama Flór’s. The kid squints and blinks in the light at first, then flicks an assessing glance over his surroundings, seeming satisfied to find no other customers currently seated at the six tiny tables that are squeezed into the space.

Mama Flór’s is a hole in the wall Mexican joint tucked into a sparsely populated corner between the central business district and the port authority. Their only claims to any kind of fame are their adherence to Fiesta Friday taco specials, and their ghost pepper hot sauce challenge. A collage of pictures featuring sweating, red-faced challengers wearing latex gloves to down tacos covers one wall. Squeezy bottles of  sauces in varying levels of heat are on each table, with the black ones clearly marked with fire emojis hardly touched. Dick deliberately keeps his eyes away from the picture of him sweating and responsibly gulping down milk next to a triumphant Wally, both in civilian clothes, hanging near one corner of the challenge wall.

The best part of Mama Flór’s having only about three things on the menu is that the food comes out fast. Dick almost never has to abandon food here because he gets a crime in progress ping while he’s still waiting for it to be cooked. 

Dick smiles winningly at the waitress, who seems professional and slightly bored, despite a costumed vigilante and a child sitting down at her table. “I’ll take two loaded fish tacos. And nachos to share, please. What kind do you want, Timmy?”

Tim apparently trusts his judgment in matters of taco. “Um, I’ll have whatever you’re getting.”

When the waitress retreats, Dick tries to give Tim a chance to collect himself a little before diving deeper into what’s upsetting him. “That logo on your hat - from a gym?”

Shyly, Tim says, “Yeah. I do karate.” He gives Dick a sheepish sideways glance. “And gymnastics.”

Pleased at finding areas of common interest to build a rapport, Dick smiles encouragingly at the kid. “You’re a gymnast? Awesome.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, then manages Dick’s expectations. “I mean, I’m not great. Or super competitive at it. I just - I think it’s fun.”

Grinning now, Dick opines, “That’s the best reason to do it.”

He’s rewarded with Tim giving a brief half grin in return, before lapsing into a more serious demeanor.

Matching his energy, Dick turns to business. “So what can I do to help you?”

Tim takes a deep breath, lays his elbows on the table in front of him, steepling his fingers like a miniature professional opening an important business meeting. “Help me find my parents. They’re missing. And I have reason to believe they are - in danger. Or - or maybe worse.” The kid swallows hard, looking haunted.

That’s not anywhere close to what Dick had been expecting Tim might say. He sits back in the chair, then leans forward again, bracing his own elbows on the table.

“Wow, Tim. I’m really sorry to hear that your parents are missing. That’s awful. I’ll definitely do whatever I can to help.”

“You’re the best hero in the business,” Tim says, managing to be both matter-of-fact and heartbreakingly earnest. “I know you can find them. I knew I should have just come to you from the start.”

Dick is spared having to come up with a response by the tacos arriving. Dick shoves one open styrofoam box closer to Tim when the boy doesn’t make an immediate move towards the food, and models the behavior he wants to see by shoving a fish taco in his own mouth.

Tim takes a bite, raises his eyebrows, then seems to discover his own hunger, taking a couple more in quick succession. Dick smiles encouragingly.

Once he’s finished inhaling the first taco, and Dick has made inroads into the nachos, Tim wipes grease off his fingers and pushes the rest aside. The boy steeples his hands together carefully again, schooling his expression into one that is so stoic and reminiscent of Batman, Dick briefly wonders if Bruce has a biological kid out there he doesn’t know about. 

Tim doesn’t have the control over his huge icy blue puppy dog eyes that Bruce does, though. He stares with an arresting intelligence that is strikingly similar to Batman at his most intense, but there’s a fearful desperation behind them that’s wholly childlike, and which plucks a full chord out of Dick’s heartstrings.

“The main pieces are,” Tim starts off, with the air of someone reciting bullet points off a speech important enough to have memorized, “that my parents suddenly flew back to Gotham after getting some unusual messages, but they never made it home. No one else was expecting them back and they had no other plans either socially or at work. No one has heard from them since. That was three days ago.”

Dick frowns. “And the person looking after you, they never got a message from your parents about the change of plans?”

“No.” For the first time, Tim’s answer is less sure. It sounds like a question. Like a deflection. 

“Who are you staying with?” Dick asks, swallowing the remainder of a taco whole, sensing there’s more to the story on this point. “Do they know where you are right now?”

“My Uncle Eddie - look, that’s really not important right now. What is important is that I’ve been investigating their disappearance -”

Dick coughs, having accidentally inhaled a bit of freshly made tortilla chip. 

“- and I’ve found some, um, alarming evidence today that makes me even more concerned for their safety.” 

Tim goes even more pale beneath the shaggy black bangs as he stoically doles out to Dick these cryptic factoids, freckles standing out in sharp relief. Still mentally on the back foot at this abrupt departure from the runaway situation Dick had been expecting, and even more so at the baffling mix of sangfroid and childlike distress Tim is radiating, Dick starts to interject in concern, or ask more questions, because what in the John Grisham’s The Client fuck, but before he can sort out where to even begin Tim seems to get control over his expression. He continues determinedly, “I’ve compiled all the evidence, I’ll give you my files so you can look through all the details on there.” Tim pulls out a computer from a hard case inside his backpack and flips open the lid. 

Lacking a better response, Dick raises both eyebrows, vibing strongly with the Blinking Guy gif. 

“Do you have a spare drive?” Tim asks. “Or I could do an encrypted drop box to transfer the files from my investigation to you, if that’s faster.”

Wordlessly, Dick activates the airdrop function on his wrist computer and turns it towards the small boy, who gives a satisfied sort of chirping sound, keying in the confirmation code to his computer as he reads it off Dick’s screen. A second later, the Nightwing suit gives him haptic feedback that the files have been downloaded. Dick withdraws his wrist, snagging another nacho on the way, as Tim continues his synopsis.

“I already tried to report my parents missing earlier today to the GCPD, and it didn’t go well. They wouldn’t take my report and…” he trails off.

“And?” Dick prompts.

“Didn’t you say no one wears yellow around here except for the Young Blüds?” Tim asks, apropos of nothing.

Nonplussed, Dick confirms this.

“And, would you say, they probably wouldn’t be happy to see you?”

At this shrewd and pointed line of questioning, Dick turns to follow the kid’s gaze out the window and across the street, catching sight of Ricky Schwartz, the brother of Ethan Schwartz, aka E-Money, who Dick had recently been responsible for getting charged and put away pending trial for smuggling drugs and stolen goods across the bay to Gotham. Ricky is glaring daggers at him through the window, and gives him a threatening I’m watching you two finger stab, from his eyes to directly at Dick, before hurrying around the corner.

“You would be correct,” Dick confirms, and stands up. “Hey, bag that food for me, okay? We’re gonna take it to go.” 

Tim moves to comply, and Dick walks over to where the waitress and the cook are talking behind the counter. 

“There might be trouble soon,” he tells them quietly. “You may want to close early, if you can.”

The employees give each other a speaking look. “We’re not looking for trouble,” the cook says, in a way that stops just short of accusing Nightwing of bringing it to them like the world’s most dangerous house cat bringing violence to their doorstep instead of a dead mouse.

“Just how I wanted to spend my Friday night,” the waitress says sarcastically, less circumspect about her judgment, giving no indication she intends to move from behind the counter. “Getting fired by my manager for closing early.”

Wincing, Dick promises, “I’ll do my best to keep them out of here, if the Blüds come back.” Digging in a hidden pocket of his suit, he shoves extra cash across the counter.

When he turns around, Tim is waiting, calm and patient, next to the table, food bagged and backpack on, looking for all the world as though he’s waiting on Dick to give him a ride to middle school. 

“Time to go,” Dick announces, guiding Tim out the door with a hand on his shoulder.

The drizzle has stopped, just leaving the sort of foggy humid air that makes fuzzy halos around the street lights. 

Tim asks no questions, seeming content to follow trustingly at Dick’s side for the moment. Dick looks up, canvassing the area for the best sightlines.

“You afraid of heights, Timmy?”

Tim gives him another wide-eyed look, and shakes his head vigorously. 

“Great,” Dick says approvingly. “Hold on tight, you’re taking the Nightwing Express Elevator. Don’t drop the nachos.”

Tim does not drop the nachos. Dick watches as the kid forgets his troubles for a brief moment when Dick flies them up to the roof he’s chosen, an expression of utter delight suffusing Tim’s face at his first experience grappling. 

“That. Was. Awesome,” he says reverently, allowing a grinning Dick to manhandle him into a seated position out of immediate sightlines from the street.

“You’re a natural flyer, Timmy,” Dick praises lightly. 

This renders Tim wide eyed and silent long enough for it to occur to Dick that among the many unanswered questions he needs to get some clarity on, he’s also probably going to have to figure out how to get the kid safely back home to Gotham.

He’ll start from the top.

“So, Tim. I’ve been wondering. How’d you find me?”

Tim reaches in the bag for a nacho, shrugging modestly. “I got lucky.”

Dick’s not buying it, and he lets his skepticism show. “Hmm. Must’ve been pretty darn lucky to find me, in all the gin joints in this town. Try again.”

“I did get lucky!” Tim insists. “After I tweaked one of my algorithms for - for my hobby, to pull data and cross reference vigilante sightings in Blüdhaven across social media, then added data from Google Reviews and r/Füdhaven once the data indicated the likelihood of mid-patrol snacks, to sort that by types of cuisine per day of the week, which indicated a preference for Mexican on Fridays -” 

“Fiesta Friday,” Dick says automatically.

“- and come up with some high quality, low quantities of reviews indicating good food but not overly popular locations. I picked the most likely and waited there. The rest was pure luck.”

Dick stares at Tim. 

Tim stares guilelessly back, body language saying, what?

Dick puts a mental ‘deal with later’ sticky note on that whole pile of information, and moves on. “Alright, Timmy, that explains things fully and completely in a way that I’ll certainly have no further follow-up questions on,” Dick says, determinedly casual. “So, you live in Gotham. How’d you get over to Blüdhaven tonight?”

With not the slightest change in his matter of fact manner, Tim says, “I bribed a rideshare driver.”

Dick nods sagely, as though this also is a completely reasonable explanation that doesn’t beg even more questions than it had answered. “Okay. Wow. Uh, kiddo, you know that’s, like, super risky, right? Taking a rideshare when you’re under age? At night?”

Tim scoffs. “Riskier than being a vigilante?”

That almost seems like a fair point, if they weren’t comparing highly trained apples and child sized oranges. “Okay, I hear what you’re saying -“

Tim rubs the side of his nose with the back of a knuckle in a gesture that Dick has seen Jason make dozens of times when the teen is trying to make an effort to seem impressively cool and mature. “Besides, I can take care of myself. I go out at night all the time.”

“So many questions,” Dick scoots more comfortably into criss cross applesauce, puts an elbow on one knee, his head on the knuckles of that hand, and starts with the one he’s most curious about. “Why??”

Tim refuses to meet Dick’s gaze. “I don’t think that’s important right now.”

“Hm. Well, I disagree,” Dick tells him, prodding Tim’s knee with his toe. “Answer the question.”

Tim flicks him a glance out of the very corner of his eye, and must see that Dick has no intention of abandoning this line of inquisition, because he sighs dramatically enough to set his bangs wobbling with the expelled air. “I sort of have a photography hobby,” he mutters eventually.

“At night?” Dick wonders aloud, even more confused. “In GOTHAM? What the hell are you taking pictures of that you can’t take during the day?”

Tim has become extremely interested in a pebble by the toe of his sneaker. “My area of specialty happens to be, um, nocturnal ornithology.”

Attempting to sort this through aloud, Dick puzzles out, “You go birdwatching at nig- oh my God.”

Tim shuffles his feet.

Closing his eyes, almost in pain, Dick begs, “Please don’t tell me you’re taking pictures of what I am really, very much afraid you are about to tell me you’re taking pictures of.”

“Great!” Tim says, too heartily. “I won’t tell you.”

“Tim.”

“Lots of people do wildlife photography!” Tim asserts, faux-reasonably. “It’s actually a very popular genre of - hey!”

Dick has made a successful grab for the camera, and starts flicking through the camera roll, feeling more and more certain he’s about to have a fit of apoplexy with each picture of Batman and Robin in hyper-real, close up action he sees Tim has captured. “Nocturnal ornithology,” Dick repeats disbelievingly, “nighttime friggin wildlife photography.” Words fail him. “Kid! Tim! You’re giving me agita, and I’m too young to have a heart attack!”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Tim claims dismissively, arms across his chest. “Your cardiovascular health has got to be better than the average cheetah’s.”

Dick puts his head between his knees, covers it with his hands. When that doesn’t help, he groans loudly.

Alerted by a small scraping noise that Tim is making a subtle attempt to grab his camera back, Dick throws out a hand to prevent this without moving the rest of his body, and tucks the camera more securely between his armored boots.

Tim gives an annoyed sort of huff at being thwarted, but when Dick doesn’t move or say anything further for a long moment, eventually asks: “Um, are you okay?”

Dick isn’t quite ready to face the world beyond his knees yet, but he sits up anyway. “Tim,” he says, for lack of a better place to start, then heaves a huge, mournful sigh. “No, I’m not okay. You’re making me sympathize with Batman, and it’s both giving me an existential crisis and also making me feel very old.”

“I’m …sorry?” Tim offers, confused, then turns worried. “Wait, does that mean you’re not going to take my case?!”

“No, kiddo, that’s not what I meant,” Dick reassures him. “I’m gonna make sure these nice folks at Mama Flór’s aren’t gonna have any trouble, and then I’m gonna take you home to your Uncle Eddie, and then we’re gonna find your parents, okay?”

Dick can’t help but notice the ensuing silence where wholehearted agreement should be.

“Tim?” Dick prompts.

“I’m so, so glad you’re on board with taking my case,” Tim says slowly. “That’s - that’s a huge relief, I can’t even tell you. I knew you were the best.”

Internally, Dick preens.

Tim continues, much less settlingly, “- but I can get home just fine. I haven’t made firm plans yet but I’m, ah, thinking of staying at a hotel or something, actually? My house is kind of - well, I can explain more later, but some bad people have probably figured out where I live, so I’m not sure it’s safe for me to go back there for long? And more importantly, I actually really need to head out pretty soon, I have another engagement I can’t miss this evening. Tracking down one last lead. Investigating. You know how it is. So, you don’t need to inconvenience yourself for me. We can meet up afterwards if you’re not too busy, to talk about any new evidence I find, and, and how to proceed in the investigation? Though I’m sure by the time we meet up you’ll probably have a bunch of leads or maybe have even found my parents already. I can give you my number - or wait, what am I saying, you’re Nightwing, you can just look it up.”

Dick has turned fully to stare at him as Tim makes this very alarming speech.

Fidgeting, Tim asks, “Um, why are you looking at me like that?”

“This is just what my face looks like when all of my flabbers are gasted, Timmy,” Dick informs him.

It takes Tim a second to process this.

“Ah, is it that you feel weird about leaving a kid alone at night? I get where you’re coming from, I just - I’m used to doing stuff on my own. It’s fine.”

Welp, Dick decides. Guess he’s my kid now.

Several possible responses spring to mind immediately. Dick discards them, before shaking his head firmly. “No can do, Timmy. That’s the deal. I take your case, and I take you home, or somewhere safe with your uncle. What do you say?” Seeing mutiny on the horizon of Tim’s expression, Dick adds, “It’d make me feel a whole lot better, so really in this scenario you’re actually doing me a favor.”

Tim looks at him for a long, long moment, his expression turning inward and undergoing a complex series of emotions.

A sense of foreboding creeps up to start tapping on Dick’s shoulder.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Jason spends the Batmobile ride over to Drake Manor blowing up Tim’s phone, no longer caring much if the timing and urgency outs his secret identity. He’s starting to suspect Tim has him muted, given the total lack of response. At least, that’s what he’s desperately hoping is the reason Tim’s ignored even the puppy pictures of Ace Jason has been spamming him with, rather than the many, many worst case scenarios Jason’s brain has been treating him to ever since catching sight of empty rooftop where Tim had been seconds before.

If Jason had previously found it uncomfortable to constantly have a vague background worry of what shenanigans Tim might have decided to get up to at night, it’s nothing compared to now, when he’s now fully aware of the spine chilling reality that Tim’s been totally alone this entire time and now is running around god-knows-where in trying to find his probably dead asshole parents while inexplicably also being chased by half the GCPD for unwholesome reasons unknown. And he’s only alone now because Jason is a fucking idiot who has alienated him so thoroughly that the kid would rather cut and run than ask either Robin or Jason for help.

Canvassing the area had resulted in no signs of Tim in and around the bus depot. Cameras had lost sight of him after catching him pushing through the crowds queued for boarding. No sign of him either on cameras within a three block radius of the depot, or at each stop for any of the buses that had departed around the time of Tim’s escape; those searches are still running, in case he’s staying onboard one of them til further down the line.

Bruce grimly knuckles the steering wheel as they roar across the Kane Bridge. In the passenger seat, Jason uses the onboard connection to the Bat-computer to trace Tim’s cell again. It’s been turned off within ten blocks of his last known location, which explains why he hasn’t been answering Jason.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Bruce finally asks, nudging the accelerator readout higher.

“I tried to!” 

“Not last night. Earlier. When this first started.”

Jason crosses his arms, slumping down further in the passenger seat. “You didn’t trust me.”

Bruce has looked less wounded immediately after having been shot.

Jason corrects grudgingly, “I thought you didn’t trust me. And up until half an hour ago, I thought he had just been out thumbing his nose at The Man a couple of times, not going out sleuthing and tracking down his nanny’s corpse when he should be home in front of the tv pigging out on Doritos!”

If Jason were a mature and humble person, this would be the moment to admit Bruce had been right all along. 

Instead, Jason claps flat hands together and uses them to point at Bruce. “Look. Choices were made. Not all of them good.”

Which is essentially saying the same thing, without getting bogged down in the details.

Babs, who has been woman-in-the-chair tonight, appears on one of the dashboard screens. She looks slightly frazzled, as she’s been pulled into the Timhunt in addition to her original operation, but when she gives them the latest updates, her voice is as comfortingly competent as ever. “I’ve got confirmation from the GCPD. They found the body of Rosa Ackroyd exactly where he reported it.”

Jason’s lunch makes threatening moves towards a return visit. 

“I also tracked down the call to dispatch earlier today of ‘Robin’ reporting two officers trying to abduct a child,” Babs continues, sounding disgusted at these latest worms in the GCPD apple. “They were brought in for questioning by internal affairs. I haven’t had time to do much digging, but on a brief look, they seem to have some spiderweb thin connections to other suspects in the Tricorner ambush. They’ve lawyered up real quick, and have union backers making noise already about vigilante tips and unjust detainment,” Babs wrinkles her nose in irritation. “Without more evidence or a witness, it’ll be real hard to make anything stick.”

Bruce says “Hnnn,” feelingly. 

“No other leads on a location for Tim?” Jason asks. 

Babs meets his eyes empathetically through the screen display. Softer, she says, shaking her head, “Sorry, Jaybird. Nothing yet, but he’s not a ghost. We’ll find him.”

Jason finds her phrasing less than reassuring, considering the circumstances.

Turning her gaze to Bruce, who is taking the Batmobile off road into one of the hidden entrances to the underground tunnel system, she offers up even more bad news. “There’s another missing person, though, and I don’t think you’re gonna like it.

Bruce frowns over at her on the display, at this. “Another one?”

“There is no uncle, and there never was.”

Jason feels a blood vessel start pulsing in his temple, but for his part, Bruce doesn’t seem wholly surprised to hear it. After a second Jason realizes, yeah, making up a whole fucking uncle to throw Jason off the scent sounds like exactly something Tim would do.

Heart rate and self-flagellation rising with every dead end they reach, Jason desperately hopes they find either Tim or some clue as to where he’s fled to at Drake Manor. If Tim has run home, it seems prudent to retain the element of surprise, so the Batmobile is left in one of the extensive tunnel systems nearby. Batman and Robin approach Drake Manor surreptitiously and on foot.

Inside, it’s even more eerie and silent than the last time Jason was here. It doesn’t take very long to search well enough, with the aid of heat signature trackers, to be sure Tim hasn’t returned, and there’s no one else here either. 

The mansion is all open spaces, sharp lines and metal edges, trophies behind glass. Jason gets the strong feeling, walking past yet another gallery, that the Drakes think of Tim as another one of their many prizes, something to be distantly proud of at a remove, before being left alone, untouched and unheard, until it occurs to them to think about him again.

Nothing of interest having been found on the ground floor, by tacit agreement Bruce heads into what is clearly the Drakes’ office space, while Jason continues on to the primary suite. 

Nothing relevant seems to be here either, except more evidence the Drakes have an abiding obsession with maintaining appearances and more money than what’s good for them. Jason moves back down the corridor until he opens a door and finds Timmy’s room.

It’s the only space so far in the entire house that appears inhabited by an actual human being. Jason does have a momentary twinge of guilt about violating Tim’s privacy, but it’s easily replaced by annoyance over Tim’s lies, and the driving and increasing fear of what’s happening to Tim while Jason’s safe in his room, where Tim should be right now. 

Tim’s room is as spacious as the other empty, bland guest rooms in the hall, but it’s undergone a painstaking attempt at transformation into a cocoon of childlike safety. 

Sheets and blankets are strung up from one end of the room to the other. Jason pushes aside a striped sheet to enter, shining his bat-flashlight to illuminate the cozy space. The highest end of the blanket ceiling is fastened to the upper shelf of a bookcase that spans the height of the full wall, allowing Jason just enough room to stand up in a few feet of space. The visible shelves are mostly occupied by technical manuals, textbooks, and mystery series - Nancy Drew, Agatha Christie, and many, many more - despite a few shelves seeming to have recently been cleared. Jason reaches out hesitantly to touch one of many tchotchkes and action figures of Batman and Robin that also rest among the books, feeling a sting behind his eyes. 

Giving a harsh sniff, he turns around, and finds where the items cleared off Tim’s shelves have gone to: he’s created some kind of miniature desk from the novels. There’s a large stuffed goose in a Batman costume sitting on top.

The curtain closest to the door ruffles, and Bruce peers inside, gaze stopping on the goose for a long second, stone-faced, before turning to look at Jason. 

Jason’s heart drops further at the expression on Bruce’s face. “What’d you find?”

“Items labeled for auction in the wall safe. Readings indicate the presence of kryptonite and magical residue on some of them.”

Possession and sale of which are highly regulated under federal law. So they’ve got a black market stash where other families keep their marriage certificate and Great-Aunt Betty’s set of pearls. Jason adds another full section, with footnotes, to his dissertation on “The Reasons The Drakes Suck.”

Starting to breathe faster and heavier at what this implies about what’s happened to the adult Drakes and what this means for Tim, Jason paces around in the three feet of space available tall enough for him to stand, dread unspooling in his chest, fingers laced together on top of his head, like he’s using both hands to try and keep his brain from exploding out the top of his skull.

“Robin. Calm down,” Bruce intones, voice fully in Bat-mode. “Anger and panic won’t help us find him.”

Jason drops his hands in favor of glaring at Batman. “B, when has ordering someone to calm down actually calmed that person down? And tell me this, what is going to help us find him, because right now anger is like, the main part of my process, because if I’m not angry I’m going to - I’m going to -”

Shouldering his way in as delicately as possible, a meticulous bull in a miniature blanket china shop, Bruce kneels next to the book table and puts big hands on Jason’s shoulders, strong and steadying. “Deep breaths. Breathe with me.”

Jason knows he’s losing it, and how completely unprofessional that is, and how Dick would never have lost it like this when he was Robin, and knowing all that, just like knowing being angry was the worst possible way he could react to Tim, just makes everything worse. “We don’t have time!” he half-shouts, words coming faster and faster. “He could be anywhere, the Joker could have him again, he could be -”

Bruce is being horribly gentle, instead of yelling back at him like Jason royally deserves, and that also makes it so much harder to bear. “Robin. Breathe. That’s an order.”

Jason breathes. 

In a minute, when Jason has control of himself enough to nod silently, Bruce nods back, giving his shoulders another squeeze.

Bruce has retracted his whiteouts in order to look Jason directly in the eye. “You’ve saved countless civilians, and kept a level head in situations that would make a good soldier lose their cool. We will find him.”

Jason nods again, then shakes his head. “But - he’s not just any civilian, B. He’s -”

Bruce’s intense look bores into him as Jason flounders for the right words, to explain what feels so obvious but also completely insane if he tries to say it out loud.

He’s ours. Tim. He’s practically tailor made for you, B, what with all the meticulous detective work, obsessive crime-solving and sticking himself into danger headfirst. He’s supposed to be one of us, but I didn’t figure it out in time, and now I’ve fucked it all up and he’s in the wind doing God-knows-what, running straight into getting himself killed. 

Jason can’t say any of that, so he shrugs helplessly beneath Bruce’s hands. “He’s got nobody, B. Even when he did, he didn’t, not really. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, it’s not supposed to be like this. Especially not for Tim. I think - I think maybe that’s why he’s been going out at night? Cause he’s alone, and maybe anything’s better for a little kid than being home in this stupid museum all by himself and knowing there’s no one else there to care about it.” 

Bruce is still staring at him, silent, unflappable. Jason gives another helpless shrug. “He’s a good kid.” 

Aside from the conniving and the complete lack of self preservation.

Bruce is still searching his face. For what, Jason can’t begin to guess.

“You gotta protect him. Like you did for me. You know? Only he deserves it more. I fucked it up, I fucked it all up so bad he thinks he can’t come to me for help, he thinks I’m not even his friend.” 

Unable to meet Bruce’s steady gaze anymore, he looks up to where the sheet drapes above him, then gives up any pretense of being independent enough, good enough, to figure this out himself. “What do I do to fix this, B? I’ll go to all the anger management therapy, yoga, meditation, hell, underwater basket weaving classes you can afford with an open mind. Whatever it is, just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

Bruce takes one hand from his shoulder, hooking it firmly around the back of Jason’s head, towing him in gently until his forehead thuds against the bat symbol on his armor. Jason huffs an unsteady breath out. 

“We find him first,” Bruce says, and the simple, confident answer shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. “The rest will come later.”

Jason nods again, into Bruce’s chest. Accepting that this is Batman, speaking a promise into existence; Jason’s dad, promising that they’ll make this better, make things right again for Tim. 

“Okay,” he rasps.

Bruce releases Jason’s head, giving him another searching look, and seeming to find whatever it is he’s looking for this time. “Okay, chum.”

Jason turns away, under the auspices of looking for any other clues Tim might have left around the room. 

Bruce picks up the stuffed goose, examining it with an unreadable expression. 

Light from the window moves across the sheets that make up the walls; headlights pulling into the driveway, maybe. Batman and Robin exchange a glance, turning off their flashlights. Smaller and more able to maneuver without destroying Tim’s careful handiwork, Jason pulls aside a curtain, tucking it out of the way, and moves to the window, which turns out to overlook the driveway, just as Jason had surmised. 

“Three cars,” Jason reports, Robin training kicking in fully again. He can hear Bruce shuffling closer across the room. “Black, non-descript. Looks like they’ve got shaded plate covers.” 

Car doors start to open, men in dark suits carrying ominously metallic shapes quietly getting out.

Jason does not like this one bit. “B -” he starts, but never gets to finish, because all the lights in Tim’s room flip on by themselves.

Oh shit, Jason has a fraction of a second to think, realizing his figure is now clearly silhouetted through the window in full view of the newcomers, before he’s yanked bodily back underneath Batman’s cape, and the room explodes into bullets, splintered wood, shattered glass, and tattered pieces of blanket.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The almost euphoric sense of relief Tim has been experiencing ever since Nightwing agreed to help, and Tim realized he could turn the bulk of the burden over to an adult, the best adult possible, and that things would be okay after all, dims very slightly at his hero’s proving to be both alarmingly perceptive (which Tim will admit freely is generally a boon in his line of work) and his stubborn insistence on controlling Tim’s whereabouts. Dick is his last and best hope, but if he personally escorts Tim home, the jig is going to be up on the existence of Uncle Eddie, and more importantly, he will lose his only chance to track down the scarred blonde man he’d seen his parents talking to that last day. He’s got no name, and he’s not positive what, if anything, the man has to do with their disappearance, but Tim’s only got one chance to find out, given the lack of any other record of their ‘lucrative new partnership’ they were supposed to finalize in person tonight.

And what if that singular clue, Tim’s ability to recognize that man, turns out to be the thing they would have needed to find his parents in time to save them, and Tim gave it up to just let go, sit back twiddling his thumbs, and let Nightwing take care of all his problems for him?

As much as Tim desperately wants to let an adult take control of the situation, he can’t let Nightwing immediately bring down Tim’s already precariously arranged house of cards regarding his freedom of movement. Not being allowed his independence tonight might stop Tim from saving his parents, and that Tim can’t accept, not even from his ultimate hero, Robin I, Nightwing, Dick Grayson himself.

Also, he hasn’t quite figured out yet where he’ll go if any of the Bats figure out he’s lying about having an adult there. It’s been an eventful, horrible day, and he’s had other priorities. Tim has a sinking feeling Nightwing’s not going to be wild about the idea of him staying at a hotel indefinitely, either. It had occurred to him on the ride over to Blüdhaven that staying with an unsuspecting friend during all this might draw unwanted attention from more than one angle, and possibly even be dangerous to whoever he stays with. Which obviously makes that a non-starter.

Also also, he isn’t sure where along the scale of illegal-okay-like-vigilantism or illegal-bad-like-murder the whole his-parents-leaving-Tim-alone thing is going to fall for Nightwing and Batman, but given Jason’s reactions so far he’d rather not find out at this stage of the game. 

The slipping-sliding-falling feeling of panic, of being cornered and helpless, that he thought he’d gotten hold of in the Uber from Gotham starts to rise again in him at all this.

Ever since - ever since he went to Adelie’s, it’s been so hard to think, to plan. He’s been holding himself inside his body since getting in the Uber through determination and the resolute refusal to keep thinking about the events of the afternoon, deleting the photos from his camera’s SD card after copying them into the investigation files he’s now transferred to more experienced vigilante detective hands.

Tim’s got nothing else left to bargain with to allow Detective Drake to continue operating as a free agent. Except - except one thing. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Tim’s only got one more card left to play. It’s an ace, but also a bluff, as he has absolutely no intention of actually using it. Tim feels even worse at the thought of lying about his willingness to trade in on this, but what else can he do at this point?

Tipping his head back slightly to make direct eye contact with Nightwing, Tim says quietly, “I’m very much afraid that, in that scenario, I would be forced to tell someone what I know.”

Giving him an assessing squint in return, Nightwing repeats slowly: “Tell someone what you know. Okay, I’ll bite. What is it that you know?”

Tim can’t help rolling his eyes. “I know, okay? I know, you know. The things I’m not supposed to know.”

Dick gives a tiny shake of his head. “Kiddo, I haven’t known you very long, but I know enough to be absolutely sure there’s a sh- cr- an awful lot of things you know that you’re not supposed to know. You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

He’s gonna make Tim say it. “Alright. Under those circumstances which I absolutely do not want to come to pass, and under no other circumstances whatsoever, because,” Tim is suddenly horrified that he’s pretending to be the awful type of person that would actually do this for real, “I need you to know that I would protect your secrets with my life, okay, all of them. Like, you never ever need to worry about that because, that would just be - wrong. I would rather die. I would never, never put you in danger like that. Ever.” Tim abruptly remembers to return to the point he was originally trying to make. “I mean,” he clears throat, trying to speak in a lower register to bluster his way through this, but to his intense irritation, his voice squeaks at the end. “Except obviously I would, if you forced me to! But please please please don’t do that, okay? I promise I’ll be fine on my own until we find my parents, and you really don’t have to worry about me.”

Dick is now staring at him fixedly. “I’m actually starting to think I’m not nearly worried about you enough.”

Dang it. “Maybe I didn’t explain that right, then. Can I start again, please? Because I really think if I just explain the situation better you’ll see that I am very independent and clever and mature for my age.”

“Yeah, nope, I for sure got that,” Dick assures him. “Loud and clear. It’s honestly the most worrying part.”

None of this is going to plan. Tim feels unsettlingly like he’s been swimming in the waves ever since his parents and Rosa left him, and he’s running out of energy to keep treading water. The only thing keeping him afloat is Nightwing’s willingness to help him.

Dick continues, “The second most worrying part, at the moment, is what I’m thinking is supposed to be a blackmail attempt? Of some kind? But your heart isn’t actually in it.”

Tim heroically refrains from stamping his foot and insisting it is too!

“You don’t know that,” he mutters instead.

Dick obviously is not buying it. “Tim. Bless your adorable tiny little elfin heart. You have the face of an angel.”

Not this again. Tim’s gotten enough of this from Jason. 

Tim tries: “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“True,” Dick allows. “But I’m a pretty good judge of character, and you seem like a sweet kid. Not the cruel and heartless blackmailing type.”

Ignoring the mixed warmth and embarrassment from his hero describing him as a sweet kid, Tim stubbornly refuses to back down.“I contain multitudes.”

It’s not working, Tim can tell. Dick shakes his head again. “Tim, no offense meant, I admire your moxie, but -“

Tim gives up all attempts at subtlety. “We’ve met before. At the circus. In Gotham.”

Dick stops talking mid-word.

After a heavy, weighted moment, Nightwing responds, “Hasn’t been a circus around for a long time. I think you must be thinking of someone else.”

Tim reaches over to retrieve his backpack from where Dick had moved it closer to snatch his camera, and in silence, unzips the bag and carefully produces the Ziploc with the circus souvenir photograph inside.

Tim looks around, just to make absolutely sure they are alone, before tilting the photo so Dick can see it. 

The older man stills completely, hardly seeming even to breathe.

“It was a long time ago,” Tim says softly. “I was very little. You gave me a hug, an amazing hug, you’re a really great hugger, actually - and you told me you would do a special, one of a kind trick, just for me. And then - something very, very terrible happened.”

Dick Grayson hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at the photo of his child self, of Tim on his lap, of his parents.

Watching his eyes dim, receding into memory, Tim regrets everything, wholly and completely. He swallows hard, and his voice is very small when he says, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just wanted to explain - but now I made you sad. I’m really sorry. I still have nightmares about it sometimes, so I can only imagine - Anyway. I should just - can I please go? Please just say you’ll help me find my parents, and then I can get out of your way forever.”

Dick finally moves, meeting Tim’s gaze again. “How long have you known - this thing you think you know.”

Forever ago, Tim thinks. “A long time. A year or so.”

“You said, things you’re not supposed to know,” Nightwing points out, proving his superb recall of details, because of course he’s an excellent detective. “Things, plural.”

Tim shrugs. “Once I figured you out, the others were easy.”

Like he’s making sure he’s understood properly, Nightwing repeats, “The best kept secret in the world. Was easy for you to figure out.”

Tim shrugs again, for lack of a better answer. “I’m good at puzzles. At figuring things out.”

Dick says: “I’m gathering that, yes.”

Tim pauses for a beat.  “…so does this mean you’ll still help me?”

“Of course I’m still going to help you,” Nightwing says, like it’s so obvious he didn’t think it needed to be said, and Tim finds he can continue breathing.

“Thank you,” Tim says, profoundly relieved. “And I can go?” he adds, hopefully.

Nightwing ruthlessly crushes this ambition. “Absolutely not.”

Now Tim’s got new things to begin panicking about. “Are you going to have the Justice League wipe my brain?”

Luckily, Nightwing looks horrified at this thought. “No!”

Rambling a bit with the wild swings from panic to relief and back again he’s been having recently, Tim says, “I appreciate that. My mind is kind of my best thing. Although to be honest, I have to say I would understand, even if it would be like essentially murdering me, like killing my brain,  but kind of less bad, in a way? Because I know I’m like, a huge security risk from your perspective. Knowing what I know. I wouldn’t want that secret to get out. And I especially would never want to be the one to tell that secret, even accidentally! Though I’ve known it for a long time and never told anyone, ever, so it seems unlikely that I would ever slip up. I’m very, very careful with that. But like, just in case, to be absolutely sure? I mean, If I didn’t know me, I would definitely think about mind wiping me. Like, think really hard about it.”

Nightwing has crossed his arms and now tilts his head, like Ace when he’s trying to figure out if Tim is going to truly throw the ball or just cruelly fake him out. “Are you trying to talk me out of, or into, wiping your brain?”

“Out of! Out of!” Tim yelps. “But like, I’m just saying. From the pragmatic view. It would make logical sense.”

Dick gives another enormous sigh, then in a completely unanticipated move, closes the small distance between them and squeezes Tim in a hug even more comforting and enveloping than the first. 

“No one has ever accused me of being the logical one in the family,” he says self-deprecatingly, voice pleasantly rumbling beneath where Tim’s head is now pressed against his chest.

Brain misfiring wildly at being hugged by his hero for the second time, after a moment Tim sags bonelessly into it, determined to enjoy it while it lasts. “I mean, you’re no Batman, sure,” he mumbles into the swath of blue Kevlar-Lycra fabric his nose is smushed against.

“Gee, thanks?” Dick snorts, but Tim is still talking.

“You’re even better! You’re Nightwing! So, so much cooler than Batman. You’re like, the coolest, and kindest, person ever! And - and if Batman and the new Robin don’t appreciate you enough, they’re, they’re crazy! I mean, figuratively. I’m just saying. They didn’t even want to take my case! So, shows what they know. I knew it was a mistake not to go right for the best in the beginning.”

Unfortunately, this makes Dick pull back from the hug. Tim mourns the loss of comforting warmth immediately. 

The hero seems to he processing all of this with difficulty. “You asked Batman to find your missing parents. He saw you, in the flesh. Dark hair, cartoonishly big blue puppy dog eyes and all. Batman looked at you, and he said he wouldn’t take your case?”

Still mainly focused on having been hugged by Nightwing, Tim holds onto his elbows and mumbles, “I mean, not in so many words. But that’s what he meant.”

Dick still looks incredulous. “Hm. And you’re sure about that?”

“Pretty darn sure. Robin - Robin doesn’t like me anymore.”

Nightwing mouths ‘anymore’ to himself as Tim offers the least amount of information possible while still attempting to satisfy his curiosity enough to stifle folllow-up questions that might lead to rough terrain.

“I, um, I sort of did some things that made him angry,” Tim says, words tilting up at the end like it’s a question, “so he yelled at me, and then Batman got mad at Robin for yelling at a civilian and for not telling him about when he met me in Crime Alley and also when he snuck up on me and scared me into falling off a roof and,” Tim trails off into mumbling beneath his breath, “some other times that, um, maybe were a little dangerous too.”

Dick wheezes slightly. “Can you run that by me one more time? Because I feel like there were some important bits that got glossed over.”

Frustrated that his hero is getting hung up on unimportant details, Tim waves a dismissive hand. “Look, I get it. Batman’s a busy man.” Tim shrugs, knowing the way of the world. “I’m a kid. Adults get too busy to deal with kid problems, even when they’re actually really important, you know?”

Dick kind of seems like he doesn’t know, in fact. “Batman’s not really that kind of adult, though? I mean… ‘Batman and Robin,’ and all?”

Tim will give him that, it’s one of the reasons why he’s enough of a fan to immortalize their heroics in the printed arts, after all. “Sure, he respects Robin’s opinion.”

Dick tilts his head to the side, making a ehhhhh noise.

“But Robin is Robin,” Tim continues. “I’m just - Tim. I’m easy to ignore. It’s what makes me so good at being sneaky. And even if Robin wanted to help me, which he doesn’t, he’s really really mad at me, he’s still Batman’s kid, so he’s gotta do what Batman says, right? Or else there’d be consequences.”

Dick had scrunched his nose and made an even more high pitched ehhhhhh noise when Tim mentioned having to do what Batman says, but cuts himself off sharply when Tim talks about facing the consequences.

Very casual, Dick asks, “Hmm. What kind of consequences are you used to experiencing when adults are upset, Tim?”

Tim, however, is no longer paying attention. He’s now squinting over the edge of the roof at movement on the street below. 

“Are those more Young Blüds?” he asks.

It’s a rhetorical question; it’s obvious they are, and that they’re up to no good. Several are approaching in pairs and small groups from various sides of the intersection closest to Mama Flór’s, wielding brass knuckles, baseball bats, and other improvised weapons. Dick swears under his breath, then takes a knee in front of Tim, bringing them more or less at eye level, gently asking for Tim’s attention with a hand on his arm.

“Look, Tim. We’re gonna find your parents, and figure the rest out as it comes. It’s gonna be okay.” He says it so kindly, and with such sincerity, that Tim starts to really believe it. “For now, just - hide up here, alright? And don’t go anywhere. I will be right back after I take care of these guys.”

Tim gives a half-smile back. “You better go.”

Dick gives him another dazzling grin and a shoulder clap, and then he’s a living shadow, tumbling over the edge of the roof and into a graceful performance of controlled violence.

Tim’s got very important work to do on a time crunch, but - he’s also got Dick Grayson, twenty feet away, being completely awesome kicking ass and taking names. And he’s agreed to take Tim’s case, which basically means it’s only a matter of a very short amount of time before Nightwing brings his parents home, right? So he can take a minute to take some notes, learn some pointers through osmosis, maybe take a picture of Nightwing absolutely going ham on fifteen gang members who should really know better than to engage in melee combat with Dick Grayson in whatever costume he chooses to wear.

Wait, no, sixteen. One has, actually, learned that lesson, and is staying back, in the shadows. 

A glint of metal. A gun?

This guy looks like he’s waiting for a clear shot. Has Nightwing noticed? 

Tim squints. It doesn’t look like it. Tough to tell, though, given the speed and careless disregard for the laws of gravity with which Dick Grayson moves.

Well. Nightwing is not going to get shot at on Tim’s watch, that’s for darn sure.

Tim climbs down the fire escape closest to the gun wielding gangster quickly and in silence. One floor above, he’s still inconveniently out of range for his taser to work, as he had thought might be the case, eyeballing it from the safety of the roof. 

Luckily, Detective Drake has prepared for contingencies. When he realized there might be trouble, and Dick had stepped away to talk to the employees, Tim had grabbed several squeeze bottles of exceptionally hot ghost pepper sauce off the tables and stuffed them in the bag along with the nachos. 

With a squeezy bottle in each fist, Tim takes a sniper’s crouch, steadying his stance on the rail of the fire escape. Squinting one eye and sticking the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth in concentration, he takes careful aim… and lets loose, double barrels squirting hot sauce defiance.

It’s pretty close to what Tim had been aiming for, ending up on the guy’s forehead and hair. He gets lucky, as it seems close enough counts for hot sauce in addition to hand grenades and horseshoes; the gangster gives a shout of disgust as the sauce hits and dribbles down into his eyes, that quickly turns to pained and panicked yelling and swearing as he frantically tries to wipe his eyes clear, only succeeding in spreading the fiery liquid more completely into his face and hands.

The screaming does get Nightwing’s attention, from where he’s in the middle of the street taking on three other gangsters at once. Tim figures his work here is done, his victim having dropped the weapon and now blindly stumbling into the street, tripping over a curb. Nightwing, efficiently dropping one of his foes with a right hook and the two others with a bicycle kick, clocks the hot sauced gangster wailing before looking around until he finds Tim on the fire escape holding empty condiment containers. Tim drops the squirt bottles, gives him an enthusiastic double thumbs up, then scurries back up onto the roof.

Having secured his camera safely back in his backpack after getting a few quick action shots, Tim makes a swift exit off the other side of the roof, and is pleased to see a Red Robin on the next corner when he drops down from the fire escape. 

It seems like a good omen. 

He heads into the restaurant to change into his tuxedo and wait for his Uber back to Gotham. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Dick’s comm clicks in his ear as he’s efficiently zapping a Young Blüd into unconsciousness and dodging another’s attempt to avenge his downed comrades. 

“Nightwing. We require your immediate assistance in Gotham.”

Would it literally kill him to ask please, Dick wonders, twisting mid-air over a steel-tied boot aimed at his solar plexus. 

“Thanks for the polite request,” Dick answers, knocking a tooth out of a yellow-clad bruiser’s jaw with an escrima. “I would love to help my fellow equal in crime-fighting, but I’m in the middle of solving some of my own problems right now. You know. In my own city.”

Jason’s voice comes through next, tense and insistent. “You don’t understand. This is your new highest priority, immediate time sensitive issue. We need help tracking down a missing kid. He’s got people after him. They just shot up his fucking house cause they thought he was inside it.”

Dick frowns, then throws an elbow back into the nose of a dude trying to sneak up behind him while he’s distracted. “What? Why?”

Now Bruce bothers to explain himself. “Timothy Jackson Drake, potential eyewitness to organized crime. Recently discovered the body of his deceased nanny in a front we suspect may be connected to the Penguin. His parents have been missing for several days.”

Dick throws a heavy with brass knuckles bodily into two of his other gang members. All three go down in a pile of yellow. “Black hair, big blue eyes, looks like the poster child for Adorable Sad Only Children Anonymous?”

He’s managed to surprise Batman. “Yes.”

“Good news: I just closed that particular missing persons case,” Dick informs them. “He’s in Blüdhaven, I got him.”

“Thank fucking Christ,” Jason says. “Wait, why the hell did he run all the way to you?”

Choking a dude out, Dick replies modestly, “Eh, he seems to think I’m the best in the business.”

Jason’s annoyed voice is audible over the gurgling of the man whose windpipe is trapped under the inside of Dick’s elbow. “Well, he does lie.”

“I’ve got several better questions,” Dick says, releasing his unconscious foe, who drops heavily to the ground. “Let’s start with why the actual hell does he think Robin, specifically, doesn’t like him ‘anymore,’ and that Batman refused to take his case?”

There’s sounds from the other ends of the line that are reminiscent of choked spit takes. 

“He said that?” Jason practically shrieks. “It’s not like that at all!” In a much more vulnerable tone, Jason asks, “Is that what he really thinks?”

Bruce cuts in. “There have been some critical miscommunications, failures of anger regulation, and glaring factual omissions.”

Dick waits for Jason to belligerently argue that he regulates his anger just fine, but to his surprise, it doesn’t come.

“We can debrief on that later. In the meantime, don’t underestimate him, Nightwing. Where is he now?”

“I told him to stay on the roof while I took care of these guys. He snuck down the fire escape, took out a guy trying to sneak in a shot at me with a bottle of hot sauce, but now he’s back up on the roof.” Tim’s unfortunate victim, Ricky Schwartz himself, had been dragged off still screaming and swearing by two of his injured but still conscious and mobile comrades. Dick’s winnowed the competition down considerably.

Sounding even more annoyed than before, Jason grumbles, “How extremely on-brand.”

“Do you currently have eyes on him?” Bruce asks, unsatisfied.

Roundhousing a guy into unconsciousness, Dick answers, “I’m a little busy, so no.”

“Fucking make yourself un-busy and keep your eyes on him at all goddamned times,” Jason insists vehemently. “Do you have handcuffs? Nah, his wrists are too tiny, he’d probably just slip out. Look, just zip tie him to your belt. Both hands.”

“Uh, a little excessive there, no?” 

Instead of agreeing with Dick, Bruce says, “Hnnn.”

Not a denial. From Batman. Concerning.

Suspicious, Dick asks, “How’d he get away from you guys?”

Jason answers sullenly, “Batman took his eyes off him for five seconds to get in my way to yell at me for being very reasonably perturbed at him and his sneaky fucking ways, and we lost him. Way to go, B.”

Piecing this together, Dick says, “So I’m hearing that he was correct in thinking that Robin was upset with him, so he ran away to me instead. Wait, hang on: Batman and Robin somehow lost a kid that ran away from them? On foot?”

“I tried to tell B not to underestimate him!” Jason cries. “He’s wily!”

Despite the several very concerning elements of the situation, Dick is unable to not see the humor in this. “Like the coyote?”

“You’d think,” Jason says darkly.

Seeming to choose his words carefully, Bruce explains, “Timothy Drake has an aptitude for covert maneuvers that I had not anticipated.”

Dick translates, elbowing a sweaty man in a yellow shirt in the temple, who goes down like a sack of potatoes:  “…You’re saying Batman got out-sneaked by a literal child?”

“That child is a conniving little liar, a goddamned danger-seeking mini-missile, three raccoons wearing a trenchcoat!” Jason informs Dick irritably. “He’s a fucking menace to society, not to mention himself.”

Running up the brick wall next to the window of Mama Flór’s, Dick flips over the heads of his last two opponents, and jabs electrical current in both of their spines. He can read between the lines to translate this, too. “Hey. He’s gonna be alright, Little Wing. He ran to me, and we’re gonna keep him safe until we can figure this all out.”

The last two dispatched and drooling on the sidewalk, Dick flicks a two fingered salute at the cook and waitress, who are staring at him through the window. Neither of them bother to acknowledge him directly, but the waitress thumbs the deadbolt and flips the door sign back to “OPEN.”

Dick throws a hand behind him, feeling the chunk of the grapple connecting, and toggles to retract the line, letting the momentum carry him up to flip lazily onto the empty roof that until very recently contained a small boy and his backpack. 

Dick looks around like maybe he’s missed a Tim shaped object on the wide expanse of tar paper and brick.

He hasn’t. A running search also reveals no terrifyingly resourceful children on any of the fire escapes or nearby streets. Dick cards a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

Bruce pinching his nose is nearly audible.

“What, ‘shit.’ What do you mean, ‘shit,’” Jason demands, already hopping mad. “If you tell me you lost him I swear to God Dickhead -“

Dick interrupts, sensing it might be a while if he lets Jason finish his sentence and time is now of the essence. “B, give me the rundown on exactly what happened after he ran from you guys.”

He grapples up to the highest point around, trying to get a good view of the area. He switches to night vision lenses to be sure; no child sized figures are visible anywhere in the area. 

There’s a deep inhale before Jason bellows, “YOU LOST HIM?!”

Dick winces and reaches up to his earpiece, turning down the volume slightly as he continues searching the area.

Babs answers before Bruce has a chance to. “GCPD’s reporting they lost one of the cars that left the scene at Drake Manor, but the suspects in the other, along with the ones you apprehended, are all now in custody.” She sighs heavily, sounding exhausted. “Tonight’s a hell of a time for Alfred to be sick. God knows he could use a break, but it’d sure be nice to have someone else running back-end right now.”

“At least they got some more of the bastards,” growls Jason in a tone that promises reprisal, and it’s a testament to how the night is going that Bruce continues not to bother with even a cursory language.

“Nightwing, report,” Bruce orders, and Dick tries not to take being ordered around personally, especially considering the colossal fuckup that seems to have occurred on the Batman-and-Robin end vis-a-vis Timmy. “What exactly did Tim tell you?”

“Well, first off, he told me Batman wasn’t going to take his case,” Dick says, trying to imbue his voice with Alfred’s Eyebrow of Disappointment. “Which I personally find unconscionable, have you seen him, he’s a little waif, looks about eight. How old is he really?”

“Nine. And he misunderstood the situation. I hope you know me better than to think I turned him down,” Bruce says, feathers ruffled at this assault on his character.

Jason corrects, sounding upset, “Actually, he just turned ten a couple days ago. Was so excited that his asshole parents were coming back for his birthday. But they never showed.”

Dick isn’t in the mood to let Robin entirely off the hook. “Also, he said Robin is really really mad at him and doesn’t like him anymore. What the hell is that all about?”

Dick immediately feels bad for his bluntness at the devastated, gutted noise Jason makes.

Not unkindly, Bruce placates, “We can clear up that situation after we get him to safety. Nightwing, he came all the way to Blüdhaven to find you -”

Jason interrupts: “How did he find you, anyway?”

Bruce continues, “- Why didn’t he stay with you?

“He found me through Fiesta Friday and Google reviews,” Dick relays, as unhelpful as it had been the first time around. “And he mentioned having someplace he needed to be tonight to track down his ‘last investigative lead.’ Seemed to think we could meet up later, but I thought I’d gotten him to agree to let me take him back to Gotham.”

“Kid doesn’t deal in implied contracts,” Jason warns, much too late. “Learned that the hard way. Fiesta fucking Friday and Google reviews. Of course. It’s so obvious I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.”

Dick adds, running to intercept the Nightcycle, which is autonomously making its way to him from where he’d parked it twenty blocks away, “…right before telling me he knew my identity and both of yours too. Which brings me to the other burning question: Why the hell has he been spending his nights running around Gotham after Batman and Robin like the world’s tiniest paparazzo when he knows who we all are in the daytime?”

Bruce makes an absence of noise that’s the Bat equivalent of a layperson’s stunned gasp. “Nightwing, confirm: He knows our identities?”

Jason, meanwhile, has focused on the other part of Dick’s lobbed bombshell. “Photography. Oh my fucking God. That little shit. That little shit!!”

“He’s probably headed back to Gotham,” Dick speculates. “I’m on my way. Maybe he’ll try to go back to his uncle before whatever else he has planned.”

Bruce says grimly: “There is no uncle.”

Dick pauses in the act of swinging a leg over the Nightcycle. “He made up an uncle?  …Why?”

“So he could keep me and B from noticing he’s been living on his own like an elderly widow since fucking May,” says Jason, bitterly.

Ignoring this, Bruce directs Dick: “If we can get a make and model, try and see if you can find him on the road.”

Revving the engine, Dick recaps the situation: “Tim made up an uncle so he could go rogue without ending up on the radar of the World’s Greatest Detectives, whom he follows around Gotham every night unnoticed… and it worked?”

“It wasn’t just the fake uncle!” Jason emphatically defends. “I told you he was wily. He set up timed security lights in the house and pulled his parents’ cars in an’ out the garage and shit, so it looked like adults were there. Even sent B a hugeass floral arrangement the size of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree ‘from’ the uncle. He’s fucking ten! No one was expecting Tim to be all… Tim. And, he wasn’t totally off my radar! I caught him in the city a coupla times.”

Dick curves up the on-ramp to the highway leading back to Gotham. “A couple of times, out of the hundreds of nights he’s been out following you this year?”

Jason sucks in a breath. “Hundreds? How do you know?”

“I saw his pictures. He’s a good photographer.”

Jason seems even more outraged by this than anything else said so far. “You met him for five minutes an’ he showed you all his secret pictures?!”

Dick would shrug, if his brother could see it, and he wasn’t currently using his arms to control several hundred pounds of steel at high speed. “I exude trustworthiness, what can I say. Let’s circle back now: so you caught him, and what, just let him trot along on his merry way? Some kind of catch and release program for unaccompanied minors you’re running now?”

Bruce radiates disapproval through the comm audio. “It seems so.”

Jason bristles defensively. “Look - He’s a d- a doggone dirty liar. I know he looks like an adorable little elf who just escaped from kindergarten, but he speaks with a forked tongue.” He pronounces it with dramatic emphasis, two syllables like the ye olde English way, fork-ed. Deflecting blame, Jason adds, “and who fell for his innocent act hook, line, an’ sinker this time, Dorkwad? Who lost him this time, answer me that one?”

Seeing the humor in all this, Dick asks, “B. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Bruce sighs through his nose. “I doubt it. Is it time is of the essence and we should be focusing on the matter at hand?”

“If the matter at hand is this kid is fucking awesome!”

Babs’ lovely alto adds: “I was thinking that, actually.”

“That’s cause you’re the best of us, Batgirl,” Dick says, trying not to say it as schmoopily as he feels it. 

“True,” Babs confirms modestly.

Frostily, Jason redirects the subject. “I’m sorry, are we also just not gonna talk about the fact that he knows our identities?” Dick detects a district undertone of guilt when he asks, “How long has he known? How does he know?”

“I was wondering that, too,” Babs adds.

“Apparently he made me a year or more ago. Recognized my quad tuck from when his parents took toddler-him to see the circus in Gotham. Put the rest of the pieces together from there.”

There’s a quality of Batman silence that translates to shocked and reluctantly impressed.

Babs gives a long whistle, high to low.

Jason is silent, for a second.

Then he explodes, making Dick‘s eardrums grateful that he’d turned down the audio earlier. “That little SHIT KNEW ALL ALONG? THIS WHOLE FUCKING TIME?! I’m gonna kill him with my bare hands, I’ll eat his heart in the market-place!”

“You absolutely are not!” Dick contradicts immediately. “He is the cutest thing in the entire world! He’s a stealthy little quokka, with bonus detective skills!”

Bruce sternly rebukes, “Shakespeare aside, this anger management issue is why he didn’t trust us to stay, Robin.”

Cowed but still sounding like he’s still absolutely brimming with rage, Jason darkly predicts, “You just wait, dick-for-brains. You just WAIT, I can’t wait until he does something like distract the Joker and almost die in front of YOU a couple times, see how CUTE you think he is THEN.”

Caught off-guard, Dick splits lanes, flying between cars on the dotted lines. “Wait, that was him?”

Babs interjects, “We are still talking about Timothy Drake, your neighbor, who you’ve been spending all summer with?”

Mind blown further, Dick repeats, “Wait, that was HIM?! I thought you said you had it under control!”

Bruce’s voice radiates disapproval. “You knew about this, Nightwing?”

Offended that Jason’s been keeping this secret from his cool and trustworthy older brother in addition to the much more reasonable secret-keeping from Bruce, known smothering overreactor, Dick says, “Apparently not!” To Jason, he asks, “You’ve been hiding him from me, is that it?” He adds teasingly, “Is it because he likes Nightwing better than Robin?”

But this last seems to hit a much more raw spot that Dick was expecting, because Jason bursts out, “Fuck off, Dickwad!”

“Boys. Settle down,” Bruce orders.

“I can’t believe you haven’t adopted him yet, B,” Dick says, giving Jason some conversational space.

Disgruntled, Bruce points out, “He has parents.”

“Debatable,” Jason shoots back pessimistically. “And even if he still does, he shouldn’t.”

Slightly confused by this, and only half-joking about going all-in on the plan of adopting this worryingly chaotic child who seems to have already imprinted on their family like a feral duckling, Dick instructs: “Yeah, get on that, B.”

Frustrated, Bruce says, “We have to find him, and his parents, before we begin to make a more permanent plan for his safety. How did he get to Blüdhaven? Did he tell you?”

“He bribed an uber driver to ignore him being a child,” Dick informs them.

Bruce has never sounded more like a tired parent. “Of course he did. Batgirl, run his parents’ credit cards, see if we can find a new payment and drop off location.”

Babs also sounds tired, which finds expression in sarcasm. “Sure, why not, it’s not like I have anything else on my plate tonight. Nightwing, you mentioned him saying he had somewhere to be tonight, a last lead to check out?”

“Yeah. He’s been looking for clues. Baby’s first investigation. We’ll need to get him a commemorative ornament or something.”

“Child or not, he’s the first person to realize his parents were missing, and tracked down his nanny to her murder site,” Bruce reminds them unnecessarily. “If he’s got another lead, it’s very likely to be a valid one.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Jason complains, “I know he’s a mini-B but you don’t need to sound so damn admiring. The only thing Timmy can find without even trying is suicidally dangerous situations! Can we focus on keeping him away from those, please and thank you?”

Bruce says, “Hnnn.”

“If he’s hell bent on investigating on his own,” Babs says thoughtfully, “I have a bad feeling I might already know where he’s headed. My primary mission tonight is investigating a black market auction, that’s pulling some big names in the underworld. I’ve got the Birds of Prey on the inside keeping infiltrating the auction site. It’s disguised as an above-board gala for all the worst and most well-connected, The Fraternal Order of Police Benefit Ball.”

In other words, the most corrupt and powerful of the Gotham community schmoozing and double-dealing each other under the veneer of wealth and glamour. There’s a wide variety of more pressing things to get hung up on, but Dick can’t help asking, “The ‘Birds of Prey’?”

“Yeah,” Babs says, with a hint of an edge, like, you gonna make something of it?

It’s hot, but then there’s not much about Babs that isn’t. “Sick name,” he says mildly.

She gives a huff of amusement, and there’s the faint sound of tapping keys, before Babs continues grimly, “Well, what a coincidence. The Drakes are on the gala’s invitation list.”

“Oh, fan fucking tastic. A big ol’ party full of the gangs who killed his nanny and the cops who tried to grab him off the fucking street this morning. I told you, I fucking told you, this is what happens when you take your eyes off that kid for ONE FUCKING -” 

Speeding up, Dick interrupts Jason. “Get it all out now, Lil’ Wing,” he warns, “cause I’m really gonna need you to grab on to your big boy panties, pull ‘em all the way up, and not scare Tim off again when we catch up to him, you got it? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Chapter Text

Trust is the foundation of any successful partnership in detective work.
- Encyclopedia Brown

Riding high on the wave of relief driven by the promised assistance and excellent second hug from Dick Grayson himself, Tim polishes off the remaining nachos on the ride back to Gotham, determinedly ignoring the undercurrents of fear and anxiety lurking in the murky depths of his soul. 

These are more problems for Future Tim to deal with. 

One singular thing so far, Dick Grayson’s promise of help, has gone spectacularly right in an otherwise abysmally horrible day, and he’s going to grip tight to that for all he’s worth. Tim’s just got to hold it together to do this one last thing before he can be sure Nightwing will have all the clues he needs to solve the case, find Tim’s parents, and fix everything again. With Tim’s input, of course. Or rather, Detective Drake’s. 

After that, Tim can find somewhere safe to rest for a bit until this all gets figured out. Maybe Nightwing can recommend a hotel that isn’t likely to sell Tim out to any shady cops that might come looking. He probably still knows where’s reasonably safe to hide in Gotham, even if he’s based across the bay now. Tim’s just got to keep moving until then, is all, and avoid coming into close contact with any cops not named Gordon. 

The car slows to a halt, a block away from Tim’s true destination. He thanks the driver and hops out onto the sidewalk, dusting tortilla crumbs off the tuxedo lapels and tugging down the hem of his jacket from where it’s ridden up on the drive. As soon as the car pulls away from the curb to join Gotham’s late evening traffic, Tim detours into the nearest poorly lit alley, these being harder to come by in the Diamond District than in virtually any other area of the city. Tim nips up to a likely-looking roof, fishing out his lock picks, and hides his backpack and raincoat in an exterior utility box, his camera’s memory card getting slipped in his sock along with the encrypted hard drive and the remainder of his cash. Tim locks the utility closet behind him before heading back down to the street.

Tim receives a severe setback when he catches his first glimpse of the gala’s welcome banner. It’s massive, spreading high over the wide and imposing expanse of marble stairs leading up to the two story tall carved bronze doors which form the grand entrance at the front of the gothic Art Deco building, open to receive the lines of patrons. Tim realizes it wasn’t his paranoid imagination leading him to believe there was a far greater amount of cops around than usual in this part of town: the formal lettering on the banner proudly reads “The Fraternal Order of Police Benefit Ball, hosted by Friends of the Gotham City Police Department.” 

Dang it, Tim thinks, but that doesn’t quite cover it. Gosh darn it also doesn’t seem to do it justice, either. Tim’s beginning to wonder if there’s some kind of secretive rogue specializing in giving people bad luck, and if so, if Tim’s somehow managed to royally piss them off.

Tim feels a flash of unfilial, acute annoyance that his parents hadn’t bothered to include this little piece of information in addition to date, time, and location on their calendars.

Well. It’s not like he can turn back now. Tim wipes sweaty palms on his tuxedo pants, having forgotten to pack a pocket square he could have used instead, and sets off to join the crowds milling in and out of the venue.

Getting in to the gala turns out to be the easiest thing that Tim has attempted so far today. His family’s name is on the guest list, and he’s dressed for the part in his Tom Ford custom fitted suit; all he has to do is tell the door staff his parents are giving the valets a hard time and sent him on ahead, and he’s in. It helps that the staff are distracted by some of the on-duty traffic beat officers halfway down the block hassling someone who looks definitely too poor and probably too unhoused to dare to be so close to the party. 

Well, it helps Tim. He can’t say as much for the unfortunate member of the lower class, who doesn’t appear to be feeling either served or protected by the police, despite their slogan.

Though unfair, Tim’s got problems of his own at the moment. Detective Drake resolutely turns his attention to stealthily infiltrating the party he’s, technically, been invited to.

There aren’t many other children present, mostly just bored looking teens and children cute enough to be shown off like they’re in an episode of Toddlers & Tiaras, but there are enough so that Tim isn’t an immediate target of attention for being out of place. Which is good, because Tim couldn’t spill a non-alcoholic kid’s champagne without splashing Martinelli’s all over at least three cops in dress uniform no matter where he steps. The unpleasant feeling of eyes watching his back follows Tim as he heads through the arched marble corridors and moves into the main hall that is currently acting as the central hub of the party. 

Tim steels himself. He can’t waste time feeling like the prey he had been this morning when he’s supposed to be on the hunt. His parents would be deeply ashamed of him and his craven desire to disappear through the tesselated mosaic floor in the face of adversity. He’s alone and vulnerable, sure, but he’s a Drake. If his parents have taught him nothing else, it’s that high society is Drake territory. And on top of that, he’s Tim: Invisible at the best of times, let alone while he’s actively trying not to draw attention to himself. He’s got herds of fellow tuxedos to camouflage himself among, while he searches for the blond man with the scarred arm. A simple mission, in and out.

He also consoles himself with the idea that, worse comes to worse and someone does try to kidnap him from the middle of a gala, maybe Commissioner Gordon will make an appearance, and be able to immediately put a stop to that kind of nonsense. Sure, it’s unlikely, given that the FOP has famously been one of his biggest and loudest detractors given Gordon’s anti-corruption stance, but not impossible.

Tim can dream. 

Having Nightwing on his side has boosted his previously dwindling optimism considerably.

Tim remains unnoticed as he prowls further into the venue, which opens up into an enormous circular hall, dramatic vertical architectural features drawing the eye up to the ceiling high above, where the dome is topped by an intricately paned skylight, crowned by chandeliers dripping concentric circles of delicate glass fringe forming tiered columns of glittering gold lighting the decadent spaces beneath.

One side of the hall is made up of enormous plate glass windows, soaring up the full span of the building to end reaching up to the sky in rounded points. The other side of the space is a curving half-moon of two floors each tall enough to comfortably accommodate giants of unusually large size. Three dimensional arching scoops of tiled mosaic between stretching columns hold the ceiling high above the mezzanine level, tucked beneath which on the ground floor is a thirty piece orchestra playing old standards. In front of them, the center of the main hall has become a swollen dance floor, crowds of women wearing brightly colored plumage and glittering jewels, and men in dark tuxedos and somber dress blues whirling past in pairs. 

In the silver lining to the dark cloud that’s been Tim’s week, he counts himself lucky that his parents aren’t here to force him to show off the results of the ballroom dance and etiquette lessons drilled into him since he could first toddle around in a three piece suit and glossy leather shoes.

More of the lavishly dressed bourgeoisie hover in groups around the standing tables dotted in front of the well-stocked bar, catering displays, and coupé glass champagne tower beneath the ornate fan and chevron motif of the mezzanine, to the side of the orchestra. Tim steps carefully around the precisely stacked glass tower, not wanting to tempt fate any more than the giggly, sloshing patrons coming back to make more champagne from the tower already are.

Unobtrusively eyeballing the crowd as he passes through, he’s annoyed at how little he’s able to see. Hampered by both the crowds and his comparative lack of height, Tim is going to need a better vantage point if he’s going to have any chance of spotting his quarry. 

Mumbling polite excuses as he determinedly pushes through the room, the crush thins out a bit as he heads up the elegant sweep of the curving marble stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Tim gives a wide berth to a tipsy couple, long skirts hiked up and holding on to each other and the railing for dear life as they make a wobbling descent on tall pointy heels that can’t possibly be comfortable footwear.

The wide carved stone railing continues to flow around the room on the second floor after leaving the stairs behind. Stone benches and conversational seating areas have been placed around, for people to see and be seen among the art deco surroundings framing them. Since Tim is only interested in seeing, and not being seen himself, he nabs an empty seat set unobtrusively between the mezzanine rail and a large column holding up the ceiling, which happily provides an excellent view of the crowd below. 

Now once again in his own personal element, perched somewhere high and unnoticed, Detective Drake enters stake-out mode, scanning for blonde hair, blue eyes, three long lines of scar tissue on the left wrist and arm, last seen on a video meeting with his parents.

Nothing catches his notice immediately. Tim’s inquisitive gaze passes over people in boisterously laughing clusters, exchanging adversarial glances across bar tables, and in half moon alcoves,  tete-a-tetes made private by the background music of partygoers and dancing. At a glance, it seems like a fairly typical society party, networking and connecting, flaunting status symbols, establishing and re-establishing the pecking order of the rich and well-connected. 

It’s not Tim’s first rodeo. He knows how these things go. He’s basically the urban version of Jane Goodall, observing and cataloguing the natural behaviors of Gotham’s high society. 

He’s on his third pass around the room when Tim’s eyes catch on an oddity he hadn’t specifically been looking for.

Far across the hall, two uniformed officers lurk near the intricately carved bronze elevator that must lead to a lower level, given its placement away from the upper gallery. It appears to be one of the areas closed to the public, cordoned off with velvet ropes looped through metal poles that are stylized to match the surrounding decor, slightly taller and thinner than the usual sort of bollards, that would probably reach up to Tim’s chest, if he was standing next to them. 

Curious, Tim watches as occasional guests approach the two, speaking quietly to them, before one of the uniforms unhooks the black velvet rope to allow them entrance to the elevator. After the bronze door carvings slide back into place to form one single work of art, hiding the guests each from view, the uniformed officers silently refasten the velvet rope until another patron surreptitiously comes by to start the process over again.

Odd. 

Tim tilts his head to one shoulder. Considers the possibility that these are guards for whatever kind of corruption is going on tonight beneath the glittering layer of affluence above.

Well. Right now, that’s none of his concern, unless he can’t find his target and has to find a way to the lower level himself and search there. If he needs to sneak up for a better view later, he will. For now, he’ll try not to press his already poor luck more unless he has to. 

Tim shifts, settling more comfortably into his seat. His parents were supposed to be here to discuss a business partnership, not whatever skullduggery might be going on below, so whoever he’s looking for is probably on the main floor somewhere. The party is in full swing, Tim having arrived fashionably late from Blüdhaven, so odds are the man he’s looking for is somewhere in sight right now, beneath his nose, dancing and brownnosing and trying his hand at removing a bit of bubbly from the tower. 

It’s not an easy task, finding one man in a suit among the lively, tittering crowd. It’s more like a live action Where’s Waldo, in fact, where each identically dressed guest continually changes position with every other. Still, Tim perseveres, reminding himself he’s always enjoyed a challenge, even at the end of a very long and awful day. Week. However long it’s been.

Tim tries to narrow in on blondes, letting his eyes unfocus slightly and allowing them to drift gently to take in as much of the scene as possible at once, hoping his blonde guy will catch his attention and pop out like a figure in a Magic Eye painting. 

Slowly panning from side to side, the mystery man doesn’t appear to him, but out of the very corner of his eye, a very uncomfortably familiar figure on the other side of the mezzanine, across the half moon, does trigger Tim’s subconscious acute stress response.

He’s only seen Sgt. Bosco once, but this morning’s escape from the GCPD was a recent and very memorable experience. Tim stills, trying to convince himself it’s only his imagination and that Bosco couldn’t possibly see and recognize him from such a distance. There’s not much that’s unique or memorable about Tim, and he’s wearing the same tuxedo as every other man in the room, and a few of the women. 

He’s feeling pretty good about the accuracy of his thoughts and his relative safety from recognition when Bosco turns, like a horror movie, and looks right in Tim’s direction.

Once again moving more quickly than Tim’s brain, Tim’s body is turning his head away and moving before Tim’s brain can actively tell his feet to start walking. Purposeful, like you know where you’re going, but not so quickly you draw attention, Tim thinks belatedly, gliding around taller people in the direction of the more densely populated ground floor, using them as living smokescreens. Holding his breath and not daring to check on whether Bosco’s still there, or whether he’s in active pursuit, he keeps pace with a group on his right as he descends the stairs to obscure Bosco’s view, if he’s still looking, if he noticed, if Tim’s been recognized, if he’s been made -

He’s passing between the dance floor and the catering when a hand grabs him by the upper arm, and if he was Robin, if he was Batman, if he had actual fight instincts when it came down to it, he’d spin around and throw a flat hand in a windpipe while bringing knee to balls, just like Jason had tried to teach him.

He’s just Tim, though. And apparently years of highly regimented sport karate and a very few weeks of a bit of training from Robin aren’t enough to make him more of a fighter than a thinker, because to his embarrassment, all he does is freeze.

“What an unexpected surprise,” the voice attached to the hand on his arm says, like a melodramatic villain would.

Tim turns, and feels the same way, because instead of Bosco leering at him nefariously, it’s Selina Kyle giving him a mischievous half-smile. 

“When I found that stray on a fire escape a few weeks ago, I didn’t realize that he was a purebred.”

Heart still pounding, Tim risks a quick glance over her shoulder, and sees Bosco still in place on the mezzanine. He’s leaning his arms on the balustrade, gaze down on the crowd, but it doesn’t look like he’s got his eyes on Tim at the moment, if he ever really had in the first place.

Selina’s smile has dropped slightly, as Tim hasn’t responded immediately and isn’t looking directly at her. Taking a deep breath and summoning a polite smile for her, he pulls his attention back.

Forgetting to act surprised at Selina’s indirectly admitting her alternate identity is Catwoman, Tim instead asks: “Did the kitten get to go to a good home?”

Selina hits him with a pointed glance and a quirked lip. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

When the penny drops, Tim’s cheeks go pink.

Selina takes pity on him when he says nothing more. “Your loud and furry acquaintance is safe and sound. Did you get what you needed from your meeting?”

Tim’s not giving the conversation the attention it deserves, having become distracted by recognizing yet another face in the crowd. 

“May I have this dance?” Tim asks abruptly, hardly waiting for her surprised agreement before he starts leading her deep into the middle of the dance floor, away from the desk sergeant he’d met that morning, who hadn’t taken him seriously, and who had instead led him directly to Bosco, and from there the two cops who’d tried to nab him in as close to broad daylight as Gotham was capable of producing.

The starburst mosaic that spreads impressively across the polished stone floor of the concourse is clouded and revealed in turn by the array of dancers drifting above it.

Unsurprisingly, Selina turns out to be an excellent dancer, long silk skirts swaying elegantly around her legs as Tim leads her through a decorous foxtrot to the orchestra’s rendition of Call Me Irresponsible. Tim politely and resolutely keeps his eyes only on potential kidnappers and kidnapper-adjacents, and where he’s leading the two of them, due to the hazards of his smaller stature putting him at an awkward eye level to Catwoman.

Selina uses the excuse of a twirl to follow his gaze out into the partygoers outside the dance floor, then looks back at him with shrewd appraisal and something like concern.

“You aren’t here for the dancing and catering, are you.” 

It isn’t a question.

Tim looks at her. Decides it’s not worth lying directly to Catwoman’s all too knowing face. “No.”

She nods, gracefully sweeping through another turn. “Are you here for the same reason you wanted a visit from our mutual acquaintance?”

“You could say that,” Tim reluctantly admits, avoiding a collision with partygoers who have apparently never heard of the line of dance. “My parents are missing. I’m trying to find them.”

Selina turns her head slightly to the side, inquisitive, like she’s trying to figure him out. “You’re just full of surprises, kitten.”

It occurs to Tim then that Catwoman might prove to be a useful source of information. “I’m really here because I’m looking for someone I don’t know.” 

Selina obligingly pivots into his other outstretched arm, and waits for him to continue.

“My parents - they were supposed to come here tonight to finalize a business deal with someone. I need to know who he is, and if he has anything to do with them going missing. You don’t happen to know a blond man with scars on his arm, do you?”

She shakes her head, setting drop earrings of bright ruby swinging against her neck with the movement. “Not that I can think of offhand.”

Disappointing, but not surprising. In retrospect, it was probably a rude assumption to think she might know a potentially shady character just because she happens to be an infamous rogue. Not all criminals know each other.

“I haven’t seen him here yet,” Tim says, “but I’m pretty sure there’s something going on downstairs. I’m going to check there next if I can’t find him up here.” He doesn’t see the need to confuse the issue at this time by mentioning Bosco and the morning’s near-kidnapping. He’d rather keep some dignity instead of admitting to fleeing and hiding like a scared mouse if he doesn’t have to.

At this, though, Selina looks troubled. She leans slightly closer, dropping her voice. “Between you and me? I don’t see that going the way you intend. It’s a very different kind of party underground.”

“What do you mean?”

Selina flicks a subtle gaze around, speaking softly. “Downstairs is a very private kind of auction. For people with much more money than morals, to buy and sell. A lot of money is trading hands between a lot of very rich and very dangerous people right now, in exchange for items of a certain type.”

Tim does not like the sound of that one bit. “What type is that?”

Selina makes a moue of her expertly painted lips. “The kind you can’t buy at Macy’s. Things that were liberated from their previous owners, make good tools for very unfriendly people, or that have very special qualities that Uncle Sam would rather keep close tabs on.”

Tim lets that sink in for a second, readjusting their trajectory towards the center of the room again, so there are plenty of other couples between them and any prying eyes outside the dance floor. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Mmm,” Selina hums noncommittally, not agreeing or disagreeing. “The point is, as much as they pretend it’s a party of impeccable family friendly values up here, beneath it all is very much a harsh and child free environment, kitten. You wouldn’t get more than a foot down the hall before being made, no matter how clever a kid you are, and I’m thinking that’s very clever indeed.” Before Tim can bask in this unexpected compliment, she continues, no nonsense and crushingly sure of her conclusions: “You won’t get what you’re looking for going down there yourself.” 

Seeing Tim about to object, Selina gives a delicate huff through her nose and edges closer to what she’s been hinting around. “If your parents really were supposed to meet for business tonight, the sorts of partnerships that are made here… they aren’t the kind that get talked about in the light of day.”

Tim finally begins to hear what she’s been trying not to say. The memory of Jason’s voice telling Tim what he thinks of Tim’s parents plays again in his head, and the horrible, traitorous sense that Jason perhaps hadn’t been as wrong as Tim had thought gets stronger. 

There must be some mistake. He isn’t a bad son - he can’t think poorly of his parents like that. Selina must not have all the information, there must be some other explanation that he can’t see, that he’s too stressed to think of at the moment. Maybe their mystery man is up here lit by the waterfall chandeliers after all, making perfectly ordinary sorts of business arrangements, and Tim just hasn’t spotted him yet.

Tim meets her eyes, trying not to appear as shaken as he feels. He ventures, “There - are there people that are here to buy and sell just, um, regular sorts of expensive things?” 

Selina looks like she’d rather not answer. Her expression is horribly pitying. “Those sorts of things happen above-ground, in daylight. They don’t need to be kept hidden.”

Whatever she sees in his face, it makes her give a bracing sort of gentle shake to his shoulder where her hand rests, his feet having continued to take them by rote muscle memory through basic dance patterns while he tries to process this all.

“I’m not one to judge, kitten,” she assures him softly, and the continued pity is too much.

“I’ll have to take my chances,” Tim insists, because this much hasn’t changed in the last few minutes: his nanny is still  - gone, his parents are still missing, and he needs to find them before they are next. “He could be the key to finding my parents. I need at least a name. I have someone who can help me with the rest, after that.”

Hearing he’s got someone to help him seems to mollify her slightly, her shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. “Your meeting went well, then?” 

“No, I found someone else. I, uh, had to go further afield. To Blüdhaven. I’m sorry I put you to the trouble. Meeting up with, um, your acquaintance didn’t quite go to plan after all.”

He catches a flash of shock and anger as she looks at him sharply, before smoothing her expression into something more appropriate for the middle of a dance floor. “He isn’t helping you?”

“No. The person I asked you to tell him not to bring - well, he showed up anyway, and - it just didn’t go well, that’s all.” It’s too embarrassing to mention how Tim kind of went somewhere else, figuratively, when Jason said what he said and then Batman was suddenly right there in front of Tim, big and loud, before Tim kind of came back into himself and found he had gone somewhere else, literally.

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” she says, her fingers curling slightly around his bicep. Tim can feel the sharp edges of her slightly pointed nails brushing the edge of his shoulder. “Exceedingly disappointed. I expected much better of him.”

“It’s fine,” Tim says, even though it kind of isn’t.

“Mm,” she hums again, but this time in a way that makes clear she disagrees. “Well, I don’t welsh on my deals, kitten. You asked for my help, and you didn’t get it. It’s only fair I make it even.” 

Confused, Tim is about to point out she had in fact done exactly what he had asked of her, sending the message to Batman, and that it wasn’t her problem he hadn’t taken Tim’s case, but she continues before he can. “Let’s say this: I’ll go down there, find out who your businessman is. In return…”

That sounds helpful, but also ominous. Tim’s not wild about the idea of owing favors to rogues, but, to be fair, Catwoman seems pretty nice overall, and hasn’t let him down yet, which is more than he can currently say for either Batman or Robin. “In return?” he asks, with some trepidation. Does she want him to help her burgle something? Because she seems pretty darn good at that on her own, honestly. 

She smiles. “You owe me another dance.”

Oh. That’s not so bad. 

He smiles back, tentatively. “Deal. But if you aren’t able to get me a name, I’m going to have to go down and try for myself.”

She gives a musical laugh. “Oh, honey,” she smooths a hand over her dark silky skirt, then rests it on one hip. “I think I’m offended. A bit of information’s hardly the most challenging thing I’ll have stolen tonight.”

The song draws to a close, and after applauding the musicians politely, Tim scans for shady cops and finds none nearby that he recognizes, at least. They move to the side of the floor closest to the bronze elevator, and in a low voice, Tim gives her the description of the man he’s looking for: blond with a scarred arm, three slices spaced together. He uses three fingers to trace an illustration of the scarring over his own wrist and forearm, which hopefully should be at least partially visible despite any formalwear covering it.

Winking confidently, Selina leaves him partially concealed behind a decorative topiary, and casually saunters over to where the guards stand next to where the velvet rope hangs between the thin metal bollards. She whispers in one of the guards’ ear, and gets nodded through and into the elevator, looking regal and confident as the doors close.

Still hopeful that his parents’ business partner doesn’t do his work by the light of the moon, so to speak, Detective Drake lurks behind his topiary and continues sleuthing. Now keeping an eye out for Bosco, the desk sergeant, and either of the two cops who’d tried to nab him in addition to the blond man, Tim has a job keeping his head on a swivel for the next few minutes.

Reasonably sure now that his quarry isn’t on this side of the room, Tim reluctantly breaks cover and heads over to the other side of the room, where hopefully there is a matching topiary convenient for concealment next to the tables laden with amuse-bouche and artistically arranged pastry. 

The feeling of being exposed and hunted grows as he crosses the floor, passing the entryway, and because Tim’s got no luck at all if it isn’t bad luck, he turns just in time to see another face he recognizes: Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham himself, swanning through the grand entrance.

Tim scurries for cover. It must be a coincidence. He goes to tons of society parties.

A woman in a heavily jeweled dashiki bumps into Tim as he’s distracted, and they exchange polite apologies. Tim continues moving, catering display now in sight, and uses the excuse of turning to the side to slip through the groups of people congregating at bar tables to get a surreptitious glance back at Mr. Wayne, who has somehow closed three quarters of the distance between himself and Tim in the last few seconds, materializing when Tim wasn’t looking like a Weeping Angel.

Okay, he’s definitely looking for Tim. 

How the heck did he find me? Tim’s had his phone off since the disastrous rooftop meeting. Man, gosh dang Batman is good at this stuff.

Trying to act natural and like he’s aiming for the food instead of actively fleeing from Bruce Wayne, Tim grabs a canapé and fumbles it immediately when he turns and comes face to cummerbund with Batman.

“Tim,” says Mr. Wayne, as Tim makes a reflexive grab for the canapé that had fallen from his startled hand, and succeeds in crushing smoked salmon and puff pastry between his fingers.

“Um, shoot,” Tim says, unnerved.

A black cocktail napkin appears in front of him, and Tim uses it to clear the gunk off his hand before daring to allow his gaze to slowly move upward until he’s looking Bruce Wayne in the face.

This is not an ideal situation. It is, in fact, an added complication Tim really does not need. But Tim can still get out of this, and keep trying to find Mystery Businessman, until Selina comes back and maybe has some information for him. After all, it’s Bruce Wayne in front of him, not technically Batman Batman, and Tim’s still got some cards to play to give himself some wiggle room.

“Thanks,” Tim says, for the napkin. “Hi, Mr. Wayne. You know, my uncle was just talking about how he was looking forward to meeting you. If you’re going to be here for a second, let me go get him -“

Tim starts to make a break for it, but Mr. Wayne pulls him up short by saying meaningfully, “I was hoping to talk to you, actually. You see, I was under the impression that you were here for a different reason entirely. And that I’ll have to wait an impossibly long time to meet Uncle Eddie in person.”

Tim, having halted mid-stride, slowly rotates his head back to Mr. Wayne, who smiles in a way that seems to Tim like one a shark would make inviting a tasty looking fish into its mouth for dinner.

What does he know? How does he know? thinks Tim frantically. Nightwing wouldn’t have spilled the beans. Tim had told him they’d meet up later tonight. He’d have no reason to go blabbing to Batman, right? Right?! And why is he here, anyway, he already isn’t going to help find my parents. Is this just because he’s mad I ran?

It hits Tim. Oh no. He’s here because I ran, and he tried to find me and found out Uncle Eddie doesn’t exist.

Tim does some swift mental recalculating. Batman’s presence at the party should hopefully at least mitigate some of the danger of being kidnapped by the police, which presumably would be something Batman would frown upon regardless of how annoyed he might be that Tim lied to him, but Batman’s sudden awareness of Uncle Eddie’s lack of existence has instead vastly increased Tim’s likelihood of Batman feeling an unfortunate obligation to yeet Tim into the oblivion and shackles of foster care, like Bosco had threatened.

Well, eff that noise. Ain’t nobody going to be stopping Tim from finding his parents. Not even Batman himself. 

“I have my reasons,” Tim bluffs, wondering if Mr. Wayne is going to flat out admit to Tim he’s Batman by mentioning anything about their rooftop meeting. “My family was invited, and I’m here to meet a friend.”

“Miss Kyle?” Mr. Wayne guesses, looking around the room like he’s searching for her. “Weren’t you talking to her earlier?”

How does he - no. No, you know what, it doesn’t matter. The fourth-to-last thing Tim needs right now is Batman chasing Catwoman off before she can find out the identity of the mystery business partner. 

Starting to be less intimidated and more annoyed that Batman has done nothing more heroic than being a disappointing ruiner tonight, Tim elbows the much larger man over to the topiary that, had Tim been quicker off the mark earlier, could have provided him the cover to avoid all this awkwardness. 

Once in the shade of the fronds, Mr. Wayne fastidiously removing a stray leaf from his lapel from where Tim has shoved him into the plant, Tim hisses, “She’s doing some clandestine information gathering for me, not stealing.”

With the keen stare of the Dark Knight now upon him, Tim feels compelled to amend more truthfully, “Well, I can’t be sure she’s not also stealing stuff. But she’s definitely on a mission for me right now!” 

Bemused and with a crinkle appearing around the sides of his eyes that Tim doesn’t trust, Mr. Wayne rephrases, “You got Selina Kyle to act as your personal espionage agent.”

Well, it sounds kind of bad when he puts it like that. 

“It was mostly her idea,” Tim explains. “She wasn’t happy when she heard my plan.”

“I imagine she wasn’t, no,” Mr. Wayne says, in an unreadable tone.

Tim’s not in the mood to be judged on this. “She’s not real happy with you either,” he deflects.

This clearly takes Mr. Wayne aback. “Oh? Why is that?”

Why? The foremost mind in detection can’t figure this one out? Tim’s righteous grievances rise up full force, shoving aside the inner voice that tries to point out the unwisdom of talking back to an adult, particularly this adult, who could drop kick him bodily over the mezzanine balcony like a football field goal without even breaking a sweat. “For bringing someone else to our meeting when I asked you not to,” Tim says with asperity. “For not helping me. She really didn’t like that,” Tim informs Batman, just a little smugly. 

For once, Mr. Wayne seems speechless.

“Look, I have to go. You don’t need to be concerned in my affairs any longer,” Tim does his best to keep matters mature and professional so Batman will chill the heck out and leave him and Nightwing alone to solve the case and get his parents back. “I found someone who is willing to help me. He’s the best in the business. So, you can,” butt out, Tim thinks, but finishes aloud, “move on to your other projects with a clear conscience.” 

Mr. Wayne appears uncomfortably chagrined, yet much less eager to leave Tim to his own devices than he had hoped. “There seem to be several misapprehensions I need to correct as soon as possible,” Mr. Wayne says, seeming to be leading in to a longer conversation than Tim has time for at the moment.

Eager to extricate himself, find the mystery guy, see what Selina has found, and get back to Nightwing so this horrible day can finally end, Tim casts around and as if by magic, lands on his salvation.

Squinting his eyes, Tim points behind Mr. Wayne and says in quiet, horrified confusion, “Is that the Joker?”

It’s an ignoble stratagem, but Detective Drake is a practical gumshoe in addition to being hard boiled. He’s not above subterfuge to accomplish his goals, and accomplish them he does; Mr. Wayne half-turns, distracted for the fraction of a second Tim needs to dart five feet in the other direction to where a short, stout elderly woman in an eye searingly red flapper dress is tossing back a coupe glass of champagne with relish. 

“Ms. Andrews! How lovely to see you again,” Tim says in a rush, seeing Mr. Wayne approaching like a storm cloud on the horizon from the corner of his eye, and hurriedly takes a wrinkly elbow with one hand and gestures widely with the other. “Would you like to dance?”

Ms. Andrews, it transpires, is delighted to be bum-rushed onto the dance floor by dear Timothy before Mr. Wayne can object. Tim escorts her through a foxtrot that maneuvers as far away as possible from the civilian disguise of Vengeance and Night incarnate. 

Ms. Andrews also turns out to be perfectly willing to take the lion’s share of the conversational load while Tim is kept busy, now having to keep his eyes peeled for mystery man, Bosco, desk sergeant, kidnapping beat cops, and the Prince of Gotham. 

Tim provides the bare minimum polite necessities of nods and isn’t that interestings and tell me mores as she holds forth on the quality of the food and the booze and the music, and laments having to lower herself with pretending to care about the Fraternal Order of the Police, who aren’t getting a penny of her money, in order to get her ballroom dance groove on to a live orchestra more than once a year. 

With Bruce Wayne nefariously popping up at the edge of the dance floor like Slenderman every time Tim starts thinking he might have lost him and be safe to move around the room again, Tim is forced to suffer through a second foxtrot, a full accounting of several of Ms. Andrews’ recent surgeries, a very grim and foreboding true crime story of recent friends of her family who went missing and turned up murdered in Gotham River, and what Tim’s missed in the tragic saga of her grand nephew’s love life since Mrs. Andrews has last seen Tim.  

Worryingly, halfway through Fly Me To The Moon, Mr. Wayne disappears briefly from sight, only to reappear with his own dance partner, who he is clearly attempting to angle over to corner Tim.

Grey-blonde curls starting to wilt, Ms. Andrews begs off a third dance in favor of resting her bones and getting more champagne when the song ends. 

Mr. Wayne, having politely extricated himself from his own partner, is almost upon him. Feigning selective blindness, Tim turns away, and has never been so relieved to catch sight of a criminal in his life. 

Selina is prowling between milling dancers waiting for the next song to start with a Mona Lisa smile and a hand extended to Tim, which he takes gratefully.

“Selina. You’re looking exceptionally lovely tonight,” Mr Wayne’s deep voice says from above Tim’s head, attempting to suavely cut in. 

“Bruce,” she says coldly, managing to make the name sound like a four letter word, glaring daggers in the man’s direction, before smiling down at Tim. “Kitten. You owe me a dance, and I’ve come to collect.”

“Of course, Miss Kyle,” Tim agrees, hazarding a look back at a very harassed looking Mr. Wayne as the musicians play the opening bars of You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You.

As soon as they are out of range and rotating in slow box steps, Selina says, sotto voce, “I’ve got you the name. Ignatius Ogilvy.”

Tim sags with relief. “Thank you,” he tells her, fervently.

Selina taps his shoulder warningly with a manicured finger for attention, lines of worry between her eyebrows. “Tim. If he is who I think he might be, he’s very bad news. If he’s somehow involved in where your parents went?” She gives a minute shake of her head, ruby lips pressed together tightly. “It’s not something you ought to be messing around with. Lay low and leave it to your… other friend.”

Unable to accept more cryptic hints instead of being trusted with the whole truth when it’s obvious something more is at hand, Tim demands, “Who is he? Who is he working for?”

Selina isn’t one to be ordered to give up secrets, unfortunately. “I don’t know anything else for sure. Just - think of it as a guess that’s been educated in the school of hard knocks.”

When his expression makes it clear he’s not going to be able to let go of it so easily, she sighs regretfully, giving another shake of her head. “You’re a smart kid. A real tough cookie. And I’m not known for being a responsible role model, or getting in the middle of other people’s business, but I’ve got the very strong feeling that if I tell you, you’ll end up much worse off than if I don’t.”

All of the stress of the day, of finding one horrible secret after another, being disappointed again and again by people he foolishly thought would help him, threatens to catch up with him at once. It’s unbearable to have this hint at a bigger piece of the puzzle that might save his parents, whatever choices they’ve made, and that information being kept from him. Knowing things has always been the glue that holds Tim together, and he’s never been closer to coming apart at the seams than he is after everything that’s happened today. 

“Please,” he begs her, quietly.

Selina tries to joke it off, but her smile is brittle. “Oof. Those big blue eyes of yours are lethal. You’re gonna be a heartbreaker when you grow up, kitten.” She looks him full in the face, deadly serious. “But you’ve got to be alive in order to get there.”

Tim, trying not to be visibly upset, looks away and sees his trials are not yet over for the night. Mr. Wayne is on high alert, now that the song is coming to an end, and is tacking directly towards them through the maze of couples like an impeccably clad schooner under full sail, dancers parting before him.

“Miss Kyle,” Tim says, staring nervously, “Can I ask you one more favor?”

“Selina,” she insists. “And it depends what it is.”

“Bruce Wayne is here,” Tim says, redundantly. He’s not 100% sure Catwoman knows his real identity. She must, if she has a phone number to contact him with, and was annoyed with Bruce when he showed up, after being disappointed Batman hadn’t helped Tim? But maybe she doesn’t know for sure, and Tim certainly isn’t going to be the one to let that cat out of the bag, if so.

Selina says dryly: “I’ve noticed.”

“Yes. Right, of course. Well. He means well, I think, but he’s - a bit misguided. I suspect he’s going to try and, um, talk my ear off. All night. But I still have things I need to do, meeting up with my, ah, other friend later. If you wouldn’t mind, maybe you could see your way to… creating a bit of a distraction? A big one? He’s… very determined.”

Now Selina laughs with mischievous delight. “You’re all kinds of fun, aren’t you. A puzzle wrapped in an innocent-looking enigma. I like your style, kid. He deserves a bit of punishment for not doing right by you.”

That’s one mystery solved: she does know who he is. Though it does beg lots more interesting questions. 

Now is not the time for them, Tim reminds his curiosity firmly.

“…And I just so happen to owe a gal pal of mine a favor, too.” Selina’s gaze is elsewhere, and he follows it to see a man Tim thinks might be the CEO of Gotham Bay Oil & Gas leering down his companion’s décolletage. “Hope you don’t mind going home a little early, as soon as the party starts getting a bit too rowdy. You got a place to go after all this, kitten?”

Before Tim can decide how concerned he should be about a rogue intending to both get the attention of and punish Batman, even if it is only Selina, the music trails to a close and he’s abruptly scruffed by a large warm hand at the back of his neck.

“Yes, in fact, he does,” a voice says, and though Tim’s being gently but firmly prevented from turning his head much to confirm, he’s followed Batman through Gotham long enough to recognize him by voice anywhere. 

Selina’s gaze goes over his shoulder and narrows warningly, putting Tim strongly in mind of a cat putting their ears back and lashing their tail. “I think he’s been disappointed enough by you tonight. Seems to me that he needs someone who will actually help him.”

Mr. Wayne’s grip loosens enough for Tim to turn slightly and see that the most dangerous man in Gotham has the look of someone who has been lured in with the promise of a fuzzy belly rub, only to find his hands clawed to bloody shreds five seconds later for no discernible reason.

Selina tosses her chin length bob dismissively at him before smiling warmly down at Tim. “What do you say, kitten? I’ve got a certain little loud brat who wants to renew your acquaintance. Named him Brian Blessed. BB for short.”

Mr. Wayne’s grip isn’t painful, but when Tim makes a tentative move away, it turns out to not offer even the slightest possibility of escape. “I’m afraid I really must insist.”

Tim hints to Selina, “Um, perhaps maybe your other friend might join the party soon?” And give him the opportunity to slip out and meet up with Nightwing. He doesn’t dare to give a conspiratorial wink to a rogue directly in front of Batman, but he hopes it’s implied.

Apparently it is, because Selina answers with a sharp smile that shows teeth: “Oh, absolutely she will. See you in a bit, Tim. Don’t be a stranger.”

She sashays away, leaving Tim to his fate, temporarily. He hopes.

Mr. Wayne, in full Brucie Wayne party mode, titters inanely and exchanges casual greetings in passing as he tows Tim gently but inexorably to the more shadowed, pseudo-private area beneath the curve of the staircase. 

“Looks like just about everyone’s shown up to this party,” he chortles benignly. “I think the two of us are a bit underdressed.”

Tim gives him a disbelieving look. Mr. Wayne is wearing a tuxedo and accessories that are probably worth a small country’s annual GDP. Far from being offended at Tim’s non-verbal questioning of his intelligence, he only looks amused. “You could use an accessory, I think.”

He pats Tim’s cheek in an avuncular manner, but this turns out to be a cover for a bit of sleight of hand: slipping a communication device into Tim’s ear. 

Mr. Wayne fiddles with what seems to be a button underneath the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, and both Tim’s ears do something strange, the background hubbub of the party suddenly overlaid by a kind of white noise. 

“Now we can talk more privately,” Mr. Wayne says, then adds, “Hello, son,” as though belatedly and too familiarly greeting Tim.

Clearly recognizing this as his cue, Nightwing’s cheerful voice answers through Tim’s new earbud. “Hiya, Timmy! Woulda come with you if I’d known where you were gonna party tonight.”

Trying to find his bearings, completely off-kilter at this turn of events, Tim tries to sort through the implications. 

If Nightwing is here, working with Batman and Robin, that means - that means they not only know Tim knows who they are, but that he has known all along. Which means Mr. Wayne knows, and worse, Jason also undoubtedly knows that  Tim’s been taking advantage of their kindness under false pretenses. And now with the recent developments Tim will have to share with Nightwing, if they’re all working together then Jason will find out, if he doesn’t know already, that Tim’s parents weren’t as good as they should have been. 

It’s a lot. It’s a lot, a lot. Tim feels a bit nauseous, the blood draining a bit from his face. 

Batman’s penetrating gaze gives Tim no clues as to how to proceed next. 

Okay. Okay, he’s panicking a little. It’s all just - a bit much to think about now. Tim feels his brain trying to slip back behind glass again.

Get a hold of yourself, Detective Drake. Focus on the good parts, make a plan, he tells himself firmly. 

Alright, good parts, good parts. There are some. Tim has at least finally gotten a name to put to mystery man’s face. Even if his business meeting with Tim’s parents turned out to not be as innocent as he had thought. Unless maybe there’s still a not bad explanation for how his parents have ended up mixed up in all this? And, and, Nightwing is helping! And here! Even if he has unexpectedly loose lips.

Haphazardly choosing this bit to start with, Tim confronts Nightwing about this lapse in judgment. “You called them in and told them?”

Dick is cheerfully unrepentant. “There’s no such thing as vigilante-client confidentiality, Timmers.”

“That much has become obvious,” Tim mutters darkly.

Nightwing isn’t finished with his explanation. “ - but no, they actually called me in. Seems Batman and Robin were extremely worried about a certain missing kid, dark hair, about yea high, very clever, sneakier than Batman, trying to find his parents. Seems he cut and ran before they could tell him Batman and Robin were gonna take his case.”

Now completely off balance, his Jenga tower in scattered bits of lies all over the ground, all Tim can manage is, “What?”

Mr. Wayne has let his eldest son take the lead in this conversation, but now steps back in, gaze as piercing as ever, but voice quiet and calm. “You’ve been observing my work for a long time, I’m told. Have you ever seen me harm a child?”

“No!” Tim says immediately. “No, you’d never.” 

“Hmm,” Mr. Wayne says, a  grunt of approval and confirmation, and Tim realizes where this line of questioning is directed. But then, Tim’s not particularly childlike, a trait his parents have always praised. So maybe he doesn’t necessarily count. 

“Based on what you know of me, am I likely to turn away someone who needs my help?” Mr. Wayne asks next.

“No,” Tim admits, though privately thinks there’s a first time for all kinds of unpleasant surprises, as evidenced by everything that’s already happened during Tim’s entire day so far.

“Do you think it might be possible,” Mr. Wayne continues, “that some misunderstandings may have occurred? I’m told by my sons,” he says self-deprecatingly, “that I’m not particularly good at expressing myself, on occasion. Especially when I’m taken by surprise. And you’ve surprised me a great deal tonight.”

“It’s possible,” Tim allows, voice quiet.

Mr. Wayne gives a slight smile. 

“Then let me say what I should have started with earlier this evening: I am going to help you find your parents.” Mr. Wayne puts a large hand on Tim’s shoulder, bending over to gently meet Tim’s eyes on the same level. Firmly, earnestly, like he really means it, he tells Tim: “You are not alone, chum.”

Studying the large man closely, Tim finds he recognizes this strong, gentle posture, a comforting bulwark between Tim and the rest of the world. It’s the same Batman he had seen, so long ago, bending to offer his help to another young boy.

Tim discovers that he believes him after all. 

Tim also realizes, after a moment, he’s been staring silently in a probably very embarrassing way for a long stretch of time. 

“Okay.” He swallows, nods, repeats in a small voice, “Okay. Thank you.”

Mr. Wayne gives a smile that seems more genuine and kind than any Tim’s seen all night, aside from the always exceptional Dick Grayson, of course. “Good lad. You have my help,” he says again, “in addition to that of both of my sons. One of whom is better at expressing his concern in a non-confrontational way than the other. Though perhaps some leeway can be given to Jason. He’s had a bit of a trying night, what with saying several things he deeply regrets, losing a friend, and finding out he’s been on the receiving end of a great deal of secrets and lies.”

Wave of guilt swamping him at this reminder of Tim’s having ruined things with Jason, even if Tim is still upset about what Jason’a said about him and his family recently. 

Not ready to admit to being the awful lying friendship destroyer he knows he is, Tim can’t help pointing out a bit waspishly: “Secrets and lies? Those seem to be everywhere these days, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure he’s never lied to me or anyone else about anything of significance. Right, Mr. Wayne?”

“Touché,” Mr. Wayne admits freely, eyes crinkling again.

Nightwing cackles into Tim’s earpiece. “He’s got ya there. Right, Robin? If you promise to play nice with the baby bird, I’ll take you off mute.”

Not quite prepared for another conversation with Jason, given how well the last several haven’t gone, Tim asks, “He’s here, too?”

“Yup,” Dick confirms. “Little Wing’s outside in the Batmobile combing through the files you sent over. Luckily for you, Timmy, his line to you is muted until he can, ah, be trusted to use less blue language in front of children.”

Still trying to wrap his brain around the concept, Tim asks: “All of you are really here, for me?”

“Yup. Really are,” Nightwing says warmly.

Double-checking that he’s understanding this correctly, Tim asks: “So… Jason doesn’t hate me? He’s helping me? Even after I - um, after I messed everything up?”

There’s a minute pause. “He doesn’t hate you, Timmy. What are a few lies between friends, he says.” Dick assures Tim.

“Is that what he’s saying?” Mr. Wayne asks mildly.

“There’s some translation required,” Nightwing admits, “but that’s what he means.”

Tim does not find this as reassuring as Dick probably intends it to be. 

“And Mr. Wayne isn’t here just to throw me to the mercy of the Gotham foster care system, where I’ll be put with a random family who’ll try to sell my organs and where I also won’t be able to keep investigating what happened to my parents?” Tim ventures, just to be sure.

“I can tell you with 100% confidence that’s absolutely not what’s going to happen,” Nightwing says, which is, actually, more reassuring. “B’s here to to find you, which, hooray! That part of the plan we can successfully check off the list. Oh, and to keep you safe, obviously, and also be our man on the inside for whatever your lead turns out to be,” he continues.

“What about you?” Tim asks, trying not to make it insultingly obvious that he’d find Robin I’s presence infinitely more comfortable than either Batman’s or Robin II’s, at the moment.

“Me? I’m here to save the day, of course,” Dick says, all blithe confidence. “I left without bringing my tux, though, so I’m afraid I’d stand out in the crowd, my style being too far ahead of my time to meet old fashioned dress codes.”

The spangles, wide v neck and tall popped collar of the Nightwing suit would be a marked departure from black tie, it’s true. Tim looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue in the shadows.

“In the meantime, I’m doing what all birds do - being eyes in the sky.”

The skylight. Tim can’t help sneaking a glance upwards, though the combination of a cloudy night sky and the ring of brilliant chandeliers surrounding it make seeing anything on the roof impossible.

Nightwing doesn’t have the same problems, having the reverse view. There’s a smile in his voice when he says in response to Tim’s silent peek, “Hey, Timmy.”

“You’re actually here,” Tim says again.

“Of course! I told you myself I’d look into things for you.”

“And you all really believe me,” Tim confirms, again.

“Yeah, baby bird, we all do,” Dick says, gently, instead of being annoyed that Tim’s making him repeat himself over and over again. “Really really.”

“Thank you,” Tim breathes shakily, still not even sure this is real life right now, despite the series of verbal confirmations. 

Realization slowly settling in that this is really happening, all three of his heroes here, helping him, other facts less comforting also implied by this now float to mind. “So - so you really do think my parents are in trouble.”

“We do,” Mr. Wayne intones solemnly. 

Dick also sounds much more serious when he responds. “We think they’ve got mixed up in something very bad, and they definitely aren’t where they are supposed to be right now. And,” he pauses, then says softly, “I’m very sorry about Rosa. I wish you hadn’t had to see that.”

Tim swallows hard. Resolutely pushes the photo-vivid memory back behind his eyelids and tucks it back into a box in a cobwebbed corner of his brain.

When Tim says nothing, still trying to smooth out his breathing from where it’s started coming unevenly, Dick promises, “We’re gonna find your parents, Tim. We’re gonna do everything we can to bring them back safe.”

“Would it help to hear what we have so far?” Mr. Wayne asks, and Tim finds he appreciates the calm practicality at the moment, Dick’s warm sympathy being a bit too difficult to bear, out here in the open, still surrounded by strangers who might have it in for him and his family.

Tim nods silently. 

“There have been several similar cases in recent weeks, wealthy families suddenly going missing for a time. Enough time, in fact, to transfer a great deal of their wealth into other hands.”

Tim’s gaze snaps up to Mr. Wayne’s. His parents aren’t the only ones who’ve gone missing? “What hands? Why would they suddenly do that?”

Mr. Wayne, like Selina, looks as though he’d rather not answer. “We’re not entirely sure.”

“But if you had to guess,” Tim persists.

Mr. Wayne gives a tip of his head in acknowledgment that Tim’s not going to let this go. “We think multiple factions of organized criminals in the city are responsible. There’s been trouble brewing in the past few months, a new name on the scene making waves, trying to grow his or her influence. The other big name crime syndicates feel forced to do whatever they can to hold on to their own power. It all amounts to a lot of kingpins needing a lot of money very quickly, to buy weapons, to buy political influence, to buy enough people with enough power to enforce their own rules, to look the other way, turn a blind eye to what their faction is doing while they wage war on the rest.” Mr. Wayne tips a champagne glass he’s somehow procured when Tim wasn’t paying attention, using it as a prop to indicate the police, prosecutors, judges, politicians, and other untouchables moving in jeweled and glittering kaleidoscope patterns through the gala.

Tim’s throat is very dry. 

Mr. Wayne puts the hand that isn’t holding his glass out, a steadying touch to Tim’s arm, a casual enough gesture to not draw more attention from any of the other partygoers who might glance their way. “I can’t say for certain what has happened, in your parents’ case, so far. ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence.’ Would you agree?”

Tim recognizes the Sherlock Holmes quote, and appreciates Batman’s practical, no-nonsense approach, calming from an oblique angle. He nods.

Mr. Wayne’s posture is casual, but he is clearly keeping a surreptitious eye on the party outside of their conversational bubble. “What exactly was the lead that brought you here?”

Tim takes a deep breath, tries to grab hold and push Detective Drake off o the forefront, to report his findings professionally, like a Robin would. “Before they left, my parents had been on a video call with a man they were very excited to make a new business partnership with. They said they would need to be back home in order to close the deal at a gala towards the end of July. This one was the only one that matched on their calendar. But it didn’t mention that it was for the FOP,” Tim explains, still a bit salty about that part. “I already saw two of the cops I met earlier today here at the party. The ones who wouldn’t take my report, not the ones who tried to kidnap me.”

There’s a noise that sounds a bit like a distressed cheep from Nightwing in his comm. Tim hurries to get back to the salient points to the question Batman had posed. “I didn’t know if the man I saw on the video call had anything to do with their disappearing or not, but I didn’t have any other information about him except that he would be here tonight. So I came to find out more - his name, what kind of business he was in or wanted to pursue with my parents. I thought… I thought maybe it might be connected,” he finishes, lamely, as Mr. Wayne stares at him unsettlingly.

“Based on the hidden text messages you discovered,” Mr. Wayne starts, and Tim feels a distant awe that Batman has both paid attention to his case file and apparently memorized its contents, “I think it very likely.”

Tim’s memory isn’t bad, either. His brain connects more bits together, recalling one of the mystery texts mentioning meeting after an auction, a reference he hadn’t understood at the time, but in retrospect seems blindingly obvious.

“The black market auction tonight,” Tim blurts out, without beforehand realizing he was going to say a word.

Bruce gives him another piercing, sidelong gaze. This isn’t news to him. He’s Batman, he’s probably figured it all out already. 

“Yes. Is that also part of why you are here?”

“Not - exactly,” Tim hedges. “I didn’t know about the auction before I got here.”

“I see,” Mr. Wayne says. “And dare I ask, how did you discover it?”

“Uh, cat got my tongue?” Tim scrunches up his nose sheepishly.

At this, Nightwing’s delighted cackle comes through his earpiece again. “Did you hear that, B? He puns!”

Mr. Wayne closes his eyes briefly, pretends to take a sip from his champagne glass before saying in a very longsuffering tone: “I heard.”

Nightwing seems particularly gleeful, for some reason. “I can’t even tell you how much I’m looking forward to the explanation of how you roped Catwoman into your clandestine plotting, Timmy. Just promise you’ll wait until I have popcorn ready.”

“O-kay?” Tim promises, uncertainly.

Mr. Wayne gives a brief nod and wink to an acquaintance passing by in the crowd, then clears his throat again meaningfully to draw them back on topic, turning his face away from the crowd, as though to prevent anyone from reading his lips. “Robin is in the Batmobile helping run back end, combing through your evidence,” he murmurs, faking another sip of champagne. “Robin, report.”

Nightwing must have been convinced of an improvement in Jason’s self-control, because Tim’s suddenly got Robin’s voice in his ear, too. “Found the Drakes on security cams getting into Goodwin International, getting into the Uber at arrivals. Trailed them on traffic cams through the city. Lost them in a blind spot where the Fashion and Diamond districts meet at Robinson Park.”

There’s a slight pause after Jason mentions their last known location. Tim has the distinct impression that it means something more to the others than what they are saying.

Before he can demand to be let in on whatever’s been left unsaid, Mr. Wayne reaches up as through scratching his ear and murmurs, “Batgirl. Did you and the… Birds of Prey, find any evidence of people being held on-site at the Iceberg Lounge?”

Tim’s an idiot. What else is famously located at the intersection of Robinson Park and the Diamond and Fashion districts, only a couple of blocks away from where they are right this very moment? You’re embarrassing yourself, Detective Drake. 

“None,” a no-nonsense feminine voice replies. “Why?”

“Last known location of Jack and Janet Drake,” Nightwing supplies. “If you ladies didn’t see any holding sites, they must have been moved to another location afterwards.”

“I’d like to hear more about what your operative there was able to observe on the night in question,” Mr. Wayne adds.

Batgirl huffs out a breath. “You’re gonna have to take a number on that, B. Black Canary and Huntress have their hands full at the auction at the moment. They’re confirming our leads on which GCPD personnel are connected to the Tricorner ambush and other attempts on Commissioner Gordon’s life -”

Wait. What?

“- witness in custody murders, not to mention trying to figure out which of them are in whose pockets. Right now we’re spoiled for choice: Penguin’s people, Black Mask’s people, the Falcones, the Marconis, they’re all here. Even some folks who used to be tied to the Joker.”

“Joker?” Nightwing sounds surprised. “He’s not usually a dabbler in this kind of thing.”

Joker couldn’t be accurately described as “organized” in anything, crime or otherwise. 

“It’s possible they’ve found jobs with other parties since,” Batgirl allows.

“I’m aware of the difficulty,” Mr. Wayne says, severe tone at odds with the bland and vacuous smile he’s aiming out to the rest of the gala, “but we have a time-sensitive, potentially life-threatening situation -“

Batgirl sounds annoyed. “I get it, B, and I sympathize, but tensions are a bit high down here right now. We’ve got the Sharks, the Jets, and a full chorus of supporting mobsters and Officer Krupkes down here. It’s a few aggressive finger snaps shy of “When You’re A Jet, You’re A Jet All The Way,” but with poorly concealed semi-automatic weapons as props. Does that help illustrate the situation?”

No, Tim thinks, lost.

The bats apparently get the reference, though, because Dick snorts into the comm, Jason hums a few bars of a song Tim doesn’t recognize, and the deeply un-whimsical Mr. Wayne answers stoically: “Vividly.”

“We’ll do the best we can to help Tim and the Drakes,” Batgirl says, which is nice to hear, “but it’s gonna be a minute before the Birds of Prey can switch focus.”

“Noted,” Mr. Wayne grumbles dourly, giving a beatific smile and a twiddly finger wave to someone passing in the crowd.

“So what’s the plan to get Tim out of there?” Jason demands, setting Tim bristling at his overbearingness. “Keep in mind: I’m vetoing any plan that requires Tim to be more than an arms length away from B or out of sight for even a fraction of a second.”

“Hey!” Tim says, offended, at the same time Nightwing adds: “Seems reasonable.”

“Hey!” Tim says again, at this unexpected betrayal.

Jason is completely unrepentant. “Hey yourself, Tiny Tim. People who run away from Batman and Robin and disappear right before getting shot at don’t get a vote in this.”

Jason’s losing it, Tim thinks. He hasn’t been shot at a single time in his whole life, let alone tonight. Unless he counts the shots he’d heard while trapped upside down in a window, which were probably actually aimed at Catwoman, in retrospect, so. And Jason doesn’t even know about that, so the only explanation is he’s lost the plot a bit in his anger at Tim.

Alarmingly, before Tim can point this out, Batman suggests, like he’s casually pondered this already: “I have a subcutaneous tracker injection prepared in the lower right medical compartment of the Batmobile.”

Tim stares at Batman in horror. Before he can say something indecorous like I think the heck not, Nightwing says firmly, “B, no. I can take him home. Hey Timmy, ever ridden a motorcycle?”

Much more scandalized about this than he had been about plotting to inject the equivalent of an ankle monitor into Tim’s bloodstream, Mr. Wayne insists before Tim can delightedly agree, “Absolutely not. You don’t have a child sized helmet for him.”

Tim folds his arms at this very awesome get-a-ride-on-Nightwing’s-motorcycle plan getting shot down. “That’s disappointing.”

Dick says bracingly, “Eh, it’s only really disappointing if you don’t get to stop at the chocolate fondue fountain on the way out. Which, I’m guessing they have one. I can’t see the catering table from this angle.”

They do. It’s a monstrous, three tiered affair, on yet another dessert table on the side of the room closest to the floor to ceiling window wall.

Mr. Wayne says, in an officious tone Tim doesn’t love, “Tim will describe the target to me. After you take him to our - safe location, I’ll get an ID. Nightwing can tail him to his base of operations when he leaves while Robin and I investigate his background and the other leads we have to get a location on the Drakes’ current whereabouts.”

There’s some immediate quibbling on this plan of action starting in Tim’s ear from both Nightwing and Jason. Tim raises a hesitant finger up like he’s waiting to be called on in class. “Um, I’ve already gotten his name. I was gonna go and meet up with Nightwing after to give him the ID and then ask for a recommendation for a safe hotel that won’t sell me to the cops, so since we can skip the first part now, maybe one of you can give me a ride to the hotel.” 

Mr. Wayne is staring at him in consternation. There’s a silence over the comms that seems to indicate that if the others were there, they’d be staring at Tim, too.

“Um, if you don’t want to give me a ride, that’s fine, too,” Tim says, uncertainly. “I don’t want to presume.”

Both Jason and Dick start talking simultaneously. “Jesus Christ,” says Jason.

“B, I say again, get on that,” says Nightwing, equally as inscrutably.

Mr. Wayne opens his mouth to respond, but Tim never gets to hear what he would have had to say, because the potted plant they are standing next to starts behaving suspiciously. 

The wide fan-like fronds of the majesty palm move without a breeze, stretching and growing taller and fuller, one branch creeping out like it’s reaching to tap Mr. Wayne on the shoulder. The faintest hint of floral scent, like a heady perfume, reaches Tim’s awareness.

“We’ve got company,” says Nightwing suddenly.

The background hum of the gala turns to an alarmed note, backed unevenly by the orchestra, some of whom are unobservantly continuing to play while others peter out. The gilded vertical stripes and geometric patterns on the black and gray stone walls are slowly covered by creeping vines, growing and budding at an accelerated, time lapse pace.

Tim, having until this moment totally forgotten he had asked Selina for a distraction in order to bail on what he had assumed was Batman’s attempt to put him in kid jail, thinks: Whoops.

The heady scent starts to grow, along with the calla lilies that are exploding into full starburst blooms along the vines that now are using the architecture of the building as trellises. In a wave sweeping from the stairs to the mezzanine to the front entrance, now becoming obscured completely by a jungle-like profusion of monstera, dragon trees, and Ti plants, the crowd’s expressions turn from fear and dismay to dazed acceptance and blank calm.

The alarmed buzz fades into murmurs, then silence in a matter of moments. There’s a haze in the air strongest around the epicenter of the flowers, and Tim starts feeling a strange sort of calm tugging drowsily at his brain. Because of it, he doesn’t mind or struggle when he’s grabbed and a small, thin filtration mask is forced over his face. 

Breathing in filtered air makes his sluggish brain start moving again. Mr. Wayne has made the mistake advised against by flight attendants worldwide: adjusting Tim’s own mask before putting on his own. Or perhaps he’d just given away his only one hidden in his civilian attire, because as Tim blinks away the mental haze, Mr. Wayne’s grim face relaxes into an eerie calm. He slowly turns, walking forwards a few halting steps in front of Tim before swaying, then standing in place like the rest of the crowd, waiting patiently.

Tim edges forward, peeking through tropical ferns, to see Poison Ivy descending the stairs from the mezzanine. Most of the men in the room, and some of the women, turn towards her like flowers to the sun, expressions of their faces seeming to Tim like hungry people suddenly spotting their favorite dessert approaching.

Well, he’d asked for a distraction. Tim considers that perhaps he’d gotten more than he had bargained for.

In what he can only assume is a nod to the formal nature of the gala occasion, Dr. Isley is clad in a floor length sheath dress that makes her look, in Tim’s opinion, like a silk column wrapped in flowers. She says to the dazed musicians: “No need to stop playing on my account. I’m only here for a certain someone who’s been a very naughty boy. Once I have him, you can return to your capitalist decadence.” Her gaze sweeps the room, stopping in Tim’s direction. Tim shrinks further into the cover of a tropical fern, just in case she catches a glimpse of someone wearing a mask and therefore unenchanted by her pollen.

At his angle, it’s easy to tell she’s looking right at the slimy looking man that had caught Selina’s attention earlier, the CEO of Gotham Bay Oil & Gas. He is standing, in the relaxed posture matching the rest of the entranced partygoers, between Tim and where Poison Ivy now stands in the middle of the room. 

“There you are,” Dr. Isley says, lips curling into a satisfied smile that doesn’t reach her cold eyes. 

All the blooms in the area turn to face the man in charge of the most infamously environmentally unfriendly corporation in the region. Ivy takes two steps closer before the skylight in the middle of the chandeliers explodes, shattering glass like confetti, and Nightwing drops out of the sky. He lands in a three point heroic crouch, grapple line retracting after taking some of the force of gravity, and takes a defensive position between Ivy and where Tim is hidden.

“That was custom made hundred year old glass, Boy Blunder,” Batgirl’s voice says, in Tim’s ear. Tim wonders idly what percentage of the Bat-budget goes to property damages.

Jason must also somehow have eyes on the scene, where Ivy’s attention, in addition to that of all her plants, is now focused on the vigilante in front of her. “I can’t believe I’m the one who gets shit on for being a ‘dramatic theatre kid’ when birdbrain over here fucking exists.”

“Wow, stop with all the flattery,” Nightwing says sarcastically under his breath. His escrima sticks are out in a ready stance, electricity sparking on the ends. “I can’t handle any more appreciation for my swift and decisive actions to apprehend a rogue threatening a room full of civilians.”

As the enormous room is otherwise completely silent, Dr. Isley apparently has no trouble hearing Nightwing’s comments. Now annoyed in addition to being wary, she points to the CEO with an extended arm. “I was only threatening him.” 

Nightwing keeps her in line of sight but follows her gesture. It’s slightly difficult to tell given his own filtration mask, but he seems to look first confused that she’s not pointing at Tim, then enlightened when he realizes who she is pointing at, then slightly abashed. 

“- and merely keeping the rest of the populace calm while I retrieved him,” Ivy continues. “But it seems you’re after a fight. I’m happy to oblige.”

“You know,” Nightwing says, raising his hands placatingly, “it seems I misread the situation slightly -”

He cuts himself off, diving out of the way as a giant monstera leaf tries to grapple his entire body.

Across the room, Tim catches a glimpse of Selina, now dressed as Catwoman and wearing her own filtration mask. Despite that, it’s still obvious to see she appears incensed that the more Bats have appeared and escalated the situation so dramatically. She looks back at Tim, expression changing to concern. Though still with an overtone of rage that Tim is very grateful isn’t directed his way.

In response to her wordless question, Tim raises eyebrows and palms, tilting his head to the side in a helpless shrug, like, welp. what can you do?

Darting in close to swipe escrima in a flurry of blows Ivy barely manages to avoid, Nightwing asks sardonically, “Anyone else have more constructive criticism for me?”

There must be more people on the line than previously, because Tim hears a new voice respond, a clear and feminine soprano, lilting in quiet amusement. “You do you, N. People whose schtick is glass shattering sonic screams don’t get to throw stones at other people’s broken windows.”

Nightwing leaps over a bird of paradise plant, colorful spikes pinwheeling like daggers in an attempt to fillet him. “I like you, Black Canary. You’re my only friend.”

Feeling bad at all the criticism coming at the best hero ever, Tim hazards, “I thought you looked really cool.”

Dick instantly revises: “Timmy and Black Canary are my only friends. Loyal and true. We’ll need to come up with a super secret handshake.”

Sounding extremely annoyed, Jason says: “That’s it. I’m coming in there.”

“Main entrance is blocked by flora,” Batgirl reports. 

“So are the exits down here,” another female voice Tim hasn’t heard before says, low and uncompromising. “And the locals are growing restless.”

“Just what we need,” the soprano Dick had called Black Canary opines. “Angry, trapped, heavily armed organized criminals.”

There’s some uncoordinated movements happening in the crowd, though no one seems aware enough to try to either escape or make any move against Ivy. Mr. Wayne seems to be having some sort of internal conflict that’s playing out in his facial expressions. The piccolo player, probably still partially under the influence of Ivy’s pheromones, gamely starts up a tune Tim vaguely recognizes as Sephiroth’s battle music from Final Fantasy.

So. In a way, this is just a bit entirely Tim’s fault. Which is just completely in keeping with how his day has been going so far.

Tim realizes, as he’s glumly pondering what else can possibly go wrong today, that he can feel a very slight breeze: fresh air is ever so gently flowing. He raises his chin to follow its direction up and up to the circle of chandeliers, waterfall glass tinkling slightly as they shimmy in the air coming through the hole where the skylight used to be, so high above to be negligibly felt down here, on the ground floor.

Nightwing and Ivy are continuing to dance around each other, the crowd sluggishly spreading away from them, shoes crunching on the pulverized glass covering the area that had been the dance floor.

Tim feels it’s safe to say that most of the crowd is made up of objectively not great human beings. However, along with the organized criminals, and the dirty cops and public officials in their pockets, there are also the few children who have allowed Tim to blend in to the crowd, and people like Ms. Andrews, here for no more ulterior motive than enjoying the exquisitely prepared food and live music. 

It was Tim’s asking a favor that had started this latest fiasco, and indirectly, Tim’s fault that Batman is currently defenseless under the allure of Ivy’s pollen. 

Well, his parents have always taught him that he’s responsible for cleaning up his own messes. And he’s certainly made a huge mess this time.

“Sorry, Mr. Wayne,” Tim whispers, on tiptoe, as close as he can get to the older man’s ear. Batman’s eyes slowly track towards him. “You’ll be alright in a minute.” 

Tim thinks Mr. Wayne might start to reach a hand out to him, but he’s already moving, trying to he as gentle as possible in pushing fronds and leaves out of his way as he crouch-runs for the bronze elevator.

No one tries to stop him, and he’s now got plenty of cover for stealth, between the quiescent crowd and the plethora of succulents, ferns, and blooms. The hushed voice conversations over comms continue as Tim edges around the room’s span; the others are trying to find ways to breach through the plant life closing most of the exits. Robin sounds like he’s engaging  in intense hand to frond combat with some of the plants snaring shut the main entrance.

The uniforms that have been standing guard in front of the elevator doors barely even blink in his direction as Tim removes the velvet rope from one of the bollards.

Without the rope, he’s left holding a metal rod about two inches thick, half again as long as a baseball bat. The base is still attached, and he hefts it, testing the weight for his purpose and finding it suitable.

He’s got the tool, now he has to provide the power - and for that he’ll need both speed and height. Channeling all his time spent this summer on his parkour course, Tim eyeballs his route across the room and breaks into a run.

Weaving through the crowd, Tim leaps onto a catering table, racing down its full length, sending platters of pastries clattering. He hopes desperately that his parents never find out that he misbehaved to this extent in public. But he’s gotta save them in order for them to be furious at him, and for that, he needs the Bats’ help, and for that, he needs to take care of this situation he created, quickly.

Desserts teeter precariously as he shoves off the table, legs bicycling in the air for balance, and lands on a serving cart. 

The center of gravity is about three feet higher than he’s used to on his skateboard, and he wobbles crazily for a moment, but the major principles of skate physics hold true. He crouches, speeding toward his target with weighted bollard in hands. At the last second, he leaps high like he’s going for a triple kickflip, sweeps his makeshift staff in an arc up over his head and down with all of his strength onto the enormous plate glass pane that stretches from the ground to what would be the first floor ceiling of a normal room, shattering it completely.

A moment later, Tim, a bunch of thick glass, and the remains of the bollard are in a short topiary bush thankfully not yet ensorcelled by Poison Ivy just outside the building. Tim picks himself up, having accumulated some bumps and scrapes, but finds everything that’s supposed to be attached to him seems to have remained so, and although his Tom Ford tux has received some likely mortal wounds, most of Tim’s blood is still on the correct side of his skin. One of the few wins he can claim today. 

He lifts the metal staff, the weighted base nowhere to be found, and twirls it appreciatively in thanks before dropping it in the mulch and hopping back inside the venue.

Nightwing is continuing to fence with Ivy and her aggressive flora, but his voice is no longer in stereo. Tim’s earpiece, given to him by Batman himself, is probably somewhere in the topiary bush with the bollard base, yet another victim of Tim’s terrible day.

The people closest to what used to be a window are already starting to recover in the fresh air, faces going from blank back to dazed shock and distress as the pollen’s influence ebbs. “Over here,” Tim calls, aiming for loud enough to draw bystanders’ attention but not loud enough to get Ivy’s. 

Slowly at first, people start heading through the window and onto the lawn, the stream of evacuees quickly becoming a crush as more and more gala attendees are brought out of the fog of pollen with the increase of fresh air and realize the other exits are inaccessible.

Tim can tell when the cross breeze from the skylight and his smashed window reaches the other side of the massive room, because the orchestra’s drummer clouts the piccoloist upside the head loudly with a cymbal. She breaks off mid piping Se-phir-oth with a false note, before shaking her head as if to clear it. The musicians in general start moving more quickly to head to the exit Tim’s made, the harpist finally being convinced to leave her instrument behind by the clarinet and xylophone players dragging her away by the elbows. 

A vine shoots out towards where Tim is handing a crying little girl in a miniature ball gown out to two men in tuxedos reaching back for her. Several people shriek in terror, ducking or trying to push through the window all at once. The vine snares a man by the leg, dragging him backwards, screaming loudly, and throwing him into a poorly ventilated corner, where a calla lily douses him into a stupor again. There’s a bit of a stampede past Tim, but when it clears, he can see the man Ivy snagged is the Gotham Bay O&G guy, so honestly, Tim’s not all that fussed about it.

Someone who is, unfortunately, quite unnerved by it is a cop near Tim. Getting fresh air in his lungs has cleared his mind but doesn’t seem to have improved his wisdom any, because he produces a handgun, points it in Poison Ivy’s direction and lets loose a shot. 

The partygoers around him scatter, diving for cover or the exit. Tim is caught trying to keep Ms. Andrews upright and out of the worst shards of glass as she shakily steps over and through the frame, onto the lawn, while others shove past her, uncaring if she gets trampled in their panic. Patting his arm absently once she’s made it to the mulch, Ms. Andrews finally totters off, heels sticking in the turf. 

Tim turns back in time to see several plants spitting needle like appendages at the cop shooting at Ivy, which, due to him being so close, are also aimed at Tim. 

Tim throws an arm protectively in front of his face, but to his surprise, maiming doesn’t get added to the Bad Things That Happened To Tim Today bingo card, because a whip cracks through the air nearby, and from the other direction, Robin comes flying through the window to tackle Tim from the side and out of the way. Sent tumbling and half-crushed by the death grip Jason’s got on his midriff, once they come to a stop Tim surfaces from the depths of the Robin-yellow cape to find they’re tucked behind a marble column, out of the line of fire, and Catwoman is eyeballing Robin critically before turning to whip a pistol out of the hand of another nearby cop who’s aiming for Ivy again.

Tim tries to look and see what’s happening, but Jason seems to think he’s trying to juke him, because Tim is pushed back unceremoniously further into cover, Jason ordering sternly: “No. No, no, no, no. Stay.”

Tim shoves back, which does nothing, and then he’s being patted down. It takes him a second and hearing a stifled noise when Jason sees splatters of red liquid on Tim’s pants to realize he’s being checked for injury. 

“Get off,” Tim mutters, trying to slap his hands away again. “It’s just raspberry coulis. The only real casualty was the chocolate fondue.”

The fondue fountain in question is on its side in a pool of brown liquid spreading across the marble tiles from Tim’s sprint across the dessert table, still spurting feeble jets of chocolate every few seconds from its top.

Tim makes slappy hands at Jason’s face vigorously enough to catch a quick peek of what’s happening before he’s yanked back again. Most of the attendees are out now, the room largely empty except for Nightwing, Catwoman, Ivy, profuse foliage, and several cops, including a few who have banded together to shoot at Catwoman and an even more incensed Ivy from near Tim’s empty window, which is now quickly being overrun by malicious-looking succulents. There’s no sign of Bruce Wayne, but Tim notes that the champagne tower near where he was last seen has somehow, miraculously, survived. 

“Don’t you dare,” says Jason, fisting a hand in the back of Tim’s shirt collar.

It’s been a trying day, and Tim is not at his best, but Jason is assuming he’s a complete moron who’s trying to run into a hail of gunfire or Ivy’s plants instead of staying in cover now that there’s no reason not to be and no easily available exit to escape to. Tim takes offense to this assumption of his stupidity. “I’m not some helpless kid, and I’m not an idiot!” Jason trapping him in a corner seems all of a piece with the rest of his anti-Tim crusade lately. “I’m not going to let you stop me from finding my parents.”

In a voice that is carefully even but rises in irritation at the end, Jason says, “I’m not trying to stop you from finding them, I’m trying to stop you from getting killed.”

“Then why won’t you stop getting in my way?” Tim only just keeps himself from yelling. “I thought you were my friend, and okay, I messed that up and I’m sorry, okay, I’m really sorry, but all you’ve been doing since then is insulting me! If that’s how you really feel,” Tim’s been trying to stop the hurt from bleeding through, but thinks he might not be fully successful, “why did you even bother pretending to like me?”

Jason drops his chin to his chest, shakes his head before looking back at Tim, pained. “I wasn’t pretending. You are a menace, a little stubborn secretive brave genius gremlin, you’ve got the keen self preservation instincts of a soap bubble in a needle factory -” 

If this is supposed to be a rebuttal of Tim’s points, it’s failing entirely.

“- and I - I feel like I’m gonna have a goddamn stroke every time you’re in danger, Timmers. You’re a little shit, and I like all of those things about you even when I hate it because it makes you do insane things like take pictures of the goddamned Joker in an abandoned amusement park. You’re my friend, and the only thing I f- friggin hate is that you won’t just stay safe and let me help you.”

Struck dumb by the latter half of Jason’s speech, Tim is incapable of doing anything but gaping at Robin for several moments.

Jason stares back at him between tactical checks of their surroundings, growing visibly more uncomfortable with Tim’s continued silence than the animated flora and gunfire around them.

Tim finally starts talking, although it’s not what he would have meant to say, if he even knew how to respond to Jason telling him he cares about Tim, who is apparently still his friend despite it all. 

Instead, what comes out of Tim’s mouth is: “Do you guys change in the men’s room? Because I’ve always wondered about the logistics of that. Like, do you wear your costume as a layer under your regular clothes? Because that would be convenient for sudden rogue attacks but really hard to explain if you have a wardrobe malfunction. Also, like, isn’t it so hot and sweaty on days like this? But, if you didn’t wear it under your clothes you’d have to always have it nearby in a backpack or whatever and find a spot to change, right?”

Tim stops his mouth from moving with difficulty, biting his lip and waiting for Jason to tell him to stop babbling like a lunatic. 

But instead, Jason quirks a lightning fast crooked half-smile and says, tilting his head slightly and touching his ear like he’s reporting into his comm, “Timbo’s fine.”

Nightwing has led Ivy up the stairs to the mezzanine, and with a hint of glee at seeing his hero at work, Tim watches their fight as much as Jason’s hold will allow. Nightwing twists midair to avoid pursuing plants trying to stab him with sharp leafy protrusions before landing gracefully on the stone bannister, sliding down to leap into a full twisting layout that builds up a tremendous amount of rotational force to land a right hook to Ivy’s face. 

Ivy goes down, rolling down a few steps before catching herself, one hand going gingerly to her cheek. The plants around the room go limp and retract, as though in sympathy.

Seeing the plants around the exit Tim had smashed open fall limply away from the remains of the pane, and the cops make a move toward where Ivy is kneeling, Jason must decide it’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for. He hauls Tim to his feet and rushes for the safety of the outdoors. 

But he’s not the only one who has seized the opportunity. Several angry, armed people now burst through doors that must lead to the lower level, now that the plants guarding them have weakened their hold, piling out of the stairwells like an anthill got kicked over.

It’s impossible for Tim to tell who starts it, but in half a second, gunfire is being exchanged from multiple points around the enormous hall. The police appear to be trigger happy in wild directions, which isn’t surprising to Tim; he lives in Gotham and he’s seen Childish Gambino’s This Is America music video. 

In the meantime, thwarted in the attempt to escape the building, Robin has run afoul of a vicious set of succulents using themselves like medieval maces to protect the empty plate glass pane. Jason pushes Tim behind himself and is deflecting spiky blows while Tim, wide eyed at this close up view of Robin in combat, misses the cop who has approached them surreptitiously until a rough hand grabs him by the upper arm and yanks.

Pulled off his feet, Tim stumbles, forced to follow as Bosco drags him away from Robin, who is distracted by throttling a razor edged echevaria and kicking several others away from where they’re trying to twine around his ankles. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get out of here.”

Awe at Robin’s martial skills abruptly plummets into fear, and Tim tries to get his legs under himself to dig in his feet to stop and pull free. “No thank-” Tim starts, but is interrupted before he can finish calling out loudly enough to alert Jason. 

Bosco doesn’t stop dragging him, but he does shove the end of a gun into Tim’s ribs with his free hand and shoots him a cold glare. “I wasn’t asking.”

Unbidden, a picture of Rosa’s filmy eyes staring behind plastic leaps out of the mental box Tim’s shoved it in. Detective Drake fully exits the building. It’s just Tim left now, and his brain is freezing up, temporarily overloaded, body mechanically trailing behind Bosco.

Several things happen in quick succession, Tim’s dulled brain lagging several seconds behind trying to process them.

The barrel of the gun disappears from his ribs, a snapping whip flicking it away, launching it high in a sharp arc across the room. There’s another high whipcrack as Catwoman slices a red line down the face of a man aiming the business end of an umbrella at Tim, then rushes the umbrella man, claws first.

A large dark shape swoops between Tim and Bosco, and Tim’s arm is freed so suddenly he trips and falls on his butt on the geometric tile.

From this angle and at such close range, seeing the full wingspan of Batman’s cape flying wide is even more impressive and intimidating than how he’s often seen it, silhouetted against the night skyline of Gotham City. Tim’s view of his erstwhile captor is blocked by it, but there’s movement and a dull thud, and then Bosco is sailing through the air, landing solidly with a crunching noise ten feet away, where he lies, groaning weakly.

More movement comes from behind Tim, who startles badly, but it’s just Jason, who heaves him to his feet again without much effort in the process.

The pointed tips of Batman’s cowl swivel as he looks over his caped shoulder and growls: “Robin. Get him out.”

Jason has already grabbed Tim again, more gently but equally as determinedly as Bosco had, holding him at an insultingly close distance that Tim will object to as soon as he’s got his bearings again. Tim’s overheating brain capacitors pop out the inane thought that he’s beginning to feel like the spud in a game of hot potato. 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?!” Jason responds irritably.

Ivy, meanwhile, is back up, and livid, if the sudden profligate bloom of a variety of flowers and vines that weren’t there a minute previously is any indication.

Several groups of people in suits and police uniforms are now scattered around the hall, opening fire on Ivy and each other, moving and attacking in chaotic patterns that Tim can’t seem to accurately track. 

Batman sweeps his cape over Jason and Tim, leaving all three of them briefly cocooned in warm darkness as a spray of bullets impact the reinforced fabric. In another second, he’s gone, vengefully lunging across the hall to take apart the small group who had dared to shoot at them, flinging batarangs at another group, who fall with wails of pain, without Batman having ever bothered to glance in their direction in order to aim.

Jason bullies Tim into cover, loosing birdarangs with his free hand as they run. 

Once crouched in a decorative stone alcove, Jason switches his grip to get a stranglingly tight hold on the collar of Tim’s tuxedo jacket again. He’s keeping a close eye on the action, presumably waiting for a clear shot to drag Tim to some form of exit. He sounds less like a Robin and more like an angry goose ready to maul anyone unwise enough to come near when he hisses: “How many of them are there?! Who the hell thought up this invite list?! Is Mr. Freeze gonna jump out from the middle of a giant cake next? Scarecrow gonna clink his glass widda knife and make the next toast?”

They both press back into the wall as a strafing run between a crew dressed all in black, and another in traditional tuxedos wielding less traditional umbrellas, sends stray bullets close to their hidey hole.

“Fucking crime lords,” Jason continues complaining furiously. “God, don’t they have anything better to do with their lives? It’s like, come on, aim higher.”

Nightwing is above them, still trying to contain Ivy, who is aiming blasts of brightly colored pollen from new varieties of plants at him and also at anyone else aiming even remotely in her direction. Tim watches a vine snake sinuously toward a trio of men with semi-automatic umbrellas, and release a plume of green smoke that covers their heads and torsos. All three immediately fall heavily, like puppets whose strings were all cut at once, and although Tim watches for a long moment, their forms remain eerily and unnaturally still. 

None of this is happening on the other side of a camera lens. These are real people getting hurt, killing each other, right in front of him. The numbing haze from earlier starts up again, but this time something more powerful overcomes it: a wave of righteous anger that banal, scrabbling scrap-hungry greed like this exists, and people are being hurt, dying because of it. 

Even more people in uniforms are battling each other and various forms of plant life to come up from below. The shouting and gunfire is deafening in the acoustics of the hall, Tim’s heart beating rabbit-fast against his ribs. Another figure with a semi-automatic umbrella pops into view, providing cover fire while he and his companion run across the open. His companion meets Tim’s eyes for the briefest moment, and a flash of recognition cuts through the adrenaline racing through Tim’s body. Though his sleeves cover most of his arms and the remaining parts of his scars aren’t visible from this distance, his face is just as striking as Tim remembers seeing on his parents’ computer screen: Ignatius Ogilvy.

A swift rat-a-tat-tat echoes from a group dressed in suits that are black from head to toe. The man protecting Ogilvy is hit in the chest, blood spraying as the force spins him around, finger still on the trigger of his own weapon as he goes, and the champagne tower disintegrates in a fountain of glass and alcohol. Jason throws himself bodily on Tim, taking them both to the ground, which hurts, his knees landing hard on marble. He tries not to be too ungrateful, as Jason’s also covering Tim’s head with his Robin cape as shards rain down, which is a nice thought, but Tim’s recently put himself through a plate glass window, for comparison.

Jason grunts, and his weight comes off of Tim, allowing him a better view of what remains of the gala.

Batgirl has appeared, drawing fire away from them, athletically dodging and weaving around enemies, aiming precision strikes to take out much larger and more intimidatingly armed foes efficiently. Batman is across the hall, methodically moving from group to group of gun-toting criminals, leaving them in moaning heaps, not seeming too concerned about being overly rough with any members of the GCPD among them.

Nightwing grapples ostentatiously from the mezzanine to one of the dangling chandeliers to escape a swarm of calla lilies that are attempting to surround him. They strike like cobras at his heels as he swoops upwards, dispersing the momentum at the apex with an agile flip that lands on top of the draping waterfall column of light, sending it tinkling and shimmying precariously. 

Nightwing grabs the chain suspending the chandelier with one hand and stands, sending the chandelier listing diagonally with the added weight through his feet, gesturing broadly like a showman with the other hand. It’s not clear if he’s noticed the vines crawling up the sphere of the ceiling, swiftly spreading towards where he casually poses. “Look, Ivy, if you wanted to tango with me, all you had to do was sign your name on my dance card!” he calls gaily.

Dr. Isley steps onto a monstera leaf the width of a small car. It lifts her like an elevator towards where Nightwing perches. “I’m not here for you, little bird. These cretins, and the enemy of mine I’ll be leaving here with, are no saints you need to worry about defending.”

On ground level with Tim and Jason below, a blonde woman in a punk rock outfit and domino races toward where a black-garbed crew have set up defensive positions near the grand window wall. Her Doc Martens squeak as she skids to a stop, fists clenched, opens her mouth, and produces an unearthly note that shatters what’s left of the plate glass window wall on the first floor level, along with, Tim has to assume, the eardrums of anyone in the way.

“Go!” she shouts across the middle of the hall to them, indicating the now wide open space with a jerk of her head. 

Jason runs, towing Tim along across the stone mosaic that had been the dance floor about fifteen minutes prior, though he’s doing his best to keep up of his own accord. Batman is to their left, mopping up what remains of the enemies on that side; Catwoman is above him on the mezzanine level, viciously whipping a man who had tried to take up a sniper position. To their right, Batgirl, bright and agile, is drawing the attention of combatants on that side of the hall and taking them out with brutal efficiency. 

A police uniform catches the corner of Tim’s eye. It’s Desk Sergeant, moving out of an alcove to intercept as he and Jason run across the full width of the hall, exposed. Desk Sergeant brings his service pistol up to bear, and makes it about halfway to firing height before he’s flung backwards by the force of the crossbow bolt that’s now protruding gruesomely from his shoulder. 

Nightwing drops into view on the mezzanine railing to the right, loudly calling, “Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know me, Ivy! We Bats are all about protecting, even sinners, even saints,” he shifts from talking to belting out, “we do not feel ashamed! I’m your -“

The monstera plant Ivy’s riding on shifts, scuttling to face Dick like a gigantic leafy tarantula. Several vines the circumference of lead pipes shoot out from the balustrades, interrupting Nightwing’s singing and sending him diving and rolling onto the ground floor between Ivy and where Robin and Tim are sprinting. A few of the vines that narrowly missed Nightwing continue to descend at crushing velocity, and with lightning reflexes, Jason shoves Tim out of the way of the falling plant life, which crashes heavily enough to put spiderweb cracks in the marble tiles.

“That’s not what I hear,” Dr: Isley says coldly, curling a hand, enormous orchid blossoms following her movement, as Tim slides ungracefully across the floor and rolls to a stop several feet behind where Dick faces Ivy warily. “Go ahead, tell that to Joker.”

She flings an open palm out towards Nightwing, orchids emitting dense jets of pink pollen in response. Dick dodges them, springing lightly out of the way, and Ivy’s blast goes directly into Tim’s face.

Once, very young and missing his mother, Tim had crept into his parents’ suite and tried to smell some of her perfume. Fine motor skills not being fully developed, he had accidentally sprayed himself on the chin. The smell had been so potent and all consuming that he spent the next hour crying in the bathroom, trying to wash it off again.

This, Ivy’s pollen, is worse on an exponential level. His nose is filled with a heady, overpowering odor that is floral and earthy but also a bit like the last autumn leaves decaying on the ground. It leaves him feeling cold, a chill of winter beginning to freeze him from the inside out. As he coughs, the smell so powerful he can taste it coating the back of his tongue, the feeling of ice sluggishly extruding from his heart and through his veins intensifies.

Peripherally, he sees Nightwing go straight for Ivy, taking her off her living platform and down to the ground brutally, his teeth bared, one arm barred across her throat. Shivering, Tim doesn’t even recognize Dick’s voice when he snarls, vicious and guttural, “What was that?! WHAT DID YOU HIT HIM WITH?!”

Jason is next to him again, and maybe he’s got a fever, because his hand on Tim’s arm feels like a branding iron. Tim flinches away from the touch instinctively, and doubles over as the cold intensifies exponentially: he’s flung overboard on a midwinter night, plunged into an icy sea, unable to feel anything but numbing pain. Tim curls in on himself, teeth chattering, clutching his arms and tucking his face to his chest in a futile attempt to get warm again.

Scared but trying not to show it, Tim whispers through shivers that rock his whole body, “Robin? What’s happening?”

“Don’t get in my way next time,” Ivy is answering, voice strained. “It’s nothing that a little time spent together won’t cure.”

Over the clacking of his teeth, Tim can now hear the sounds of sirens outside, the rate of earsplitting gunfire having decreased significantly and being replaced by the meatier sounds of what Tim suspects is Batman, the Birds of Prey, and Catwoman kicking butt.

“Cuddle pollen,” Nightwing growls in translation, which makes Jason relax infinitesimally, still looking unhappy.

“You hear that, Timmy?” Jason asks, reaching for Tim again, curling an arm around his shoulders, which still feels scalding, but bearable after a moment, like trying to get into a too-hot bath. “Just cuddle pollen. C’mon, up, lazybones, soon’s we get outta here you can relax.”

Nightwing must make the quickest arrest of all time, because he appears beside them before Jason’s even managed to get them both upright and moving in the direction of the closest exit. 

“Get the Batmobile,” Nightwing orders tersely, scooping up Tim like a baby, which starts thawing him instantly, an ice cube put in the summer sun. Even laden with a shivery and mostly limp Tim, Dick makes for the exit at a significantly greater rate of speed than Tim had been able to manage even under his own power before being hit by cuddle pollen.

“What about Ivy? You just gonna leave her to escape after she ganked Tim?”

Jason squawks, keeping pace with some effort, hopping around giving worried looks to Tim whenever he thinks Tim isn’t looking. 

“Of course not,” Nightwing says, seeming much more cheerful after hopping out the empty window frame and switching Tim to a koala carry that allows more of Tim’s body to warm up and participate in being held. “I tranq’d her after I got her in cuffs.”

The Batmobile - the actual, for-real Batmobile of legend and glory - pulls up next to them in the first alley they come to, and a silent argument happens over Tim’s head before Jason huffs loudly and gets in the driver’s side. Dick gets in, still carrying Tim, swinging his legs around until Tim’s basically sitting on the hero’s lap, which Tim would be embarrassed about if he wasn’t finally almost warm again and also completely geeking out about being inside the Batmobile with both the Robins holy crap. 

Batman’s voice comes through suddenly, comm system speakers in the vehicle so crystal clear Tim thinks at first he’s hidden in the Batmobile with them somehow.

“The Birds of Prey are finishing apprehending the combatants and will conduct witness interviews. Catwoman has left the premises after you retreated. I am in pursuit. I suspect she may have further information related to the investigation.”

Dick and Jason exchange a speaking glance as Batman declares his intent to chase after Catwoman.

“B, can you please be responsible, for once?” Dick asks. “We’ve got a small crisis on our hands that we’re gonna be solving by absconding back home with a Tiny Tim-sized package.”

“Now is not the time to be indulging in some light BDSM,” Jason adds.

“Robin,” Bruce says reprovingly, then: “Batman can’t just kidnap Timothy Drake from the middle of a gala.”

“Good thing I’m not Batman,” Dick points out, before adding wryly, “Besides, abduction, adoption, around here it’s all the same.” Turning to Tim, he jokes, “You’re being abdopted.”

Tim offers a polite laugh at the wordplay, but Dick only smiles instead of joining in, which leaves Tim feeling a bit awkward, like he’s missed something.

Jason is still complaining sardonically. “Really, B? You took me right off the damn street. This is at least a more high brow kidnapping.”

This seems likely to lead to more arguing, which Tim finds he does not have the bandwidth to listen to right now, frayed nerves jangling and his teeth beginning to chatter again at the thought. Trying to shift closer to Nightwing and the amazingly helpful warmth the hero is providing without seeming like that’s what he’s doing, he tries to change the subject. “What does BDSM stand for?”

There’s a long, long silence before Dick toggles off a button marked AUDIO and eventually answers slowly, “Batman… doesn’t… stay…mad. Isn’t that right, Jason? Batman doesn’t stay mad at Catwoman?”

“That’s one way of putting it, sure. I hear that’s what all the kids are calling it these days.”

Very aware he is missing something again, Tim says: “I don’t get it.”

Dick glares at Jason, instead of responding.

Jason pastes on a too-casual smile. “So Timmy, check out some of the cool things the Batmobile can do!” He puts in a navigation command, and the Batmobile begins smoothly taking them through downtown Gotham. Jason pushes a button, and the front seats rotate until they face each other as though on either side of a dinner table.“Runs on autopilot! Remember? What’d I tell you.”

Dick pulls Tim closer and leans to swivel them back again and start gesturing at the array of on-board controls. The warmth he’s giving off is starting to loosen Tim’s muscles, which have gone stiff from the cold. “Oh, come on,” Dick says cheerily, “we have way cooler things in here than the autopilot. Look, Timmy,” he gestures to a HUD display, “here are the cannon controls! Pretty cool, right?”

Jason gives a tug to Tim’s sleeve before he can enthusiastically agree, pointing to the other side of the dashboard. “Nah, he doesn’t care about the cannons, right Timmers? Look, here’s the automated external defenses - we can tase the shit out of anybody who gets too close to the Batmobile!” He makes a loud bzzzt noise to illustrate his point.

“Here’s the afterburners! Gets up to 500mph! Really pull some G’s,” Dick crows.

It is all super, super awesome, and Tim only wishes he could appreciate it as much as it deserves, which is a little difficult at this point in Tim’s day. 

Curiosity still poking him absently, Tim thinks: It’s fine. I can just Google BDSM later. Unless it’s some obscure Bat-specific protocol.

Catching sight of a gigantic red button, Tim’s curiosity instantly changes subjects. “What’s this do?”

Jason and Dick both throw out hands to block Tim’s pointing finger. “Don’t touch that!”

Chapter Text

Don't be afraid to trust your instincts - they can lead you to the truth. 
- Encyclopedia Brown

The rapt attention Tim has been paying to the brothers Robin as they explain the features of the Batmobile, and then descend into bickering over whose music playlist to listen to on the ride, starts to fade against his will as they head north through the city. Detective Drake hasn’t returned since leaving the premises when Bosco had stuck a gun into Tim’s ribs, and the adrenaline that’s been powering him seems to flow away from Tim on the strong current of voices around him, leaving his head sagging lower and lower until there’s a warm rumbling cadence rising and falling beneath his ear. 

“Yo, Rip van Timble,” someone says suddenly, accompanied by a poke to his ribs that pops his head up with a sharp inhale, his skull almost colliding with Dick’s jaw. 

“Cool it, Jaybird,” Dick’s voice says warningly above him. Tim blinks quickly, trying to get his bearings, neck and cheek now feeling uncomfortably cold again now they’re no longer pressed into Dick’s armor.

Jason looks abashed at Tim’s startled reaction. “Sorry. I just thought you’d want to see this.”

As it turns out, Jason is right. Some of Tim’s most burning questions of Bat-themed curiosity get answered as the Batmobile, running silent, diverts off-road and enters a series of hidden tunnels that must lead under Bristol. Roughly hewn rock is visible by practical, warm industrial lighting flicking on ahead of them and strobing past as they drive. The lights lead them through the passages and eventually empty out into a wide ramp that spirals in a perfect circle down, and down, and down, deep into the earth. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see Jason grinning cheekily at Tim’s gaping mouth and wide eyes, but it’s impossible to focus on anything else except the view in front of him. Despite the anxiety threatening to swamp him and the awful scenes of memory behind his eyelids, deep down Tim remains the same diehard Robin and Batman fan he’s always been. His insides are a well stirred, simmering goulash of lingering terror and shivery dread, but now it’s also flavored with a heaping portion of sheer fanboy exhilaration. 

Though the spiraling ramp continues down beyond the point where Tim loses the ability to visually track it, the Batmobile has purred to a stop on a perfectly level garage of sorts, and parks itself in pride of place among neat rows of gleaming cars and zippy looking motorcycles. 

Tim is officially through the looking glass. He’s arrived at Disney World, nirvana, Shangri-La for the amateur detective-slash-personal photojournalist self-assigned to the best heroes in the world. Tim is - he’s inside the Batmobile, both Robins have personally escorted him into their base of operations, one of the most secret and secure places in the world, and, to sum it all up, it’s the coolest thing Tim’s ever seen or done in his whole entire life.

“It’s a cave,” he says wonderingly.

“The Batcave!” announces Dick, waving a hand like ta-da.

“Complete with actual bats,” Jason confirms, pressing a button that cuts the magnificent engine’s rumbling purr and unlocks the doors. 

Too impatient to wait until he’s out of the vehicle, Tim leans forward for a better look through the windshield at the enormous subterranean expanse, so different from the sleek and futuristic headquarters he had always imagined. His limbs feel noodly and shaky when he moves, probably from both being pollened first into a stupor and then into a popsicle, all after Tim’s recent disappearance-kidnapping-murder related stress and exertions. The abrupt movement away from Dick sends a sharply renewed chill through him, and he shivers with mixed cold and excitement. 

“Wow,” Tim says feelingly, leaning even further and craning his neck to peer at the stalactites, and shivers so hard his teeth clatter together at the few inches of increased distance from Dick’s comforting warmth. Feeling the tremors or possibly just hearing Tim’s teeth rattling loudly in his skull, Dick gives Tim’s shoulders a vigorous rub, like he’s trying to use friction to start a fire with Tim’s scrawny biceps as kindling. It sort of helps, and Tim does his best to ignore the lingering discomfort, trying to take in the entirety of the scene at once. 

The enormous cavern stretches high into shadowed spikes, natural curving stone making hallways and rooms out of rocky protrusions and crevasses at the far edges of the yawning space. Standing in plain view, given the warm industrial lighting that illuminates the area, is a colossal monolith of futuristic monitors and servers in the center of the space. What look like various training areas spread to fill large parts of the cave. These include, to Tim’s delight, what appears to be a batarang target practice area, and an extensive series of floor mats and gymnastics equipment, all flanked by a soaring trapeze set-up.

Unexpected and inexplicably, there’s also a giant statue of a T-Rex posed as though ready to stomp over to the computer system like Godzilla advancing on Tokyo with destructive intent, and also a penny, which in itself would be unremarkable if it weren’t both stood on its rim and about two stories high.

Tim has the nearly irresistible urge to grab his camera, brain already plotting angles and framing and apertures. If he had unlimited access to this space, like Jason and Dick do, the only struggle Tim could possibly imagine having would be finding the willpower to ever leave. 

Another electrifying thought occurs: there must also be forensic equipment and all sorts of other investigative tools somewhere, but when he asks about this out loud, Jason rolls his eyes with a huge sigh, and Dick only laughs and pulls him out of the Batmobile. 

Opening the doors lets in air that smells earthy but surprisingly fresh for an underground cavern system occupied by flying rodents both figurative and literal. Now with space to maneuver, Dick does something quick, complicated, and agile that ends in him wearing Tim like a backpack before the cold has a chance to settle in Tim’s bones again from the change of position.

“I’ll show you around later,” pipes up Jason, who has caught up to Dick’s graceful and ground-eating strides across the cave floor, with a slightly challenging edge to his tone. “Unless, of course, you’ve already managed to find the Batcave on your own and it’s old hat to you now.”

Tim’s already extremely overtaxed brain bends and creaks under the weight of the concept of the Batcave ever, under any circumstances, becoming old hat. 

 “All in good time,” Dick says. “Right now the first stop on the Timmy tour is getting a checkup from Alfred.” 

The stately gentleman is waiting for them in the formidably well equipped medical section of the cave, looking up as they approach. Alfred seems as unflappable as ever, despite the late hour and sporting the puffy, baggy-eyed fatigue of the ill being forced to exert themselves. The kindly majordomo’s face is obscured from chin to eyes by a surgical mask decorated by yellow and black bats, and he is in the act of pulling on latex gloves. 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Jason asks, also noting the wan complexion over the novelty disposable PPE.

“I am well enough to spend a few moments ensuring our young guest’s well-being,” Alfred says imperturbably, watching Tim invading the top secret inner sanctum of the Bats on Nightwing piggyback in the exact same blasé manner as when observing Tim and Jason wandering into the manor’s kitchen to grab a mid afternoon PB&J.

Great, Tim thinks to himself tiredly. Well done. As if he hadn’t caused enough people enough trouble tonight, Tim’s managed to now pull the man from his sickbed in order to deal with Tim, and who knows how long a trip it was to get here from Wayne Manor.

“Welcome, Master Tim,” he says throatily, with a slight cough at the end, before Tim can start to apologize. “I only wish it were under better circumstances,” he continues, then directs, gesturing to a nearby cot, “Set him down there, if you please.”

Dick does as he’s told, the chill ramping up immediately like Tim’s sat on a block of ice instead of a medical cot, but it subsides as Dick hops up next to Tim and slings an arm around his shoulders before he can go full Timsicle. Jason hops up on Tim’s other side, leaning in and bracketing him in a warm Robin sandwich.

“Have you any fear of needles?” Alfred inquires of Tim, white eyebrows raised in polite question. “I trust you’ve been given nothing worse than a dose of Dr. Isley’s cuddle pollen, but it’s best that we make sure.” Tim shakes his head, and offers his left when asked which arm he prefers to have his blood drawn from to be analyzed. 

Alfred efficiently produces the necessary equipment in a way that speaks of more extensive practice with this kind of thing than one would ordinarily expect from a majordomo’s job description. 

Tim is not afraid of needles, but he doesn’t love them, either. He looks away from where Alfred is swabbing his skin with an alcohol wipe, trying to look instead at the bits of Batcave that aren’t obscured by the medical curtains. The slight flinch he gives at being stuck turns into a shiver, the position on the medical cot being less conducive to cuddling than being held directly by Dick, despite both brothers now sitting on either side.

Brows furrowed, Jason scrutinizes Tim despite addressing Alfred. “He’s having a pretty intense reaction,” Jason tattles unrepentantly. “Ivy hit him right in the face with a sh- a bunch of it.” 

Dick winces, and gives Tim an apologetic sort of shoulder squeeze. 

“Can you overdose on cuddle pollen?” Jason continues, knee bouncing fretfully.

This is a possibility that had not occurred to Tim, who feels his eyes begin to bug out of his head in alarm at this new addition to Tim’s Bad Luck Bingo card. 

Alfred turns a chiding look on Jason that loses none of its force from being three quarters made up of cartoon bats. “There is no need to put the cart before the horse, Master Jason,” he pauses to clear a phlegmy throat before continuing firmly, “We shall all take good care of Master Timothy. I expect he shall be right as rain presently.”

“Sure he will!” Dick says bracingly, nudging Tim. “Alfie’s never wrong.” As Alfred deposits the used implements in a red container, Dick suggests lightly, “Write him a prescription for extra-strength hugs.”

Alfred shakes his head in amusement, eyes twinkling and sympathetic when they meet Tim’s. Jason, seeming somewhat reassured by Alfred’s confidence, continues fidgeting at Tim’s side, staring at him from the corner of his eyes like he’s worried Tim will evaporate if he’s not watching. Dick, on his other side, is directing a blindingly cheery smile at Tim, full wattage.

Averting his gaze from all of them with an awkward smile in return, Tim presses the cotton ball into the crook of his elbow. He’s feeling somehow too uncomfortably warm in addition to being too uncomfortably cold, and more and more aware of how extremely tired he is with each passing second.

Tim’s emotional soup sloshes and blurbles unpleasantly inside his gut. It feels like years have passed since he woke up this morning, and he’s been running marathon after marathon the entire time. Tim should be relieved, and happy that he is safe - in the Batcave! - and finished with Detective Drake’s part in the investigation. He can leave it to his heroes to take care of everything. He shouldn’t feel trapped by this undeserved kindness from all sides. 

And yet. 

Tim’s got to be the most perverse and contrary person who’s ever lived, wires horrifically crossed somewhere deep in his animal hindbrain, because all of a sudden the only thing he wants to do is find somewhere quiet to hide.

The thought of being safe and hidden shakes an important memory loose of the muddled jumble.

“My backpack,” Tim says, looking up again. Alfred has retreated with the vial of Tim’s blood, puttering around the other side of the medical bay. “I hid it on a roof near the gala. Locked it in an external utility closet.”

Before Tim can ask when he can go get it, Dick is already tapping a message into his wrist computer. “What’s the address? Bruce will bring it back.” 

After a second’s pause, Tim rattles it off, feeling odd at asking Batman to act as hotel busboy, personally delivering Tim his luggage. 

“What’s in the backpack?” Jason wonders. 

“My camera, my laptop. A change of clothes.” Tim exchanges a glance with Dick. “Some… important personal items.” 

Jason is frowning at them when Tim looks back in his direction.

“Your camera,” Dick says leadingly, fingers poised like he’s about to call for a speedy extraction as the thought of Tim’s photographic subjects clearly occurs to him.

Instead of answering verbally, Tim pulls his knee up, fishing in his sock and extracting the camera’s encrypted SD card and the even more heavily encrypted mini hard drive with all the files and photos too sensitive to leave on his computer, which he holds up to display to the brothers, pinched between his index and middle fingers. 

Jason gives a small crack of laughter at seeing the photographic evidence of Tim’s secret hobby remains safe. “Ye of little faith, Dickiebird. Timmy’s the most paranoid ten year old in Gotham.”

Tim considers being offended, but oddly, Jason sounds more proud than insulting.

“I stand corrected,” Dick says, smiling again as Tim tucks his treasures back into his sock.

Alfred returns to them with a genteel sniffle, looking satisfied. “Aside from what we already surmised, I’m pleased to give you a clean bill of health.”

Dr. Isley hadn’t been lying, and he’s not about to drop dead of the overdose Jason had suggested, then. This is a relief, but it doesn’t seem to unravel the tight, cold knot in his chest much.

Jason, on the other hand, untenses visibly, leaning back on his hands, making sure his shoulder still leans against Tim’s. “You’re going to need more than one change of clothes,” he says. “You can borrow some of my pajamas for now.”

Confused at why Jason seems to think this will be an issue, Tim says, “Oh. I mean, I guess? But my stuff is right next door, I can just take a quick trip to get what I need whenever.” 

Dick stops typing into his wrist computer. He and Jason now take a turn having a silent conversation. 

“Uh, yeah. About that,” Jason explains. “Me and B went there lookin’ for you after you noped out on us. But some trigger happy assholes had the same idea, an’ thought they found you when the auto lights you set up came on and they saw me in your window. Your room is fu-”

Dick must see the stricken look on Tim’s face, because he hurriedly cuts in, “Your room’s not in real great shape right now, Timmy. The good news is, though, hey! it’s slumber party time! And see, you even get to cosplay as Sleepytime!Robin.”

Even with Dick’s optimistic rose colored re-framing, this last piece of bad news is just a little bit too much for Tim’s already tenuous grasp on his self-control. 

All the rest of reality that’s been pushed aside, in favor of fanboying over the Robins and the Batmobile and the Batcave, forcefully elbows its way back to the forefront of Tim’s mind, muscling aside happiness, popping his brief delight like a balloon. 

I almost got Jason killed. No wonder he was so pissed at the idea of ‘me’ being shot at. Oh God. How much of the rest of the house is messed up? 

What if some of his parents’ artifacts have gotten damaged, in addition to Tim almost involuntarily manslaughtering Robin, all because he’d set up the lights to auto-on as part of his massive campaign to lie to the Waynes about his adult supervision? 

Tim’s parents are going to kill him. 

On further depressing thought, Tim‘s stomach flips over. Well, if they haven’t already been murdered. And if someone else doesn’t succeed in murdering me first.

Tim’s thoughts accelerate down the spiral, circling the drain. 

Mrs. Mac is too old to be cleaning that kind of epic, catastrophic disaster by herself. Someone should let her know before she shows up unprepared. Tim should let her know, he realizes, as there isn’t anybody else to.

“I’ve gotta call Mrs. Mac,” he bursts out, “I’ve gotta tell her not to come in.”

Dick and Jason, and now Alfred as well, have all been looking at him with increasing concern while his mental state is in the process of being flushed down the toilet. 

“Who?” Dick asks, baffled.

Jason answers, as Tim is busy continuing down the event horizon of increasingly panicky thoughts. “Their housekeeper. It’s almost midnight, Timbo, it can wait.”

“It shall be taken care of, Master Tim,” Alfred attempts to reassure him, nasally. “No need to fret over it.”

When Tim still hasn’t spoken in a second, thoughts moving too quickly in too many horrible directions, Dick squeezes his shoulders again and says, “How bout we get ready for bed? You’ve had a really rough day, little bird.”

“Dreadful indeed, I’m afraid,” agrees Alfred sympathetically.

Tim opens his mouth to agree, but someone else saying it out loud, with gentle compassion, makes it even more crushingly true. Feeling an embarrassing sound coming up his throat, Tim closes his mouth instead, trying to swallow it down and avoid being a crybaby in front of his heroes.

Seeing his face, Alfred’s eyebrows furrow. Turning, he orders, “Master Jason. I believe our guest requires some fortification. You will find the tea tray in the kitchen. Master Timothy’s room is prepared, you may place it there for him.”

“I can stay here with Timmy. Dick can do it.” 

Bawling in front of Jason would be the horrifyingly embarrassing cherry on top of the crappy pie of his day. Despite what Jason had said earlier in the evening, the mess of all the conversations prior to it are still just a bit too raw to touch at the moment. Tim doesn’t want to lose it in front of Dick, either, but it’s Dick Grayson, the world’s finest, who has been there for Tim unquestioningly all night. 

Well, okay. He’s had some questions. But still. 

Jason has been Tim’s friend, one of the best he’s ever had, for months now. The desire to not look like an idiot in front of him has, if anything, only grown, especially over the last however long it’s been since his parents went missing and after everything that’s been said and done. Jason already thinks - or thought? maybe still thinks - Tim’s a naive little kid, even if Jason is still his friend and Tim isn’t just a case for him and Jason doesn’t think he - 

“Breathe, Timmy,” Dick orders gently, into his ear, from what sounds like down a short tunnel.

It all just feels so much more complicated and messy with Jason than it does with Dick, is the whole thing, and Tim’s already hanging on by a thread at the moment.

Tim tightens his grip on the cot’s sheets next to Dick’s knee, and refuses to make eye contact with anyone despite the efforts of everyone else in the room. 

Jason opens his mouth, looking like he’s going to launch into some more objections, but out of Tim’s peripheral vision he can see Alfred give Jason a look heavily featuring formidably stern eyebrows. 

Jason hops off the table, and Tim stifles a shiver. “Fine,” Jason mumbles, and pushes aside the biohazard curtains that partition the space to make a hasty exit.

Dick hops down next, easily hefting Tim into a more secure koala hold. 

“That’s kind of you,” Tim says quietly to Alfred, from over Dick’s shoulder, too cold and tired to give even a cursory objection to being slung around like a purse, “but I don’t really need tea.”

There’s a sort of hitch that might be a chuckle under Tim, and Dick says, “Oh boy,” in a tone that seems to say you’ve really stepped in it this time.

Alfred has been following them out of the medical wing, and now draws himself up primly. “‘There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be diminished by a nice cup of tea,’” he says, sounding like he’s quoting from very familiar memory, and then confirms it by adding, “ - Bernard Paul Heroux. I have always found that whatever problem one may face, it always seems more surmountable after a cup of tea.” Dick joins in, mimicking a plummy accent to simultaneously chorus Alfred’s further proclamation: “It is warmth for the body as well as the soul.” 

This is clearly a well-worn routine, but with a slightly too cheery veneer. They are making an effort to put him at ease, Tim knows, but he can’t seem to muster more than the shadow of a polite smile in response. 

There’s an elevator in the middle of a cave wall, because of course there is, why wouldn’t there be. Dick shifts Tim’s weight in order to press the call button.

The doors part with a soft chime that seems off-theme, instead of the sonorous gothic organ chord or fluttering of bat wings sound effect that their surroundings call for, in Tim’s opinion. 

Entering the elevator with them and pressing a button before folding his hands behind his back, Alfred sniffs and clears his throat. “Perhaps it may also be a reminder to you of what you seem to have forgotten, Master Tim.”

The elevator begins to move upwards. Tim turns his head to give Alfred a questioning look.

Alfred manages to be disapproving and compassionate at the same time. “I am at your service. You may always inform me if you are in need, and I shall assist you.”

Tim doesn’t know how to respond to that. He ultimately says quietly, “But you aren’t feeling well. You should be resting, really, not taking care of me. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bother.”

Dick inhales like he’s about to say something, but exhales a second later like he’s decided against it after all.

Alfred looks beseechingly at the ceiling, then back at Tim. Firmly, he rebuts, “Nevertheless,” which due to his congestion sounds more like nebberdeless, which Tim feels kind of proves his point. “You shall inform me when you require assistance.”

“Okay,” Tim says reluctantly, when it seems obvious a response from him is expected, then at the man’s beady eyed stare adds, “Alfred.”

Alfred nods decisively, like he considers the matter closed. “Quite.”

Tim resolves to simply never be in need of Alfred’s help. Well, aside from at the moment, because he currently seems to need someone to hug him or else he’ll freeze to death. It’s a temporary, extenuating circumstance, though. He’s already spent months foisting himself on Alfred and the other Waynes’ goodwill under false pretenses.

Frustratingly helpless to do anything but be carried like a toddler by Nightwing or else become a Timsicle, increasingly intrusive thoughts pull up chairs in his mind and make themselves comfortable. 

It’s his own stupid fault that he’s incapacitated, Tim knows, the fact being that Ivy had showed up at the gala in the first place and started the chain of events that had ended in Tim’s pollening and the rest of the disastrous bloodbath. Frankly, Tim’s amazed coming back to yell at him for that hadn’t been Batman’s very first stop. Maybe Selina hadn’t mentioned that part to him yet? Or …at all?

No, Tim’s definitely not that lucky. 

Case in point: Tim hadn’t been overly paranoid after all. He hadn’t been paranoid enough. His home really hadn’t been safe, and people really had come there for him. But they hadn’t come to kidnap him, they came to kill him.

Topping that off? They had almost shot Robin in Tim’s place. Jason was almost killed because they thought he was Tim, because Tim himself had set the lights up so they put a spotlight right on Jason unexpectedly, at the worst possible time. 

If it had been Tim, as they had assumed, he’d be dead right now, instead of hitching a surprisingly comfortable ride on Dick Grayson. 

If Tim had just ignored Jason’s insults to his parents that may or may not have been slightly, somewhat, a tiny bit warranted after all when viewed in a very unflattering light, and he had just trusted Jason with the truth instead of yelling at him in his own kitchen, Jason wouldn’t have been put in danger on Tim’s behalf at all. 

And then, Tim had put all of the Bats in the line of fire for a second time tonight. He hadn’t trusted them when he had the chance, he had lied to them, even to Dick, and they had all still tried to help him anyway. 

Tim feels sick to his stomach in a way that has very little to do with either the quickly rising elevator or the biological compound currently coursing through his system. 

Detective Drake is gone, the safety of his blanket fortress is gone, and he can’t go back home - whatever is left of it - in case whoever wants him dead tries again. 

Tim closes his eyes and turns his head into Dick’s shoulder to hide his face, since there’s nowhere else left for him to go.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

There is a brightish spot among all the mawkish thoughts that keep Tim subdued and quiet: Tim discovers that Alfred at least didn’t have a long way to go from his sickbed to the Batcave, as it turns out the Batcave is a Luigi’s Mansion-style basement sublevel directly below Wayne Manor. 

No one had forced him to talk on the way up, mercifully, Dick making light conversation with Alfred that didn’t require any input from Tim, before encouraging the older man to rest and continuing to a separate wing of the mansion.

Dick opens a door that must lead to the guest bedroom Tim will be staying in for now, which is all warm hardwoods, cozy fabrics, and oversized windows. Flopping them both exaggeratedly onto the plush comforter, Dick notes, “Soft and a little bouncy. Extra pillows. This okay for you, Tim?”

Tim doesn’t really care one way or another where he sleeps at the moment, as long as he doesn’t have to worry about his throat getting slit in the night. He nods into Dick’s collarbone, which must count as an adequate response, because Dick gives his shoulders a squeeze and tucks his chin over the top of Tim’s head. After a moment, Dick starts humming, a tune that Tim doesn’t recognize. It’s nice, and the soothing rumble of the melody under his ear makes the tension in Tim’s shoulders start to ease.

There’s quick footsteps that pause at the open doorway to the guest room. Tim looks up as Jason stops hesitating and enters, wearing a slightly pinched expression. “Hope you like vanilla chamomile,” he says, putting down on the bedside table a wooden tray holding a nice ceramic teapot, steam rising from its spout, and a mismatching and slightly chipped bright red mug. 

“Thanks,” Tim says, a little more dully than he means to. It seems like too much effort to move to reach for the tea at the moment.

Jason shifts from foot to foot, frowning, then throws something soft and threadbare at Tim’s head. 

“I’ll get you pajamas,” says Jason abruptly, and vanishes before Tim manages to find his way out from under the fabric, which turns out to be a very large sweatshirt reading “Gotham State School of Medicine” in letters grown flaky and blurred from too many wash cycles. 

Divesting himself of the remains of his tuxedo’s button down shirt, Tim pops his head out of the enormous sweatshirt’s neck hole, feeling like a groundhog hesitantly checking for spring. 

Seeing Jason gone, Tim lets his head fall back down on Dick’s shoulder, murmuring quietly, “He’s still angry with me.”

“Eh, I don’t think that’s it,” Dick contradicts gently, helping Tim struggle into the sleeves while ensuring as much of his body is still touching Dick’s as possible in the process. “And even if it was, he’s not so much angry, as he angy. Y’know. Like the kitten meme. He ‘angy’ cause he cares. He cares so much it really, really scared him tonight, when he knew you were in danger, and he couldn’t find you.”

That …doesn’t sound right. “Jason, scared?” Tim’s definitely seen Jason-as-Robin in a lot of objectively terrifying situations. Jason hadn’t even seemed frightened when Tim had seen him right after a run-in with Scarecrow. Not to mention facing down the Joker when Tim himself had been cowering under a rusted rollercoaster seat.

“Yup,” Dick asserts, popping the p. “He hides it well. Under a lot of swearing and yelling, usually. Jason’s had some really rough things happen to him in the past, and being tough, or at least pretending to be, when he’s actually really scared, got him through it when he was a kid. And that’s a really hard habit to unlearn.”

There’s a pause, then Dick continues while Tim is still rolling this over in his mind. 

“He, ah, he doesn’t let a whole lot of people in close. You ever heard of the saying, ‘doesn’t suffer fools gladly?’”

Tim nods.

“That’s Jason. He doesn’t willingly spend any of his time and energy being around people he doesn’t like. Heck, he barely even tolerates me.”

Clearly this last is an exaggeration. Tim’s brain staunchly refuses entry to the idea of anyone other than the most hardened of villains “barely tolerating” Dick Grayson. As to the rest, Tim still harbors some doubt, even though Dick sounds pretty sure about his conclusions. Tim hums noncommittally.

“Don’t believe me, huh? Well, you’ve got all the evidence you need right here,” Dick says, which piques Tim’s curiosity enough for him to look up. Dick tilts his head, gesturing to the tea tray with his chin. “He’s never let me borrow his favorite mug. And you’re wearing his lucky sweatshirt.”

Tim is digesting this, and the tea Dick has coaxed him into sipping, which oddly enough does seem to help a little, when Mr. Wayne silently looms into the doorway. He’s holding Tim’s backpack. 

Tim stills for a second, trying to summon any reserves available to emotionally prepare himself for the lecture and/or yelling he has earned, but there aren’t any more. Tim’s well has run bone dry. 

To his surprise, though, all Mr. Wayne says, depositing the bag on the bed next to Tim, is: “Selina sends her regards. And a renewed invitation to visit …‘Brian Blessed.’”

Dick snorts. “Did some groveling, did you?”

With dignity, Mr. Wayne says, “Some information was exchanged, and misunderstandings were resolved.”

While they talk, Tim drags the backpack onto his lap, double-checking that all is as it should be, that at least some of his most precious belongings have survived being locked on a roof and whatever else has happened to his bedroom and Fortress.

Tim turns over his camera in his hands, finding no cracks or dents. He replaces the SD card, and places it and his portable hard drive carefully on the bedside table, where he can keep an eye on them. He arranges his - only? - remaining treasures next to them: The birthday card from Jason. The picture of him and Ives, happy and smiling in the Ives family’s old backyard, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. 

Tim takes a quick second to check his phone, anxiety spiking again, and is relieved to find a recent thumbs up on the last meme Tim’s sent Ives. Sebastian, at least, is still for sure alive as of three hours ago, even if Tim’s parents - 

He’s not going to think about that.

Last to be placed on the table is the picture from the circus. Tim realizes the room has gone a bit quiet while he’s been occupied putting his things in plain sight and arm’s reach. He looks up self-consciously in time to see Mr. Wayne’s eyes widen briefly, gaze on the last photo, but whatever he’s thinking, Mr. Wayne refrains from comment.

“Special delivery,” Jason announces, returning with a bundle in his hands much too big to only be the pajamas. His gaze also stops on the items now on the bedside table, face flickering through several different emotions too quickly for Tim to follow before he settles a hip on the side of the bed, placing the pajamas on the comforter and opening the drawstring of the black bat-emblazoned fabric bag that has been under them. “Couple things survived the hail of gunfire. Thought you might want ‘em.”

Once again Jason, though sickeningly blunt, turns out to be entirely right. Next to be placed on the comforter are Tim’s skateboard, and - Stuart. 

Tim feels the tip of his nose getting hot, and his eyes getting prickly in the back. He reaches out, pulling Stuart’s cowl into better order from where his travels in the bag, and whatever he had survived before being put in it, have knocked his cape and cowl askew.

Jason puts a warm hand on Tim’s arm, and says nothing.

“You can cry if you want to,” Dick assures him softly. “It’s your party. Like the song.”

Tim scrubs knuckles roughly over his eyes, then slowly lets an only slightly shuddery exhale out. He uses the cover of propping his skateboard against the bed to take another shaky breath, willing the heat behind his eyes to fade. “I’m fine,” Tim eventually says, fluffing the tail feathers underneath Stuart’s cape. “Thank you, though.”

Jason uses his free hand to cough into a fist. The cough sounds a lot like ‘bullshit.’ Mr. Wayne gives Jason a stern frown.

“What’s their name,” asks Dick, breezing past this interplay.

“Stuart,” Tim mutters, relief at seeing his old friend unharmed warring with embarrassment.

“Good name,” Dick says approvingly. “Hey, I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Is it ok if I leave for a second to get her, and get changed real quick? My suit is gonna get real rank, real quick if I sleep in it. I don’t want to stink you out of the room with a BO biohazard.”

“You could always burn it,” Jason suggests sweetly. “A sacrifice to the disco gods.”

“It’s retro chic,” Dick defends, waggling his Doc Marten-style boots on the comforter, and giving the half of his wide collar not trapped under Tim an extra ‘pop’ with two casual fingers. “You just don’t appreciate the risks one must take for haute couture.”

Tim starts struggling to extricate himself from the sprawl of Dick’s limbs. He assumes he won’t freeze to death for the few minutes while this occurs, if Dick is the one suggesting it. “Sure, uh, it’s fine. I can handle the cold for a bit.” Probably. 

Dick hasn’t let go of Tim fully, and for a second his face drops, before he covers it with the previous cheerful expression. “That’s not what I meant, Timmy,” he says. “It’s ’Cuddle Pollen,’ not ‘Lonely Pollen.’ All there in the name, really.”

Mr. Wayne clears his throat. “Allow me,” he says, taking a small step forward and stretching a hand toward Tim, who struggles to keep his jaw from gaping open at the mind-boggling concept of he, random neighbor and sort-of client Tim Drake, being cuddled by Vengeance Incarnate. 

Jason bullies his way past his father and flops heavily on top of Dick, forcing himself into the spot Dick hasn’t finished vacating at Tim’s side, saving Tim from having to find words. “Wait your d- your ding dang turn, B-dog.”

Dick confides to Tim in a stage whisper behind the back of his hand, “Don’t let him fool you. He’s actually a great snuggler. And cape cuddles? The best.”

Tim tries to gauge how vastly Dick is exaggerating for comedic effect, but Mr. Wayne’s completely blank face gives nothing away.

Extricating himself fully with a fluid roll as Jason slings an arm over Tim’s shoulders, Dick adds, “Besides, Jason gets real cranky when he hasn’t been snuggled in awhile.”

With his free hand, Jason punches Dick in the arm hard enough to rock his upper body a half inch to the side. 

Dick doesn’t lose his winning grin, but he does dance back out of reach. “See?”

Mr. Wayne says stoically, “I’ll return in a few minutes.”

There’s a slightly awkward pause when the older two leave the room. Jason’s warm and his grip is carefully casual, but there’s an edge of tension in the way he’s leaning against Tim.

However, Jason doesn’t let the silence spread to reach the edges of the room. “I didn’t say I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “But I am. I yelled at you when I should have - I should have been able to shut the hell up and control my temper. So that you knew you coulda come to me. That you coulda trusted me. And the other stuff I said. Robin was, I was, trying to keep you home. And safe. But I did it all wrong. And then again tonight, right after you - yeah. Look, I really fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

Tim relaxes further into Jason’s side, feeling warm from more than one angle. “It’s okay. I’m sorry,  for - for making you yell, for everything, for saying all those horrible things to you in the first place.”

“Timmers,” Jason starts, then shakes his head and sighs. “You’re a kid -“

“That’s your opinion,” Tim mutters under his breath.

If Jason hears this, he ignores it. “- and you made some mistakes, but you didn’t make me be an asshole about it, alright? That ain’t how it works.”

That has definitely not been Tim’s lived experience, but he says “okay” placatingly, anyway.

Jason sticks a pointy elbow companionably into Tim’s ribs. “How bout for brazenly lyin’ to my face a whole buncha times?” he says lightly. “You gonna apologize for that?”

“Um, I’ll have to think about that,” Tim hedges. “Because, like, I had reasons that I mostly still think were pretty valid, honestly. And also,” he admits, “it was funny.”

Jason snorts. “You little shit.” He administers a noogie, but it’s gentle, and short-lived, breaking off when Tim gives a yawn big enough to audibly crack his jaw.

Settling further into the mattress, Tim hesitantly tests Dick’s hypothesis in re: Jason hugs, shifting closer slightly to Jason’s warmth and curling an arm gingerly over his chest. 

Quietly, remorsefully, Tim confesses, “I’m really, really sorry I set the security lights on, and you almost got - you almost got hurt. Cause of me. I’m so, so glad you’re okay.”

Jason gives a choked sort of wheeze. “Tim. No. No, it’s - that’s not - it’s fine.” 

Tim is suddenly wrapped in a strangling grasp. “God. You’re so dumb. How can you be so smart and still so dumb?” 

Jason’s hugs are really nice, too, Tim decides, despite the insult-compliment. He hugs fiercely, squeezing so tight Tim is forced to emit a little squeak. He hugs like he thinks Tim will disappear if he has a looser grip. It’s comforting, in a very slightly aggressive way.

There’s a soft knock on the open doorway. Dick is back, soft-looking sweats and a cropped band t-shirt replacing the Nightwing armor. “Hey, Timmy. I think it’s your turn to get changed and get some sleep.” He brings one hand from behind his back, producing a worn and clearly well-loved stuffed elephant. “Zitka wanted to join the slumber party.” 

Dick crosses to the bed, making Zitka fist-bump Stuart’s wing before nestling her next to the goose.

Jason gives Tim another squeak inducing squeeze before transferring him to Dick, his face looking a bit red and splotchy as he goes. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Dick helps Tim with the awkward maneuver of getting ready for bed while attached to another person, kindly offering him as much privacy as possible while not allowing him to freeze to death. When this is sorted out and Tim is under the covers, Jason returns with Bruce, and Ace, who gives flatteringly mighty tail wags that wiggle his whole body on seeing Tim. Jumping on the bed from Jason’s arms, he pads over and gives Tim’s chin slobbery kisses, tail thumping a steady rhythm.

“I’ll have you know he’s trained to guard and to physically pin down unruly suspects,” Jason says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Tim looks down at Ace, who is drooling happily, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. He appears to be in the same weight class as a medium-sized potato.

Jason says meaningfully: “You certainly qualify.”

“As a suspect?” Tim asks doubtfully.

“As unruly,” Jason informs him. “Don’t test me. Ace, platz.”

Ace immediately clambers fully onto Tim’s chest and flops as heavily as he is physically capable of, which isn’t much. It feels a bit like a pointy edged beanie baby doing its best steamroller impression.

Tim looks flatly at Jason. “Really?”

Bruce clears his throat, leaning over to pat Ace in what might be approval. “There are loose ends and new leads I will be pursuing tonight before trails can go cold.”

“Got some bastards tryna merc Timmy here to track down,” Jason says, slapping one fist into the other open palm evocatively.

“Language,” Mr. Wayne reminds him, dryly. “And finding Jack and Janet Drake.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Shaking his head slightly in a longsuffering sort of way, Mr. Wayne asks, “Is there anything else you need, Tim?” 

“No, sir. Thank you.”

Mr. Wayne gives a small sigh through his nose. “You can call me Bruce.”

Tim nods noncomittally. Jason fidgets, seeming torn. “If you need, I can stay too.”

“Um, no. It’s okay,” Tim says. 

Jason eyes him closely, still hesitant. 

“Batman needs a Robin,” Tim says, his tiredness not preventing him from being firm about this immutable law of the universe. “Just - just find my parents. Please.”

Mr. Wayne’s blue eyes are softer than Tim had previously imagined Batman would possibly be capable of. “We will, chum. Get some rest.” He hesitates, then slowly reaches over and rests a large hand on the crown of Tim’s head, an unexpectedly feather-light, warm touch. “You are safe here.”

Dick gives a gentle squeeze to Tim’s shoulders, like he’s emphasizing the point.

“I’ll be back later,” Jason says, rubbing a knuckle along the side of his nose and tipping his chin at Tim, “to make sure he hasn’t escaped.”

Tim rolls his eyes. The only thing he wants at the moment is to sleep for a thousand years and wake up with his parents there. Safe, alive, and blissfully unaware of the current state of Drake Manor or Tim’s assorted recent crimes.

Dick retorts, “What am I, chopped liver? And also, cuddle pollen.”

Jason is exiting the room behind Mr. Wayne, but turns back to stab a finger at Tim. “Three dishonest raccoons in a pair of pajamas,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Don’t underestimate him.” The warning glare and pointing finger remain as he backs the rest of the way out of the room.

Dick dims the lights, and wriggles around until he’s resting on a fluffy pillow, with Tim bundled up, sprawled over his shoulder and upper body. Jostled from position, Ace oozes up the bed until he’s flopped over Tim’s head, a dog hat. He blows a satisfied, sleepy sigh into Tim’s ear.

“Good?” Dick asks.

It’s maybe the most comfortable Tim’s been in his life, aside from the social anxiety, cold knotted dread, and the rest of the bubbling emotional goulash in his gut. “Yeah. I’m good,” he mumbles, eyelids feeling like lead. “I’m just sorry you’re stuck here.”

Dick turns his head, looking down his nose nearsightedly at Tim in the dark. “Are you kidding?” he says, sounding genuinely - if exaggeratedly - astonished. “Snuggling is the best! Getting hit with cuddle pollen sucks, but it’s a great excuse for kicking back and enjoying getting hugged for the next several hours!”

Tim ponders this, and detects no lies. 

Dick warms to his subject. “Hugging’s one of the best things in the world! Why wouldn’t I have a great time getting some Timmy cuddles in?”

Tim shrugs. “My family’s never been real into - that kind of thing? You know, like, some families are really into being touchy-feely and saying ‘I love you’ and - and giving their kids nicknames and stuff, and other families, they don’t. My friend Ives - Sebastian, really, but I call him Ives - he and his family are always doing this game they call ‘pounce.’ Or, well. They did, until Ives started getting really sick and had to go to chemo and they had to be a lot more careful and gentle with him.” He’d been a recipient of a surprise hug attack a time or two from Mrs. Ives. It had been a little weird. But not bad-weird, nice-weird. It hadn’t happened since he had gotten sick and they’d moved away, and Tim had started his nocturnal hobby, which had sort of filled the hole left by his friend’s illness and absence.

Tim clears his throat. “But anyways. Um, my mom and dad, they’re more like, show don’t tell, you know? With all that.”

Dick seems to breathe very carefully for a second. He’s unusually still.

Just when Tim is about to ask him if something’s wrong, Dick says lightly, teeth flashing with a smile in the dim light, “Well, that’s a real shame. Hugs give me life!” He nudges Tim. “Didn’t you say I was a great hugger?”

Tim nods.

“Well, see, it’s true,” Dick says modestly. “I’m basically an Olympic-level snuggle champion. They could call me as a professional expert witness in cuddling cases. I could do TED talks on it. In fact, that’s what my doctorate is in: Huggology.”

“That’s not a thing,” Tim snorts, half-smiling despite it all.

Dick corrects severely, “I think you mean, ‘That’s not a thing, Doctor.’ I didn’t spend 20 years in huggology school to not be addressed with the proper respect.”

Tim giggles.

Dick gestures broadly with the hand that’s not wrapped securely around Tim’s rib cage. “Just ask Bruce. Or Alfred. Or Jason. Or Babs. Or any of the Titans! And, I must say that you’re the best amateur hugger I’ve ever encountered. If you want my professional opinion.”

“This is okay, then?” Tim hazards, resting his head a little further on to Dick’s upper body, until he can hear a steady heartbeat under his ear. “It’s not… Um. It’s not too much?”

“It’s great, Timmy,” Dick says reassuringly. “You hug as long and as hard as you want. I never get enough hugs. If they came in chewables, like Flintstone vitamins, I’d be downing a whole bottle every day.” 

Feeling the heavy weight of fatigue pulling at his bones, Tim closes his eyes. Dick is still talking, a low, soothing murmur, about his favorite people and what their hugs feel like. Tim tries to pay attention, because it’s fascinating hearing about the superpowered Titans doing something so mundane, but somewhere after furry green gorilla hugs and quick, vibrantly energizing ones, Tim falls asleep.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

In the small hours Jason silently slips back into the bedroom across from Dick’s and next to his own, in civvies and with pajama pants pocket full to the point of bursting a seam. Tim is still there, which is a relief. Something green pricks Jason uncomfortably, seeing the small figure bonelessly draped over Dick. He’s curled up trustingly in a way that Jason himself hadn’t quite been able to earn in months of Timmy-wrangling. 

Everything really does come effortlessly to Dick, he thinks uncharitably. Bastard.

As though to prove him right, even though Jason knows he hasn’t made a sound, Dick opens his eyes, fully aware of his brother’s presence, as Jason’s just pulled out a handful of next gen micro-dot trackers from his pocket and begun affixing them to absolutely everything Tim owns.

Dick holds up two fingers and makes a gimme hand motion when he sees what Jason’s up to.

“Any progress?” Dick whispers, placing one of the microdots Jason’s handed him on the stuffed goose and the other on the underside of the goose’s cowl.

Jason got to punch several criminals in the face, which he considers a step in the right direction, personally. “Babs and the Birds of Prey are finishing clean-up,” he whispers back. “Still focused mainly on the assassination attempts on the commissioner. Had another one when ol’ Gordo came to supervise takin’ the dirtiest of pigs into custody. Some asshole took a pot-shot, tryna get lucky. Huntress took him all the way out before he could try again. B isn’t happy about that, by the way.”

Dick pulls a face. “God, what a mess. Where is he now?”

“Commish’s fine. Or if you mean B, he’s still out there. Working on leads for possible holding sites across the city, lookin’ for where the Drakes might be holed up.” Jason shoots a cautious look at Tim, who is gently snoring in concert with Ace, who is on top of Tim’s electrocuted hedgehog hair, belly up and all four paws in the air. “If they’re not already in the river.”

Dick glares quellingly in the dim lighting, doing his own quick check to make sure Tim’s still asleep. “Don’t put that out in the universe.”

Jason rolls his eyes, finishing up with the items in Tim’s backpack. Straightening, he reaches out, examining Tim’s photos in the low ambient night-light Dick’s left on for Tim’s sake. He picks up the oldest picture last, marveling at how shockingly small Dick seems, smaller even than current Tiny Tim. Tiniest Tim, little bitty toddler Timmy, sits on Dick’s spangled lap.

“D’you think that’s why Tim,” idolizes you, Jason thinks, clears his throat, “why he trusts you so much?” 

And not me. Even before I fucked things up.

“That’s a big part of it,” Dick whispers, eyeing Jason with a knowing look Jason doesn’t appreciate. “And because I’m older and wiser. And, most of all, because I didn’t freak out and pop a blood vessel when he came to me for help, even though he is, truly, one of the most alarming and chaotic children the world has ever known.”

Jason flips Dick off, replacing the picture and gingerly laying himself down on the bedspread on Tim’s other side. He gives Ace a belly scritch, then crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the ceiling. 

Neither Ace nor Tim skip a beat in their snoring.

He pitches his voice just loud enough for Dick to hear over the sounds of tiny slumber. “Oh yeah? Fine. Share your wisdom, O Golden Oldie.”

Minute movements jostle the mattress: Dick bending an elbow and tucking a hand behind his neck. “In my experience? There comes a time in every young man’s life -”

Jason turns his head to send a poisonous glare over Tim’s sleeping body. “If this is a fucking sex talk I will end you,” he hisses.

Dick continues, unfazed. “- when he suddenly finds himself in possession of a younger brother he wasn’t prepared for, and can’t help but keep making mistakes with.”

Caught off-balance, Jason swallows hard.

When he says nothing, Dick adds, even more quietly, “…even though he would die to keep them safe.”

There’s a long silence, broken only by gentle snuffling. 

Eventually, Jason says gruffly, “And? …So then what do you do?”

Dick lets out a self-deprecating huff. “‘And?’ And then you do the best you can to be there for them. That’s - yeah,” There’s movement in the dark Jason interprets as a shrug. “That’s basically all I’ve got so far.”

Pretending he isn’t going to be thinking deeply about this at all, Jason rolls onto his side, pulling a throw blanket over himself. “You’re friggin useless.”

Dick’s low voice sounds dryly amused. “You’re welcome. Love you too.”

Jason shoves most of his face into a pillow before grumbling nearly inaudibly, “Yeah, you-too-or-whatever.”

Dick is smiling in the dark. Jason can feel it.

Jason takes his face out of the pillow to clearly enunciate, “Shut up,” before stuffing it back into 600 threadcount again.

“I didn’t say anything!” Dick whisper-squawks indignantly.

“I heard it anyway.”

Chapter Text

The truth is like a puzzle - once you put all the pieces together, the picture becomes clear.
- Encyclopedia Brown

Gotham’s skies moodily drip rain onto freshly uninterred earth, turning it to sloppy mud around the small casket. The accompanying fog curls murkily around the open grave, pulling and sucking at the figures standing beside it. 

Mr. Ives places a heavy hand onto the dark wood of Sebastian’s coffin, head bowed. Mrs. Ives turns her head into his shoulder, weeping. Above the grief stricken parents, the angel atop Sebastian’s headstone watches over them. Rosa’s somber features are delicately carved into the marble, wings mantled and hands posed in endless frozen prayer.

The fog thickens and rises. As Tim watches, it darkens, shading into a sickly green. Cloying tendrils wrap and claw at the small crowd of mourners gathered among the gravestones, and the black-clad figures begins to cough and stagger. Mrs. Ives falls heavily to her knees, slumping limp against the casket. 

A gas mask is suddenly placed over Tim’s face. 

Dick secures the fit with gentle hands. “It’s okay, Timmy,” he says. “You’re safe.” He smiles reassuringly, but in another moment his expression becomes fixed and remote. Dick drops onto the wet grass like a puppet with its strings cut, head lolling in the mud. Unnaturally still in death, Dick’s smile remains, a macabre facsimile of joy, glassy eyes open and staring into eternity. 

Before Tim can do more than gape in horror, uniformed shadows rise up wraith-like from the fog, moving towards him menacingly from behind the graves in the near distance. A gunshot startles Tim out of his shock and into movement. 

He runs.

Pounding footsteps and deafening shots pursue him. Tim ducks and weaves through the headstones, which blur and merge with the glass plinths holding his parents’ artifacts while he flees. Empty of life, the display room at Drake Manor stretches like taffy, endless and labyrinthine. Glass and priceless antiquity shatter all around him. His parents are nowhere to be found among their treasures, no matter how desperately Tim looks for them.

“Tim. Hey, hey. I’m here,” Jason says from the doorway to Wayne Manor that abruptly appears, warm vintage wood curving incongruously among the sharp modern edges of the Drakes’ foyer.  

Tim leaps through the threshold to safety. “Jay,” he says, or tries to say, but inarticulate sounds come out instead.

“You’re alright, Timbit,” Jason says, reaching out a hand to Tim as though to steady him, but the gesture is interrupted before it can make contact. A starburst bloom of red explodes on Jason’s chest, the sharp report of a gunshot echoing and rebounding through the hall. 

Still wearing a look of surprise, Jason falls backwards in slow motion, bloody and unnaturally quiescent body crumpling on the warm mahogany. 

Shaking his head helplessly, Tim tries to yell for help, to scream in denial of Jason’s fate, but only weak mumbling makes it through his numb lips.

Batman is cradling Jason’s corpse, wrapping him in the black folds of the cape in a futile gesture of protection. Turning on Tim, Batman booms in rage, “This is all your fault!” 

A grim, sorrow-filled sentinel standing beside where Batman cradles his son’s dead body, one hand on Mr. Wayne’s shoulder, Alfred’s once kind eyes glare hatefully at Tim. 

“Leave,” Alfred says, pointing a wrathful finger. “You are not welcome here.”

Tim turns, stumbles through the halls of Wayne Manor for the last time. The warm wood entry doors are before him, and he flings them open blindly.

Instead of the familiar manicured landscaping and curving drive, the front doors have led Tim into an industrial freezer. 

His parents are wrapped in frosted plastic, dead eyes blankly staring through him.

Tim screams himself into a hazy semi-conscious state, thrashing weakly against warm softness that gently traps him. Tim blinks blearily into an unfamiliar dimness, unable to tell where he is or what horrors are real or imagined. 

There’s quiet voices in the darkness. Something warm and wet is licking his ear.  

“You’re okay, Timmy,” one voice says, but Tim doesn’t feel okay, overwhelming exhaustion warring with his pounding heart. “It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

The voice sounds calm and very confident that they know what they’re talking about. 

Tim finds himself wanting to believe it. Besides, it’s much too hard to keep his eyes open to figure it all out for himself.

A hand is rubbing his upper arm comfortingly. “You’re not alone, Tim.”

Tim stops resisting, heavy eyelids fully closing again. 

Someone pulls a blanket further over him. “Go back to sleep.”

But he already has.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Only hazy and unsettling memories of nightmares and the comfort of soothing voices in the dark remain when Tim finally struggles to full consciousness in the morning. 

Dick is still a warm furnace on the bed next to Tim. He’s awake already, sitting up against the headboard and scrolling on his phone, but puts it down to smile at Tim when Dick notices Tim rubbing his eyes. “Morning, sleepy bird. How are you feeling?”

Overworked muscles aching, Tim stretches tentatively, scooching just out of reach. Breaking contact from the original Robin causes only a mild lingering chill, halfway raising a few goosebumps on his arm. Tim waits, but no debilitating, frigid numbness follows. He’s now just covered in frost, which is beginning to melt in the light of a new day.

“Better,” he decides aloud, which makes Dick beam, but the more important question is: “Did they find my parents yet?”

Dick’s smile dims. “Not yet. Bruce just got back from tracking down some leads a little while ago. He wants to talk to you after breakfast.”

Tim would rather talk now, to immediately know what’s happened and what they have learned while he’s been asleep. But it seems churlish to push it, as Mr. Wayne probably doesn’t want to be interrupted or rushed after being out and awake all night on Tim’s behalf.

Though Tim isn’t really hungry, he doesn’t object. Dick leaves him to his own devices with a whistle to Ace, who reluctantly wriggles free of the sheets, gives a moaning stretch, and jumps off the bed to follow Dick, tail gently wagging. 

A few minutes later finds Tim freshly changed into his single remaining outfit. It’s deeply crumpled from being stuffed in the bottom of his backpack, but it’s his, and still holds the familiar smell of the Drakes’ laundry detergent. Tim opens the door to make his way to the kitchen and nearly jumps out of his skin, startled by loud chimes. 

Looking down, he finds a set of jingle bells has been securely wrapped around the outside of the doorknob. 

The door to the room on Tim’s left opens immediately, Jason’s head popping out to clap suspicious eyes on Tim. 

“I don’t need an alarm. I’m not trying to escape,” Tim says, annoyed.

“You’re dam- you’re darn skippy you’re not,” Jason says, catching up to Tim and crossing his arms over his t-shirt, which reads River City Pool Hall: Ragtime Music & Scarlet Women.

“Okay,” Dick says disarmingly, appearing in the hallway with a refreshed looking Ace in tow. “Glad we’ve all cleared that up.” He claps his hands together as though to dismiss the subject, turning to lead the way down the stairs. “Time for all good little birdies to fly down and eat.”

Jason slings an arm over Tim’s shoulder, gently bullying him in the direction of food. Reaching the ground floor, a delicious smell precedes them into the kitchen.

Frowning, Jason asks Dick over Tim’s head, “I thought he was supposed to be resting.”

“He’s supposed to be,” Dick says, also wearing a look of concern. 

But he isn’t. Alfred is, in fact, finishing work on erecting a truly impressive tower of pancakes when they troop into his domain, but the surgical mask does very little to disguise the fact that he looks like death warmed over after the late night taking care of Tim.

“Lemme get that, Alf,” Dick says, rushing over and taking the steaming platter of fresh pancakes from the older man’s hands, placing it on the table. Tim takes a seat next to Jason, who loses no time in sliding several onto a plate and shoving it in front of Tim.

Ace has taken the opportunity to sit beside his empty food bowl, and is now soulfully gazing up at Alfred. When the majordomo looks down and makes eye contact, Ace dramatically flops onto his side on the wide plank hardwood, exposing his belly and feebly pawing at the air with one pointy foreleg. Everything in his body language clearly indicates he is but a poor, deprived dog who hasn’t been fed a decent meal in years. 

Alfred is unmoved. “Master Ace, you know quite well that you only receive two breakfasts once per year,” he reproves sternly, though the effect is spoiled by the raspiness of a swollen throat. 

Still belly up, Ace casts a beseeching look Dick’s way as Alfred bends to pick up the dog bowl, but Dick only confirms Alfred’s word is law. “Aw, sorry, buddy. You don’t have long to wait, though, your gotcha day is coming up soon. You’re the bestest boy who’s gonna get lots of treats then, yes you are.”

Alfred stands up again and reaches to put the bowl in the sink, but drops it in with a sudden clatter, his face paling abruptly at the change of altitude. He wavers in place.

Dick makes an alarmed noise, and Jason slides off his chair to intercept, but it’s Mr. Wayne, materializing from the thin air of the doorway to the hall, who gets a firm hand under Alfred’s elbow to steady him.

Dick and Jason settle back in their chairs slowly, exchanging worried glances, as the head of the house and Mr. Wayne begin to converse in low tones.

Guilt sitting oppressively on his chest at being the reason for Alfred’s obvious setback in recuperation, Tim doesn’t feel he’s got the right to express concern aloud about it. He does keep watch, though, until the elderly man regains his color and dignity. 

Jason and Dick must also be watching for this, as they resume their desecration of the pancake platter when Alfred no longer seems to be in active need of assistance.

Wanting to break the awkward silence that has fallen, Tim asks the brothers, “What’s a gotcha day?”

Jason and Dick both seem to still have half an eye each on Alfred. “Y’know,” Jason says, even though Tim has just made it clear he doesn’t, “The day we “got” Ace. Got ya. Gotcha. His gotcha day,” he explains.

“Joining the family officially is a big deal,” Dick proclaims, sneaking Ace a bite of pancake while Mr. Wayne seems absorbed in trying to check over Alfred, and Alfred seems absorbed in maintaining his starched and polished manner while fending off Mr. Wayne, much less successfully.  

“Gotta make it special for him,” Dick continues. Ace has inhaled the bite of pancake, and is now staring at Dick in abject adoration, tongue lolling from the side of his snout. They make gooey eyes at each other, man and dog, until Jason hands Ace a much larger piece of pancake from the opposite side of the table. Dick pouts at Ace’s abrupt change of loyalty, and retaliates by making an abrupt lunge for the last pancake on the platter.

Stomach still too twisted up to want to eat much, Tim sits silently and watches the Wayne family interact. 

The brothers jostle each other playfully as they fork-duel for the final pancake. Mr. Wayne, in the background, is attempting to herd Alfred out of the kitchen like a massive and muscular sheepdog cajoling an ailing member of its flock back into the barn.

Ace draws Tim’s attention by giving his ankle a polite, hopeful nose boop. “You’re a lucky dog,” Tim tells Ace quietly, handing over most of the pancake he’s been pushing around his plate. He shivers slightly, wave of lingering chill passing through him and leaving goosebumps over his arms in its wake.

Jason must have won the food battle while Tim’s distracted by his thoughts, because his cheeks are puffed out like a chipmunk’s and pancake crumbs spill out as he says thickly, “Hey, Dickiebird, we should get gotcha days, too.” Raising his voice to be easily heard by the rest of the room, he asks Dick loudly, “Why isn’t Bruce on top of that?”

Tim is reminded of Dick’s goofing around last night about ‘abdopting’ Tim: a bit of quick and unexpected happiness amid an awful night. Now Tim has a front row seat as an outside observer, without the added distance of a telephoto lens, to watch the Waynes: all of them, together, so at ease caring for each other in their natural habitat. It makes the memory of the offhanded joke suddenly feel like something tender and raw is being pierced, deep in Tim’s chest.

Dick folds his arms, shaking his head and tutting theatrically, also speaking in stage voice. “He’s holding out on us. Cheapskate.”

Rubbing his arms to get rid of the gooseflesh, Tim wonders what it would have been like to grow up with brothers like Jason and Dick. How different his life might have been.

The most infamously philanthropically minded billionaire on the eastern seaboard raises longsuffering eyes to the kitchen ceiling, sighing loudly through his nose at this character assassination.

Immediately following Tim’s unfilial train of thought is the guilt caboose at the disloyalty of it, like he’s betraying his parents by even having had the fleeting daydream of belonging to another family.

Alfred sniffs nasally, clearing a phlegmy throat. “Perhaps he may in the future. As they say, the third time is the charm.”

Only listening to the Waynes’ lighthearted teasing of one another with half an ear, Tim moodily continues drowning the last of his pancake in the puddles of syrup around his plate with the back of his fork. 

Tim’s already got a family who loves him, okay, he does, even if they don’t - they don’t show it with easy comfort with each other, not like the Waynes do, or talk about it all the time with open affection like the Ives do.

Well, every family’s got their problems. Nobody’s perfect, but no one loves you as much as your parents do, Tim reminds himself. That’s just the rule. It’s so obvious it shouldn’t even need to be said.

Sure, the Waynes are - are amazing, and being one must be the most incredible thing in the entire world. But Tim’s not a Wayne, he’s a Drake. Which is fine! Drakes are fierce, and loving, just - in a different way. More subtle. Not all in-your-face and casual about their love or whatever. Drakes are clever and independent, and they cherish the things they care for by taking pride in them. They explore far and wide while keeping their treasured things safe at home. Like dragons. That’s - it’s just the way they are. 

Even if Tim sometimes, in dark and quiet moments of weakness, maybe wishes they weren’t. Maybe, just a little bit on occasion, wants more. But it’s pointless to expect his parents to change who they are just because Tim is needy. It just - it is what it is. They’re his family. There’s no use whining over it.

Because they do. They do love Tim, and he’s being horribly selfish for not being grateful for the family he already has. Or - or hopefully still has. No, he does have, they are out there, and alive, and he’s going to get them back. 

Tim’s got the best detectives in the world on the case now, and it can only be a matter of time until Batman and Robin and Nightwing and the Birds of Prey, all of them together find his mom and dad and bring them home safe again.

And, see, Tim’s even more lucky now than he had been before, isn’t he? Because now he’ll be able to be friends with Jay and Dick, and - and Tim lives right next door, so he can come over all the time once his parents are back and the house is fixed! And - now that they know that he knows the secret, maybe they’ll let Tim hang out in the Batcave sometimes! Maybe - maybe they’d even be willing to let Detective Drake help them out on cases once in awhile?

“Whoa! Hold on there, Timmy,” Dick breaks into Tim’s thoughts suddenly, grinning. He playfully reaches over to ostentatiously slide on a pair of sunglasses that had been resting on the table. This done, Dick instructs, “Alright, I’m ready now.” He mimes adjusting an imaginary dial next to the dimple in his cheek. “You can turn that up all the way. Let’s hear it, what’s got the smile going?”

Tim blushes fiercely, unwilling to admit to his daydreaming of the future out loud. “Um, nothing.” He stuffs a syrupy bite into his face. “Just, these pancakes are really good, that’s all.”

“I am very gratified to hear it, Master Tim,” Alfred says weakly, and makes a move toward the griddle and the bowl of remaining batter.

“Alfred. Go rest,” Mr. Wayne pleads, eyebrows furrowed, and somehow manages to withstand the incredulous look of deadly irony Alfred gives him in return without being turned to ash on the spot. “I can make the rest of the pancakes,” Mr. Wayne asserts magnanimously, but this seems to be a bridge too far for the rest of the household.

“No,” chorus all three of the others, firmly and simultaneously, with Alfred’s denial being vehement enough to set him into another fit of violent coughs.  

“Go take some NyQuil and sleep for the rest of the day, Alf,” Dick suggests.

Jason adds to the peer pressure. “Yeah, what he said. We’ve got this. We’ll make sure Tim stays out of trouble.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred coughs dolefully. “The blind promising to lead the blind.” He clears his throat, looking at the others in doubt. “Perhaps I should stay -“

Looking every inch the grim and implacable agent of the night, Mr. Wayne places a purple medicine bottle firmly in Alfred’s hand and points solemnly at the doorway leading to Alfred’s rooms.

Reluctantly, Alfred goes.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Still oppressively somber, as soon as Tim insists he’s done eating and Jason is convinced to stop piling food on his plate despite what Tim has to say about it, Mr. Wayne quietly asks to speak with Tim in private.

He leads Tim to a clearly well-used study, which is all carved mahogany, tidy stacks of papers, and fabric- or leather-bound books. A huge, stately grandfather clock ticks on one side of the room.

Mr. Wayne folds into the plush leather couch on the opposite side of the study with an ease that speaks of habitual comfort, and gestures Tim to a seat on one of the other cushions. There’s a basket overflowing with soft-looking throw blankets nearby. A creased paperback with what Tim recognizes as Gotham Academy’s summer reading list bookmark sticking out from the pages is resting on the coffee table, along with a few fidget toys, a glass jar of milkbones, and a framed candid portrait of Mr. Wayne and his boys that was clearly taken as a selfie by Dick.

The nervous butterflies in Tim’s stomach aren’t much soothed by these mundanities. He sits stiffly, with his hands folded, thumb absently rubbing at the base of his first finger. 

Mr. Wayne reaches to the coffee table, selects a Rubik’s cube from the fidget toys, and offers it to Tim, who shakes his head. 

“No, thank you,” Tim says. “Dick, uh, he told me you hadn’t found my parents yet?”

“Not yet,” Mr. Wayne admits. He has kept the Rubik’s cube, and is now calmly rotating squares, which move positions with soft and rhythmic clicking. Seeming to be aware of Tim’s heart beating nervously and impatiently through his ribs, Mr. Wayne does not keep him waiting for updates. 

“Though I have not yet located your parents, I have eliminated as possible sites the majority of the Penguin’s commercial holdings and known fronts throughout the city. I have added surveillance devices to areas of interest, and have instructed my contacts in every corner of the city to inform me the second they come across any information that could lead us to your parents.”

Well. Let no one say Batman hadn’t been putting in the effort on the case. 

But -

“The Penguin? He’s got my parents?”

Mr. Wayne’s got a very Batman set to his expression as he says: “I believe so.” 

Tim’s guts are in a three way tug of war between a weird vindication that Batman’s confirming that something had indeed gone very wrong for his parents and Tim’s sleuthing hadn’t been an overreaction; relief that Batman, on the case, had found the culprit, if not his parents yet; and shrieking panic at the confirmation that the thing that has gone very wrong with his parents is being kidnapped by one of Gotham’s most notorious villainous rogues.

While Tim’s guts are duking it out, Mr. Wayne looks at Tim, assessing, but not unkind. “As a fellow detective, I suspect you’d like to hear all the evidence available, regardless of where it leads. Am I correct?”

Tim nods again, relieved to be so easily understood.

One side of the cube is fully yellow. “Then let me provide some more context which I believe is very relevant to your parents’ situation. How much do you recall of our conversation last night, before we were - interrupted?”

Which is certainly one way of putting it. 

“There’s a new player in the criminal underworld,” Tim says, quiet but on solid ground here, at least, in being asked to recite relevant fact patterns from memory. “He and a bunch of the other rogues are fighting for power. Other people have gone missing, not just my parents.”

Mr. Wayne tips his head in what Tim would like to imagine is approval of his excellent recall and nutshelling.

“He calls himself the Emperor, though his true identity remains unknown,” Mr. Wayne elaborates, a row of red squares slotting into place. In an odd way, despite how tightly Tim’s wound at the moment, watching it is kind of a little mellowing, like little blocks of colorful lofi playing in the next room. “His appearance and rise to power has led to a city wide turf war among all the major and minor leagues of organized crime. This war has been playing out on the streets and within the halls of government, especially those concerned with law enforcement. It takes a good deal of money changing hands to ensure those in power who are willing to be bought -“ 

So, basically all of Gotham, Tim thinks.

“- allow the members of one’s crime syndicate continue to run free and unobstructed, and out-bid the bribes of the other players attempting the same strategies.”

Tim wouldn’t know, personally, but he does his best to arrange his face so it looks as though he seems reasonably knowledgeable about such things.

“The escalation against those who are not willing to be corrupted has been swift and fierce. The Police Commissioner, in particular, has been the subject of multiple assassination attempts in the last few weeks. Batgirl and her Birds of Prey have been taking point on that investigation.”

Tim finds himself in complete sympathy with Batgirl wanting to personally extract a parent from the dangerous situation they’ve found themselves in.

“Amassing the resources necessary for full-scale assaults on several fronts simultaneously in the battle for ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ power over their rivals and Gotham in general has left the major players wringing dry all options available to them in order to fill their war chests with cash and …other resources.”

Curiosity compels Tim to ask, “Like what?” He pulls a socked foot onto the couch and wraps his arms around his knee.

“Employees. Mercenaries. Weapons of all kinds,” Mr. Wayne answers. “Mundane, like guns and tanks -“

Tanks?

“- and those with more specialized and unusual natures. Penguin has recently deployed an army of robotic war penguins, for example.”

Naturally. After exhausting all possible variations of weaponized umbrellas, where else would one go, really, in the evolutionary process of a Gotham themed rogue?

“Nightwing has been tracking webs of imports from Blüdhaven and beyond into Gotham recently. Some of which being the weapons I’ve mentioned; some of which are items that may be magical, toxic, or simply unusual and valuable in and of themselves, that could be relatively quickly laundered into cash on the black market.”

Things that were liberated from their previous owners, make good tools for very unfriendly people, or that have very special qualities that Uncle Sam would rather keep close tabs on, Selina had told him.

“On the other hand,” Mr. Wayne says, now done with the yellow and red sides, and moving on to green. “Red tape for selling off significant, very high value assets - legitimate businesses, real estate - is not cut through quickly. Those sorts of transactions require a certain amount of time.”

Tim looks up, meeting Mr. Wayne’s gaze, beginning to see what Batman is getting at.

“Even when certain parties are involved,” Mr. Wayne continues, “who might be willing to cut corners or hide transactions in a significant amount of shadow. Even in Gotham. Even for a very, very well-connected kingpin.”

“That’s what you think happened to the other families,” Tim deduces. “Penguin made them give him everything they had, and kept them out of the way somewhere until it all had time to go through.”

Mr. Wayne gives him another one of those head tilts that Tim is choosing to believe might be silently saying, wow, way to go, Tim. You’re an excellent detective. 

“The evidence points that way, yes.”

“Why would people like - like my parents,” Tim says eventually, when this has had a second to sink in. “I still don’t understand. Why would they agree to give a whole bunch of money away to organized crime?”

Mr. Wayne’s face is impassive, but open. “For those families whose stories we’ve been able to piece together so far, it seems most have been forced into that course of action in order to pay off debts or blackmail, as punishment for some perceived slight, or,” he hesitates slightly, “lack of sufficient loyalty to a kingpin. Possibly some combination of the three.”

This seems to beg several questions, each more unpleasant than the last.

Tim shivers, afraid to ask, but unable not to. He digs his fingers into his ankle. “What happened to them, after? After they gave Penguin the money?”

“There is reason to believe those who cooperated were released unharmed. Many left Gotham, significantly poorer,” Mr. Wayne answers, steady and calm, twisting and clicking the cube rhythmically, a quiet song.

Tim isn’t stupid. He’s also very, very experienced with reading between the lines when adults are choosing not to tell him something. “And - the ones that didn’t. What happened to them?”

Mr. Wayne pauses, but instead of brushing Tim’s kid questions aside or saying something he thinks Tim will want to hear, he continues looking at Tim steadily and answers, “They were eventually found.”

There is a huge and gaping hole at the end of the sentence where the word “alive” should be.

Tim takes a shuddery breath, blows it out. Batman isn’t lying to him to cover unpalatable truths, then. Except maybe by omission. Tim can appreciate that, even if he can’t accept not knowing things. Knowing things is what he does. Even when he really, really wishes he didn’t.

Tim gathers up his flagging courage. He folds his hands together, clenching them so hard his knuckles turn white. He straightens his spine to the mature and businesslike posture his parents always prefer to see, and blurts out the question he fears the answer to the most before his trepidation can stop himself. “Do you think they’re already dead?”

Mr. Wayne continues meeting his gaze evenly, reaching out a hand to replace the cube on the coffee table again. It’s complete. From where Tim sits, the yellow, red, and green sides look back at him, sanguine and orderly.

In contrast to the stiff posture Tim is trying to use as a bulwark against the answer, Mr. Wayne rests his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to Tim, making it very clear he’s giving Tim his full attention. He seems forthright, but kind when he tells Tim steadily: “I think it very possible they are still alive.”

Tim lets out a shaky breath, feeling like his body deflates slightly with it. He looks up at the wood paneling on the ceiling, chews his lip and wills himself to keep it together. Tim nods in acknowledgment, because his voice seems to have left the room when he wasn’t paying attention. 

Mr. Wayne gives him a second to process and collect himself before continuing. “We’ve found evidence of your parents starting the process of liquidating a large amount of their assets, in the past two days.”

This brings Tim’s gaze back to Batman’s, eyebrows popping up at this evidence that his parents were alive and well enough to make financial arrangements so recently. “Like the others, the ones who cooperated.”

“Yes. According to Black Canary’s report, and footage I retrieved from the Iceberg Lounge, your parents were indeed in the company of the Penguin the evening they got back to Gotham.” Mr. Wayne shifts, in the first movement that seems to indicate discomfort with the conversation Tim’s seen him make since sitting down. “We found additional evidence, in your parents’ office earlier tonight, and from leads I continued to pursue in the last few hours, that was not mentioned in your files.” Mr. Wayne tilts his head slightly. “Shall I tell you what we found?”

Tim gets the feeling it’s a genuine question. If Tim’s not ready to hear it, Mr. Wayne appears completely prepared to keep whatever he’s found to himself, waiting patiently for Tim’s answer.

Tim nods decisively, although in truth he’s not sure he is ready to hear what gives Batman pause in telling him.

Mr. Wayne nods back, slowly. You’re very capable. I knew you could handle this, Tim chooses to interpret it. 

“There were illegally obtained and stored artifacts containing kryptonite and potentially magical items tagged for auction in the office safe,” Mr. Wayne says.

Well, Tim thinks unhappily. Well. That explained the green glowing statue eyes and weird feelings he’d gotten as he obliviously grabbed a stack of cash instead of piecing together those clues, didn’t it? Tim is furious with himself for missing that entirely. 

“Early this morning, I was also able to interview a contact of mine - a fence who confirmed that your parents were one of Penguin’s highest earning resources.”

A rush of numbing ice washes over Tim. His body doesn’t seem to entirely belong to him. Tim’s head is shaking back and forth in denial, or maybe he’s just shaking, in general. “But that’s - that’s not -“

Even Tim’s not sure what he’s trying to say, as he is having an internal emotional breakdown in addition to every puzzle solving neuron in his brain firing simultaneously.

Tim doesn’t want to believe it, but his instinct to put clues together is already going, fractals crystallizing, despite his conscious desires. 

It’s all true, then. His parents have been smuggling illegal items into the country and selling them to, or on behalf of, one of the most notorious Rogues in Gotham. 

Tim’s been over and over the evidence he’s got long enough for the hidden text messages to have been branded onto his memory. I’ve received some disturbing information regarding your loyalty to our partnership, one had said; the one that brought his parents running back to Gotham hours later, to try to lie convincingly enough that the Penguin would believe they were still in lockstep with him. 

“That’s what Rosa was doing in my parents’ office,” Tim says quietly, almost to himself. 

“Very likely,” Mr. Wayne confirms. “Or perhaps she overheard something she hadn’t been meant to. Was there anything else that you can remember about her confrontation with your parents that wasn’t mentioned in your case files?”

Tim shakes his head slowly, reviewing the memories. “No, I was too far away. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying. Do you think - you think that was when she told them that she knew, and she tried to get them to give her money to keep it quiet.”

Mr. Wayne says, “That is the most likely explanation. She confronted them, they refused to be blackmailed, and when she was ultimately unable to change their minds, she decided to exert pressure elsewhere.”

Low on money, jobless, unable to get funds from her friends, and about to be evicted, she had said to his parents, I’ll tell someone who will make you regret it. When playing devils’ advocate in imagining a scenario where Rosa hadn’t just been mistaken about whatever she had thought she knew, Tim had assumed that would have been one of Drake Industries’ competitors, or the news, or the police. But that wasn’t it at all. She had told someone who would have been murderously furious at the thought that he was about to be undercut from his parents’ business model: The Penguin. 

Tim tastes bile at the memory of pretending he would blackmail Nightwing the previous night.

“Miss Ackroyd grew up in Crime Alley,” Mr. Wayne explains, voice still calm and even. “I haven’t had the chance to look more deeply into her connections, but I believe it was not difficult for her to set up a meeting with the promise of the kind of information she’d had.” 

Tim believes it. Crime Alley’s the sort of place where everyone knows someone who had a connection to someone unsavory, if they weren’t in that line of business themselves. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon, but with mob bosses, cutthroats, and supervillains.

“The next pieces are supposition, on my part. I suspect that Penguin would have liked to check for himself, when Ms. Ackroyd had told him that your parents were about to take their lucrative revenue stream elsewhere. Assuming that to be true, I would expect that he sent a few of his employees to search your parents’ house for evidence to prove or disprove Ms. Ackroyd’s claim, while he made arrangements to question your parents for himself.

“Your notes on the events of the night of the first attempted break in were - enlightening.” The edge of Mr. Wayne’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. “Coming so soon after sunset that evening strongly suggests impatience. It is interesting that they would not have waited until there was less potential for witnesses -“

“They expected the house to be empty.” Tim realizes aloud, in a voice that doesn’t quite feel like his own. Tim exists, taking up space in the world, but this is more unwelcome proof that it’s not his gift, it’s his curse: being unseen, invisible, and even worse - un-looked for at all.

Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem upset at the interruption. He merely waits for Tim to continue. 

“Rosa would have thought they’d sent me to boarding school.” As Tim himself had, that morning before his parents brought out the box of pastries. They’d certainly threatened it enough times. “Obviously, they wouldn’t want to risk being found out a second time by a nanny, or someone new in the house.” 

Mrs. Mac had been around since the dawn of time, so they probably hadn’t considered her enough of a risk to fire, as well. That’s why they had locked up their office tight, why their artifacts had been in the safe instead of in a private display. 

“That is certainly one plausible scenario,” Mr. Wayne allows. “Alternatively, it is possible that they were aware that you were still residing in the house, and they planned to - gather leverage, in addition to evidence.”

Tim goes hot and then cold. There are snakes writhing in the pit of his stomach. 

“I suspect that a large part of the reason why Drake Manor was left alone afterwards, prior to last night, was due to reports that Batman may have taken an interest in the house.” One corner of Mr. Wayne’s mouth looks like it’s thinking about twitching again, but his brows remain drawn together. “And very possibly, that it also outwardly appeared to be occupied by an adult, given your efforts in that regard. Criminals are generally opportunists. With this potential belief in mind, they may have decided the gain of pursuing such a plan not worth the risk.”

Tim shivers at the idea of having been in the house, alone, unknowing that criminals were maybe still out there watching and waiting, biding their time to return while he lounged in the Fortress eating Kit-Kats, thinking he was safe.

Well, at least his security precautions had maybe been good for something other than putting a glowing red bulls-eye on Jason.

“So what changed, then?” Tim wonders, voice small. “Why come last night and - and shoot at Jason? At me, like they thought?”

“I believe we can generate a strong theory based on the fact pattern of yesterday’s events. Most of which you have compiled in your report, but some you are not yet privy to,” Mr. Wayne explains. “Yesterday morning, your first act was to attempt to report your parents missing.”

Actually, his first acts had been to lie to Jason via text, order a floral message delivery to throw Mr. Wayne off the scent, and spite-drink a pot full of coffee, but Tim chooses not to quibble about these details when he’s got the strong impression Batman is about to do a whodunit-style evidence summation. Which Tim, personally, would find completely fascinating if it wasn’t in regard to why people were suddenly trying to yeet Tim from existence.

“Unfortunately, the GCPD personnel you spoke to appear to have been on the payroll of someone more nefarious in addition to Gotham’s taxpayers. Once able to remove you from the precinct without arousing suspicion or having unwanted attention brought to bear on the Penguin’s schemes, others were sent to prevent you from drawing further attention to your parents’ disappearance.”

“But I ran,” Tim says, partly in a weird attempt at self-reassurance, reminding himself he had avoided that fate.

“You escaped,” Mr. Wayne agrees, and Tim doesn’t think he’s imagining the approval this time as Batman continues, “and were able to alert uncorrupted authorities to the situation. The beat patrol sent to retrieve you was then brought in, pending investigation.”

“So they’re going to jail?” Tim asks hopefully.

Mr. Wayne, unfortunately, doesn’t seem overly optimistic. “Commissioner Gordon is attempting to achieve that outcome, but will be hampered by those in the justice system who Penguin has successfully corrupted. There was a witness at the furniture store, but she is not willing to testify.”

Against the GCPD? Unless she was willing to get pulled over and hassled every time she so much as went to get a coffee for the rest of her natural life, for a brief event she was barely witness to, for a kid who was a total stranger? Very few people would make that trade. Tim can’t even blame her, really. So, the two copnappers hadn’t been at the gala last night after all. Would have saved him some anxiety had he known. Not that it ended up mattering, anyway.

Mr. Wayne’s expression sobers further. “It is the next piece that I believe upped the stakes considerably, for the criminals responsible.”

Tim stills, stiffening, as he remembers what happened next.

When Tim offers nothing more, Mr. Wayne asks gently, “Is it possible that you were seen by anyone, or by the security cameras at Adelie’s?”

“I was careful, going in,” Tim says, doing his best to block out the memory of what happened while he was there.

“And going out?” Mr. Wayne asks, still gentle, but probing.

“…I can’t remember,” Tim admits. It’s all a blur between seeing - seeing what he saw, and then being somewhere else and calling for Batman’s help.

Mr. Wayne seems like he maybe had expected this.

“Let us assume that you were seen leaving Adelie’s, by agents of the Penguin, or the Emperor, or both. Within an hour of your departure, Commissioner Gordon’s handpicked team is on the scene.”

Batman sure works fast, Tim thinks, instead of thinking about the too-vivid memory that keeps trying to muscle its way to the front of his mind.

“It would have become fairly obvious that you not only had discovered the murder, but were willing and able to report their crime to authorities outside of their sphere of influence. This, soon after having removed from the playing field two of the officers acting as agents of the Penguin, the Emperor, or both. Adelie’s, a front of Penguin’s -”

Adelie penguins. A fish joint. Boy, has Detective Drake got egg on his face, having missed that one.

“- is now burned by being connected to a murder. A remarkable day’s work in service of the truth, but a blow heavy enough to cause Penguin - and possibly, the Emperor - to notice, and take action in return.”

Seeing Tim’s face, Mr. Wayne softens, and he leans forward slowly, deliberately, putting a warm hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You’ve been very brave: willing to speak up, and seek justice.”

But it’s painted a target on your back, Mr. Wayne politely refrains from saying.

Tim has put himself firmly on the radar: not simply a loose end, or a point of leverage to his family, but a wild card presenting an active threat to their operations.

Mr. Wayne starts saying something else, and Tim tries to keep paying attention, he really does, but while the hand on Tim’s shoulder stays warm, Mr. Wayne’s voice is becoming a sort of low buzz at the edge of Tim’s awareness.

All this time. This whole time, his parents have been part of the corruption at the core of the city that the Caped Crusaders heroically battle against, night after night. 

Numbly picking up his thoughts like pieces on a chessboard, examining them to choose which to place next, Tim considers whether he has the right to be furious with his parents, when they are in so much danger. 

How will you feel, he asks himself, turning the anger and the dread over in his mind, if they are dead and you’re just sitting here wasting time being pissed at how they funded the cushy, privileged lifestyle you’ve been enjoying? 

Tim slowly, effortfully, puts the anger down: a captured pawn put to the side, off the edge of his imaginary chess board.

And anyway, his parents had decided to take their business somewhere else, partner with someone new, hadn’t they? 

Maybe they saw the error of their ways, thinks Tim hopefully. Maybe they fell into the Penguin’s clutches totally by accident, and were trying to get away from him and into something less - less unethical? Less illegal? Less dodgy. Unscrupulous. Underhanded.

Less bad, Tim decides.

Grasping at the straw that maybe Ogilvy was a better, less criminal business partner than the Penguin himself, despite the fleeting memory of Selina’s cryptic warning the previous night, Tim asks: “Did you find out anything about Ogilvy? Who is he? What does he have to do with any of this?”

Belatedly Tim realizes he’s interrupted whatever Mr. Wayne has been saying, but instead of seeming annoyed, Mr. Wayne seems to take this in stride. 

“He is one of the Penguin’s highest ranking, most trusted lieutenants,” Mr. Wayne says, carefully.

Wait - Ogilvy works for Penguin? 

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Tim says, wrinkling his nose. “If my parents were already in business with the Penguin, then why would they be trying to set up a new partnership with one of his own people?”

Mr. Wayne shifts uncomfortably again. At some point, he’s moved closer, sitting next to Tim on the couch. But he’s taken his hand off Tim’s shoulder, which now feels very cold, and now folds both his hands together between where his elbows are resting on his knees. “The night before last, we received a lead that the Emperor is secretly someone at the very top of Penguin’s criminal organization.”

Tim’s blood ices over.

Selina had gotten Ogilvy’s name, and she had said: If he is who I think he might be, he’s very bad news. She had warned Tim away, asked him to leave it to the Bats. She had done everything else he had asked of her willingly, refusing only what she must have felt was the most dangerous thing of all. Tim hadn’t understood, at the time.

“You think he’s the Emperor,” Tim whispers.

Mr. Wayne is leaning down slightly, so he’s exactly at eye level with Tim. “There are vanishingly few people in Gotham who can confirm first hand who the Emperor truly is. Those in a position to make that claim publicly have recently died under suspicious circumstances, even in the middle of the GCPD holding cells. A few more have been silenced in the aftermath and confusion of last night. Unsurprisingly, those left who know - or may have witnessed links to who the Emperor truly is - have been unwilling in the extreme to speak the truth out loud. Or to even bring any attention at all to his crimes.”

Except me. Even if it was by accident, even if I didn’t know that was what I was doing. 

That’s all very well and horrifying, but the part of Tim that isn’t assiduously trying to lock himself in a mental closet and never come out again notices: “That wasn’t an answer to my question.”

Mr. Wayne says seriously, “I believe Ogilvy is the Emperor, yes. And that by seeing your parents dealing with him, you have become a witness.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t know that was me, though?” Tim tries, unconvincing even to himself. “Or that I was the one who called in about - about Rosa?”

Mr. Wayne does not dignify this craven straw grasping with a direct answer. He poses a question of his own: “How sure are you that when you saw Ogilvy and his dealings with your parents, he didn’t see you?”

This unpleasant thought had not previously occurred to Tim. Tim is not at all sure, in fact, thinking back on it. His glass-boy transparency seems to be deserting him at the worst possible moments lately.

When Tim fails to answer, Mr. Wayne continues with more gentle but implacable interrogation. “What if Detective Bosco did, in fact,  see you earlier in the gala, before Ivy arrived?”

Tim squirms in discomfort.

“What if Detective Bosco watched you talking to Selina, who then went downstairs to the auction? What if she was witnessed there asking about Ogilvy - the Emperor’s - name?”

Tim has no answer to this, either. 

“Crime is sanitized by the light of day,” Mr. Wayne continues, voice a low rumble. “That is why they will do everything in their power to either keep it secret, or make sure anyone who knows their secrets is under their control. Unfortunately, that means they will desire even more to do everything in their power to silence you. Last night, at your house, whoever they may have been working for - the Penguin, or as I suspect, the Emperor - they were not there for evidence, or for leverage. They were there to silence you, permanently, and abandoning stealth in order to do so as quickly as possible.”

Tim tries to swallow, despite his throat having gone completely dry. Mr. Wayne replaces the steadying hand on Tim’s shoulder, which helps, slightly.

“Robin and I delivered those responsible to Commissioner Gordon personally. It is my hope that the DA might be able to make a deal enticing enough for them to agree to testify against whoever sent them there. If there is enough evidence, and corroborating testimony, and they are able to be protected until the case makes it to trial, we can ensure the Emperor, if not the Penguin as well, will see justice for their crimes.”

That sounds like a lot of ifs, but then, this is Batman. He’s got ways to make sure these things happen. 

Then Tim thinks: “Corroborating testimony. From me?”

Mr. Wayne looks away briefly, into the middle distance, before turning back to Tim. “I hope it won’t come to that. I would prefer to keep you off their radar as much as humanly possible. Though after last night, that may be more difficult than originally anticipated.”

Then who - wait.

“My parents?”

Mr. Wayne tips his head in acknowledgment. “There may also be others deeply involved who could prove willing to turn State’s Evidence, as well.”

That brings up another chilling thought. “Aren’t my parents in even more danger right now? Given what they know?”

“This, too, is only my supposition: but I believe that they may be preserving their safety - and possibly, hedging their bets on a continued alliance in future with the Emperor - by something very like mutually assured destruction.” 

At the face Tim makes, Mr. Wayne hurriedly adds, “For lack of a better term. The most obvious way for your parents and Ogilvy to continue working in their own long term interests would be for your parents to keep Ogilvy’s identity as the Emperor a secret, in exchange for Ogilvy’s protection both in his position as Penguin’s second in command, while they are under the Penguin’s control; and afterwards, presuming that the Emperor is successful in his plans in regard to domination of Gotham’s criminal underworld.”

Tim feels like his brain is buzzing, whirring in circles too fast to stop for long enough to focus on anything, on what all this means. 

What his brain does pause on, after skipping several tracks, is another painful question he hasn’t quite been able to figure out.

“What about Rosa?” Tim asks quietly. “Why would they kill her?”

Mr. Wayne’s voice softens, but he doesn’t insult Tim by holding back the truth. Tim appreciates it, even though the answers he’s been getting have been making him deeply wish for the comforting brain-behind-glass feeling of yesterday. “Someone who is willing to sell compromising information to one party cannot be trusted not to sell other information to another, if the opportunity should arise.”

“So the Penguin had her killed,” Tim summarizes.

“It’s possible. Having information that may or may not have included links to the Emperor’s identity would provide Ogilvy, or his associates, a very compelling motive to silence her, as well.”

Mr. Wayne stops talking, but Tim is less than a foot away, unable not to notice that he’s got a look on his face like he’s weighing whether or not to say more.

Horrible, unrelenting curiosity drives Tim to press: “What else?”

Okay, Mr. Wayne definitely looks like he’d rather not say more. For a second, Tim thinks he’s going to refuse, but eventually, he answers slowly: “At this time, we can’t rule out the possibility that your parents,” he hesitates, seeming to choose his words carefully, “were more directly involved in her death.”

Tim, who had not even once for a single second considered this, finds the cuddle pollen hadn’t worn off completely after all. His whole body seems to be frozen. His lips feel numb and disconnected, like they belong to someone else when they say: “My parents didn’t kill her.”

Mr. Wayne says, calmly and deliberately, “I didn’t say that.”

Tim reels. He wants to feel angry. No, he is angry at this - this outrageous insinuation. It just feels weird and cold and sort of shaky all over instead of the usual kind of anger, is all, like he’s at the top of a tall mountain looking over the crumbling precipice when he insists: “They didn’t have her killed, either.”

Mr. Wayne’s calm doesn’t waver when he agrees, “It’s entirely possible that you’re right.”

Off-put at this easy agreeableness when Tim needs someone to scream at, against his will Tim is reminded of the yelling and violent departure the last night he saw Rosa alive, and all the compelling reasons why someone might want a blackmailer silenced. 

“They didn’t. They wouldn’t,” he insists. “That’s - it’s just not true. It isn’t.”

It’s not. Even if they were doing a bit of illegal smuggling and in business with shady characters, his parents aren’t murderers, alright? The distinction matters. Amateur archeologists, businesspeople, collectors. That’s who his parents are. Willing to pay the Gotham Tax to make things go easier, more smoothly, more productively, sure. Willing to do business with people Tim wouldn’t have thought they would? Okay, fine. But putting out hits on Tim’s nanny? No. Just, no. It’s ridiculous. “The Penguin had much better means, motive, and opportunity, and so did the Emperor.”

Batman is just being way overly thorough in not eliminating possibilities too soon. Tim’s parents may have been dabbling in dirty business, but they absolutely are not murderers.

“That is true,” Mr. Wayne agrees mildly.

Tim isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince, as Mr Wayne isn’t pressing the issue. Mr. Wayne is, in fact, just sitting there next to Tim on the soft couch in the quiet study, like he has been this entire time, patiently looking at Tim with eyes that see far too much. They are filled with so much compassionate understanding it hurts to keep looking at Mr. Wayne, makes Tim want to shout at him in rage, pound fists into his broad chest in denial. 

Tim looks away, carefully folds his hands in his lap, tries to breathe through lungs that feel like they are being featured in one of those ASMR videos of giant industrial presses flattening unlikely objects into paste.

“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Wayne,” he says, faintly proud that his voice doesn’t falter, even if he can’t manage speaking above a whisper.

Tim tries to push to the forefront of his mind the part of him that actually means it. Being treated like he’s mature enough to handle the truth, not a silly child that needs to be told comforting lies and handled with kid gloves, is a good thing. It’s important. Even if all Tim really wants to do at the moment is lay down on Mr. Wayne’s Aubusson rug and cry at the thought that he and his parents are in a great deal more trouble than he’d originally thought, and Tim can’t think of a way they can possibly get out of it, even if - even when - Batman and Robin and Nightwing and Batgirl rescue them.

The foundations of Tim’s world are fracturing under his feet. While he wasn’t paying attention, fissures have formed between the heroes he’s always admired and followed and imitated, and Tim’s family: the people who raised him, gave him his name and everything he has, who love him. What was once Tim’s solid ground is now two continents drifting out of alignment along an irreversible fault line.

You do anything for your family. Tim’s pretty sure that’s what every story ever written says. There’s even a rule about it in most major religions. Not to mention an evolutionary drive in many species. 

And speaking of biology - how much of Tim’s future will be driven by it? Does all this mean he has a genetic predisposition to crime? It occurs to Tim suddenly, the memory of his father, right before they left, suggesting it was time to get Tim involved in the family business? Maybe - maybe his dad had seen something in Tim that told him that Tim was ready to begin a life of crime. 

Surely his parents hadn’t just up and headed for the Penguin’s office one day on a whim. The decisions they had made leading up to a secret life of criminal enterprise must have made sense to them at the time, had seemed like the best course of action available to them, or else they wouldn’t have done it. 

Is that what’s going to happen to Tim? Thinking he’s doing the right things, following the right path, until one day he looks up and he’s being held hostage and bled dry by a notorious crime lord?

No, no. Tim knows himself better than that. He knows how intense and focused he gets about his goals, the ones that really matter. Tim would never, ever be under the thumb of some mob kingpin. 

He’d just look down in a few years and find he’d become a terrifyingly efficient supervillain in his own right.

Tim’s brain is drifting from the point, because the point is, he’s screwed.

When he’d gone to Blüdhaven and gotten Dick’s promise to help him, he’d thought that was it, basically. The hard parts were over, he had thought with overwhelming relief. Nightwing, plus later Batman and Robin, would take care of things, and it would all be okay sooner or later. In retrospect, Tim had been incredibly naive.

Tim tries to force himself to keep thinking positive. 

What’s the best case scenario here? Tim wonders, thoughts moving a thousand miles an hour, and arriving at: Batman helps Mom and Dad, who are definitely alive and well, escape from the Penguin. And then maybe - maybe I can convince Batman to just let them go home? 

The part of Tim that hasn’t been the big dumb optimist who’s turned out to be wrong over and over and over again scoffs, No, that’s stupid. Tim, you’re an idiot. 

Jeez Louise, it’s Batman, paragon of good and justice and anti-corruption. Even if he feels bad for Tim, he can’t just go around handing his son’s friends’ families get-out-of-jail-free cards. Batman frowns on that kind of nepotistic corruption, for good reason.

So then - so the best outcome is, his parents make a plea deal, and go into witness protection. Instead of going to prison, which is another horrifying yet very plausible possible outcome.

In that very best possible scenario, he and his parents would get to stay together. But they would have to leave Gotham, their homes and their names behind forever, and never talk to anyone they had cared about ever again. 

Tim would never know if Ives lived or died. Tim would never get to go out watching Batman and Robin again, never get to see the Batcave again, never get to watch Dick in action or get an awesome hug or hear his stories, never get to give Ace another belly rub or teach him a new trick, and worst of all of those, never ever get to hang out as friends with Jason ever again.

Okay. Okay. Pull it together, Tim. Plan A: Think Positive - abject failure. Tim moves to Plan B: Try Not To Think About It At All. 

Immediately unable not to torpedo Plan B as well, Tim wonders, What if they do go to prison? What happens to me then? 

It’s gonna be boarding school, or the organ selling foster home after all. There aren’t any family members to take him in, and he’s already burned a fake relative story, the Bats won’t buy it again. 

The naive, big dumb overly optimistic fanboy part of Tim that’s been so, so hilariously wrong about every single thing lately speaks up again, whispering with a silver serpent tongue: what if Mr. Wayne let you stay, like Dick and Jason?

That fantasy is so excruciatingly appealing, so utterly disloyal to his own family, and so far out of what Tim knows to be a realistic possibility, that it feels like a knife to his chest.

Batman only takes in orphans, for one thing, and Tim’s got parents. 

And even if - even if that wasn’t true anymore - Batman only takes in people who he sees something really, really amazing in. He takes in Robins.

But Tim isn’t a Robin. He’s just Tim. His second best thing in life is being easy to ignore. He’s a glass boy, unnoticed, invisible. His go-to moves are running and hiding. His instinct is to freeze, not fight. 

Most of all, as evidenced by everything that’s happened to him recently? Tim’s just straight-up not that lucky.

Tim’s been at the top of a rollercoaster looking down at a steep drop into panic, and now he feels himself tipping, pulled by gravity onto the downhill. 

Tim feels - he feels lightheaded, and like maybe he’s gonna be sick. 

Ask Mr. Wayne, the unpleasantly pragmatic part of his brain urges. Ask him what he thinks is going to happen, if he and Dick and Jason save Mom and Dad. Ask him what’s going to happen to you. It’s worse than not knowing for sure. Just find out and get it over with. 

But when he tries, Tim finds he can’t open his mouth to say the words. He can’t do it, can’t bear to hear Mr. Wayne prophetically tell Tim what awful fate is about to befall him. 

It’s finally too much. It seems Tim’s finally found the limit to his need for the truth, after all.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bruce is strongly second-guessing his decision to give Tim the comfort of privacy instead of asking Dick to sit in as well to act as an emotional life vest. Remarkably stoic and steady throughout Bruce being forced to give him a series of progressively more upsetting information, Tim has now gone pale, gaze turned inward, clenching his fingers into well-worn leather cushions. 

Recalling Tim’s utterly boggled expression in response to Bruce throwing his hat into the ring for medically necessary hugs last night, and given the boy’s hesitance at accepting physical contact from him in general, with extreme difficulty Bruce refrains from anything more than slowly reaching out and putting a steadying hand on the back of his neck. This position also allows him to subtly check on Tim’s pulse, which is rabbit-quick, and to easily prevent a head injury if he does pass out.

At a loss for anything else that could possibly help the situation after shattering Tim’s image of his parents’ innocence, Bruce sits quietly, giving Tim a moment to process. 

Bruce’s original objective had been to next broach the idea of a more permanent safety plan for Tim. From what Jason has shared about Jack and Janet previously, and the results of Bruce’s investigative efforts over the last several hours, it’s become crystal clear that the Drakes, provided they survive the situation they walked into with eyes wide open, have no business having custody of Tim anytime in the near future. 

Or ever again, says a snarling, vengeful voice in Bruce’s mind.

Bruce is a reasonable, controlled man, he tells himself. His reactions are thoughtful and responsible. He is not solely driven by destructive, protective instinct to hoard vulnerable children in a bunker from anything that might possibly harm them.

But seeing the care-worn, too old look in the eyes of the young child curling inward on himself on his couch, making himself even smaller in a subconscious attempt at self-protection here in Thomas Wayne’s study, it’s a hard battle to ignore his baser instincts. Bruce has already failed this child so much, blind as the proverbial bat to what was happening next door, right under his nose. 

Jason had admitted to the broad strokes of what Tim’s reaction had been during and after Jason’s disastrous attempt to discuss the subject of the Drakes’ parenting flaws, and the last thing they need right now is a repeat of Tim’s fleeing the scene. 

It’s not the time to push that issue with Tim, Bruce decides. Later today, perhaps. If Bruce is learning anything from his own parenting failures, it’s that offering himself as a safe place to land is the best way to keep his freedom loving birds coming back to the nest. He’s made many mistakes that way before, pushing too hard and too far and too fast with Dick, and that ended with driving his eldest away to another city entirely. He also has the strong and unsettling feeling that he’d been close to another disaster with Jason, with mistrust and anger festering between them. He’s slow and occasionally stupid at this, Bruce knows that much about himself, but he can learn from his mistakes.

In this case, no matter how softly Bruce tries to approach it, Tim doesn’t seem ready to hear it yet. Alarmingly clever as he is, it probably hasn’t yet occurred to him to think that far ahead. Besides, Bruce is regretfully certain he has already burdened Tim with too much at once.

For now, Batman’s priority is bringing multiple people to justice, finding Tim’s parents, and bringing them back alive to face trial. Or more likely, some kind of plea deal in exchange for cooperation against the Emperor and the Penguin. 

Bruce’s priority, however, is to ensure that Tim feels safe in this home, and not give him any reason at all to feel as though leaving it is a preferable choice. 

Despite his suspicion that the adult Drakes are still alive, it may yet prove to be a moot point if Bruce turns out to be wrong, and Tim’s parents have already come to a bad end. In that case, Bruce rationalizes, it would only be unnecessarily stressful for the boy to belabor the idea of his parents being unfit guardians.

The part of Bruce that still sometimes forgets, in the half-consciousness of waking, that Thomas and Martha aren’t waiting for him somewhere just out of sight, would like Tim to keep the rights of a child - the peace of innocence and hope - for just a little while longer. False though it may prove to be. 

Focusing on finding the Drakes is the first order of business. Bruce will sort the rest of the details of making sure Tim has a safe home to grow up in later. 

He’ll make sure of it.

The second, more ominous piece of all this that Bruce needs to attend to has not, apparently, occurred yet to any of the three boys: the consequences of the Emperor and the Penguin’s now certain awareness of Tim’s connection to the Bats. What might have been excused as circumstantial or imagined by hapless lackeys previously would have been proved beyond a reasonable doubt by Dick’s impulsive defense and public abduction of Tim from the remains of the gala.

Begrudgingly, Bruce admits to himself that Dick had likely done the best he could under the quickly snowballing, disastrous set of circumstances. Especially given the bone-chillingly independent, resourceful, and unpredictable proclivities Tim repeatedly demonstrated in pursuit of his ulcer inducing goals.

While Bruce waits, Tim remains silent for quite some time. When he does finally find his voice again, it’s not in the least what Bruce would have expected him to say.

“Even what she did,” Tim starts quietly. “Blackmailing them. Rosa, she - she still didn’t deserve to die.”

Heart pinching, Bruce agrees, “No, she didn’t.”

Tim raises his arrestingly bright eyes to Bruce. “You’ll find out who did it? And bring them to justice?”

Bruce finds sorrow and pride warring within him at what Tim is asking. 

He nods solemnly, meeting the boy’s gaze with equal intensity. “That’s what Batman does.”

“Thank you,” Tim whispers, looking down and swallowing hard. “For taking my case.”

“Tim,” Bruce says, risking a small squeeze with the hand still resting protectively on the boy’s neck. “We were always going to help you - to take your case - from the moment you told us your parents were missing. But we were very worried about you, especially when we found out you were all alone.”

Tim makes a tiny shake of his head, dismissive, dissenting. “I’m resourceful. I can be independent. The man of the house, when my parents are out of town.”

The vengeful voice in the back of Bruce’s mind growls softly at this obvious repetition of what he’s been told by Jack and Janet. 

Unhappy, Bruce tries to explain in a way that Tim might be willing to accept. “Tim… Everyone needs help sometimes. No matter how old or capable they are. Even Robin. Even Batman.”

Tim, who has appeared to be holding onto stoicism with a white knuckled grip since entering the study, looks a bit wobbly.

Bruce ducks his head, trying to make eye contact on Tim’s level. Waiting until Tim takes a breath and allows this, Bruce asks seriously: “Will you let me help you, Tim?”

“With the case?” Tim asks in confusion, tilting his head like a bird.

Bruce clarifies firmly, “Batman, Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing will all be helping you find your parents. As soon as you brought your parents’ disappearance to my attention, that automatically became a constant, a given, an unshakable truth, and will continue to be regardless of whatever else may come to pass. Nothing will change that. Does that make the situation more clear to you?”

Tim swallows hard again before bobbing his head twice, three times, finally saying out loud, “Yes.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it. But that wasn’t what I was asking. Will you let me, Bruce, help you, Tim, in whatever ways I can?”

Tim still seems like he’s not fully understanding the concept. “Why would you do that?”

Pained, Bruce moves past the many problematic implications of the question to answer, “Many reasons. Because it’s an adult’s job to take care of a child who’s been left alone, even if they weren’t in the kind of extreme danger that you currently are. Because I’m a father, and I would want someone to take care of my children if they were in your position. Because my sons are likely to throw me into the middle of Gotham Harbor with my feet tied to an anchor if I don’t.”

Tim has looked down, picking at the cushions while Bruce has been trying to explain, but gives a watery snort at this.

“And,” Bruce continues, “because I want to. Very much so. If you’ll allow it.”

Tim keeps picking at the cushion, deep in thought, but after a time, he nods. “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

At this sign of acquiescence, Bruce keeps his sigh of mild relief silent.  “You don’t need to call me sir, Tim,” he says, not for the first dozenth time.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce tries again, smiling gently, spreading his arms to the sides, doing his best to make his body language as open and unthreatening as physically possible for a man of his size. “Please, Tim. Call me Bruce.”

It’s possible the cuddle pollen hasn’t entirely worn off, as Tim seems to interpret this as an invitation. He leans across the small space dividing them on the couch cushions in a rush. The sudden hug and the surprise of it happening at all would risk knocking the breath out of Bruce, if he wasn’t built like an oak tree and Tim built like a dark and tousle haired Q-tip in comparison. 

Bruce somewhat belatedly brings his arms up in a solid, gentle grip, feeling his heart squeeze painfully. Tim Drake, it turns out, hugs with his whole body and soul. He hugs like he’ll never get another one.

Tim takes in a shuddery breath and whispers, “Okay, Bruce.”

Bruce puts a steadying hand on the back of Tim’s head, uses the other arm to pull him just a little bit closer. 

“We’ve got you, Tim-lad,” he murmurs. 

Bruce has felt this, the painful, overwhelmingly powerful force twice before, and recognizes it for what it is. Whatever else happens, this is my child to protect now.

It’s this realization, the bone-deep instinct to keep this child away from any danger or darkness, to let him keep a little bit more of his innocence for just a little while longer, that makes Bruce decide to keep it quiet as long as possible when one of Matches Malone’s informants contacts him some time later with a tip: Two bodies matching the description of the missing Drakes have just dropped on the outskirts of Crime Alley.

Chapter Text

Fear can cloud your judgment and lead you down the wrong path.
- Encyclopedia Brown

In the shadow of the Batcomputer, one leg tucked under him while he leans back into the memory foam, Dick sets the Bat-chair spinning in slow circles.

“Any movement?” Huntress’ low voice asks gruffly. 

Dick checks the monitors, head upside down over the back of the chair as he rotates. Several screens currently display camera angles of two different parts of the city, where the Birds of Prey are split up and mid-operation: hoping two of the rats released this afternoon from GCPD custody will lead them back to the secret lair from which the attempts on Jim Gordon’s life have been planned.

“Nope. Still finishing up his purchase. Should be heading out and in your line of sight in a minute.”

On the monitors showing the other side of town, a lithe figure with wisps of red hair peeking from beneath a baseball cap collides with a balding man in an ill-fitting suit on a crowded sidewalk in the Bowery, which is currently hot enough to fry an egg. The angry words exchanged between the two, though muted on the Batcomputer, filter through Babs’ comm to Dick, seated in the comfortable chill of the Cave. Some of the distractingly colorful ways in which she’s loudly insulting the man’s parentage make Dick snicker. 

A blonde in non-descript black clothing brushes past the two as they argue.

“Tagged him,” Dinah says quietly a second later, and in confirmation a blinking red dot appears on yet another monitor, this one displaying a grid overlaid map of the islands of Gotham City.

“Heading to you, Huntress,” Dick says, as the lanky middle-aged man on-screen turns and heads to the shop exit. “In your line of sight in three - two - one.”

On screen, the shop door opens and the man steps out. Hesitating for a moment, he slaps a hand over his shoulder, then waves a hand around the area as though shooing off a mosquito. This done, he finds a break in traffic and breaks into a jog to jaywalk across one of the north-south avenues.

A second red dot follows his movements on the map overlay.

“Got ‘im,” Dick informs them, with satisfaction. “Great job, ladies. Happy hunting. May you be blessed with short chases and bagfuls of incriminating evidence at the end.”

He’s rewarded by a snort from Babs. Dick gives himself a mental pat on the back.

“From your lips to the Attorney General’s and FBI’s ears,” Babs says, and Dick has to force himself to stay tuned in to the rest of what she’s saying instead of getting caught up in the concept of Barbara Gordon talking about Dick’s lips, regardless of context. “Specifically some bags of highly incriminating evidence of kidnapping across state lines, racketeering, and conspiracy to murder state officials.”

Only Babs could make Dick feel some kind of very special way talking about assassination attempts, RICO, and her master plan to bypass the city’s corruption by invoking the long arm of federal law enforcement. Get ahold of yourself, Grayson, he tells himself firmly.

There’s noise from above and behind him, and he spins the chair around again to see Jason and Tim coming down the stairs from the study. 

Jason is clearly making an effort to be upbeat, bringing a pale and horribly subdued Tim down to the Batcave for the promised tour. He’s got a hand on Tim’s shoulder and the general demeanor of a pre-shrink ray Ace acting as guide and guard dog, glued to Tim’s side. Dick’s heart sinks, seeing the results of Bruce’s talk with Tim. Pulling on a smile, he offers a wave to the boys as they reach the bottom of the stairs. “Hey Timmy!”

Tim offers a feeble wave back, a twitch of the side of his mouth seeming to be the best, pathetic attempt at a return smile he’s able to muster up. There’s a deep well of a sort of resigned sadness in his eyes, which hurts Dick to look at.

“How about we start the official tour with the Batcomputer?” Jason asks, nudging Tim in Dick’s direction. Dick nods encouragingly. 

Tim shuffles over, listless hesitance shading into curiosity as he gets closer to the enormous column of servers and monitors. Thrown by the blue light from the monitor screens, his shadow stretches twice as tall as his actual height.

Into the comm, Dick asks, “Babs, you got a second? Someone here I’d like you to officially meet.”

After a brief pause, Babs’ face pops up on one of the lower screens. She’s in the passenger seat of a car, next to Black Canary at the wheel. “Well, if it isn’t the kid who’s been hoodwinking and out-sneaking Batman and Robin.”

The gleeful amusement in Batgirl’s tone is easy for Dick to hear, being on the receiving end of it on innumerable occasions, but Tim seems to have more trouble picking it out.

“Um,” Tim says nervously, his cheeks going pink. “You saw that?”

“I see all,” Babs informs Tim, before adding, “And it was hilarious. I especially enjoyed you successfully running Nightwing to ground with the power of tacos.”

Dick demurs airily, “That was pretty impressive. But I don’t know, I think I’d have to say my favorite part was when he escaped Batman’s grasping clutches with his roguish old-lady-whispering charms and mad ballroom dance moves.”

Black Canary’s head briefly pops into view to add, “For me it was the thwarting Ivy’s gas by taking out a plate glass window wall thing, personally.”

Cheeks fully red now, Tim confusedly offers, “…thanks?”

Looking like he’s narrowly managing to resist the urge to throttle the rest of them, Jason demands, “Would you all stop encouraging him?”

Far from cowed by this, Dick is pleased to note that Tim seems to have brightened ever so slightly, either in pleasure at the praise, or relief that he isn’t about to be arrested for the crime of bamboozling Batman. Either way: progress.

Also ignoring Jason, Babs says, “I hear you’re pretty good with computers.”

Tim shrugs modestly. “I dabble.”

Babs gives an indelicate snort. “Dabbled well enough to track a couple bats flying around two separate cities. I’d love to take a look at your algorithm, when we’ve got all this taken care of.”

Tim’s eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into the wilderness of his dark bangs. “If - if you want to. Yeah. Of course.” 

Babs’ lovely smile crinkles her eyes. “Hey, birdie boys. Why haven’t you given Tim a wrist computer yet?”

Under his breath, Jason says grimly, “Because he doesn’t need more ammunition,” but Dick is already opening an equipment locker and fastening a spare around the tiny wrist Tim has instantly offered him. Jason glares a hole in the side of Dick’s head while this is occurring.

It’s loose on Tim, even clasped at the last hole. While Tim is showing the first hint of actual eagerness he’s displayed all day, pulling up the UI on the wrist screen, Dick gives his brother a subtle shrug that he hopes is effective in communicating kid’s essentially under house arrest until further notice, and he’s having an extremely shitty week. Let him live a little.

Dick might be wrong, but the narrowed eyes he gets in return seem to say on your head be it, Dick-for-brains. 

Jason has always been extremely effective at communicating insults to Dick, regardless of medium.

Babs is signing off with Tim, refocusing her attention on the operation. “Next time I stop by the cave, would you like to take a look at some cold case files with me?”

Babs always knows what to say. Tim lights up,  though Dick can see Jason tilting his head back in exasperation, rolling his eyes out of sight behind the younger boy. 

“Really? I would love that,” Tim says, but in another second, other, less pleasant thoughts seem to re-occur to him. Seeming to fully remember his troubles, the light dims from his eyes again. 

Dick tries not to frown. Jason tries the same, but with much less success. Babs shares a brief look of concern with Dick.

Rallying somewhat, Tim tells the screen, “I really hope your dad’s okay. And that you catch the perps soon.”

The corner of Babs’ mouth quirks up when Tim says perps, a choice of phrase which also causes Dick no small amount of difficulty in controlling the overwhelming urge to clap a hand over his heart and say my precious baby gumshoe out loud. 

“Thanks, Tim,” Babs says, in a much more measured response. “We’re making sure of it, whatever it takes. And Batman and the Boy Wonders won’t stop until they find yours.”

Instead of seeming reassured, though, Tim’s troubled mood remains unchanged. “I know,” he says quietly. “And… yeah. Whatever it takes, right? For your family.”

Babs shares another look of concern with Dick. “You got it. Chin up, kiddo.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim’s mood continues to ebb and flow from excited to morose through the afternoon, as he follows Dick and Jason around on the tour of the Cave like a mopey duckling of unusual intellect. He never seems to tire of hearing their stories, especially from Jason. Always a particularly dramatic storyteller, Jason is clearly turning his showmanship up to 11 for Tim’s benefit. For his part, Tim’s an excellent audience, paying rapt attention and emoting in all the right places, when he is caught up enough in the tale to forget his worries.

As he and his little brother both do their best to pull out all the stops to distract Tim from his missing parents, Dick tries to remember if he’s ever seen Jason let his guard down with anyone else the way he clearly has with Tim. Mentally running through the times he’s seen Jason with the Titans, or with Jason’s own friends from school, Dick comes up empty. Given their less than stellar beginning, Dick himself is most often on the other side of the prickly reserve with which Jason interacts with the world at large, to a greater or lesser extent. The only other people Dick can recall Jason allowing closer than arm’s length are Bruce and Alfred, and even then on rare occasions. 

Despite his frustration at Tim’s recently revealed wily ways, it’s obvious Jason feels at ease in Tim’s presence. Dick would almost be jealous, if he wasn’t so happy to see it happening at all. Jason’s clear affection and concern for the kid is apparent in his wholehearted determination to cheer him up, although in practice what this actually looks like to the outside observer is aggressively bullying Tim out of his own head through brute force using non-stop Bat-themed trivia. 

For Dick, it’s a strange, but nice experience, showing off the Bat-cave to someone new. Especially someone so plainly (if temporarily) enthralled by even the most mundane bits, like the ballistics testing room. It’s an opportunity Dick had missed with Jason, through both Bruce’s fault and his own. Putting aside the old anger, Dick decides to make the most of reveling in the second chance he’s been given now. 

When Tim shows signs of becoming lost in morose thoughts again after the tour moves through the fingerprint lab, Jason shoves him into the equipment room to proudly demonstrate the use of the flashier Bat-gadgets, with Dick happily volunteering himself as tribute to assist in showing off their gear.

Jason’s strategy backfires a bit, however, when he puts his foot down more firmly than Dick personally feels is really warranted when Tim shows interest in playing with the batarangs and grapple guns. This seems destined to lead to an argument that Dick has no intention of helping Jason win, until Jason strikes on the idea of a consolatory gesture: allowing Tim to bring down his skateboard to the gigantic ramped obstacle course where the Robins train on “safe” driving skills. Safe, of course, in Bat parlance meaning performing incredibly dangerous maneuvers at high speed to chase, outrun, or disable villains trying to kill them. 

Tim spends an hour working off nervous energy demonstrating his skateboarding tricks. To Tim’s apparent delight, Dick already has some rudimentary experience with skateboarding, and finds some of Tim’s tricks a fairly natural extension of Dick’s existing skill set. Egged on by the reappearance of the mood Tim had been in on seeing the Batcave for the very first time, Dick gets progressively more daring, attempting whatever obscure trick Tim can come up with.

“Double McTwist!” Tim challenges, yelling over the expanse, both hands cupped over his mouth.

“What’s that one?” Dick calls back, maneuvering towards a downhill to build some momentum.

“Two flips with a 540 spin!” Tim explains at top volume, like he’s ordering the world’s strangest soft serve ice cream cone.

The two flips and rotations are easy enough, but the angle is way off when he lands on the board. Instead of allowing himself to eat gravel, Dick styles it out, kick flipping the board and adding a side tuck step-out to flow with the last demands of the laws of physics casually on his feet, instead of flat on his face. As he walks the remaining distance to the younger boys, the board rolls to a slow stop in front of them.

Jason has the slightly pinched expression of someone who’s smelled a bad smell, but the important thing is, Tim is thrilled. 

Seeming emboldened, with huge eyes Tim asks: “Can I take pictures?”

Tim’s giggling and taking snapshots of Dick pretending to be chased by the giant animatronic T-Rex, which is being ridden by Jason, who is wearing a cowboy hat and wielding a replica of Wonder Woman’s lasso, when Bruce sweeps into the cave with the same brooding energy of a swiftly approaching afternoon storm front. He hardly seems to notice the three of them using the dinosaur for unsanctioned purposes, swooping into the lockers and out again in full Batman regalia without so much as a disapproving be a better role model, Dick tossed in their direction.

Uneasy at this very un-Bruce-like failure to tell Dick off for some minor offense, he says, “Gimme one sec, Timmy,” and gives Jason a speaking look. 

“Tim Murphy,” Jason says, not slow on the distracting-Tim-from-Bruce’s-poor-social-skills uptake. “Your turn on the dino. Get up here.”

“Who’s Tim Murphy?” Tim asks, clambering over.

“‘Tim, I won’t tell anyone you threw up, just give me your hand.’”

“I didn’t throw up! And I can make it by myself.”

“God. How are you rich enough to make your own Jurassic Park and yet have never seen the movie?”

Their bickering fades into the distance as Dick jogs over to where Bruce is flicking a leg and a cape over the back of the Bat-cycle. “Bruce?”

“Lead just came in. I’m checking it out,” Bruce grunts, not bothering to look up.

“A lead,” Dick echoes flatly. “You wanna loop me in, B?”

Bruce finally makes eye contact, a seldom-seen heaviness weighing down his gaze. Dick’s stomach drops at the unspoken implication. 

“I’m checking it out,” Bruce repeats, like he’s willing Dick to leave it alone.

Dick is silent for long enough to take a deep breath, quietly exhaling his frustration instead of loudly giving Bruce a piece of his mind in earshot of the boys. Bruce has already made it crystal clear Dick isn’t his trusted partner anymore, which is - it is what it is, and hey, it’s just fine by Dick. He’s a solo act now, when he’s not with the Titans. He’s only back at the manor and in the cave at this very moment because of the necessity of circumstance, for the sake of his miniature client. Also for the sake of keeping his little brother’s blood pressure from skyrocketing him into an early stroke, and his temper from driving Tim into a new and completely unpredictable fiasco. 

And if this lead is what Bruce is carefully, deliberately not saying it is, it’s probably better that Dick is here to support Tim, and Jason, when Bruce gets back.

“Fine,” Dick eventually allows, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping back. 

Bruce nods grimly, flipping the whiteouts down, and peels out of the cave.

When the noise of the Bat-cycle’s engine dies down, the sound of Jason’s raised and frustrated voice reaches Dick’s ears. 

I left them alone for five seconds, he thinks wearily. Heaving another deep breath, Dick forces himself into a more relaxed posture and pastes an easy smile on before turning around and jogging back to them.

Tim’s got a mulish look that doesn’t hide the return of the lines of stress around his face. Jason’s wearing a look that reminds Dick strongly of Bruce when he’s feeling particularly mother-hennish and hypocritical. 

“What’s up?” Dick asks, modeling the even-tempered calm he’d like to see.

“Nothing,” Tim claims. “I was just trying to do some reading while I waited. To, you know. Take my mind off things.”

Dick turns to Jason, hoping for a more elaborate explanation.

“We went to the little bats’ room to see a man about a dog. I took a fraction of a second too long, an’ when I got done washing my hands, I found Timmy here was testing out his new wrist computer,” here Jason stabs an accusing look in Dick’s direction, “by tryna break the encryption on the Burnley Strangler case files.”

Internally wincing at the reminder of the brutal and gruesome murder-mutilations, Dick turns back to Tim, who shrugs his thin shoulders in an absent, exhausted kind of way. “I was bored.”

“He was bored,” Jason tells the stalactites above them, gesturing dramatically with one hand for emphasis.

“Okay,” Dick says, torn between pinching the bridge of his nose, or laughing and giving Tim a high five for the effort. “I think it’s time for a break. How do you feel about lunch?”

Tim feels indifferent, leaning towards actively opposed: he claims he isn’t hungry. The dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced, now that the earlier excitement has faded. Dick does not scruple to lay the blame for this at Bruce’s feet. And Jason’s. They would have been better off teaching Tim how to throw a batarang, Dick muses ruefully.

Tim turns pleading eyes up to Dick. “Can’t I just stay down here?”

“You gotta eat, Timmers,” Jason insists peremptorily, in exactly the kind of way that Jason himself would bristle at if Dick or Bruce had tried to summarily order him to do something Jason had just made clear he didn’t want to do.

Sensing another argument brewing, Dick tries to nip it in the bud. “How about I hang out here with you for a bit, Timbo, while Jaybird grabs some snacks and checks on Alfred, see if he needs any tea and crackers.”

It’s Dick’s turn to turn pleading eyes on Jason, who seems to have a considerable amount more immunity to them than Dick has built up to Tim’s. 

Jason crosses his arms. “How about you go do it. I’ve got dibs on Tim. He was my friend first!”

From the corner of his eye, Dick catches the way Tim’s eyebrows raise in surprise, before his expression softens.

Dick taps a finger against his chin, teasingly. “About that. Turns out we actually go way back, Timmy and I, remember? That’s how we got made.”

Jason scrunches his face in annoyance, before it occurs to him: “That’s true, Golden Boy. You and your irresistible urge to show off did blow all our covers! It’s just pure luck that Tiny Tim was born with a genetic predisposition to secrecy, and hasn’t got a villainous bone in his body.”

Tim’s got an odd, unreadable expression on his face now that Dick mislikes, so he leans into the humor of what Jason’s saying and ignores the barbed edges.

“Rude. I resemble that remark. And that won’t get you out of snack procurement and Alfred duty.”

“Oh yeah? How do you figure that?” Jason challenges.

Dick shrugs. “Cause I asked you first. And cause I’m your big brother.” He rests an affectionate elbow on Tim’s head, giving him a wink, and then rests the other elbow on Jason’s, with more difficulty.

Jason slaps his elbow away. “I’ll be bigger than you in a year or so. And when it happens, I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

“Nah, I’ll always be the biggest brother. There’s no shame in being a cute little shrimp wing. Lil’ shrimpy-shrampy. Jay-shramp. ShrampmeistAAAACK-“

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Having fortified Alfred with tea and crackers, and leaving him to a NyQuil induced slumber, Jason trudges back down to the cave with a tray of sandwiches. “Food. Come and get it,” he calls, shoving it on top of an evidence freezer. 

No one immediately answers, and he looks around in vain for where Tim and Dick have disappeared to. Even Ace is nowhere in sight.

It takes him a minute of searching, but when Jason dips into an out of the way, lesser used portion of the cavern system, he’s able to pick up and follow the sounds of quiet voices. The tunnel he’s in eventually opens out into a larger, more scenic bit of cavern. 

Dick is there, casually propping up a stalagmite with his shoulder. He’s watching Tim, who is lying flat on his stomach, propped on his elbows. Tim’s got the tip of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration as he adjusts a professional lens the length of one of his scrawny little forearms. He looks like a miniature National Geographic photographer, capturing the majesty of Ace posing with nose high in the air, standing up on his hind legs on top of Tim’s skateboard, against an impressive backdrop of one of the Bat-cave’s waterfalls. The whole scene is eerily lit by bioluminescent flora. 

“It’s amazing,” Tim is saying. “Vibes immaculate.”

Dick murmurs something that sounds like, but can’t actually be, “Wait’ll you see it by candlelight.”

Tim must not have been able to understand him clearly, either, despite being much closer. “What?” he asks.

“What?” Dick says innocently. 

Jason quietly walks closer, taking a little rest that just happens to be in a shadowy space next to a stalactite. If he happens to be able to hear their conversation while they may or may not have noticed he’s there, Jason reasons, it’s entirely coincidental.

Tim is fiddling with the dials on his camera, which looks to Jason’s former street thief eye like it’s probably worth more than most people’s cars. Dick shifts closer to Tim, easing into a squat that gives him a line of sight on what Tim’s looking at through the viewfinder. 

“What made you interested in photography?” Dick wonders.

Tim shrugs, puts the camera back up to his eye while he answers. “I guess it’s like… you can’t ever go back, right? To a time and a place where you were happy. Or be close to someone who is gone, when you really, really want to be with them again. But having a picture to capture that moment, to freeze it exactly as it was? It’s not the same, but - it gets close. Just kind of, close enough, you know? So you can have a little bit of that feeling again.”

Maybe Dick’s throat is also suddenly feeling tight, like Jason’s is, because it takes him a long few seconds before he asks, “And taking pictures of us? When did you start doing that?”

Tim lets the camera come away from his face, curling a leg under himself and pushing into a seated position. Digging in a pocket, Tim offers a treat to Ace, petting his furry head while he chews and wags. “My friend, Ives, we used to hang out all the time. But a while back, he got sick. He got really, really sick.”

Cancer, Jason remembers. 

“And then his family moved away, so they could be closer to better doctors and treatments and stuff, and closer to his aunts and uncles and cousins.” Tim rubs his hands dry of dog slobber on his pants, then unscrews the comically large lens and replaces it in the protective bag. “So… I guess I just had a lot more free time on my hands. Less people around. Once I figured you out, and Ives was gone, and there wasn’t…” Tim trails off. He’s looking at the waterfall, but it doesn’t seem to Jason like he’s really seeing it.

Not everyone’s going to like you or want to spend a lot of time with you, right? It’s not a big deal, Tim had told him once. It had bothered Jason even then, but he hadn’t had any idea what that had actually meant.

“I dunno,” Tim is saying, in the present. “Yeah. I guess that was when I started.”

In the cover of the shadows, Jason stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, making tight fists trapped by the fabric. 

“That must have been really hard,” Dick says, because he’s actually pretty good at being kind and brotherly, when he wants to be. “And lonely.”

Tim doesn’t answer for a long moment, until Ace takes it upon himself to jump in Tim’s lap and curl up, which seems to remind the kid he’s still in the middle of a conversation. “Actually? It’s kind of a good thing.”

Dick tilts his head, clearly not following this pole vault leap of logic any more than Jason is. “How’s that?”

“If Ives had been here I would have had someone to talk to about - about all of this. About my parents, when they never came home. I would have told him about it, and I probably would have stayed with him last night. And then maybe it would have been their house that, that got - and him and his family. They would have been home when it happened. So. Yeah. I’m glad he left.”

Dick doesn’t seem to have a response to Tim’s sidewinding, horribly tragic thought process. They both just sit quietly with what Tim’s said in a way that makes Jason restless and fidgety.

Dick eventually asks, “Why take the risk at all? With us. Following us around Gotham each night.”

This makes Tim turn to Dick in apparent surprise that it hadn’t instantly occurred to Dick that stalking local masked vigilantes through the most dangerous city in the country was the obvious next logical step after being abandoned in some way or another by every single person close to you. 

“You guys are amazing. Your whole family, you’re all amazing together. What you do, it’s incredible. You - you’re my hero. Always have been, ever since I was a little kid.”

Jason sucks in a breath. Before he can interrogate himself to figure out why it feels a bit like he’s been stabbed in the back; why that doesn’t really come as a surprise; and also why it feels like Jason deserved the stabbing, Tim continues, “You - all of you. Jason, Bruce, Barbara. You save people, you make things better for people. For the whole city, for everybody, all of Gotham.”

Robin is magic, Jason thinks to himself, not for the first time. It’s less surprising than it ought to be that Tim has managed to discover this, too.

“And getting to be there to see it happen,” Tim continues, “to capture those moments happening? It was like - like I could be a part of that, in a really, really, really small way. Even though I knew I wasn’t part of it, obviously, that - I knew that it wasn’t real. I knew that. I know that.”

Dick lets this sink in, then reaches out for Tim’s camera. He takes it gently, flipping it around so it’s pointing back at him. Holding it at arm’s length, Dick leans in so his head is next to Tim’s, flopping his free arm companionably around Tim’s narrow shoulders. “Let’s make more moments, then,” he says, smiling, and the shutter clicks.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

A swift shadow in the night, Bruce leans the Bat-cycle into a turn at a speed that would make Alfred, were he around to witness it, tut disapprovingly and plan a lecture on unnecessary risk-taking to be deployed the next time Bruce was physically unable to escape him. The grimy back alleys surround him on all sides, pressing in, suffocating, as he passes into the worst parts of Park Row.

“Suspects have rendezvoused with each other,” Barbara says, updating him on the status of her operation. “Gut’s telling me this is what we’ve been waiting for: rats heading back to the nest.”

Barbara’s instincts are good. Better even than Jim’s. Bruce grunts an acknowledgment.

“They’re on a speedboat. Heading up to the cliffs off Bristol.”

This takes Bruce aback for a moment, Bristol not being known for its plethora of seedy warehouse headquarters and mob hangouts, unlike his own current location, in Crime Alley. The only secret base Bruce is currently aware of in Bristol is well hidden beneath Wayne Manor. 

It seems, Bruce realizes with dark chagrin, he has been blind to many things happening right in his own backyard. There’s no shortage of Gotham’s wealthy and questionably moraled in the ivory borough above Gotham City’s islands, as has recently become extremely clear. However, there’s only one of Gotham’s mob kingpins who makes his own home in a mansion not so very far up the coast from the Manor.

“Penguin,” Bruce says, feeling a well of righteous anger resurfacing at the thought of his being responsible for the majority, if not all, of the attempts on Jim’s life, in addition to the fate of Tim’s parents. Undeserving of the title though Bruce personally feels they are. Or rather, were.

“Looks like it,” Barbara agrees grimly. “You gonna join in on the fun when we go in?”

“Not immediately. Soon.”

This surprises her. “You have bigger plans than  taking down the Penguin at the moment?”

Bruce switches the Batcycle to silent running, melds into the darkness near where his informant has reported the bodies matching the description of the Drakes have been dropped. “Working a lead,” he says, distracted as another message rolls in, high priority, from an associate of one of Bruce’s other aliases. It’s a tip: two bodies, adult male and female, in their late forties. 

“Always talking my ear off, B,” Barbara comments sarcastically while the message continues playing in his other earpiece. “A better lead than two criminals currently en route to Penguin’s house?”

The location the second informant describes is exactly the same as the one Bruce is now approaching from above. A tiny suspicion begins to prod the back of his brain.

“Currently checking out a lead on the Drakes,” Bruce clarifies, checking his angles and the heat detectors on his wrist screen for any signs of sinister actors nearby, and finding none. 

“Understood,” Barbara responds, in a much different tone of voice.

“Heading to you afterwards,” Bruce concludes, swinging closer to the target area before it occurs to him to add: “Despite your allies making the unethical and incredibly poor choice to use lethal force in vigilantism, jeopardizing our entire mission in Gotham and potentially touching off an international incident -”

“Huntress saved my father’s life last night, and mine. And Tim’s,” Barbara interrupts. “The diplomat’s son was a rapist and murderer who never would have faced any kind of justice, and you know it, Batman. I’m not saying I would have done the same, but I won’t be taking criticism from you about it at this time. And if you keep this high handed holier-than-thou attitude up, B, I’ll be happy to rebrand myself sans the nocturnal rodent theme.”

Bruce presses on, the main thrust of his message seeming to be getting lost somehow. “Despite this…your contributions remain valuable, Batgirl.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, you old softie,” Barbara says more mildly, sounding like she’s rolling her eyes. “By the way, we’ve commandeered the Bat-boat and are in pursuit up the bay. See you when you get here.”

The line goes quiet, while he’s distracted by reading off a nearly identical message from a third informant arriving via text. Same bodies. Same location.

Something doesn’t smell right about this situation. And it doesn’t sound right, either. The whole area seems too deserted, a decaying urban forest where all the local fauna have gone to ground when a larger predator approaches.

Silently creeping closer to the pile of filthy detritus, Bruce is reminded of the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime. The situation smells wrong literally, as well as figuratively. Gotham always reeks, especially in the worst of close and crumbling back alleys in its most fallen and forgotten neighborhood. Especially in the height of summer, with the humidity keeping the smell of refuse and offal close to the ground. 

Bruce reaches a gloved hand out to pull back the layer of fabric covering the lumpy forms lying beneath, noting that what the night does not smell of, is death. 

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Trapeze lights on,” Dick says, loudly enough to activate the voice command functions of the Cave. “Play playlist ‘Daring Young Man,’ 75% volume.” 

Spotlights illuminate the familiar forms of poles, wires, and netting. Upbeat music fills the space that’s been Dick’s underground refuge since he’d put on the very first pair of armored pixie boots. 

Jason rolls his eyes, leading Tim onto the floor mats. “Kelly Clarkson. Really?”

“It’s a bop,” Dick shrugs, climbing the ladder onto the left platform.

“A little bigger than your DIY death trap jungle gym, huh,” Jason says to Tim, nudging him with an elbow of a crossed arm. Dick will require a fuller explanation of this pointed statement later, when he’s not doing warmup swings from a double ankle hang.

Worrryingly, Tim only says “Yeah,” instead of defending himself. Dick rolls from a side planche, toes pointed along the horizontal axis, to a meat hook hang from his left arm, which allows him an upside down view of Tim’s subdued face looking at Dick, high above. 

Jason is trying not to frown, watching Tim instead of Dick’s flips and rolls. He needles Tim further in a transparent attempt to bully him out of his current mood. “Kid’s pretty good at parkour, you know,” Jason stage-calls up to Dick. “As long as he’s saying the magic word.”

Having had a decent view of Timmy running across the catering tables and skateboarding a dessert cart while wielding a decorative bollard as an offensive weapon the previous night, this does not come as a surprise to Dick. Starting to smile, he releases the bar at the top of the swing, snapping his knees over his head for a double tuck and twisting to catch the bar again on the downswing. “The magic word?”

“Yeah. Apparently he’s only allowed to parkour when he’s yelling parkour!” Jason demonstrates, using the ladder as a springboard to leap diagonally off into a crouch on one of the stabilizing wires, then flips down to land on the mat, shoulder rolling and popping up next to Tim with what looks, from Dick’s angel hang, like a bit of a smirk.

“As one does,” Dick acknowledges, noting that Tim’s ears are flaming red. “Hey, there’s no shame in needing a magic feather to fly.”

“Yeah, Timbo,” Jason says, slightly smug. He punches Tim on the shoulder.

“At least I’m not ‘afraid of heights!’” Tim shoots back.

Dick rolls into a casual seat on the bar, pumping his legs like he’s on a playground swing. “You been holding out on me, Jaybird? Scared of heights all this time?”

“I was protecting my secret identity,” Jason says loftily, then seems to remember Tim had known it all along. He knocks the smaller boy slightly off balance with a shoulder check before scrambling up the rigging to the trapeze platform. “I’ll show you how afraid I am a’ heights.”

Dick watches the troubled, distant look fade from Tim’s face as he watches the brothers Robin play and fly through the air. Dick can’t help beaming proudly whenever Jason sticks a trick. 

“Think you can catch for me, Little Wing?”

On the other platform, Jason claps callused hands together, sending a puff of chalk in the air. “I’m strong enough to catch even your fat ass, Dickiebird.”

“Never doubted it for a second,” Dick says, switching out of a knee hang to a better position for building momentum. Even at their height, Dick expects Tim can probably see Jason glowing with pride as he rolls backward into a catcher’s position.

Swinging high and carefully watching the timing, Dick gives a warning allez-oop as Jason’s cue to be ready, and throws himself into a set of loops and corkscrews that end with him reaching out, fully extended in flight. His hands slap onto Jason’s forearms. Jason grunts as Dick’s momentum is added to his and gravity takes hold of them both again, but he proves worthy of Dick’s trust, matching the grip, holding their connection solid and steady. 

They swing back to the platform and alight, two Robins perched in a row. Out of muscle memory, Dick gives a theatrical flourish as natural to him as breathing. Jason, also grinning widely, does a reasonable imitation of his brother’s salute. 

Below them, Tim applauds wildly, a cheek splitting grin on his face at this special performance, just for him.

“That was so cool!” Tim says, breathlessly.

Dick claps Jason on the shoulder, then takes a spread eagle fall into the net rather than descend the ladder normally. He turns the bounce into a springing roll over the edge of the net. Striding over to Tim, he throws the wee ‘un over his shoulder without warning, which startles an upside down laugh from Tim.

“Where are we going?”  asks Tim, offering absolutely no resistance.

“Up!” says Dick. Jason gives a cheer. Keeping a firm grip while he climbs the rigging one-handed, Dick informs Tim: “It’s your turn to fly!”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

As soon as the fabric flips back to reveal two dummies, the screen that’s been propped between them blinks to life. 

A pale face appears on it, with a hooked beak-like nose protruding above a mouth clenched around a long cigarette holder. The golden monocle above does nothing to disguise the cold avarice in Oswald Cobblepot’s eyes.

“The Batman,” he says, an oozing note of triumph discernible through the speakers. “I had a feeling spreading the news of Mr. and Mrs. Drake’s untimely demise would get your attention.”

“You’ve got it,” Bruce growls uncompromisingly. “Why?”

“Why else?” The Penguin says, leaning back in a broad chair and allowing Bruce a partial view of the portraits of king penguins on the wall over his shoulders. “To negotiate. You see, I believe you have in your custody the only scion of the Drake family. If you cooperate, leave me and mine out of your little crusade, he can be allowed to continue his life of wealth and ease uninterrupted. The Drakes get to stay a happy family, the war on the streets ends with me at the top of the heap, you get the satisfaction of escorting whoever else you like to the hallowed halls of justice.”

“Or?” 

“Or little Timothy becomes an orphan,” the Penguin hisses.

“Your message implied he already was one,” Bruce points out grimly, indirectly probing for information.

Penguin waves a peremptory hand at someone off-screen, the smoke from the cigarette held in it drawing designs in the air until the screen switches to a video feed of a well-appointed but windowless room containing Jack and Janet Drake. To all appearances, they seem unhappy but otherwise unharmed.

Penguin’s nose fills a good portion of the screen again. “Satisfied?”

“No,” Bruce says stonily. “That could have been faked. Pre-recorded. I want proof of life, in person.”

Penguin’s beady eyes peer at him through the camera. He takes his time raising the cigarette holder to his lips, inhaling deeply before speaking. “Yes, let’s be civilized about this. Please, come and be my guest. Then,” the worst kingpin in Gotham exhales a puff of smoke, a smile curling his lips. “Let’s make a deal.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

His wrist buzzing alerts Dick to the alert from Babs that the Birds of Prey have found what looks like the main cache of weapons stores in a deep cave leading from the docks deep into Bristol. Confirm - under Penguin’s mansion? Babs asks, sending in silent mode. Dick imagines the Birds of Prey in concealed positions within earshot of hostiles. Standby; may req backup. Unknown # enemy. Batman ETA unknown.

Dick, now suited up and seated in front of the Batcomputer again, pulls up the signal for the trackers in Batgirl’s armor, which currently directly overlaps the location labeled Cobblepot’s Mansion. Location confirmed, he sends back. Standing by.

Dick sends a request for ETA to Bruce, but no response pops up immediately, which figures. In the background, the boys seem to be talking quietly somewhere on the other side of the giant penny, the cooperative sort of fraternal camaraderie thankfully seeming to be lingering from their time on the trapeze. 

A bright blue, thrumming dot appears on the map: Babs has started the process of triangulation to get a sonar-LiDAR 3D topographical view of whatever’s inside and beneath Penguin’s mansion. She’ll need at least two other points of reference, from somewhere topside, which will be difficult at best for the Birds of Prey to easily plant from below. Bruce will have to do the honors, whenever he gets there.

Dick’s wrist buzzes again. It’s Bruce, finally responding to both he and Babs. He’s not using voice comms, either. Springing Penguin trap. Onsite now. Need for additional sonar points acknowledged. Nightwing: opening live cowl feed. Running silent.

“What the hell, Bruce,” Dick murmurs, with a futile wish that Batman wasn’t allergic to timely communication and adequate explanations, and then plays the video clip Bruce has sent.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

On the tails side of the giant penny, Jason and Tim stare up at the enormous joker face on the oversized playing card hung high above them. “Pretty creepy, right?” Jason asks.

“Right??” Tim bursts out, apparently agreeing wholeheartedly. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but it’s sooooo creepy to have that just like, hanging there staring at you all day.” Tim shuffles to one side, leaning left and then right. “I think his eyes follow you.”

“Yup,” Jason confirms. “Feels like someone walking over your grave, don’t it.”

Tim doesn’t shudder, but he looks as though he’d like to.

“C’mon,” Jason says, towing Tim away to the costume displays, which are much less sinister.

Tim’s mostly drawn to the Robin side of the clear cases. He stops in front of Dick’s O.G. outfit. “So cool,” he says, feelingly.

Unable to let this pass without comment, Jason demands, “That’s your takeaway from the spangled green panties and Saturday Nightwing Fever?”

Tim seems completely blind to all of Dick’s many and varied flaws. “He’s the first one,” Tim defends. “Trailblazing. There’s bound to be some… need for further iteration, when you’re making yourself into a new hero.”

Jason has a sudden and vivid image of Tim, like a kid at a baseball game, face painted with Dick’s Robin domino, wearing a giant foam #1 fan hand and a t-shirt with Dick’s big stupid head smiling toothily airbrushed on the front of it. Brushing this mental image aside, the justice of some of Tim’s claims forces Jason to grudgingly admit, “Yeah. Right. That’s Goldie. Heroic.”

Tim turns to Jason, eyes squinting consideringly, before they widen, something seeming to dawn on him. “Wait. Are you jealous?”

Jason turns away with a scoff, feigning interest in an old suit of Batman armor. “Tcha. Of Dickwing? What’s to be jealous of?” 

Other than pretty much everything, Jason thinks darkly, but that’s something he is fully prepared to take to the grave before admitting out loud.

Tim really is wickedly sneaky, because he makes no noise sidling up until he’s right next to Jason, his small figure reflected in the glass. Jason says nothing, and the awkward silence starts to stretch.

Tim shuffles his feet, his reflection also not meeting the eyes of the reflection of Jason’s. When he speaks, it’s quiet, but firm. “Dick has always been my hero,” he admits. “But you,” he says, glass-Tim eyes looking up and meeting glass-Jason’s, “- you’re my friend.” 

The way Tim says it makes it seem like it’s a secret, like it’s something even more special than a lifelong case of hero worship. “Maybe, um,” Tim continues, then stops, breaking eye contact. 

Jason turns to face the actual Tim, solid and real by his side. “Maybe what?”

Tim flicks a quick, hesitant glance over at him. “Maybe, um, maybe my best friend?”

When Jason doesn’t immediately respond, Tim’s nervous, squirrelly nature returns in full force. “But like. Not in a weird way. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. Or like, makes me sound really pathetic. You know what, never mind. Can we just forget I said anything? Because -”

“Tim,” Jason interrupts. “Shut up.”

Tim’s jaw snaps closed. The face he’s making indicates he’s strongly considering never saying anything, to anyone, ever again.

Jason is deeply uncomfortable at the idea of exposing sincerity without the comforting shield of sarcasm, but the idea of leaving Tim hanging out on a limb is infinitely worse.

Jason mumbles, flicking his own quick glance down at Tim, “Maybe you’re mine, too.”

“Robin,” bellows Dick sharply across the cave, suddenly cutting their conversation cold. There’s no trace of laid-back good humor in his voice, and Jason is snapping to attention and moving at a run in an instant, skidding to a halt in front of Nightwing at the monitors. There’s three monitors labeled with the call signs of Batgirl, Huntress, and Black Canary showing cowl footage of burly shapes moving around stacks of crates in a cramped room, or rooms, with no windows.  A fourth, Batman’s, shows a view of movement down a gaudily decorated hallway. An enlarged map of Bristol is spread over four of the monitors.

Batman’s view takes a corner closely, so close his cape must brush the wall, and simultaneously a second bright blue, pulsing dot joins the yellow points indicating positions of the friendlies in the area. 

“You’re on comms,” Nightwing orders. “I’m taking the Bat-plane for a HALO entry. I’ll need you to pilot it back to base after I drop in on Penguin.” To Tim, who has come up behind Jason, he says, “My job is getting your parents out.”

“Got it,” Robin says, sliding into the big chair as Nightwing gives a stunned Timmy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to run for the hangar.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

On the extremely brief flight up the coast a few miles north, Dick fills in Jason as much as possible while still being very aware that Tim is listening to every word. 

“How the heck did they trap Batman?” Tim is asking, voice strained as well as incredulous. 

“He’s not immune to being caught in a trap,” Dick non-answers, belting the parachute on over his armor and moving to the rear bay, trusting Jason to take over the piloting from the Batcomputer. “Just highly, incredibly resistant to it.” 

Jason makes an ehh sound. “Depends on the size and shape of the trap.” 

Dick, the former Boy Hostage, knows this all too well. He snaps his helmet into place and double-checks the chute cord.

Through the comm in his ear, Tim says stoutly, “And whether or not he’s got Robin backing him up, I guess. This is why! Didn’t I say? I said Batman needs a Robin! He should have taken one of you as backup, then he wouldn’t have gotten caught. Probably.”

Dick rests a fist next to the hatch release, counting the seconds and watching on his wrist computer screen as the green dot denoting his location sprints closer to the green and blue dots clustered in and under the large demesne of Oswald Cobblepot. “He’s turning the situation to our advantage from the inside,” Hopefully. “But you’re not entirely wrong. Batman’s arch enemy: his hubris.”

“I thought his arch enemy was communicating effectively,” Jason snarks, as Dick punches the green release button, opening the door and sending wind buffeting through the rear cargo space.

“Also correct,” Dick confirms, and tosses himself into the open night air above the clouds.

Sounding a bit shocked at the Robins thoroughly roasting Batman in absentia, Tim offers, “I thought his arch enemy was the Joker?”

“Also correct,” Dick and Jason both say simultaneously.

The high altitude low opening jump should get Dick in clandestinely from above, without any sentries noticing or alarms being tripped. A streamlined shadow hurtling through the night, the gathering storm clouds part around Dick as he approaches the ground at terminal velocity. 

For Tim’s benefit, he adds, helmet keeping his words from being ripped away by the wind: “Once I put the last pin in, we’ll have made ourselves a map of the place. I should be able to make it in and out with the Drakes safe and sound, the Birds of Prey will grab oodles of evidence for the Feds, and Batman will gift-wrap Pengo and the Emperor. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Hey, Robin, you figure shark repellent spray works on penguins?”

“Probably would if ol’ Cobblesnot could smell anything over his fish scented cologne,” Jason says, reassuring Dick that he’s fully on board the keep-Tim-from-freaking-out-about-everything-that-could-go-wrong train. 

“Going in,” Dick reports, the lights of Penguin’s mansion rushing towards him, and pulls the cord.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

On the Batcomputer monitors, Dick’s mask feed jerks as the parachute deploys. The feeds from the Birds of Prey show them stealthily making their way through the underground passages, taking pictures of crates full of grenade launchers and hacking into computers for names, dates, locations.

The monitor that Tim’s full and rapt attention is glued to is Bruce’s live feed, which shows the Penguin himself waddling in escort over to what looks like a one-way mirror, which shows the elder Drakes, alive and well where they’ve apparently been kept in relative luxury all along, just north of where Jason and Tim currently sit. Jason risks a peek at Tim, and the complex and utterly raw expression twisting his face into knots makes Jason look hastily away again.

Jason hates being man in the chair. He’s not built for it, for sitting still and patient while everyone else is in the thick of the action. On the other hand, he’s been left with the sole and heavy responsibility of Tim, who has proved he cannot be left unsupervised for a single moment without chaos and disaster immediately following. Having been brutally burned on that front many times over in the last few days, Jason has made a pact with himself to take that shit so incredibly seriously. 

Onscreen, Bruce has apparently used the excuse of getting close to the one-way mirror to surreptitiously plant a directional listening device. The notification of this going live pops up on screen, and Jason patches it through to himself, the voices of Jack and Janet coming through in his earpiece.

Jason almost immediately receives further reason to really, really loathe running back end, as he hears what the Drakes are saying, apparently unaware they are being observed. He tries to keep his feelings off his face, but must not entirely succeed.

“What is it?” Tim asks. His whole body is tense, and he’s watching Jason, now that Bruce, the Penguin, and the Penguin’s guards are moving down another hallway and his parents are no longer visible on the monitor.

“Nothing,” Jason lies. “Just don’t like running back-end, is all.”

“I can help,” Tim offers.

“No,” Jason says, much too quickly, and Tim’s face shutters closed. “It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Jason adds more softly, trying to ease the sting, but Tim only nods sharply in response.

Feeling like a worm, Jason reaches over and puts the audio from Bruce’s feed on speaker, as a peace offering, so Tim at least can get to hear Batman going toe to toe with the Penguin.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The negotiation room Penguin has led them to is  utilitarian and empty of anything except stone tiled walls, ventilation grates, and a small metal table on which rests what appears to be an intricately carved stone object. It is quite small, and difficult to make out detail from where Bruce has stopped, at a strategic distance from the other people in the sparse room, but at first glance it appears to be nothing more than an effigy of someone kneeling. Old, possibly ancient. It bothers Bruce slightly that he’s not able to immediately identify the provenance of the piece, but at the moment it’s not of immediate concern.

Bruce has achieved his primary objectives: locating the Drakes, confirming they are alive and in no immediate peril aside from being captive and subject to the whims of the Penguin, and giving Barbara and Dick the tools they need to mount a rescue and find evidence implicating the Penguin in federal crimes beyond a reasonable doubt, respectively.

Now, Batman’s mission: stall and distract.

So far, this is proving no difficulty whatsoever, as Oswald seems to be in a monologuing frame of mind.

“I’m the king of this city, Batman, and I am prepared for war against those who would seek my throne.”

The usual villainous patter. Penguin’s lackeys have moved to flank the door, but Bruce is Batman. They could be anywhere in the room, including hanging bodily from his neck with guns to his cowl, and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to their odds of overpowering him. Cobblepot himself has moved to the other side of the table, metal tip of his ivory headed cane clacking against the black and white tile floor with each step.

“I wasn’t expecting to have the opportunity to bring Batman right into my home, of his own free will. If I were a more foolish man, it would almost seems like fate.”

Bruce allows his silence to speak for itself. 

“A more foolish king,” Oswald continues, when Bruce doesn’t respond, “wouldn’t wonder if his bishops were telling the truth when they claimed not to have any connection with the Batman, despite Bats seeming to swarm around their little brat everywhere he happens to be.”

“I’m not hearing much negotiation from you, Penguin,” Bruce growls. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Cobblepot squints at him assessingly through the monocle lens, reaching for the stone figurine, and seeming almost surprised when Bruce says and does nothing more.

“Is it? I begin to think it may actually be,” Penguin says, casually running his fingers over the stone, a non-sequitur that begins to set off faint alarm bells in the back of Bruce’s mind. “My other intention, however, was to test the loyalty of our mutual friends. I admit, Batman, I thought they were lying, and that you had already known of the newest acquisition they had brought back.”

Bruce is not a man who appreciates the unexpected. In particular, he does not at all like the unexpected turn this conversation has taken. He subtly moves his pinky finger to depress a hidden button that will alert the others that he may require a contingency plan to be enacted, if there isn’t already someone currently monitoring the video feed broadcasting from his cowl. 

“But if you had,” the Penguin continues, “I just can’t believe you’d willingly come within a mile of it.”

Bruce has heard enough to decide it’s time for a more active and bloody type of distraction. The second he tenses to move, however, the Penguin makes his own, twisting the head from the stone figurine and raising the body towards Bruce.

There’s an odd glow, exposing carved runes not previously visible to the naked eye, and Bruce has the nauseating experience of his limbs being wrested from the control of his mind. His arms snap to his sides, and his feet become rooted to the floor. Bruce can feel pressure building in his eyes as he strains to move any of his muscles, but not even an eyelid twitches to his command.

No longer able to focus on Penguin directly, Bruce can still see the avaricious triumph on the avian face as he closes the distance between them, gilded cane tap-tap-tapping as he walks with unhurried steps, circling Bruce. “I don’t usually go in for the occult, but I’m a practical man. Needs must,” Penguin says from behind him, and Bruce’s flesh crawls at his utter inability to control any part of the situation. “ - when you’re holding on to your kingdom by a silk thread, and a man dressed like a flying rat -” 

Penguin’s voice has dropped the veneer of culture, and is now rising in his rage, shouting in Bruce’s ear at close range. “ - destroys half your custom-made robotic army! Do you have any idea how much those cost?”

In possession of an extensive and varied array of high tech gadgetry more than a rival to that of any nation on the planet, Bruce can make an extremely accurate guess. Where’s the other half, however, is what Bruce actually wonders.

“I stray from the point,” Cobblepot says, putting his rage back on a simmer and moving in front of Bruce again. “I suppose my pair of adventurers have proven their worth after all, and young Timothy will be spared the fate of becoming an orphan. A shame, given the bad company he’s fallen into,” the Penguin smiles maliciously at Bruce, “and the trouble he’s caused me, that the Drakes will be forced to grieve the loss of their only son.”

Bruce feels his heart rate kick up, but the explosive fury that suddenly fills him has no other effect whatsoever on his ability to move.

“While I have you here,” the Penguin says, idly rolling the hateful stone pieces in his hand, “let me tell you about this marvelous little toy the Drakes have dug up for me.”

Bruce heartily wishes the elder Drakes had chosen any other hobby in the world, aside from archeology. Deep sea diving. Golf. Tiddlywinks. Or perhaps spending quality time with their only child, for instance.

“The head,” Penguin holds it up for his perusal, though at an awkward angle, given Bruce’s inability to focus his eyes on it, “controls the mind of a single person. Bending them to one’s will. More of a gamble on a rodent such as yourself, with tricks up your sleeve that might prove a nuisance. I’m willing to bet, however, that it will prove incredibly useful for the rare, annoying white knight who can’t be bought and is surprisingly difficult to kill. Like a cockroach with a badge.”

Jim, thinks Bruce, a chill running through him.

Oswald holds the other, larger piece up, close and yet tantalizingly out of reach. “And of course, as you see for yourself, this piece controls the body of a single person. Once you’ve been disposed of, I’ve already begun taking bids on renting its use by the hour to those whose tastes run to the more - depraved.”

A blood vessel pulses in Bruce’s temple, under the cowl. 

Penguin shrugs carelessly. “Distasteful, of course, but money is money.”

Gripping the stone pieces in one hand, Cobblepot uses the other to adjust his grip on the cane. There’s a metallic snick, and the blade concealed in the tip of it suddenly appears, half an inch away from Bruce’s right eye. “You’ve been acid,” Penguin hisses, “eating away at my kingdom. A thorn in my side. A real pain in my ass.”

The blade retracts, and the tap-tap-tapping starts up again, this time fading off along with the sound of three sets of footsteps and the quiet noise of the door to the room opening. “And now it’s time to return the favor. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the video of watching you dissolve slowly, feet first, not even able to scream. The slow, agonizing, and gruesome death of the Batman - copies of that snuff video will bring me in a pretty penny.” He squawks out a cold laugh. “Goodbye, Batman. Congratulate me on my victory.”

The door clicks shut, echoing around the otherwise empty room. In another moment, there’s another set of metallic clicks from around the room, and rushing, wet noises accompany them soon after.

I hate magic, thinks Bruce, watching unblinkingly as noxious, virulent green liquid pours through the vents, bubbling and oozing inexorably closer to where he stands, still as a statue, at the center of the room.

Chapter Text

The truth will always come to light, no matter how well it's hidden.

- Encyclopedia Brown

“Batman’s in trouble,” Tim says, voice high and warbly as he masterfully states the obvious, eyes huge and horrified as he watches the acid starting to pool around the edges of the room Bruce is standing in, corpse-still.

Jason’s already updating the others on the situation through the comms, hating being stuck, hating not being able to move, to help, to go. 

“Copy,” Babs whispers quietly.

“On it,” Dick murmurs, and must set the last beacon, as a third bright blue pulse lights up on screen, and a three dimensional dot matrix of the surrounding structures begins to populate. In a few moments they should have a map of the walls and passages, giving them paths to get to Batman.

Jason is so stupid. He shouldn’t have let Tim listen to the audio, even if he couldn’t have stopped Tim from seeing the video, short of turning the monitor off and blinding himself on what was happening as well, but he hadn’t seen this scenario coming any more than Bruce had. 

Course-adjusting the Batplane onto a steady vector of approach back to base, Jason looks at the cowl footage on the monitors. Dick and Babs are moving, having traded stealth for speed. Beside him, in the corner of his eye, Tim is taut like a steel cable, practically vibrating with tension. Ace has picked up on the change in mood. He makes a small perimeter check, looping around Tim and Jason’s feet, before stationing himself at Tim’s ankle and leaning as hard as he can against the kid in moral support.

When Jason doesn’t respond to Tim, focusing on all the balls he’s currently juggling in the air and not being possessed of Dick’s talent for being comforting while dealing with multiple crises, Tim creeps closer. His fingers grip Jason’s chair hard enough to leave indents in the covering.

“Batman needs a Robin,” he insists, huge eyes now burning a hole in the side of Jason’s head. “You gotta go help him.”

Tim’s the most annoying version possible of Jason’s conscience. He’s both the angel and the demon on his shoulders, egging him on to do the exact thing Jason most wants to do: get out there and join the fight; while simultaneously being the exact reason he can’t.

Angling the jet to avoid bird strikes and some asshole playing with a drone, Jason grits his teeth. “He’s got Nightwing and the Birds of Prey. Right now, it’s my job to land a plane, an’ to keep you safe.”

Tim slams a tiny fist down on the desk next to the keyboard Jason’s using to control a multimillion dollar state of the art aircraft at hundreds of miles per hour, startling Jason with the first sign of anything approaching actual aggression he’s ever seen from the kid. “But that’s so dumb! I’m not the one in danger right now, BATMAN is! My parents are!”

Jason is extremely, excruciatingly aware of Batman’s imminent death by torturous dissolution. “You don’t need to worry about your parents, alright? They’re fine for now, an’ we’ll - we’re gonna get them out. Dick and Babs’ll be there in a second to get Bruce outta there. Then they’ll go back for your parents. It’s gonna be fine.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Shit,” Huntress says, over Dick’s comm. It’s all the warning he gets before a god-awful squawking of a dozen angry penguins begins blaring from hidden speakers everywhere at once: Cobblepot’s idea of an alarm system activating. 

“What the hell happened?” Jason demands in his ear. Quickly consulting the dot matrix map on his wrist display, Dick turns to the left, a path that should lead him directly to where Bruce’s green location dot pulses. He races down a hallway with symmetrically placed marble alcoves, busts of fish heads and taxidermied penguins on spot-lit plinths within. Like every other room he’s encountered so far, it smells vaguely of fish.

“Good news, bad news time,” Black Canary answers.

Hardly slowing to check his corners, Dick hurtles down another icy white marble hall. “What’s the good news?”

“We just found plenty of evidence of Penguin’s bivouacing a mercenary army to take out a whole bunch of his enemies in Gotham, including Commissioner Gordon.”

“Very good news,” Dick says, racing by a young woman in an old-timey black and white maid’s outfit. She gives a startled shriek, then hustles quickly back through the door she came from. He hears the faint sound of the lock engaging behind her as he blows down the hall, and hopes she takes the chance to find other employment at the soonest opportunity.

“The bad news?” Babs chimes in next. “We found the mercenary army.”

Huntress gives a grunt of exertion, and a deeper voice cries out in pain in the background. “Worse news: they found us.”

The dot matrix representation on screen shows that the wing of the mansion he’s in eventually opens up into a wide room with several doorways. Barreling around turns at high speed, Dick eventually finds the larger space is a wide foyer with a gold and white aquarium full of live penguins and a decorative fountain.

“Ah. Well, I deeply regret to inform you that you haven’t found all of Penguin’s army. Completely unrelated question: how many mercenaries are there in a platoon?”

“Three or four squads,” answers Huntress factually, as Dick leaps high, sending a grapple over the fountain’s wet plume and across the room in the direction of the door leading to where Bruce is trapped. The mercenaries that are spilling out of several other doorways begin opening fire below him.

“Wrong,” Babs says, more sounds of violence in the background of her comm line. “The response he’s looking for is, ‘I don’t know, Nightwing, how many are there?’”

Flying high over astonished Little Blue penguins, who dive for safety below the surface of their water tank, Dick tumbles head over heels, literally, just he first had for Barbara when he was eleven years old, figuratively. She always knows how to help him not succumb to panicked thoughts of Bruce slowly melting alive in acid in a crisis situation: by humoring his jokes and puns.

“Not enough to conquer a bat-talion,” Dick answers triumphantly, using a goon’s head as a springboard to soar through an open and empty door on the far side of the foyer. The tune of several groans in response is music to his ears, over the open frequency. 

Slamming the door shut behind him, he fries the electronic lock with a backhand blow from his escrima. It should buy him a few seconds. He turns and starts to continue his sprint for Bruce, just as the door in front of him bursts open, and guards with semi-auto umbrellas flood into the corridor.

“Hiya, boys,” Dick says, with forced levity, twirling his escrimas into a ready position. 

The locked door behind him explodes under the brute force of the platoon pursuing him from the foyer. 

Trapped in the middle of a straight area with no other exits and opposing forces on either end, Dick thinks. Not very asterous. Sun Tzu would disapprove. But at least they can’t start shooting or else they’ll hit their own.

Dick’s optimism on this point immediately proves misplaced. Instead of holding back due to the inevitability of friendly fire, the new crowd raises their weapons as one and instantly turns the hallway into a hot zone. 

The lack of brusque complaints about Dick’s jokes and decisions had made him momentarily forget the line to Bruce was still open, but irritation at all the life choices that have brought him to this moment cause him to remember now. 

“Holy shit, Batman,” Dick grunts, bouncing off a wall and spreading himself against the ceiling, starfished between the walls as the first volley of shots passes underneath him. Angry cries of confusion and wails of pain prelude return fire from the other side of the hall.

“Great job getting caught in a trap you didn’t bother telling anyone about beforehand, B,” Dick says, twisting and rolling, pinballing himself down the corridor to get himself out of the worst game of monkey-in-the-middle of all time as quickly as possible. “‘You’re too reckless, Nightwing. Why didn’t you call for backup, Robin,’” he mimics ruthlessly, folding himself into the thin spaces between bullets as he takes full advantage of Batman being unable to either ignore him or respond in any way. “World’s greatest hypocrite. If you get killed because of your lack of communication skills I’ll bring you back and murder you again myself,” he concludes, thoroughly annoyed. Tasing the nearest two baddies for good measure on the way, Dick dive rolls over the surviving goons on the far side of the hall and turns the corner into a larger space, and is even more displeased to find it already filled with an even more angry and well-armed crowd.

“I’ll help,” says Babs with gritted teeth cheerfulness, over the sounds of intense combat on her end. 

Leapfrogging escrima-first through this crowd, Dick watches with chagrin as yet another crew rounds a different corner and opens fire in the general direction of everyone else in the room. 

“Uh, just a hunch here,” Dick hazards, dodging projectiles, “but I think Emperor’s taking the opportunity to stage a coup? Got some very unfriendly fire going on around here. Not to rush any of you, but, ah, I’m gonna be needing some backup PDQ, or maybe just a good ol’ fashioned distraction? Now would be a great time for a big badaboom somewhere around here, is what I’m saying.”

Batgirl’s voice seems out of breath when she responds. “En route to your location, but at this rate it’s gonna be pretty damn slow, not pretty damn quick. Huntress and BC are pinned down. I managed to get out a data burst with the evidence we got and a call for emergency backup from the Feds, but I haven’t got any ETA on when or if it’s gonna get here.”

Huntress chimes in, with a shrill canary cry echoing in her background. “These assholes are swarming from everywhere. How many goons has Penguin got?”

“Enough to try and take over Gotham,” Dick answers grimly.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Please go help Batman,” Tim says, the second Penguin’s horrible alarm system activates. “Please.”

Jason’s fingers are clenched so tightly around the Batplane’s joystick controls he runs the risk of breaking them if he makes any sudden movements. On the screens, improbable amounts of mercenaries are swarming Nightwing and the Birds of Prey, and acid is slowly inching closer to Bruce’s feet. 

“Batman’s armor is acid-resistant, especially the boots and cape. It’ll buy them time.” He’s not sure if he’s trying to reassure Tim, or himself. “Can you just - I just need some quiet to think for a second.”

Tim’s got his hands fisted around his upper arms, like he’s hugging himself, or holding himself together with all the strength in his tiny arms. Completely ignoring Jason’s perfectly reasonable request for silence, he asks: “Would you go if I wasn’t here?” 

Jason clenches his jaw so hard his teeth make a subaudible straining noise under the pressure. It’s like taking a cheese grater to his lungs, hearing Tim beg. Like it’s not already taking all Jason’s willpower and training to sit here and do what needs to be done instead of running out the door. 

“Would you go save him? If it weren’t for me?” Tim doubles down, insistent, sounding like he’s also seconds away from completely losing his shit.

In a heartbeat, Jason thinks, but does not say. If you weren’t here, if someone else was here to stay with you, I’d already be gone, I’d already be all up in Penguin’s house kicking his stupid waddling ass.

But weighing the odds of Tim staying put in the Batcave, staying safe and out of trouble without Jason here to make him? Jason isn’t willing to take that bet. 

Instead, Jason’s frantically come up with a new plan as of the last five seconds, between hearing how poorly things are going on comms and Tim’s gut-shredding pleas. As soon as he gets the Batplane landed, he’ll carry Tim up the stairs and lock him in with Alfred, plague-ridden or not, conscious or not, barricade the door, and then Jason can get the hell out there and fight.

“There’s backup coming,” is what Jason does tell Tim, listening to Babs and Dick’s strained mid-combat conversations. 

It might not get there in time, Jason thinks.

“B’s gonna be fine,” Jason says firmly, doing his best to imitate the reassuring and confident tone that Dick always seems to nail when he’s talking to a civilian victim. “So’re your folks.”

When he chances a look up, Tim’s not vibrating anymore. He’s still looking at the mask feeds on screen, and his hands are still in fists, but they’ve dropped to his sides. Tim’s shoulders aren’t at his ears anymore, and he’s got a calm sort of stillness to him. Tim turns away, giving a resigned huff of acceptance. “Yeah. He will.”

Eat your heart out, Dickie, Jason thinks. I’m not so bad at this reassuring shit after all. 

Relieved at this small success, and the abrupt end to Tim stomping on every fraying nerve Jason’s got, he’s able to turn his attention back to initiate the complex landing sequence for the Batplane to return to the underground hangar. Out of the corner of his eye Jason can see Tim walking quickly away, which piques his alarm for a second, but he’s not walking in the direction of any of the Batcave exits.

“Where are you going?” Jason asks, unable to turn and keep a direct eye on the kid while setting a world record speed run for toggling the flaps and landing gear, opening the bay doors, and routing in the entry vector.

Tim’s voice has a snarky edge that tells Jason he’s still both extremely freaked out and extremely pissed at Jason for not allowing Tim to actively contribute to the situation in any way. “I’ve gotta pee. Is that allowed, or do you want me to wet my pants?”

“Of all the times, you really hafta go now - fine. Okay. Fine, whatever, do what you gotta do. Just don’t take long.” Jason allows, sparing a quick look over his shoulder before the fiddly bits of fitting a large state of the art military-grade jet into a small opening with the have to take his full attention. Tim is, in fact, disappearing into the little bats’ room. 

Jason’s just completed touch down and slapped the deactivation sequence when Ace roars into a flurry of vicious bellowing ferocity somewhere nearby.

“What the hell is going on?” Jason is on his feet in an instant, heart rate kicking up several more notches. Shoving the chair out of his way and breaking into a jog, Jason does a quick assessment of his surroundings. There’s no visual sign of Ace, but it sounds like he’s running off at Mach speed after something or someone, by the way his howling is quickly fading away into the distance. 

Shit. 

Tim is nowhere to be seen. Probably chasing after Ace, or worse, he’s the thing Ace is chasing after. 

Shit fuck damn. 

“Tim? Where are you? Answer me, dammit, I don’t care if you’re in the middle of pushing one out on the pot.”

But there is no answer, other than Ace’s cacophonous howls of alarm. 

Jason hustles into a full run, heading down the curving ramp leading to the sub-sub-levels in the direction of Ace’s world-shaking awoos dopplering off down into the base of the cave system. How the fuck has he gotten in trouble inside one of the most secure locations in the world in ten fucking seconds? How? How?!

Jason knew it. He knew some shit like this was bound to happen, why did it have to be at the worst possible time, keeping him from getting to Bruce before it’s too late -

It only takes Jason a few more seconds to catch up to Ace. The dog is hale, healthy, and despite the racket he’d been making, not, in fact, in hot pursuit of any evildoers who had somehow managed to break into the Cave while Jason was landing the Batplane. Ace isn’t even looking over a black crevasse trying desperately to communicate to Jason that Timmy’s fallen down the well. 

What he is doing, is rolling to a gentle stop on Tim’s skateboard several sublevels below the main cavern where Tim is supposed to be right now, panting happily and looking hopefully at Jason’s utility belt pocket for the treats due to him for having successfully performed the ‘let’s ride’ trick and ‘speak German’ trick simultaneously. The former of which Jason now heartily regrets having ever helped Tim teach Ace, because with Ace no longer deafening anyone nearby, down the curving tunnel acoustics comes the reverberating base sound of an extremely powerful engine starting up.

Instantly whipping back around, Jason sprints up the ramp at top speed, legs and arms churning. “He did not. He fucking did NOT. Jesus H. Christ fuck me roughly in the goddamned ear, that little sheep-biting shit abso-fucking-lutely did not!”

But of course, of fucking course, he has. Rounding the last curve at a flat out run, Jason finds the primary garage level has a yawning space empty of both Tim and, even more damningly, the Batmobile.

“FUCK!”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The Batmobile somehow hadn’t seemed quite so big when Tim had been shivering on Dick’s lap in the passenger seat last night. 

In the driver’s seat, though? Despite the self-driving system, Tim’s still forced to kneel to see over the steering wheel and the long line of the hood through the windshield, and stretch his arms about as far as they’ll go to reach any of the buttons on the middle of the dashboard. Taking one of the steep curves around the Bristol cliffs throws Tim off-balance as he turns on the windshield wipers to combat the first few drops of rain. He fat-fingers a few buttons before catching himself, which luckily doesn’t jettison him from the car or detonate any weapons. It does, however, somehow manage to turn on one of Dick’s playlists. A thumping bass line shakes the black leathery interior of the supercar, heavy beat in a minor key.

Time has been rushing around him in weird ways ever since seeing his parents on the live feed, alive, alive, alive. For a second, solid ground had seemed to be almost under his feet again, before a cold tsunami had washed him out to sea again when Bruce had gone still, frozen, helpless in a deadly trap that Tim had inadvertently led him into.

This is a bad idea, part of him says. It’s a voice that sounds like Batman.

Hey, okay, it’s not Tim’s best plan, he’ll be the first to admit that. But he hasn’t heard anyone else come up with something better. Though, quite a lot of what he’s actually been hearing, the last few minutes, has just been the sound of his own racing heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

Penguin said he would kill Bruce, and in fact is currently in the act of slowly, torturously killing Bruce. Just like Rosa.

Penguin also wants to kill Tim next, but like, join the club, right? Who doesn’t want to off Tim, these days. 

Penguin said he was going to keep Tim’s parents alive. But then, if that were true, why didn’t Jason want Tim to hear what his parents were saying? 

It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes any sense anymore. Even when he was standing still in the Batcave next to Jason, not racing crazily down the backroads of Bristol, the world had gone dizzying and strange, like he could actually feel the earth moving under him at thousands of miles per hour, whipping around the sun. 

The only thing that does make sense, that his brain can hold onto for longer than a second at a time, is the imperative knowledge that he has to save them. Save them all. 

This is the thought that’s keeping him in a weird sort of eerie calm, floating him over the top of all the guilt at what has happened, the panic over what is currently happening, and shame at what is going to happen, if everything goes to his hastily assembled plans. He’s going to ride that determination with focused momentum, because if he doesn’t, he might just as well have hidden in a dark corner of the Batcave and let his brain slide behind glass for the rest of time. 

Tim finds the auxiliary acceleration controls on the side of the steering wheel, pushing the Batmobile fast, fast, faster, shooting through the dark, curving cliffside roads. There’s no one else out on the roads, not at this time of night, not with a storm coming in. Lightning illuminates a frothing sea to Tim’s right, thrashing and pounding at the bottom of the cliffs far below.

No one, except for Robin. The single headlight of the motorcycle chasing him has grown larger and larger in the rear view camera, and in another few seconds closes the gap entirely.

Jason pulls up right next to the driver’s side, perilously close, matching Tim turn for turn even at the nauseating speed to which Tim’s pushed the autopilot of the Batmobile. 

He bangs on the window next to Tim’s face heavily with the side of his fist, which does nothing but bring up the internal options for antipersonnel armaments on a HUD screen. Tim politely declines. For now. 

There’s an insistent click in the borrowed comm in Tim’s ear, and Jason’s voice comes through, about an octave more shrill than usual. “I cannot believe you. Turn around, now, and go straight to your room!”

Well, that’s just not going to happen. “Uh, even if I was gonna do that, I can’t, remember? It got shot up. While you were in it.”

“Your other room, Timwit!” Jason shouts, making Tim wince and rub at the ear that’s got the comm in it.

What other room? Tim wonders, confusion now added to the volatile mix of panic, guilt, and cold determination roiling around inside him like the thunderstorm currently blowing in from off-shore. 

Before he can ask about this, Jason hisses out a long breath, picking up again in a carefully lowered tone of voice. Flickers of lightning reflect off the red chrome of his helmet, and the visor turns briefly: Jason trying to look at Tim through the tinted glass of the car window. “I want you to know I’m trying really, really fucking hard to stay calm and be a bro about this. I’m not mad, okay, Timmy? I’m not mad. But I just wanna be super clear on this: you are in the process of stealing the literal motherfucking Batmobile.”

Tim is excruciatingly aware of this.

“You sound pretty mad,” Tim points out, trying to deflect attention from the depressingly accurate summation of his crime in progress.

“I have a resting mad voice,” Jason returns, angrily. “It’s an affliction.”

Unfortunately, Jason’s not led off-tangent for long. There’s a noise like Jason’s taking another deep breath through his nose, before he continues, voice neutral in a way that sounds extremely forced, “Look, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but it’s not, like, a 2004 Toyota Camry you chose for this little unauthorized joyride. This is GRAND THEFT BATMOBILE, Timmia Torretto. If you turn around right now and head home, I think we can keep a tight lid on this, yanno? I promise I won’t rat you out.”

Tim has never been more certain of anything in his life than he is that Jason is going to rat him out to absolutely everyone possible the nanosecond he exits the Batmobile.

Jason’s only got himself to blame, really, Tim reasons to himself. Who originally told him the Batmobile had an autopilot? Jason. Who showed him where the controls for it were, just last night? Jason. Ipso facto. Case closed.

“I’m trying to help Batman, and my parents,” Tim informs Jason righteously, having absolutely no intention of turning back now that he’s successfully got Robin en route to save Batman’s life. “Are you going to waste time trying to get me to turn back, or be there to help them when we get there?”

“Of course I want to help them!” Aggrieved, Jason’s voice cracks halfway through, an abrupt adolescent warble up and down the octaves. “Nightwing - he’s the best, okay? He’s gonna get Batman out. And if you just go home, I can help them. You made your point, alright? You win. I’m on my way to help Batman. Robinning to the rescue.”

This confirmation is a relief. Stage one of the plan is a go. “Good. That’s - that’s really good.” But there’s still the more nebulous bit: Stage two. “But I can’t go back yet. Not without my parents.”

“Look, right after we get B, we’ll get them, it’ll all be fine -“

“No! No, it won’t,” Tim shouts, more loudly than he intends to.

Taken aback, there’s a note of genuine confusion when Jason asks, “Why do you think that?”

Because they’re either going to die, or go to prison, or witness protection, if I don’t do anything, Tim thinks, but he isn’t about to say so. He’s not sure he can talk about it without crying, anyway. He counters Jason’s question with his own. “Why did you not want me to hear my parents?”

Jason lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.” With extreme reluctance, he tries another tack. “Look - if I tell you how to access that recording, will you promise to go back to the cave?”

No, Tim thinks.

“Maybe,” Tim says, but Jason must be feeling desperate, because he tells Tim anyway. 

It turns out to be simple enough to pull up the recording through the remote link to the Batcomputer, and press play. The twisted weight hollowing his chest since finding Rosa’s body unclenches, ever so slightly, as he hears his parents’ voices for the first time since all this started. Alive. Alive. Alive.

There’s loud background noise of the television in their room-cell. It would probably be enough to hide a conversation from normal prying ears, but Bat tech seems to have effortlessly filtered it out, even from the other side of a wall.

“Penguin’s going to kill us sooner or later, even if he gets whatever he wants from the Batman,” his father’s voice says, putting into words Tim’s exact fears. “We’ve gotta take Ogilvy’s offer. Now, before Penguin makes up his mind about us.”

“This isn’t the way it was supposed to be,” his mother laments. “Faking our deaths, starting over in a non-extradition country? We had retirement plans. God. …How do we even know he can keep up his end of the bargain?”

“He’s stayed ahead of Cobblepot this far. He’ll get us out of here. We’ll get back on our feet, set up somewhere else and be in even better shape than we were before.”

“What about Drake Industries? Our other properties? Timothy?”

Tim’s heart leaps, just a little, to hear his parents talking about him, caring about him even in this perilous moment.

“We’ll sell it all off. We’ll need liquid assets anyway. And Timothy’s got the trust fund. He’s always been independent, he’ll land on his feet. We’ve got to make it a clean break. From all of it. Children can’t keep secrets, you know he’d only get us all caught eventually if he knew. He’s better off this way. Safer. It wouldn’t be fair to him otherwise.”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” his mother says. 

“I always am.”

There’s a buzzing in Tim’s ears, fighting for dominance over the pounding beat of his heart. 

There’s another sort of droning, which resolves into Jason, who it turns out is now talking to him. Tim must have turned off the recording, and Jason’s voice is adding to the crowded sensory parade that’s stomping into his brain through his ears.

“This is why,” he thinks Jason is saying. “I’m sorry, Timmy. I’m sorry they’re shit parents, but they’re not gonna die, okay? We’ll get them out.”

Tim’s mental picture of his parents has been twisting, shredding like kaleidoscope confetti over the last few days. He’s still trying to hold on to the sharp edged shreds, put them together into a new picture that still makes sense. “ Shut up,” he tells Jason, but his voice sounds weird in his ears, not firm and angry like he wants it to be. He tries again. “They’re my mom and dad. They’re just trying to keep me safe,” he says, but he still sounds off, even to himself. Strange and hollow and blank. 

They crest a hill, Jason’s birdcycle still keeping pace, and Cobblepot’s mansion is suddenly in view.

“Look. Tim.” Jason doesn’t sound mad anymore, either. “Parents - they can be really shitty. Even if they birthed you, that doesn’t always mean much.”

Tim’s eyes sting. He focuses on the lights and the wrought gold fence, the mansion grounds cutting into the top of the cliffside, sitting perched like it’s deciding whether or not to dive forward into the sea. “Would you say that if it was your parents?” 

“My dad? Hell yes. Sack of shit. Five pounds of it in a one pound bag.”

That’s not a whole answer. Tim blinks harder, clenching his fists. From the outside, Penguin’s place seems quiet, peaceful. No sign yet of the battle going on inside. “What about your mom?” he asks.

There’s a long pause in response. Tim looks out the side window. Jason’s arms are clenched tight around the handlebars of the motorcycle. 

Tim turns back to the windshield, the organic curves and jagged edges of the mansion rapidly approaching. “See? It’s not that easy,” he whispers. “They love me,” he says, louder, and wonders why he doesn’t sound all that convincing.

Jason’s visor turns back towards him, even though there’s no way he can actually see inside the rain-streaked window. “Okay. I get what you’re saying. I - I hear you, alright? But just feeling love isn’t enough. Feelings don’t mean shit if the words and actions don’t back it up.”

“Even if they are,” Tim cuts himself off, wills his misbehaving voice to sound less croaky. “ - even if they aren’t good parents. What else am I supposed to do? I don’t - I don’t have anyone else. They’re the only family I’ve got.” Tim swipes an angry hand at his eyes, tries to focus, adjust his trajectory, get everything back on track.

Once they know what I can do, that I won’t drag them down, Tim reasons, once I get them out, they’ll change their minds. They just - they don’t know what I can do, yet. We can still be together.

Jason’s gone quiet, like he’s trying not to be overheard, even though it’s only the two of them on this line. “Family is the people who are there for you when you need them. Family makes you feel safe, and cared for. Family doesn’t make the kids take responsibility for their parents’ bad choices. You feel happy and relaxed when you’re around them, not anxious and watching your every move so you don’t set them off. Family doesn’t leave you all alone, Tim. Family always, always comes back for you.”

Tim shoves a shaky fist in his mouth. He bites down on a knuckle until the spinning thoughts die down and he can shove the calm determination back to the front, remember to focus on his plans, quiet the rest, shove it behind a door and lock it up tight. 

“You’re right,” Tim tells Jason, when he’s got himself under control again.

“Course I am,” Jason says, sounding relieved that this has gone over so well. 

“Family is there for you when you need them, and they always come when you need help. Right?”

“Right,” Jason confirms.

“So - my family needs help, and your family needs your help, and - and it’s my fault your family is in danger right now.”

“Okay, no. No, Timmy, look, we gotta talk about your selective hearing, right after you turn around and exit the Batmobile -” 

Tim braces himself, reaching out and toggling the aux accelerator even higher. The engine revs up to a ludicrous speed for the road conditions, outpacing Robin’s motorcycle again. Tim pulls up the heat sensors, scanning the mansion grounds just ahead. “You gonna help, or what?”

“TIM,” Jason says, sounding strangled, then heaves a huge, angry sigh. “You do exactly what I say, when I say, and you go straight home afterwards and you wake up Alfred and you stay with him until we all get back. You understand me?”

Tim says: “I understand.” He has no intention of actually doing so, but he understands what Jason has said perfectly well.

If Jason realizes this, it doesn’t matter. There’s no more time to argue, as they’re nearly upon the gilded metal gates.

Jason’s voice switches into Robin-mode. “We’ll need to come in with something big and attention-getting, loud enough to bring all his goons running. I’ll -”

“Big and loud. Got it,” Tim says, activating the toggle Dick had pointed out previously, which brings up the cannon controls on the dashboard HUD. Tim taps the audio until he finds the one that will broadcast to the open frequency. “Prepare for distraction.”

“Tim?!” Batgirl asks, astonished, before quickly switching to business. “Talk me through this.”

Dick sounds almost as gravelly as Batman, when he hisses, presumably to Jason: “You had ONE JOB.”

Put on the defense, Jason seems to instantly switch the target of his ire from Tim to Dick. “Excuse you, I had fucking several very conflicting jobs. You’re the one who couldn’t handle a coupla goons and pull some Bat ass out of the fire before Cap-Tim Ahab over here decided to go out guns blazing after a white penguin!”

Dick sounds incensed, and also like he’s in the middle of punching something meaty. “A couple of - no, we’re not doing this. One of you, tell me what the hell is going on out there.”

Tim doesn’t have the time or brain space to deal with any of this. “Batman’s in trouble,” he cuts in, direct and to the point. “You need a distraction to save him. I’m giving you one.”

With that, Tim slaps the cannon control button, and the wrought golden gate to Penguin’s mansion blows into smithereens.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

There’s a wild moment, as the Batmobile careens through the flaming remains of the gated entry to Penguin’s fortress, where a fleeting memory of watching the Joker drive through the gates of the abandoned amusement park the night this all started superimposes itself on Jason’s vision. The night Tim almost died, and then vanished like he was made of smoke.

This time, though, it’s gonna end much differently. There’s no way Tim can disappear for long, anyway, that’s for damn sure. The sheer amount of trackers in Tim’s clothing and shoes is making him light up the locator beacons on Jason’s readout like a Christmas tree. 

With booms that outclass the thunder of the storm now making landfall, two huge carved penguin statuaries on either side of Cobblepot’s front door explode, taking large portions of the surrounding walls with them. Before Jason can even get a word out, Tim’s set off a few more volleys, blowing the shit out of the exterior of Penguin’s very expensive mansion.

This kid. This fucking kid. He is unhinged. Entirely without hinges, every single screw removed, Tim-door they were once attached to kicked out of the frame from the inside, down the porch and halfway down the street, then set on fire for good measure. 

“Tim, Jesus Christ, hold up.” Jason ramps up the curving slope of a marble retaining wall as he talks, launching high enough to get a good angle with his batarangs to take out several security cameras that escaped Tim’s fusillade. It should keep Penguin and from getting eyes on the explosive situation out front without sending goons in person. 

A set of hidden turrets begins extending from the tips of several spire-like structures on the roof. Jason flips his cycle into a wheelie, rotating on the axis of the back wheel to spin on a dime, turn back and take out the nearest turret with a shock batarang to its ball hinge. It sizzles briefly, stopping halfway through its targeting, aimed uselessly up into the sky.

“I was careful,” Tim has the breathtaking audacity, the cast iron cojones to claim, as he takes out the rest of the gun turrets in addition to large portions of the roofs nearby. “I checked the heat signatures before I started with the cannons. There’s nobody in the area right now. Though hopefully that’ll probably change really soon.”

Having been desperately trying to keep a handle on his temper with Tim this time, despite provocation greater than any human could reasonably be expected to withstand, Jason feels like he’s choking on a fit of apoplectic rage when he responds, “You were careful?!?!” The effort involved in not screaming at the top of his lungs forces his voice into a squeaky pubescent break, which would be embarrassing if there were any room left in his body for anything other than terrified fury.

“Robin. Report, now,” Dick demands in his ear.

There’s no possible way to describe to Dick what Tim has done, and Jason’s complete failure to contain the utter chaos of this feral, insane gremlin child, that won’t make the current situation worse. “Look, just take the W, okay? We don’t have time to get caught up in semantics when B’s gonna get dissolved into bat-goo if you all don’t hurry the hell up and get to him as soon as they head our way.”

There’s only sounds of grunting and gunfire on the line for a long moment before Dick says, tense in a way that portends nothing good in Jason’s near future, “I’m going to have a LOT of questions as soon as Batman is clear, you got it? And we’ll be talking about you being a bad influence on the little bird, Robin.”

Incoherent, speechless with fury over this blatant injustice, Jason almost misses the first sign of movement, other than Tim’s continued efforts to thoroughly destroy Oswald’s landscaping.

There’s odd noises coming from around the rubble. A metallic penguin head pokes up from behind a retaining wall, rotating in a very un-penguin-like way to lock artificial eyes onto Jason. Its beak opens, and it lets out a synthesized mwek.

Timmy had scanned for heat sources and concluded there weren’t any enemies in the area. But he hadn’t been anticipating an army of penguin robots, who as if in response to the scout penguin’s squawk, begin peeking their heads around rocks and half-destroyed walls in their dozens. In the time it takes Jason to swing around for a better approach, more and more have arrived, in a chorus of mwek?-mwek!-mwek, waddling into massive huddles like ancient Roman soldiers forming a battle testudo. As one, they tilt their heads, eyes turning red, and open their beaks to let out an eerily synchronous MWEK! as they bring sinister-looking umbrellas up to bear.

Jason revs his engine loudly, drawing their attention, and takes off ostentatiously, tearing up wet turf in front of them. The penguins’ strafing run passes harmlessly behind him. “Alrighty, Timbo. This should work even better than when B did it, with all the rain.” He’ll just have to make sure to keep the Birdcycle’s rubber tires between him and any puddles, and that tiny trigger-happy Tim doesn’t get him nailed with stray shrapnel trying to blow up themed robots. “You know how to turn on the automated defense system?”

“Yeah,” Tim answers, because of course he managed to memorize every single thing that Jason and Dick had demonstrated, goofing around trying to keep Tim’s mind off worse things, when he was half-conscious between adrenaline crash and Ivy’s pollen.

Jason hops the motorcycle up on top of a curving marble landscaping barrier, guns the engine, and jumps again at the end of the barrier wall, wheels spinning with no resistance as he flies over a robot penguin squad. Tracking just slower than the speed at which Jason’s traveling, several groupings move in hot pursuit.

“Arm the shock harpoons,” Jason instructs. “There’s a yellow button on the upper right quadrant of the center console.”

“Got it.”

“I’mma line ‘em up so you can knock ‘em down. Time for you to zap the shit out of some penguins.”

Contrary to every expectation Tim’s established so far, the kid takes direction astoundingly well, as long as the direction has something to do with wanton destruction and using the Batmobile as both electrified bowling ball and battering ram. Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long to obliterate the penguin army. When nothing is left but smoking metal and jittering, powered-down auto-untuned robo squeaks from shattered husks, Babs’ voice comes through the comm line. “They’re peeling off.  Majority of the force remaining here is on the move. Looks like they’re headed for the front.”

“Get out of there, you two,” Dick orders.

“BC, Huntress, cover me. I’m heading for B,” Babs adds.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Distraction achieved, okay?” Jason says, in a tone of relief. “Head back, you’re done.”

Jason’s not entirely wrong. Phase One, Get Robin out to help save Batman is complete. Robin and Nightwing and Batgirl will rescue him, it’s just a matter of time now. And Batman has everything he needs, he’ll find out whether it was the Penguin or the Emperor who murdered Rosa, and make sure they face justice. He promised. So Tim’s done what he needed to, for all of them. That part of his job is done. 

Phase Two: Keep his parents alive and out of jail, relies almost entirely on his being sneaky and unseen, so he’s feeling pretty good about his chances, despite the circumstances.

Somehow, even though Tim hasn’t yet done anything more suspicious than sidle the Batmobile closer to the smoking mansion, Jason seems to intuit Tim’s next move from his silence. “No. I am dead serious. Don’t you even think about thinking about it. Timothy Davonte Lorenzo Francis Drake, don’t you fucking dare.”

There is very little, if anything, Tim will not dare in order to save his parents or any of the Waynes, but he senses saying as much will only unnecessarily antagonize Jason further. 

“None of those are my actual middle name,” Tim points out irrelevantly.

“I DON’T CARE,” bellows Jason. “Stay. In. The car. I mean it, Tim, goddammit. This is not a joke, I am not fucking around.”

Tim’s heart is beating a million miles an hour. Nausea sloshes through his guts, his empty stomach trying to flip over and eat itself, an ouroboros of guilt and shame. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Tim informs Jason, aiming for flippancy and not quite hitting the target. Choosing to deliberately misinterpret Jason’s intent, he asks rhetorically, “First you want me out of the Batmobile, now you want me to stay in it? Make up your mind.”

Jason is not in the mood. “Look, BG and Nightwing are getting B, you did it, you’re done, okay? You go back, make some tea, bust out some Oreos and ice cream. We’ll get Batman, we’ll grab your parents, all the bad guys will get what’s coming to ‘em, then we’ll all meet you back there an’ have a snack when it’s done. I’ll even teach you how to throw a batarang, if you just go home before Penguin’s backup gets here.”

Tim is trying to go home. Just - not in the way that Jason means. 

Tim’s home is a bullet-filled wreck, and if all the criminals are going where they belong, his parents are going to jail. Or witness protection, or getting murdered on some future date when the Penguin doesn’t have use for them anymore. Or, they’ll fall in with the Emperor and leave him behind forever. Any of these are bleak possible futures unless Tim can get in there, and get them out, by himself. It’s the only way he can keep his family together. It can happen, if they leave right now, slipping out through the cliffs, taking a boat out into the harbor and away from Gotham while everyone else is thoroughly distracted.

“You’d do anything to help your family, right, Jay?” he asks. “Go help them. It’s okay. It’s like - like Batgirl said. You do whatever it takes for your family.” 

Tim owes it to them, despite the underhanded ways they’ve made their money and the questionable decisions. They can all make a new start together, and with Tim there, he can lead them down a better path. His parents aren’t bad, bad. They aren’t murderers, they don’t beat people up or rob them. They’ve been too willing to make money the easy way, okay, true. They have been making some real bad decisions, definitely. Surely, though, with all this, they’ll have learned their lesson. 

Tim can’t ask the Bats to look the other way, even if he thought they might, which he doesn’t. His parents, by rights, deserve justice just like anybody else. He knows that, he believes that, he really does, and it’s ripping him apart, knowing what he’s about to do goes against everything the Bats stand for, their mission. Knowing that it proves he’s not a truly good person, not like they are. 

He’s not a Robin. But he is a Drake. He’s got his own mission now, he supposes, and tells himself the wave of queasiness he feels at the thought is all in his imagination. They’re his parents. And he’ll do what he has to do, make the sacrifices he has to, to save them. Even if it’s from themselves.

There’s a big part of Tim that still wants to change his mind, wants to throw up, wants to do exactly what Jason is shouting at him to do, and take the Batmobile back to the cave and have a cup of tea and pet Ace while the rest of them take care of everything. There’s a future where he does that: where he goes back, stays safe with the Waynes for just a little longer. Until his parents go to jail and Tim goes - somewhere. A foster home, or maybe year round boarding school, with no other place to call home or family waiting for him at the end of the day.

If he turns back now, he can maybe stay friends with Jason and Dick, but at a distance. He can stay on the path of justice, and get sent away, alone, again, for good.

On the other hand, if he makes a choice to put himself on the other side of what’s objectively right, the Waynes will never want anything to do with him again. But, he’ll have his parents back again.

Either way, right now or very soon, his time with the Waynes is going to end. 

Don’t I deserve a family? Tim wonders, raw and aching. A home that’s mine, for always, with people who love me? 

When that thought doesn’t feel like enough, doesn’t feel like anything but selfishness, he tells himself: I’m giving them a second chance. Saving them. No one else will, so it’s up to me.

Second chances. That’s one of the main reasons Batman doesn’t kill, right? Tim’s the only one who can, who will, give his parents a second chance to get it right, to make a new life the right way, that won’t involve them going to prison. A second chance to show them that Tim is worth taking with them, when they go, wherever they go. A second chance to be a family, to make a home, together.

Tim wants to ask Jason: Tell Bruce and Dick and Alfred and Barbara I’m sorry, but tipping them off like that would almost certainly derail his plan entirely.

He wants to say: I wish I could stay with you, but it’s too late. 

His hands shake where they tap the commands to re-arm the automatic defenses once he’s left the Batmobile. Once he’s left the Bats, forever.

Tim wants to say: Tell them I said goodbye.

Taking an uneven breath in, Tim frantically pulls up the map of Penguin’s mansion on the wrist computer, and the beacon near where his parents have been kept prisoner. The corridors in will be a death trap for Tim, untrained as he is and distraction bringing enemies to the area.  However, the map also illuminates lots of ductwork too small for an adult to get through. 

They’re not too small for a Tim. 

The Batmobile reverses at Tim’s direction, close to a large outflow grating for the HVAC. Jason’s been swinging his bike closer, but is brought up short suddenly by a swell of human reinforcements arriving on foot, pouring out of the holes in the ruined mansion exterior between him and where Tim’s parked. 

Jason’s still talking, even as he turns sharply, leaving a long rut in the mud, drawing fire away from Tim. He can easily outpace and evade these goons, Tim doesn’t need to worry about that. “I swear to God, if you so much as step one tiny little sneakered toe out of the Batmobile SO HELP ME I WILL -“

Tim wants to say: If I think about how much I’m going to miss you all, I’m gonna fly apart into tiny broken pieces.  

Tim puts his earbud on mute. He closes the frequency, shutting out the connection to mutes Jason, and makes a break for it.

In another few moments, a metal grate swings free in the whipping wind and rain, unnoticed in the chaos.

Chapter Text

Sometimes the truth is right in front of us, we just have to open our eyes to see it.

- Encyclopedia Brown

“I’m the bad influence. I’m the bad influence, Dickwing?” Jason’s irate muttering sounds echoey but muffled over the comm line, like he’s in a very enclosed space. Now that the majority of remaining mercenaries are on their way to the front of the mansion, Dick is pushing himself to the limit of speed, breath heaving as he churns through empty mansion hallways.  “He stole the fucking Batmobile to get me here to help, and now he’s in the vents going after his stupid asshole parents.”

Dick’s stride hitches briefly with this new, chilling information, which is …entirely too much to unpack at the moment. “Okay. Well. Color me corrected. Jesus. Robin —”

“Just hurry the hell up an get B outta there already before Tim decides to take that into his own grubby paws, too. Fuckssake. I’m gonna get that little shit an drag him out by his hair. Him and the Drakes. Handcuffs for everybody. Zip ties all around. Jail for one thousand years.”

The rest of what Jason is growling in Dick’s earpiece is lost to the noise of a gunshot in front of him. There’s sounds of yelling up ahead, an unfamiliar man’s voice raised in anger. It’s cut off suddenly, replaced by the too-familiar nasal tones of Oswald Cobblepot, shouting in rage, though the words are indistinct. Dick’s getting close. 

“Nightwing, I’m on your three.” 

As he passes the next cross hallway, Babs falls in beside him with a flash of purple and yellow, cape flaring behind her. Running in perfect sync, they barrel towards the closed door behind which the Penguin can be heard, now cursing about betrayal.

“Wanna do the honors?” Babs asks, picking up speed.

“By all means,” Dick huffs, “after you. Ladies first.”

Batgirl hucks three cherry bomb pellets with incredible accuracy at the hinges and knob, and launches herself feet-first at the door. It topples into the room under the force, Babs landing in a graceful crouch on top of it.

Revealed is a small room with more ugly marble statuary and fake potted plants, in addition to several rows of monitors, from which Penguin presumably has been watching Batman’s agonizing dissolution, and the battles his hench armies have been waging against the Bats, the Birds of Prey, and each other. It’s very clear he’s unhappy with the situation, his skin mottled red and shouting loudly enough that his monocle has popped off his face. There’s a bullet hole in the wall behind Penguin, who is tightly holding in one hand the body portion of the statuette which holds Batman hostage. Penguin’s other hand is outstretched, holding the head of the statuette toward the other man in the room: Ignatius Ogilvy. The Emperor has come armed with a more mundane weapon, and is in the process of turning his gun slowly towards his own temple.

Dick takes all this in as he soars over Babs’ head, hurling one escrima at the hand holding the body portion of the statuette, and the other directly between Penguin’s eyes. Both are sparking, cranked to the highest possible electrical charge.

This gunshot is deafening in the confines of the small space. Dick senses more than hears Babs tackling the Emperor as Penguin goes down like a sack of bricks, releasing the small stone body before his muscles seize.

Dick dives and rolls, coming up with the carved stone clutched in his hand. It’s oddly warm.

When he’s with the Titans, he defers to the specialist in these situations. Raven’s very particular about the handling, and disarming of, magical artifacts. But when she’s not around, and it’s crunch time, Dick’s got his own tried-and-occasionally-sometimes-true way of dealing with these things: When in doubt, smash it out.

Raising it high overhead and aiming for the sharp corner of a marble plinth displaying the bust of a southern rockhopper, Dick smashes the absolute shit out of the statuette. It crumbles into bits, emitting a satisfying curl of glowing smoke like the dying embers of a fire.

Penguin snarls in rage. He’s managed to pull himself upright despite the fine tremors still wracking his body. An assessing glance at the rest of the room shows Dick the Emperor’s last shot hadn’t entirely missed; blood is sheeting over the side of his face from the graze gouging a trough diagonally through the hair above his temple. He’s sitting up against the wall where Babs’ tackle had thrown him. She’s already managed to zip tie his hands together and is now switching focus to the more mobile foe.

Penguin’s hands, however, are free. Dick notices this, and the fact that he’s still got the head of the statuette in his hand, now raised in Dick’s direction, but this isn’t a problem at all. Why would it be? Penguin’s his best friend, after all. Dick picks up his escrima to defend his BFF against the bleeding guy and the mean but gorgeous lady, sparks crackling along the ends. 

But Dick’s a little too slow, unfortunately. His beak-nosed buddy receives what looks like a very painful nerve strike from behind, while Dick’s still readying his fighting stance and absently admiring how hot the lady looks as she delivers violence with the speed of a striking viper. 

Penguin drops the head of the statuette, which Babs punts like a football before grabbing the back of his shirt collar and using it to forcefully apply his face into her upraised knee, with a very loud crunching sound. The occult carving spins off and comes to a rest against the back wall of the room.

She repeats this bloody, crunching process to the man responsible for multiple attempts at assassinating her father, twice more in quick succession. Appreciatively, Dick leaves her to it and turns to confiscate the statuette head in order to give it the same treatment as he’d given the body, but this proves unnecessary. The back wall implodes, taking the carved head and a few nearby fake potted plants with it. 

As the debris clears, Batman dramatically steps through, smoke rising from his partially melted boots and cape hem. Despite the utilitarian lighting, the flickering CCTV monitor screens, and the taxidermied macaroni penguin slowly rolling to a stop by Dick’s feet, Bruce somehow manages to serve up the spectral vibes of the vengeful personification of death approaching on a dark and foggy night.

Babs has turfed Cobblepot, and now has a blood-spattered knee between Penguin’s shoulder blades where he’s prone on the ground, even though he’s not putting up a fuss anymore. In fact, he seems to be losing a fight with consciousness. She zip ties him hand and foot while greeting the Dark Knight. “Late to the party, B. Glad you could make it in time for a citizen’s arrest.” 

“Where is Ogilvy?” demands Bruce. 

Dick looks over his shoulder at the empty place where the Emperor had been moments prior. “Shit.” A quick check reveals no visual or heat signature trace of him in the nearby area. “We’ve got Penguin but lost the Emperor,” Dick says, to the open line. In the background, Bruce is trying to raise Robin on comms, but doesn’t seem to be getting an immediate response.

Babs informs the other Birds, “Ogilvy’s wounded but ambulatory; hopefully still has hands bound.”

Black Canary’s voice is starting to sound a bit hoarse. “Roger that. We’ve taken out several waves and the rest seem equally as interested in fighting each other as they are in fighting us. We’ll work on clearing a path out.”

The smell of melted synthetic fabric and acrid chemicals makes Dick aware Bruce is looming over his shoulder in disapproval. “Report. What are the current obstacles to getting the civilians out of danger?”

Babs must pick up on the fact that Dick is about to start yelling, because she says sternly: “Batman. What have we talked about.”

Bruce seems to be gritting his teeth. “Thank you both. Where are the boys?”

Before Dick can answer, Jason’s voice comes over the line. “Robin to all points, need medical assistance immediately, civilian with a GSW.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Detective Drake is gone, for good. Through the pounding haze of adrenaline and his heartbeat in his ears, Tim tries to pretend to be someone else, a spy, an operative, anyone else who can focus and get the job done, but everything is getting too jumbled up inside him. Hearing Dick and the Birds of Prey in his earpiece is even more distracting, so he turns it off altogether. He can turn it back on later to help him avoid the bats on the way out with his parents. 

The brain trailing along behind like a balloon on a string feeling has caught up with him again now that he’s alone. The dust in the vents is prolific, and it’s combining with his clothes, wet from the rain, to make a slimy mess of everything. It’s taking a good portion of his already severely overwhelmed faculties to navigate the vents while trying not to sneeze and alert an enemy to his position. 

How are you going to get out of here? the completely panicking part of Tim thinks wildly. You have no help from the Bats, a purple belt in sport karate, and no weapons. Mom and Dad won’t fit in the vents, we’ll be out in the open on the run. Even checking the heat sensors and having a map of the place can only go so far. 

Breathing too fast, shuffling forward through the vents at an even quicker army crawl, Tim tries to shove these unhelpfully practical thoughts aside. This is negative talk. And these are problems for future Tim, he decides. Any further panicked second-guessing can leave a message at the tone for when he’s collected his parents and they’re on their way to freedom.

Tim tries to play the Mission Impossible theme in his head for a morale boost, but weirdly, the only song that does end up stuck in his churning, tumbling brain is one of the songs he danced to with Selina last night: You’re Nobody til Somebody Loves You. Tim’s gonna find himself somebody to love, who loves him. They’re his family. They love him, and it’s all gonna work out somehow. 

Tim wants to believe it so badly it hurts. 

The song is still stuck in his head, like a mantra, as he drops out of the ceiling vent into a room that has more in common with a nice hotel room than a prison cell.

His parents, alive, unharmed, both whip around to stare at him as he lands, utterly shocked. “Timothy?!” 

Tim’s knees feel wobbly, his stomach swooping as he staggers forward to wrap his arms around his mother, burying his face in her stomach and trying to control the burning behind his eyes and nose. His mother still faintly smells of her familiar perfume as she wraps graceful arms around him, feather-light. A beautiful butterfly, bestowing a gesture of affection. Tim wants to open up to it like a flower in the sun. Much sooner than he is ready for, his mother pulls back, taking him by both shoulders, looking at him like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“What - how on earth are you here?” Her hands are warm on his skin, which is still cold and damp from the rain and traveling through the chilly vents. For once, she doesn’t seem to mind that Tim’s dirty and disheveled. 

His mother and father are both looking at him, really looking at him, not through him like he’s a pane of glass. Their full attention is on him, seeing him.

“I came to rescue you,” Tim says, and has a brief and slightly hysterical vision of Princess Leia here with his parents in hotel-room-like captivity, asking Tim: aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper? “We don’t have much time. Batman is here, the Bats - they’re taking care of the Penguin right now. They - they know what you’ve been doing. For business. With the Penguin. But - if we hurry, I can get us out the back, we can take a boat out into the harbor. We have to go quickly, before they finish and come back for you.”

His mother sits back on her heels, hands dropping from Tim’s shoulders, eyes wide. His father, beside them, claps a hand on his shoulder and gives a chuff of disbelieving laughter. “Told you he was a clever boy, Janet. Chip off the ol’ block.”

Expression moving from shock to business, his mother gives a wry sort of flip to her hair, before moving to gather small personal items and drop them into the purse and travel bag they must have come from the airport with all those days ago. “He gets it from my side of the family, dear.”

A bit slower to process, Tim’s father also begins gathering up his things. Tim tries not to shake with impatience. “Does the Batman being here have anything to do with how you got in to rescue your doting parents?”

Tim’s been flying through the night with the energy of sheer panic. He hasn’t gotten as far as making up a palatable cover story yet, having no intention of telling the full truth to his parents. “It’s a long story, but yeah. More or less. I, uh, I asked them to help me find you.”

Tim receives a hard stare over the desk, where his father has bent to retrieve a briefcase. “So that’s why. You’ve made things pretty difficult for us the past few days, Timothy, trying to explain to Oswald that we didn’t know the Bat or have any idea why he’d be flitting around Drake Manor. If it weren’t for our new partner you would’ve gotten us killed with that little stunt.”

Tim swallows hard, icy fingers trailing down his spine. His father continues, though, with a lighter tone.

“But I always knew you were clever, like your mom and dad. I’m impressed at just how resourceful you’ve been, to use the Bats against Penguin, and help us escape right under their nose!”

In the early bits of his parents’ disappearance, when Detective Drake existed and life still mostly made sense, Tim had daydreamed of this. Rescuing his parents, and how they would tell him they loved him, and praise him for being clever and resourceful. But now, hearing them congratulate him on manipulating and using the Bats, it just tastes kind of like ash. 

It wasn’t like that, he thinks, feeling vaguely ill. I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to help.

His parents haven’t seemed to notice Tim’s lack of response. “We’ve been trying to go into business with a new partner,” his mother is explaining. “He’s been our man on the inside keeping Penguin from getting too bloodthirsty.”

His father harrumphs. “Just draining us dry of all our hard work instead.”

“The Emperor,” Tim says quietly.

Both of his parents’ heads snap towards him, before exchanging a raised eyebrow glance with each other.

“Look at you,” his mother says, ghosting a hand over his cheek as she crosses by Tim to grab a golden tube of lipstick from the counter. “With that kind of talent for discovering little secrets, the business world is going to be child’s play for you.”

His father chuckles at the joke. Tim forces a smile, jittery at the delay while his parents pack, and at the implication of his parents’ hopes for his future. He moves across to the door leading to the hallway, keeping an eye on the heat sensors - which are clear at the moment - and getting ready to use the wrist computer against the electronic locks.

“We’ve had to let go of quite a bit of money due to this whole misunderstanding.” His father closes his briefcase with more force than necessary. “It would have taken us years to get back, being robbed blind by Penguin each time we come back with something valuable. Someone we thought we could trust betrayed us.”

Tim’s oddly hollow insides fill with loud, electric buzzing sparks. His voice is monotone, like it belongs to someone else, when he says, “Rosa. She’s dead.”

His parents share another glance over his head. “That’s unfortunate, baby,” his mother says, “but it does make things a bit easier for our family. Bad things happen to people who betray their employers.”

There’s an emptiness there, in her words, like there is in Tim. A gap where awareness of hypocrisy should be. The spaces inside him, empty except for that unpleasant white noise, begin to fill with anger and unease, which isn’t - it’s not helpful, not for the task at hand, which is saving his parents. Tim tries to silently bail it out before it becomes a problem, throwing buckets of rancid water from a leaky boat.

“But now, thanks to you?” Tim’s father gives a satisfied chuckle, jovially pulling Tim against his side, clapping him heavily on the opposite shoulder. “Well done, Timothy. Our little man. Thanks to you, we have a couple aces up our sleeves now, eh? You have a way to get in contact with Batman, I assume.”

Tim attempts imagining this praise filling him by the bucketful, instead of the other awful stuff. This is going just as he had dreamed it would go, except for maybe missing some I love yous, and the embrace of his parents somehow not being quite as warm as - as he had kind of thought they would feel. “Yeah.”

“Then we can recoup our losses from our new business partner,” his mother says, obviously on the same page as his father. “Your parents are going to provide for your future and then some, Timothy. We’re all set now, to build a new life together.”

Tim sucks in a sharp breath at this confirmation that it’s all going to be worth it, all the terrible decisions he’s made and leaving - leaving everything else behind. His parents have gathered their things, and are picking up their bags to go, together, the three of them, finally.

Tim should be on cloud nine. But - there’s something nagging at him, setting off a distant kind of warning bell in the back of his brain. 

“What do you mean?” Tim asks, slowly. “How will you get all the money back?”

“Let’s talk about it after, sweetheart,” his mother says, pulling her suitcase up next to him with a quick sort of smile, dismissing the subject. “You can unlock the door, we’re ready.”

His parents are now the ones impatient to go, but Tim doesn’t move. “I’d actually really like to know now? Please.”

His mother’s features pinch in annoyance at Tim talking back. “You’re old enough to learn that life isn’t black and white, Timothy. Sometimes you have to take risks and make tough choices to protect what you love. We’ve taught you to be practical, darling.” She smiles tightly.

“Your mother is right,” his father agrees. He’s right in front of Tim now, the height difference between them making it seem like he’s towering over Tim. He taps knuckles against the wall by the door, a non-verbal demand for Tim to get going. “Sometimes doing what’s best for yourself and the people you love means making sacrifices, doing unpleasant things you really don’t want to in order to get shit done.”

Tim still hasn’t moved.

His mother huffs, gives another short shake of her head that sets her expertly straightened hair swinging, the way she does when she thinks Tim is being ridiculous, stubborn. “You don’t have to do anything complicated, darling. All you have to do is stay quiet, and then in a few days ask Batman to meet you so you can thank him in person. Simple.”

His father is frowning deeply, just far enough into Tim’s personal space that it feels like he’s looming over him, with the advantage of superior height and mass. “Unless you think that too much for your parents to ask of you in exchange for feeding, clothing, and providing you the best education money can buy? In order to have a brand new start at life?”

“Jack,” his mother says, quellingly, before giving a fonder, softer smile to Tim, brushing his cheek gently again. Both of his parents are so close it feels almost suffocating, but Tim can’t help leaning into her fingers. “Baby, we’re so proud of you for rescuing us. Or at least, we will be, once you help us get out of all this mess. How about we take a little vacation once this mess is all behind us? A real family adventure. Won’t that be nice?”

“The weekend trip,” Tim says. “For my birthday. Like you promised.”

His father laughs, frown disappearing. “Yes, exactly, son! Bet you thought we forgot. We’ll go wherever you want. We’re going to have trips all the time, the three of us, happy and living a new adventure. Won’t that be fun?”

Tim nods.

“Well, it’s gonna happen. There’s just that one little thing you need to do for us before we can all be together. As soon as you set up the meet with Batman, we’ll be home free.”

Tim’s mouth is desert dry. They’re talking around it, not willing to say it out loud, but Tim understands exactly who would be waiting for Batman when he showed up expecting Tim to thank him. 

Tim can make a reasonable guess that his parents will receive a sum in exchange that would beggar belief, enough to set them all up for life in a different country of their choosing, away from extradition. Or, actually - right here in Gotham, if they wanted, with the Penguin out of commission, the Emperor to keep the law at bay, and no Batman around anymore, to bring consequences down on them.

“That’s all I ever wanted,” Tim croaks, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, trying to keep his voice steady. “To be together, as a family.”

Jack claps him heartily on the back, gives Tim the kind of wide, fond smile he’s always dreamed of earning from his father. “That’s my boy.”

Tim gives a shaky sigh. He leans forward, reaches out, hugging his parents both tightly, as tightly as he can, holding the three of them together as one. “I love you.”

His father shifts, patting him on the shoulder before pulling away. His mother gives a little tinkly laugh. “How sweet. We love you too. My clever baby. We just want what’s best for you, okay? Once we get things sorted out, we can be done with all this unpleasantness, and it’ll just be the three of us. Our little family.”

“Okay,” Tim whispers. “Okay.” He firms his resolve, deliberately turning a blind eye to the consequences of the decision he’s making.

He checks his wrist computer to check heat signatures in the hall one last time. None, but as he’s recently learned, that doesn’t necessarily mean much. He holds his wrist to the door, hearing the soft click of the latch. Opening it a crack, he peeks out. “Let me double check it’s clear.”

There’s no one in the corridor when Tim eels out. No one else sees him, quick as lightning, close and re-lock the door. 

The shouting starts immediately. 

His father’s voice is raised, demanding. His mother is beseeching, begging Tim to open the door. “What are you doing? Let mom and dad out, baby! We love you! Open the door!”

Tim stands, wide open and defenseless, in the middle of the hallway. He stares at the door, hardly seeing it, his mind’s eye looking through it to the room, the family, he’s just left. His parents are less than three feet away from him, alive, and he can have them back, still, and a new life, in a new place, all three of them together. All he has to do is reach out, open the door, and betray the Waynes. 

The door starts getting blurry as he stands there. His eyes are burning, and there’s a spiky lump in his throat, choking him. The voices of his parents are blurring, slowly dissolving into the staticky white noise that’s all that remains of his brain, lifting it up, allowing it to drift away on the wild breeze.

“We love you, Timothy! What are you waiting for? Open the door, sweetheart!”

He claps his hands over his ears, a sob bubbling up. Tim tries to shove it down, hold his breath, but when he runs out of air he heaves a breath that cracks down the middle. He turns and half-runs blindly down the corridor, desperate to stop hearing his parents begging Tim to help them, to help them be safe and happy as a family. To help them lead Bruce into a deadly trap he’d never see coming, not from Tim.

Someone grabs him from the side. He fights instinctively, ineffectively. He’s so stupid, so stupid, he should have been paying better attention to his surroundings.

It’s no use. He’s wrapped in a hold and dragged down the hallway, despite his fighting and flailing. He really is useless, he thinks, and his captor must know it too, because they aren’t even bothering to hurt him.

In fact, they are talking to him, pulling his hands away from his ears, speaking softly. “Tim. Timmy, what happened?”

It’s Robin. Jason.

Tim tries to get words out, coughs on a shuddery breath as he’s pulled into a shallow alcove and Jason stands in front of him, watching for enemies like Tim should have been doing, hiding Tim behind his cape as he listens. “My parents.”

Jason turns to look at him over a shoulder, eyes shocked, and it belatedly hits Tim that with his blubbering and wailing, Jason probably thinks they are dead and Tim’s found their bodies, but that’s not it at all. Tim shakes his head, still crying, tries to pull himself together enough to be coherent.

“They - they wanted me to - they were going to sell Batman. They wanted me to tell Batman to come meet me, but it wouldn’t be me there. When he came. It would be the Emperor. They wanted me to, so they could still have everything, start over again somewhere else.”

Tim knows he isn’t making much sense, but thoughts and words are sliding around his brain like ice on a hot stove, melting away into steam before he can grab hold. “I - I was going to get them out, so they wouldn’t go away, to prison. I was, they said they would take me with them this time, she - she said they loved me, all I had to do was this one little thing after all they’ve done for me and we could finally be together as a family. But I left. I left them. I locked them in instead. They said they love me. And I left them there. So you could take them - they’re gonna have to go to jail.”

Jason looks away, scanning the corridor again, but not before Tim sees a murderous look in his eyes.

Tim shudders, wrapping his arms around himself. The intangible threads that connect him to anyone else in the world have snapped. They broke the second he locked the door behind him. He’s adrift, alone, fully and for good, and this time it’s his own fault. 

“Is Batman -? Is he okay?” Tim says, wiping a sleeve over his face, too empty inside to care anymore that he’s losing it in front of Jason, in the middle of Penguin’s stronghold.

Jason tightens his hold, his arm now around Tim’s shoulders. “He’s fine. His boots deserve a Viking funeral for their honorable death in battle, but otherwise B’s unscathed. We made a hell of a distraction, long enough for the cavalry to arrive. Buncha feds just got here. GCPD are - well, who knows what side they’ll be on, so’s just as well they ain’t here yet. Batman an’ Nightwing’ll get to us soon. Then we can get  …Jack and Janet and all get the hell out of here. We just gotta get somewhere less exposed to wait, okay?”

Jason looks both ways, then drags Tim with him out of the alcove and down through the twisting maze of hallways with a steadying hand on Tim’s arm. He lifts his other wrist to check his map readout. “There should be a storage closet up ahead we can hide -”

A door ahead of them opens suddenly, startling both of them, and a figure bursts out, horribly familiar to Tim despite the blood covering half his face.

“Emperor,” Tim says, not realizing he’s spoken out loud until it’s too late - Ogilvy’s grim eyes narrow, locking on Tim fixedly.

Tim has frozen, but Jason hasn’t. He throws something ahead, between them and the Emperor, and follows it up with several batarangs. Dark smoke instantly obscures the area, and Tim is pushed behind Jason, dragged down a side hall. 

An odd twang, like a crossbow, sounds behind them, where Ogilvy was, and then two sets of running feet are moving - away? It’s hard to tell.

Jason shoves Tim ahead. He’s watching their backs, checking that the Emperor isn’t chasing them. In that crucial half-second, he doesn’t see another man turn a corner, gun raised, aiming for the bright yellow-red-green of the Robin armor.

Jason doesn’t see it, but Tim does. And as soon as Tim sees the gun pointing toward Jason, time slows to a halt. 

Months ago, following in Robin’s footsteps had been a challenge, a puzzle, a hobby. But now? Everything’s changed. It’s all horribly real, and Tim’s not observing it all from the outside of a lens. 

Jason’s going to die. It’s not like the video games they’ve played together on the huge comfortable couch in the cozy den in Wayne Manor, where it’s only game over, and Jason will get another chance at life. He’ll just be dead. Gone. Forever. 

Tim flings his arms out and throws himself at Jason’s unprotected back, knocking him out of the way.

At first, there’s just a harsh force, a fist punching his side with enough power to spin him around, send him stumbling, falling half on Jason and onto the floor. Then the impact with the ground ripples through his body, and his side is on fire, the pain under his ribs screaming through all the nerves in his body. It leaves him breathless and gasping for air, curling up protectively around himself.

It’s a thousand times worse than the cuddle pollen had been. It’s not cold and numbing. This pain is hot, ragged, all-consuming.  There’s no refuge from it, searing and inescapable.

Despite the gun, the danger, the wildfire of pain scouring through him and leaving nothing but ash in its wake blots out everything else. Tim’s momentarily half-blind and deaf. There’s nothing else beyond the pulsing burn of him but enraged yells, movement too quick to follow, a meaty thud from the other end of the corridor.

Hands are suddenly on his, pulling them away from the wet heat of his side. A shrill curse. Then a hand on his face, firmly forcing him to look up. “Tim!”

Tim opens his eyes, only now realizing they’ve been pinched shut against the pain. Jason’s agonized face is right over his own, like he’s the one with a blazing coal burning him alive from the inside out, not Tim.

Robin’s hands are gentle as they wrap under his knees and shoulder, but the pain spikes again, white hot, when he moves. When Tim can open his eyes again, they’re in somewhere enclosed. The storage closet. Not wide open for anyone to shoot at. 

Jason is talking, in his Robin-voice, tense and quick. “Robin to all points, need medical assistance immediately, civilian with a GSW.”

Jason’s pulling gauze out of a belt pocket as he talks into the comm, and then he’s putting it on Tim’s belly and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts - 

Without any input from Tim’s brain, his body writhes to get away from Jason’s pressing hands. Tim immediately discovers that movement of any kind is bad, very bad, horrible, and falls limp again, wrung out like a damp rag, beads of sweat on his forehead. 

Jason has been talking again, but it’s not his Robin-voice. His voice sounds as shaky as Tim feels. “Shh, stay still, stay still. Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, Tim! What the hell were you thinking?”

Tim hadn’t been thinking much of anything, is the unvarnished truth. But there’s plenty of logical reasons for it to have been the right decision, if he’d had the time to put thought into it. Tim didn’t have any batarangs to throw and wouldn’t have known how to aim them if he did, for one. He doesn’t have any special fighting skills. He’s not a brawler like Jason or deftly athletic like Dick, and he sure as heck’s no Batman. He’s just a nobody. He’s just Tim. That’s all he had going for him, what he had left to try and push Jason out of the way, so he did. Simple as.

Tim doesn’t have the energy to explain all of that, though. He goes to shrug, but it pulls sharply at his wound, making a horrible noise escape his throat. Shakily, he gets out, “Didn’t want you to die. Your family needs you. An’ you’re - you’re fuckin’ Robin.”

Kneeling over him, pulling things haphazardly from his utility belt, Jason is startled into a wobbly bark of a laugh. “Language, Timbit.”

“Not the boss of me,” Tim whispers, feeling like talking any louder will send the pain boiling over, seeping out like lava and burning whatever else it touches. “Batman needs a Robin.” He tries to pull his lips into a reassuring smile, tasting copper on his tongue and between his teeth. He might have bitten his tongue at some point, but it’s impossible to focus on any other part of his body except the fire underneath his ribs. “Nobody needs a Tim.” Tim tilts his head to the side, the best he can get to a shrug.

It doesn’t work. Jason falters uncharacteristically, his hands covering Tim’s wound with some kind of fabric. When he sees Tim’s attempt at a smile, his face does something awful, fracturing into jagged pieces. “No. No. You’re wrong. You’re wrong, you’re so fucking wrong! I need a Tim.” He presses down harder, making Tim give a animalistic whine. “You’re going to be fine, okay? You gotta stay with me, alright? We need a Tim. Nightwing definitely needs a Tim. B needs a Tim. Batgirl and Agent A need a Tim too.” Jason’s breath hitches. “I need a Tim, okay, do you understand me? And if Robin needs a Tim, and Batman needs a Robin, and Gotham needs Batman, then you’re staying awake because all of Gotham needs you to, alright? Transitive property, just like you told me. You said it yourself, smartypants. Stay with me for Gotham, Timmy, can you do that? Just - stay awake for me? Please?”

Tim tries to answer him, he really does, but the words get lost somewhere in the pain, and all he succeeds in doing is choking on a groan of agony.

When Tim fails to answer, Jason increases pressure on the wound, which makes the pain explode in fiery sunbursts across his abdomen. “Tim? Timmy?” The pressure eases fractionally, for a second, as Jason takes one hand away to slap at his ear, leaving streaks of bright red blood - Tim’s blood, which is supposed to be inside of him - streaked on Jason’s cheek. “B? Anybody? Where are you?! I need help, right fucking now, Timmy’s hurt, someone help me!”

There’s something wet and warm and sticky slowly flowing onto where Tim’s hand is lying on the floor by his side. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I lied. To everybody. Messed everything up. S-sorry.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now.” 

But it does, doesn’t it? And for what? For nothing, in the end. And the person he had been lying to the most, above all, had been himself. 

The door to their closet is suddenly flung wide, startling Tim and sending another white hot spike of pain through him, but when he’s able to focus again, the people suddenly inside their cramped space aren’t enemies; it’s Nightwing and Batman. Dick and Bruce. 

Bruce trades places with Robin like they’ve practiced it a hundred times. Not ungently, he demands, “Robin. Report.”

Dick folds himself into a seated position by Tim’s head, his face white under the domino. “Hey, hey, hey, Tim. Hey, bud, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay.”

Tim leans in to the warm hand on his cheek. He tries to pretend the uneven, jagged breaths he’s taking are only because of the pain.

“I told him to go home, I tried to stop him.” Jason is standing now, hovering by the doorway, gloved fists clenching and unclenching. “I found him by the Drakes. He was crying, B. It, it went bad. I was trying to get him into a safer spot to wait for you. But then the Emperor showed up. I made a diversion and we escaped - but there was another guy. I didn’t see him in time. Tim, he, he pushed me. I tried - I was trying to keep him safe - I didn’t -”

“Robin,” Batman says, firm and direct, not taking his eyes off whatever he’s doing by Tim’s belly, pulling out and opening strange white padding things. “Emergency services is on frequency Alpha-3. Advise them we need a medical flight immediately and find them a clear spot to put down.”

Tim’s head is starting to hurt, which is really weird, because he didn’t hit his head. And it’s starting to get really cold in here. 

Batman must have finished with whatever he was getting ready, because he presses down, harder than before, and it’s so shockingly painful Tim screams.

Dick is there, shifting so he’s got an arm under Tim’s head, blocking Tim’s view of whatever Bruce is doing that hurts like hell. “I’m so sorry, Timmy.”

The ebbing of the sharp shock of fresh pain allows Tim to talk again, though it takes him a few tries. “They were gonna let - let Batman get  - get hurt. Or worse. To save themselves.”

“Nah,” Dick says, rubbing Tim’s arm gently. “It would take a lot more than what ol’ waddles has to take Batman out. Not when we’re around to pull his tuchus out of the fire.”

“No. No, after. After that,” Tim says. It’s important that Dick knows this, knows what they tried to make Tim do. “They - they wanted me to help them set up - help them sell Batman to the Emperor. A trap. They said if I did it we could all be together again, somewhere far away. We’d start over and be a family. Together. Like I always wanted.”

Dick says nothing, only continues squeezing Tim close, looking gutted. 

“I would never,” Tim says, clutching Dick’s hand as hard as he possibly can, desperate for him to believe Tim. “Even for - even for that. I would rather die.”

Dick leans close, drops a gentle kiss on Tim’s hair. “I know you wouldn’t, Timmy. I know you wouldn’t ever, not in a million years. You’re not gonna die, alright? It’s all gonna be okay.”

Squeezing his eyes closed, forcing a warm tear out from between his lids to drip into his hair, Tim whispers, voice wobbling in and out: “They were gonna go, and leave me behind. Forever.”

Dick’s mouth pulls down at the edges, sorrow out of place on his normally cheerful face. He rests his forehead gently against the side of Tim’s. “I’m so sorry, baby bird.”

Admitting it at last to himself, Tim finally says it out loud. “They said they loved me.” His throat closes up around the words, voice becoming paper-thin, a thread. “But they were lying. They were lying, weren’t they?”

Making a nearly inaudible noise of distress, Dick wraps his arm further around Tim, despite the awkward angle. He turns Tim’s head into the curve of Dick’s shoulder. “Try not to think about that right now, okay, Timmy? We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere without you. We’re not gonna leave you behind. I promise. That’s a bat-promise. A Robin promise. Those are unbreakable.”

“A Robin promise,” Tim repeats, querulously.

“Yup. You got it, baby bird. Just try to stay awake, alright?”

Jason’s voice comes from somewhere above him, where Tim can’t see. It’s getting harder to keep track of what’s going on around him. “Life flight says ETA 2 minutes.”

“Batgirl, secure a clear landing perimeter as soon as Penguin’s in custody. Canary, retrieve the Drakes, then assist with clearing the perimeter for entry. Robin, go rendezvous with EMS. Show them where to meet us.”

“But -”

“Chum. We’ll be right behind you. Go now, go quickly.”

Tim turns his head in time to catch a glimpse of wide eyes and stricken expression, before Jason turns and runs like his life depends on it.

“Nightwing. I’ll take him. Cover us.”

Dick says something in response, but Tim is abruptly being jostled, lifted, and there’s nothing but white-hot, blazing agony for a span of time that could be seconds or hours. 

When Tim’s capable of using some of his senses again, it still takes a long while to parse out what’s going on. 

Distant voices are shouting things that sound like “FBI!” and “Freeze!” Closer by, a blur of blue and black is ahead of them, seeming to be liberally applying smoke bombs and other projectiles to anything that moves in the vicinity. There’s something dark and heavy wrapped around Tim, and he’s being moved, quickly. The Bat emblem is solid against Tim’s shoulder. He’s being carried in a warm, implacable grip. 

It’s a painful kind of hug, given the circumstances. Spikes of agony flare with each running, jarring footfall. In spite of everything, though, it’s still sturdy and engulfing in a way even Dick’s hugs aren’t. Dick’s hugs melt and surround. Bruce is broad, solid, and steady, like a rock warmed by the afternoon sun. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim murmurs remorsefully. He must be loud enough for Batman to hear over all the background noise, because the whiteouts and spiked tips of the cowl tilt down slightly to look at Tim. “I know I messed up. I was trying to help you. Help mom and dad. Help Robin. Robin needs you. Robin - He’s my best friend. I just wanted him to be safe.”

“You’ve done amazingly well in an incredibly difficult situation, Tim.” Bruce has dipped his head further down even as he runs. He’s speaking in his own naturally deep, somber voice next to Tim’s ear, with none of Batman’s gravel. “You’re a very brave boy. One of the very bravest people I’ve ever met. Robin’s very lucky to have you. We’re all very lucky to have you.”

This is too nonsensical and astonishing for Tim to make any kind of reply, but Batman must not mind, or if he does, it gets lost in the shuffle while Tim gets lost in the whirling confusion again. 

There’s more noise, and colored lights strobing and flashing in the darkness. There are lots of strangers around him.

I’m at the circus? Tim wonders.

Batman is here, so that tracks. But he’s not carrying Dick, he’s carrying Tim.

“Batman?” he slurs thickly, in confusion and tentative awe. “D’ju come for me, this time?” 

“Yes,” Bruce says, quiet and melancholy. “I will always come when you need me. I’m so sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

“S’aight,” Tim says, too pained and too tired and too delighted at this idea for proper grammar. “You’re here. Just for me, this time. Tha’s amazing.” He tries to give Batman a reassuring, appreciative pat, but can’t really tell if it lands on the armor or not. While he wasn’t paying attention, Tim’s hands and feet seem to have been dipped in ice water. They’re cold and numb and tingly. 

“My hands are cold,” reports Tim, as it seems important to let Batman know about this unusual situation. Now that he’s thinking about it, actually, despite the cold hands and feet he’s all sweaty, and breathing fast. Which is weird, because Batman’s the one running. And he’s running really, really fast. Like, wow. Super fast. Like the Flash.

Batman shifts so he’s carrying Tim oddly as he runs, Tim’s feet up high and head down low. It’s adding to the dizzy feeling of being sucked down, falling into an endless abyss. Tim’s not sure what’s waiting for him at the bottom of the fall, but he’s suddenly filled with an awful dread of finding out.

Tim tries to grip tighter to Batman, even though he can’t tell if he’s successful at it. He confesses, “I’m scared.” 

Batman doesn’t say anything, so at first Tim thinks Batman maybe didn’t hear him, but then he’s being held even tighter, so maybe he did hear after all.

It’s a lot more wet at the circus than he remembers it. Cold water keeps falling from the sky onto his face and neck where he isn’t cocooned by the cape. Tim’s getting held just like Dick had after his parents fell. Which makes sense, because suddenly he can see Dick is here as well, his kind and worried face next to him in the pinwheeling noise and movement of the circus. If things weren’t so painful and confusing, it would feel really, really nice. It’s just - there’s a lot more pain than he remembers from the last time he was in the big tent. 

Really kind of a lot more pain, actually. He’s being moved again, and it hurts. Tim makes gutted, wheezing noises that would be shrieks if he had more energy and the world was less gray. When he surfaces from the pain next, Batman‘s arms are gone from around him. The cape is gone, too, and he’s freezing cold. 

It turns out this isn’t the circus, after all. He’s lying on something flat and hard. Someone is strapping him down onto it. There’s noise like a helicopter and whipping wind around him. Strange voices are around him and strange hands are doing incomprehensible things.

Bruce is gone. He can’t see Dick anymore. He’s alone in the midst of strangers again.

“Where are you?” Tim cries plaintively, panic rising. “Don’t go! Please, please don’t! I don’ wanna be alone!”

There’s a hand softly running through his hair, suddenly, like magic, and another hand in his, squeezing firmly. “I’m right here, Timmy, I’m right here.”

There’s a smaller hand on his arm, grabbing like a lifeline. He thinks it might be Jason.

“Timbit, we’re not gonna leave you, you hear me? You gotta stay with us, alright?”

It’s Jason’s voice, but he sounds scared. Tim’s never, ever heard him sound scared before. He wonders if he should be worried that something is really, really wrong, if Jason is afraid. The hindbrain instinct that makes people run when everyone else is running away from something unseen tries to kick in, but Tim can’t hold onto a thought long enough to act on it.

Tim can hear him from a long way off, down a tunnel. Everything is gray and blurry and buzzy, black dots edging into his vision and his head pounding. The ice water his hands and feet are in has flooded all the way up to his chest. He’s freezing, but starting to melt away at the same time.

Dick is also somehow both right next to his ear and at the other end of the tunnel. “I’m right here. We’re not going anywhere without you, I promise. Squeeze my hand, Timmy. Timmy? Squeeze my hand, buddy!”

It’s impossible for Tim to do what they want, no matter how much he tries. His hands don’t seem to be attached to him anymore. His body is dissolving into nothingness around him. He can’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing, or what was important for him to not think about anymore. It doesn’t seem to matter that Dick is promising he and Jason aren’t going anywhere, because Tim is the one going. 

He’s going, going  …gone.

Chapter Text

Just because something seems impossible doesn't mean it can't be true. 

- Encyclopedia Brown

Jason has curled himself up tight, arms around knees, sneakers on the wood of the miniature pew, toes pushed into the very corner where the pew meets the wall, and his head pressed into the wet fabric of his jeans. The wooden bench is hard and uncomfortable to sit on, and the rough edges of the metal gripped in his fist are a sharp bite of pain. As far as Jason’s concerned, it’s the least of what he deserves.

Out of the corner of his eye, under his leg, the hospital linoleum floor is painted in watercolors by the light cast from the semi-circular faux stained glass window between Jason’s pew and the other facing it, both jammed into a tiny alcove. Jason’s never been a believer, but it’s the closest thing to privacy to be found anywhere near Wayne Memorial’s emergency surgery wing. 

The last time he’d been anywhere with stained glass and chairs designed for penitence, he’d been keeping another oppressive vigil, waiting for his mother to be done with a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Whatever she’d gotten from it either hadn’t stuck with her, or hadn’t been enough, in the end. The only thing from it that had stuck, for Jason at least, was a quote that had been painted on the hallway wall, which went something like: No greater love than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.

What really makes the memory taste like poison is the jealousy that had festered in Jason, of Tim’s clear hero-worship of Dick. Despite everything, Tim’s unequivocally proved how he felt about Jason, in the worst possible way.

The first time he’d ever met Tim, before he even knew his name, the certainty of Jason being responsible for Tim’s death when he and the Joker had both gone over the edge had caused Jason’s soul to leave his body at the thought. Now that he knows Tim - really knows him - Jason would give anything to look down and see Tim’s tiny, startled face looking back, whole and well, even if it meant he’d only run far away from Jason again afterwards as soon as he got the chance.

But he can’t, and he doesn’t, and the memory of the last time Jason saw him, of Tim’s pale form, strapped down on the gurney, turning unnaturally still as death, won’t stop haunting him. 

The night they met, Jason had thought he’d killed Tim. It turns out - what a joke - he just hadn’t succeeded until today.

Quiet footsteps hesitate in front of the alcove, and then Jason’s pew is creaking under the weight of a warm body sitting next to him. A pair of Chuck Taylors slides into the narrow view underneath Jason’s knee, electric blue hightops painted geometric pastels in the stained glass light. 

“He’s gonna be okay,” Dick says, but the quiet tone of exhaustion tells Jason this isn’t news from the surgeon, it’s just the relentless optimist talking out of his ass. 

Jason’s shoulders tense even further. “You don’t know that!” he hisses venomously, squeezing his fist tighter on top of his knee, not bothering to look up and risk losing it entirely and doing something stupid, like punching his brother in the face for a well-intentioned lie.

Dick lets this pass. After a moment, he reaches for Jason’s wrist. Jason puts up a token show of resistance, not moving the rest of his body, but eventually surrenders the arm and lets his brother gently pry open his fingers.

There’s a weighted pause, where Dick must be looking at the old bottle cap in silence. Jason allows this, too, but when he feels Dick’s blunt, calloused fingers try to take it, Jason stuffs it back into his jeans pocket with the hand that isn’t firmly trapped with acrobat strength.

“It should have been me, Dickie,” Jason croaks through a throat that feels suddenly like sandpaper, eyes stinging.

There’s movement behind him. Dick’s getting up and leaving, because he knows Jason’s right, he fucked up and now Timmy’s dying alone in an operating theatre, and Dick can’t bear to be around him anymore, and Jason deserves it, he does -

Dick hasn’t let go of his wrist. Jason’s feet are being lifted, and Dick is eeling between Jason and the corner, sitting down in front of him and replacing Jason’s legs over his lap. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick whispers. He’s gently rubbing the indentation marks of the bottle cap from Jason’s palm. 

Robin is supposed to save kids, to keep kids from getting hurt. Robin is supposed to be magic. But Jason couldn’t even save Tim. 

“I was supposed to protect him,” Jason confesses, throat working, jaw tight. This failure is the worst of all his sins. The heavy weight of it, having killed Tim, feels like it’s crushing the life out of Jason, too.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bruce finds the boys tucked together, hidden away as much as possible in the austere hallways and harsh industrial lighting. Jason is sitting sideways, curled into his brother’s lap as though trying to protect a wounded underbelly. 

He’s shaking. 

Dick has one arm steadily keeping his brother from falling. He’s leaning his cheek against Jason’s hair, and has his other arm hooked protectively around Jason’s head. Everything about their postures suggests that Jason is falling apart and Dick is trying to physically hold the pieces together.

Bruce’s heart aches, taking in this scene. He knows his younger son well enough to know that when the thick shield he puts up against the world breaks, Jason cries exactly like he does everything else: furiously, with his whole heart and soul in it. Bruce also knows his older son well enough to know Dick’ll sooner quietly break his own heart in two before he’ll lose his grip holding tight to the people he loves.

Arm completely encircling his brother’s head, Dick’s curled in close, pinching his thumb and forefingers into the corners of his closed eyelids. When Dick senses Bruce approaching, he looks up, revealing eyes that are anguished and red-rimmed. Bruce gives a slight shake of his head in response to the wordless question, and sinks onto the other pew, knees nearly touching his son’s, while Dick collects himself.

“It’s been a long night,” Bruce says eventually, when Dick says nothing and Jason doesn’t move. At a loss for anything more useful to offer, Bruce advises, “You should eat.”

“Fuck off,” Jason mumbles wetly, heatless, from between his knees. 

Bruce has to look down at what’s in his hand to remember what’s in it. “I brought cookies. From the vending machine.”

Jason sniffs thickly, but otherwise doesn’t react. Keeping hold on his brother with one hand, Dick reaches out the other, movements uncharacteristically dull and slow. “Thanks, B.” The cookie packet disappears into the pocket of his hoodie. “Maybe later.”

Now empty handed, Bruce is at even more of a  loss.

Jason’s muffled voice isn’t hopeful when he asks, “Is he out of surgery?”

Bruce shakes his head, though Jason can’t see it with his head buried between his knees and Dick wrapped around him. “Still no word. I just came to check on you two.”

“We’re not the ones that got fucking shot.”

“Jay,” Dick says softly, quelling.

“No,” Bruce acknowledges tiredly, ignoring this icy stab at a place inside him, already bruised and bleeding, and the hollow ache that follows from the sudden memory of Jason saying you gotta protect him - like you did for me. He’s failed both of them, and that’s a venomous sting that will fester. “But you’re my sons, and you’re hurting.”

Bruce pauses, then leans forward across the short distance separating him from his boys. He puts a hand on the back of both sons’ necks. Feels them: warm, breathing, alive.

After a long moment, Dick clears his throat. “You should get back. In case he’s out.”

Brittle and pessimistic, Jason adds: “Or in case he’s dead.”

Flinching, feeling that like a physical blow, Bruce tightens his grasp on his sons. “Jaylad,” he starts, and then isn’t sure where to go from there.

“Will one of you just fucking go already,” Jason demands, sniffling.

Dick gives Bruce a shallow nod. 

Bruce goes.

The sterile, lifeless waiting room is still empty when he returns. He collapses stiffly into the same plastic chair he’s been camped out in for the last several hours since his mad dash across the city, on his fastest civilian car’s speakerphone with his lawyer trying to wrangle an emergency medical power of attorney, flagrantly breaking the speed limit the entire way, while pulling on spare clothes and wiping Tim’s blood off his skin. 

Bruce scrubs a hand down his face, across his five-o-clock shadow, steadfastly attempting to ignore the wailing dread and helplessness trying to drown him in self-flagellation. With neither of his sons there to witness it, he allows himself the cold comfort of resting his head in his hands for a brief moment.

The soft noise of the door opening sends him to instant alertness. A woman wearing scrubs and an expression of carefully neutral professionalism enters the waiting room. “Family of Timothy Drake?”

“Yes,” says Bruce.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

It’s dark. 

Tim’s floating, disconnected from his body. It takes him a weirdly long amount of time to remember he’s got hands, and realize that one of them is warm. 

There’s something strange about all this, but having solved the mystery of recognizing he’s got a body has exhausted all of Tim’s mental faculties at the moment. Sherlock Holmes would be so disappointed in him. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Tim discovers that it’s still dark because his eyes are closed. Summoning the superhuman strength to pry an eyelid up into a vague squint reveals a room that isn’t familiar, and a blurry figure that is. 

It looks like Jason, sleeping on a very uncomfortable looking couch on the far side of the room, but he looks horrible, puffy and red faced, black circles bruising under his eyes. Jason looks like a zombie who’s freshly pulled himself out of a grave. More than that, Jason looks… sad.

Tim doesn’t want Jason to be sad. “What’s wrong,” he tries to ask, but there’s something in his throat and it comes out as a slurred, raspy groan.

“Tim?” someone asks, from his other side, and there’s pressure like his hand is being squeezed, but before he can try talking again, or move his head to see who’s next to him, Tim has floated away again.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The next time Tim wakes up, there’s still much more negative space between himself and the rest of his body than he seems to recall there used to be. His super sleuth skills allow him to puzzle out that the darkness that remains in the room even after he’s pried open his eyes, is because it’s night. His keen observation also allows him to discern that this time, there’s no one on the couch on the other side of the room.

After a lot of woozy blinking, with heroic effort he’s able to get his noodle neck to turn his hot air balloon head to the other side.

There’s a gargoyle crouched on top of the chair pulled next to the bed Tim’s lying in. It seems to be daring any kind of danger to come close enough to try and touch Tim. 

More slow blinking brings the figure into clearer focus, revealing that the gargoyle is Jason. 

Tim stares at Jason.

Jason stares at Tim. 

“Jay?” Tim croaks, finding his throat is dry and scraped raw, and starts to ask why are you a gargoyle? but he’s interrupted by Jason going on a rollercoaster facial journey as he leans over into Tim’s personal space.

Jason takes a fistful of the hair at the front of his forehead, yanking it forward and into Tim’s face. “Do you see this, Tim? Do you see this?!”

Confused, Tim goes cross-eyed, blearily attempting to look at Jason’s hair from an inch away. 

“I’m getting white hairs!” Jason wails. “Because of you!!”

Tim doesn’t get a chance to respond before Jason is suddenly grabbing onto him - which doesn’t exactly hurt so much as feel like something would be hurting if it wasn’t miles away and covered by heavy wool blankets - and bursting into tears.

Increasingly confused and extremely overwhelmed, Tim rasps: “What’s happening?”

“I’m giving you a hug,” Jason tells him wetly, “You gigantic, colossal little idiot.”

Jason does a lot of muttering - interspersed with shaking and hiccuping - that Tim doesn’t entirely manage to understand. But what Tim does understand, and is very very cool with, is being the recipient of a quite nice, if slightly strangle-y, Jason hug, so. Super duper fine by him. 

“Oh,” Tim says.

Eventually Jason seems to catch his breath, and fussily maneuvers himself and Tim’s blankets until he’s gingerly perched on the bed next to Tim, arm around Tim’s shoulders and resting his chin on Tim’s head.

“…This’s really nice,” Tim observes out loud.

“Yeah, it is,” Jason agrees, thickly. 

Tim is very much enjoying living warm and floaty in the now, drifting hazily like a leaf on the wind, but a passing thought occurs. Tim’s eyebrows draw together. “Are Bruce and Dick okay?”

“Other than the aneurysms and heart attacks, you mean?” Jason says, with a sardonic sort of edge.

Tim’s head whips up as quickly as his cooked spaghetti neck allows; which is not very quickly at all. “What?!” he asks, feeling his eyes bulging out of his head in horror.

Jason looks slightly chagrined. “I’m joking. Well. Kind of.” 

This is more baffling than reassuring to Tim. 

Jason ruffles Tim’s hair gently. “Everyone’s fine, Timmy. I forgot you’re about a third morphine by volume at the moment. Painkillers’ll rattle your brain for a while.”

Tim is having a lot of trouble keeping up with the conversation, which is almost as upsetting as the thought of Dick and Bruce both having some kind of sudden onset incapacitating illness. “Where are they?” Tim asks, feeling his bottom lip starting to quiver. “Did - did they leave you behind?”

“What? No! Nobody’s leaving anybody behind. Not anymore,” Jason insists fiercely. “In fact, that’s where they are right now. Having a very strongly worded conversation about that very subject. I wanted to go and make that lesson stick, but my methods were outvoted.”

Tim’s now hopelessly lost. “…what?”

Jason fiddles with the blankets again, tucking them in more firmly around Tim. “Don’t worry about it, Timburrito. I got the better part of the deal, anyway, stickin’ with you tonight.”

“Oh,” Tim says knowledgeably, like he understands anything that’s happening right now.

Jason doesn’t seem like he’s fooled. “Go to sleep,” he orders, but doesn’t make any move to get off the bed. 

“You’re staying?” Tim ventures, just to be sure.

“Yeah. Dickie and B will be back soon.”

“Wow,” Tim says. Then, “That’s so nice.”

Jason snorts. “Get used to it, kid.”

“Wow,” Tim says again, and when that doesn’t seem to do his feelings justice, adds, “Wow. It’s like… gonna be a party.”

Jason gives another mucusy snort. “Timberly. You are lit. Zonked. Toasted. Whacked out on the ‘scription scooby snacks. You’re probably not even gonna remember any of this. Just go back to sleep, my dude.”

“‘kay,” Tim says easily, head flopping over onto Jason’s shoulder, and is out in seconds.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Dick tries not to be obvious about how suspiciously he eyes the beat cop guarding the hall, as Dick re-enters Tim’s private hospital room and the door closes behind him. 

Babs still sees it, though. “He’s one of Dad’s,” she says quietly, scooting over on the visitor’s couch. The recovery room is the sort of determinedly, soullessly upbeat that characterizes most pediatric wards: all bright yellows and pale blues, floral patterned privacy curtains, and a tv on mute playing old Looney Tunes shorts. The obligatory window that is designed not to physically be able to open more than three inches would overlook the city, but the blinds are currently drawn. 

Taking a seat next to her, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, Dick rests the side of his head against hers and takes a second to just breathe. Babs reaches for his hand, and the firm pressure of her fingers against his goes a long way to grounding him.

“Has he woken up again?” Dick asks.

“Not since I’ve been here. But they said that was to be expected.” Babs gives his hand a squeeze. “My Birds are still out looking. Any leads from B?”

The icy cold fury at the Emperor, who has gone completely to ground, wells up in him again. Having police protection against the chance of him trying to get at Tim again is a joke, considering how many of the PD are probably even now in the pocket of Emperor or someone equally unsavory who isn’t currently on the run or languishing in federal custody. 

One of the Bats has been in Tim’s recovery room at all times since the moment he got out of surgery.

“Looks like he might have taken a boat and escaped via the harbor. But Selina seems to think he’s still in town.”

“Selina? I thought she was keeping a low profile after the police union gala.”

Dick shrugs tiredly. “She was. Until…” he uses his free hand to gesture at Tim’s small, pale form lying on the hospital bed. A stuffie of a black cat has quietly appeared in the hours since Dick’s last visit, and now sits on the bedside table next to Stuart the bat-goose and the crowds of flowers and helium get-well-soon balloons.

Babs shifts towards him slightly, so she can press her forehead against his. “I should get back out there. We’ll find him,” she promises. 

Dick nods, giving her hand a last squeeze before letting go. Babs presses a kiss to his cheek, and then he’s alone with Tim.

He’s heard music is supposed to help heal. At the very least it’s certainly better to have something productive to occupy Dick’s brain instead of staring dumbly at the walls while he waits for Tim to be well enough to wake up again. Unzipping the padded cloth case he brought with him from the Manor, Dick pulls one of the uncomfortable plastic visitors chairs close enough for him to lean an arm against Tim’s bedside. 

He’s been quietly playing his guitar for some time, and is finishing up the last chord of Blackbird when Dick realizes Tim’s awake. 

“Hey bud,” Dick says, helplessly grinning down in relief at finally, personally seeing Tim’s bleary eyes open for the first time since seeing his blood-soaked body loaded into the life-flight helicopter. He rests the guitar against the bed and leans over, giving Tim’s soft dark hair a gentle stroke. “How you doing?”

Tim gives him a small, heavily medicated smile in return. Blinking slowly in a way that strongly suggests this visit to the waking world isn’t going to be a long one, Tim whispers, “Will you sing the other one? The one you were singing before.”

“Absolutely,” Dick says instantly. “Whatever you want, Timmy. Which one?”

Tim wrinkles his nose in hazy thought, putting Dick strongly in mind of a mouse trying to remember where it left its cheese. “It was like a lullaby. Kind of sad. Really pretty. It was in another language.”

Dick’s thumb pauses briefly where it’s been tracing a slow rhythm against Tim’s temple, before resuming its path. “Romani. My parents used to sing it to me.” He sniffs away the slight sting behind his nose, even as he offers Tim a slightly wobbly smile. “Sure, baby bird. I’ll play it extra special for you.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim’s meds have been reduced enough for him to become aware of a dull burning ache in his abdomen, and able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a stretch. It leaves him still drowsy, but lucid enough to remember things he’d much rather continue to forget. 

His fumbling attempts to ignore the impending sense of doom, and choose to only live in the floaty present, hadn’t been super effective until he’d hazily managed to bring Detective Drake out of retirement, Columbo-“one last thing”-style. So far he’s been able to loosely grab hold of Detective Drake’s sangfroid for fleeting moments, shoving unhelpful and blood pressure spiking thoughts of the past and imminent future into cardboard brain-boxes and duct tape them shut, until dealing with them becomes absolutely unavoidable. 

“I really don’t think that’s allowed in the hospital,” Tim hazards.

Between the painkillers and Detective Drake, Tim’s braining just barely well enough to be reasonably sure he’s being gaslit by both Robins at once.

“What are you talking about?” Dick asks in confusion, making a big show of looking around Tim’s hospital room. “There aren’t any dogs in here.”

“You’re just making things up,” Jason accuses. 

Tim looks down, at Jason’s hand scratching behind Ace’s bat ears where the little dog is happily snuggled up against Tim’s hospital sheet covered hip. He looks none the worse for wear at having been smuggled into the room in Dick’s padded guitar case. 

The warm weight and soft fur are incredibly comforting. Tim’s not complaining, at all, but… “Isn’t it against the rules or something?”

Dick is crouched down next to the bed, having finished his own chili dog and producing another from the greasy paper to-go bag. “Now you’re just stringing random words together,” he insists, giving Ace’s nose a boop with his own, before unwrapping the tinfoil.

“There aren’t any dogs in here, but if there were, it’d be fine. That’s the rule.” Jason shrugs insouciantly. “I don’t make the rules, Rin Tin Tim.”

“But …you just did?”

Dick shakes his head. “Nah, Little Wing definitely doesn’t make the rules.”

Tim asks, “Then who does?”

“Alfred,” Jason answers promptly, like that should have been obvious. 

Dick points a greasy finger-gun at his brother and nods emphatically in agreement. “Actually, not that there’s anything to tell, of course, but… don’t tell Alfred.”

“I won’t tell Alfred you fed Ace an entire hot dog,” Tim dutifully promises.

“Best not to mention Ace at all, just to be on the safe side,” Jason advises sagely.

There’s low voices and a knock, before the doorknob starts to turn. 

“Scatter!” Jason hisses out of the corner of his mouth, kicking the empty chili dog bag underneath a chair as Tim watches in bemusement. Dick flips Tim’s blanket over Ace before leaping into a casual pose on top of one of the plastic guest chairs.

“Tim? The doctor would like to -” Bruce says, entering, then cuts himself off as he observes two sons wearing overly-innocent, butter wouldn’t melt expressions, and a tail protruding from Tim’s bedclothes, which begins to wag on hearing Bruce’s voice. 

Bruce closes his eyes briefly, before appearing to decide discretion remains the better part of valor. He moves to stand next to Tim’s bedside, given that the only nearby seats in the room are occupied. Ignoring his sons, he rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder. 

It’s very nice.

“How are you feeling, Tim?” Bruce asks.

“Okay, I guess,” Tim answers, and receives three assessing detectives’ gazes.

“He’s been awake for about twenty minutes,” Jason reports, throwing a potato chip in the air and catching it in his mouth. Crunching loudly, he continues, “And he’s feeling well enough to argue with us.”

Bruce nods, seeming more satisfied with this additional information. “If you’re up for it, your doctor would like to talk to you.”

“Um, sure,” Tim says uncertainly.

“Would you like us all to stay? I can send these two away if you’d prefer more privacy.”

Tim can think of very few things he’d like less at the moment than to feel alone, so he shakes his head.

Bruce drops his blazer on Tim’s bed, covering the telltale evidence of illicit dog presence, and opens the door. A few moments later, a tweedy-looking man wearing a white lab coat and a charizard ID badge holder enters. 

“You’ll be staying with us for another week and a half,” the doctor tells Tim, after a round of introductions made necessary by Tim’s dilaudid-scrambled brain having no memory of the previous encounters they’ve apparently had. “All in all, you’re recovering very well. You’re a very lucky kid. You got here pretty quickly, you responded very well to the blood transfusions, and the bullet only nicked your spleen. If it had been an inch further in, we probably would have had to remove it.”

There’s more. Quite a bit more. Tim nods along mechanically and pretends to be taking it all in until the doctor eventually leaves, shaking Bruce’s and Dick’s hands as he goes.

Tim tunes back in when Bruce takes over the wheelie stool the doctor abandoned, and rolls back up to Tim, face creased with concern.

“That was probably a lot,” Bruce ventures, when Tim remains silent and listless. 

Tim shrugs, continuing to pet Ace underneath his fabric prison.

Bruce tries to make eye contact, which Tim refuses. “Did you have any other questions? I can ask for you, if you think of anything that the doctor didn’t already answer.”

Tim has a lot of questions, but the most pressing ones at the moment aren’t ones he particularly wants to hear the answer to, especially after having to listen to how close he came to dying or losing internal organs. 

“Why are there police outside my door?” Tim asks quietly, instead. 

Jason and Dick, who have also been unusually subdued since the doctor started talking about surgeries and blood loss and all that, both shift uncomfortably.

Bruce hesitates, looking as though he’s debating how much detail he’s willing to share, then puts a large, warm hand on Tim’s arm. “The Penguin was arrested by the FBI, but the Emperor escaped. Commissioner Gordon has ordered you under police protection.”

Jason snorts derisively when Bruce says police protection. “Oxymoron.”

Remembering his attempted kidnapping vividly, Tim’s inclined to agree. His stomach sours. All the awful things that he’s been trying not to think about are still waiting to jump out of Detective Drake’s haphazardly packed-away boxes and ruin his life. It’s only a matter of time before he’s got to face the music.

“Tim?” Bruce asks, gently.

He’s going to punt that can as far as humanly possible down the road, though. Tim closes his eyes and turns his head into the fluffy pillow one of the Waynes had brought him at some point while he slept. “I’m tired,” Tim half-lies. “I’d like to sleep for awhile.” Or forever, if that meant putting off the unpleasant future. He knows he’s being rude to the Waynes, who have been nothing but kind to him, but it’s all getting to be too overwhelming to care right now.

Bruce pats his arm. “Okay, chum. Get some rest.”

The sounds of the older two leaving are overlaid by Jason scooting closer in one of the plastic chairs. “I’ll be here when you wake up, Timble. We’ll read the next chapter of Artemis Fowl, okay?”

Tim manages a nod, then fakes falling asleep. 

Eventually, it becomes the real thing.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

It’s nearly, but not quite, impossible to hold onto embarrassment about having a catheter Down There and needing to be given sponge baths by the shifting string of nurses who’ve been coming in and out of his room at all hours to check on him, mess with his IV, and give him more water than he could possibly drink in a year. 

Tim draws the line and absolutely refuses to allow any of the Waynes to witness the nurses helping him with That Stuff, and the Waynes refuse to leave him alone in the room, period, so compromise is reached by virtue of the privacy curtain being pulled to protect Tim’s modesty on these far too frequent occasions.

Tim wakes up blearily to the soft sound of a nurse padding into the dim room. Alfred’s sleeping form, Dick’s guitar case, and the copy of Artemis Fowl, bookmarked three quarters of the way through, disappear behind the flower patterned curtain as it’s drawn tightly closed.

Too exhausted in body and mind to attempt polite conversation with the person who’s coming to deal with a bag full of Tim’s pee, he peers through slitted eyes at the nurse, whose features are obscured by a surgical mask and cloth-wrapped hair. 

As the nurse reaches out a hand to adjust Tim’s pillows, the sleeves of his scrubs ride up. The skin of his wrist is marred by three parallel scars.

It’s the last thing Tim sees before a pillow is forced over his face.

Reflex demands Tim inhale, but there’s no air to be had, just fabric. His lead-lined noodle arms come up to bat and flail at the suffocating weight, but the strength that’s pinning him would have been more than a match for Tim even if he’d been fully awake and in top form.

As his lungs start to burn at the lack of oxygen, there’s movement in the sheets at Tim’s side. Ace gives a mighty BOOF, deep and guttural, and then the pressure on his head loosens abruptly.

Tim flails weakly again, and this time the pillow falls away. There’s more noise and movement happening nearby, but he’s too preoccupied by coughing air back into his heaving lungs to focus on anything else. The pain, confusion and adrenaline force tears from his eyes as he gasps.

When he blinks his vision clear again, a frighteningly vicious-looking Alfred is standing above the unmoving form of the Emperor with Tim’s spare IV pole still hefted, weighted metal base raised high and menacing. Something red drips from the chrome.

“Quite all right, Master Tim?” Alfred asks, something dark slipping back behind his eyes until he’s every bit as unruffled and kind as ever, giving Tim a careful once-over. 

Tim nods, not yet able to speak. 

“Excellent,” Alfred says, benign elocution smooth as butter, reaching over to press the nurses’ call button, and fiddles with his sleeve, undoubtedly summoning a very different kind of assistance, before moving directly next to Tim in a way that seems to eagerly invite anyone who values their life cheaply to attempt to remove him from position.

Ace has used the prone form of the Emperor as a step-stool to clamber onto the visitor’s chair nearby. His muzzle is bloody and he’s limping, but he’s wagging his tail proudly. 

“The hero of the hour,” Alfred proclaims, like he’s about to present the dog with a key to the city. “I believe an additional breakfast is in order for you this morning, Master Ace.”

Tim reaches a shaky hand out. It’s immediately captured by Alfred, who clasps it in a warm grip. “Good boy,” Tim whispers to Ace, as the door bursts open, the cavalry having arrived.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bruce has spent an extremely long morning in back to back meetings with Commissioner Gordon and the FBI, several of his lawyers, lawyers representing the Drakes, and various employees from Child Protection & Permanency.

Dick and Jason, both antsy and clamoring to be kept informed, had been slightly mollified to hear most of the results. Temper up and stretched to the breaking point, Jason’s bloodlust had been marginally sated by hearing the officers assigned to Tim’s protection the previous night were looking at both pink slips and future nighttime visits from angry Bats; and that the Emperor, after, as Jason termed it, “getting his shit rocked” by Alfred and Ace, had been remanded into the clinging arms of the FBI.

The grim, knife-edged glint in his oldest son’s eyes had flashed with a dangerous sort of satisfaction when informed that the Drakes, absorbed in negotiating a plea deal and witness protection for themselves and in no position to challenge the temporary custody awarded to Bruce, had chosen instead to terminate their parental rights entirely. How much of this decision had been influenced by their late night visit from Batman and Nightwing earlier in the week, Bruce could not possibly say.

Meeting Dick’s gaze, finding Bruce’s banked and burning rage reflected there, he gives his elder son a subtle nod before turning again to the younger, who has missed the interplay while absorbed in vengefully tearing apart a breakfast sausage with a fork and knife.

Bruce is not going to make the same mistake again. No matter how utterly impossible it would be for him to make any other choice, if either of his sons were to say no, he has to at least ask: “Are you sure?”

Jason gives him the sort of withering glare that only a teenager pushed to the end of his rope by the stupidity of others can truly master. “I’m sure I’m going to murder you if you don’t adopt him, yes.”

Dick leans a casual elbow on the kitchen table. “No need for murder. I’ll adopt him if Bruce won’t.”

Hit by a wave of overwhelming relief, Bruce supposes that answers that. He sits down heavily on an open chair.

“You eat cereal for dinner and watch cartoons all day. You’re not grown enough to adopt anybody,” Jason accuses, flinging a bit of sausage at Dick’s head.

Dick adroitly catches it in his mouth. “Bruce was about my age when he took me in,” he points out, chewing.

Jason looks almost as disconcerted at the accuracy of this statement as Bruce feels.

Taking advantage of their speechlessness, Dick suggests brightly, “He can be my Robin!”

Surprising both Bruce and Dick with his vehemence, Jason slams his fork down onto the table, sending his plate clattering. “No way. Absolutely fucking incorrect. He is NOT going to be Robin.”

Bruce’s brows furrow. 

Hastily, Dick backpedals. “Name’s already taken currently though. He can be my, uh, Nightbird. Night Owl? Owl Boy. Boy Owl. Owlwing!”

Distracted from his burst of temper by Dick’s terrible naming conventions, Jason says, “Somehow, even more incorrect. Why are you like this?”

“I see the situation would be dire indeed if I don’t adopt him,” Bruce cuts in, before matters can devolve further.

“Hey!” Dick says, wounded.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. “Besides, he’s not allowed out at night until he’s in a retirement home.”

Dick gives a cough that sounds remarkably like good luck with that, and receives a bit of sausage to the back of his head.

In lieu of direct retribution, Dick leans back and crosses his arms. “You know you sound exactly like Bruce, right?”

Jason nearly chokes on his gasp of offense. “How dare you!”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Beset by the intrusive thoughts of his future, Tim is staring listlessly into the middle distance of the grimy cityscape outside his window when he’s interrupted by Bruce, Dick, and Jason all filing into his hospital room. It doesn’t take the greatest detective in the world to figure out that there’s something up, given the suddenly thick tension, stilted greetings, and the silent conversation relayed solely with meaningful staring and eyebrow raises between Bruce and Alfred, who had been doing a crossword on the sofa while Tim was busy brooding.

Whatever is decided isn’t clear to Tim, but it must be to Alfred, because he stands up and clips a leash to Ace’s collar. “Come along, Master Ace. It is far past time we took a walk for your relief.” Ace jumps off the bed, giving himself a hearty shake that sets his ears flapping and collar jingling. Tim’s spiking anxiety must be obvious to the older man, because Alfred gives Tim’s hand a reassuring press. “We shall return shortly.” 

He leaves, pausing only to point a sharp look in Bruce’s direction as the door shuts behind him. 

This is it, Tim thinks with mounting dread. They’ve finally come to break it to me that I’m being put in foster care as soon as I heal up enough to get out of here. He’s been waiting for it, trying to brace himself, make peace with it when he can’t avoid thinking about it altogether. Now that the moment of doom is at hand, though, his courage is deserting him, leaving a cold, aching pit in his stomach.

After greeting Tim, Dick and Jason have dropped into the visitors’ chairs, uncharacteristically quiet. Bruce moves to the bedside and clears his throat like he’s getting ready to start talking, but seems to change his mind when Tim can’t bring himself to look up and make eye contact. As though if he refuses to watch it coming, the disaster that’s about to befall Tim will avoid him altogether.

Tim keeps his eyes on his blankets, picking at a stray thread. In his peripheral vision, he can see Jason fisting his hands, seeming to be trying to burn a hole into Bruce’s head with his eyes, while Bruce uncomfortably clears his throat again, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

Huffing loudly, Dick takes the conversational reins. “I’ve decided to move back to Gotham,” he announces, which is unexpected enough that Tim does look up.

“You’re moving back to Wayne Manor?” Tim asks, eyebrows raised.

Dick crosses one of his legs over the other knee, leaning the plastic chair he’s sitting on back to balance on the two back legs. “Maybe. Depends,” he hedges. “I was thinking I might get my own spot. Closer to the border with Blüd, for an easier commute.”

“If you get your own place,” Tim suggests softly, “you could call it the Nest.”

Dick smiles brightly, shifting his weight carefully until the chair is balanced on a single leg. “Great idea, Timmy!”

“On the subject of moves,” Bruce starts, clearing his throat again. Maybe he’s getting Alfred’s cold, Tim wonders. Jason, who seems to be vibrating with impatience, rolls his eyes. Dick allows the chair to fall into a normal position, clacking sharply against the floor. Bruce appears to be trying to choose his words with extreme care. “With your former living situation no longer being…tenable -”

This is it, Tim thinks morosely, waiting for the guillotine to fall.

“- I’d be honored to adopt you. If you are willing.”

“No,” Tim’s mouth says immediately, without any input from his brain. “What?”

There’s a moment of silence in which nearly everyone in the room exchanges stunned glances with the others. 

Still struggling to process anything that’s happened in the last ten seconds, Tim tries to parse out any indication of how to react from Bruce. Thrown by Tim’s automatic and emphatic denial, however, Bruce appears to have landed somewhere between utterly taken aback and what, if Tim wasn’t looking at Batman himself, he would have described as heartbroken.

“Damn, kid,” Jason says slowly, head swiveling between Tim and Bruce, “that was brutal.” He pronounces it with two distinct syllables: bru -TAL. “You gonna be satisfied with ripping his heart out and stomping on it, or you wanna go to town on his rib cage and lungs, too?”

“But - why?” Tim asks plaintively, Jason’s inscrutable response having convinced him he hadn’t actually misheard what Bruce had said. “I don’t understand. You’re, you know. And I - I aided and abetted criminals.” Tim swallows hard. “Or, I tried to, at least.”

Bruce’s expression changes into one that Tim can’t quite read, but it doesn’t seem like he’s angry or upset.

Jason leans back heavily in his chair, causing it to creak ominously, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I dare you to say that shit to Alfred. See what he has to say about that.”

Bruce has taken a step closer, resting a hip against Tim’s bedside. He leans down in an apparent effort not to intimidatingly tower over him. It doesn’t work, of course, given their relative sizes, but putting in the effort achieves a similarly disarming result. This time, when Bruce tries to make eye contact, Tim doesn’t look away.

“Tim,” Bruce says quietly, resting a large, steadying hand on Tim’s arm. “You don’t need to have never made a mistake, or work hard enough to deserve to be loved.”

Tim stares, uncomprehending. Tim’s shaking his head almost imperceptibly, like he’s either saying no? question mark question mark exclamation point question mark? or trying to shake some of his spare brain cells loose. Tim doesn’t even know why Tim is shaking his head, but he can’t seem to stop.

Bruce is still pinning Tim with his piercing blue gaze, but whatever he’s seeing on Tim’s face makes his own go sort of cautiously still. With the air of someone overcorrecting away from a skid towards disaster, Bruce continues carefully: “If you don’t want to be a part of our family, though, we don’t want to force our own feelings on you. We can find you another safe home.”

Jason inhales, inflating like a bullfrog.

Before his brother can open his mouth, Dick immediately leans forward, barging in to the conversation. “I’m actually looking into two bedroom apartments in Gotham. If the Manor is too big for you. Was gonna put an ad out. Roommate wanted: must be tiny baby brother named Tim.”

Tim chokes, eyes going wide. Dick gives him a brilliant, sincere grin that breaks into a wince when Jason kicks him hard in the shin.

Staring repressively at his children, Bruce says emphatically, “There is no pressure. If being with any of us is not what you want, we will find another solution to making sure you are happy and well cared for.”

At this, Jason gives a death glare to Bruce, seeming to be wishing he was close enough to kick his father in the shin as well. Since he isn’t, he instead sighs gustily and hops up onto the bed on Tim’s other side. Tim watches him, feeling fragile as blown glass, like at any moment the wrong move might shatter him into pieces. 

Jason’s watching him right back, and abruptly the the vibrating tension seems to drain out of him. Jason looks up at the ceiling for a moment, taking a deep breath, before turning to face Tim directly again. “…I always wanted a little brother, y’know,” Jason says softly, shrugging helplessly. “And I don’t see’s how anybody could be a better one than my best friend.”

Tim has been holding his breath, and at this feels hot tears start pooling in the corners of his eyes.

Jason’s face goes on another complicated journey, ending with his eyebrows pinching together, setting his jaw in mulish determination. “Tough shit, old man,” he tells Bruce, then informs Tim, “It’s too late, anyways. Dickie abdopted you days ago. You’ve already been ours. You just didn’t realize it yet.”

Tim makes a rough, involuntary sound. Hearing it evidently loosens an already tenuous grip on Dick’s patience, because he hip checks Bruce out of the way to gather up Tim in a hug. “Jay’s right, baby bird. I don’t accept take-backsies when kidnapping brothers. You’re stuck with me now.”

Jason’s head pops up to peer, red-eyed and kind, at Tim over Dick’s shoulder. “It’s okay to say you want it, Timmy,” he says, compassionate and knowing. “Family’s the people who love you, who want you around, and want to take care of you. We all want you to be ours.”

Tim’s got a desperate, white knuckled grip fisted in Dick’s shirt. “I want that, too,” he finally manages to respond. “More than anything.”

“Then it’s yours,” Bruce rumbles, deep and reassuring. He nudges his way in alongside his sons to lay a steadying hand on the back of Tim’s neck, and Tim’s astonished to find that Bruce is not completely dry eyed either. 

Bruce hesitates, then drops a kiss on Tim’s hair. “Welcome to the family, Tim,” he murmurs.

Dick’s quiet chanting, one of us! one of us! is interrupted by Alfred re-entering the room with approval and absolutely no surprise. He nods briskly, releasing his hold on the leash, which allows Ace to jump on the already overcrowded bed to liberally administer slobbery kisses to everyone in range. “I trust matters have been settled satisfactorily. Welcome, Master Tim. Your room at home is set up and awaiting your arrival.”

Alfred’s matter-of-factness is what finally makes it real: There’s a home for Tim, for good, in Wayne Manor. Surrounded by Bats and Robins, Tim ducks his head into Ace’s fur, and gives a hiccuping laugh at the ticklish sensation of Ace licking the tears off his face. 

Chapter Text

Every mystery has a solution—you just have to be patient and persistent in finding it.
-Encyclopedia Brown 

In an atmospheric rarity for the greater Gotham metro area, it’s a beautifully sunny, cloudless late summer day. A slight breeze tugs at the loose edges of Tim’s clothes and sends his hair forward to tease at his face. Despite the bangs hanging over his eyes and the heat haze rising off the tarmac, neither obscures Tim’s vision enough to prevent him from recognizing the figures being led to the steps of a non-descript small jet by federal marshals. 

Sunlight glints off the metal circling his parents’ wrists. Neither of them see Tim; they have their gazes turned to watch the air crew navigate the steps up to the door of the plane that will take them to whatever concealed location awaits them until their testimony is needed at trial. 

A cool shadow falls over Tim, but he doesn’t look up at Bruce, who has silently approached to stand by his side. This scene, his parents leaving him without a second glance, is a play he should know by heart, but the set and most of the actors are new this time, and he doesn’t quite know yet how it will end.

The breeze shifts, and the hum of a prop plane ascending on takeoff from one of the other nearby runways fades. In the relative silence left behind, in the privacy of the two of them standing together in the wide open space, Tim finds he’s finally ready to know. 

“Who killed Rosa?”

“The Emperor,” Bruce answers steadily, voice low and even, non-judgmental. Just the facts, no more or less than what Tim’s asked.

Still watching his parents, flanked by the feds, preparing to climb the steps to the now-open plane hatch, Tim digests this, rolling it around in his brain, seeing if it makes the puzzle pieces inside him fit together any differently. Bruce shifts, just a little, just enough so that his arm rests against Tim’s in a quiet show of support. “It’s not too late. If you want - if there’s anything you need to say to them, we can speak with them before they go.”

He’s Bruce Wayne. If Tim says the word, Bruce will find a way to make it happen for him. There’s no doubt in his mind about that. Tim adds this, too, to the mix, rolling it around in his brain, and discovers it doesn’t make a difference. The jagged edges left behind when the glass image he’d had of his parents shattered won’t ever fit together the way they had before. Trying to hold on, piece them back together, won’t accomplish anything but leave Tim with more bleeding wounds.

His parents will testify. The Emperor will face justice. Rosa’s killer will be put away. Tim’s part in all this is done, and in a few weeks when Tim gets back to Gotham, the media storm will have blown past and moved on to the next story. It’s over.

The summer wind wafts past them, making the shimmer of the heat haze off the tarmac twist and swirl. Slowly, Tim shakes his head. “There’s nothing left to say,” he says with finality, and is surprised to find that along with the abraded, painful ache is a sense of a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying being lifted away.

Bruce puts an arm around Tim’s shoulders. In silent accord, they turn away from his parents, and Bruce gently leads him across the tarmac to where Jason and Dick are bickering next to the Waynes’ Lear jet.

“- fucking media circus,” Jason is growling, wrestling his luggage up the steps. To the side, Tim can just make out Alfred’s silhouette through the window, running pre-flight checks. 

“Rude.” Dick has a worn duffel over one shoulder and has a drooling Ace tucked under the other arm, four paws dangling in limp contentment. “Excuse you, that’s offensive to circuses.”

Privately, Tim agrees with Dick’s assessment. Tim hadn’t been required to talk much at the singular interview Bruce had allowed on the subject of Tim’s becoming a permanent resident of Wayne Manor, providing only enough detail to avoid sensationalizing the event as much as possible; but it hadn’t been able to stop the piranha-like frenzy entirely.

It had been a profound relief when Bruce had suggested a family trip - a phrase Tim’s stil mentally stuttering over - to Maine as soon as Tim had recovered enough to travel, to take advantage of the last bits of summer to relax in relative solitude. And for Tim to visit Ives, for the first time since… all this. 

Everything else has changed, but Ives’ friendship hasn’t. Getting Ives’ calls, texts, and memes, curious and teasing by turns, has been a much-needed bit of normalcy through Tim’s recovery. Getting to see him in person, even though they’ll have to largely stick to well-ventilated areas and take precautions due to Ives’ immunocompromised state, seems almost too good to be true. Not to mention the added weirdness of Tim’s worlds colliding. Dick and Jason have been jumping headfirst into the idea of playing a Wizards and Warlocks adventure while they’re all in Maine, which is a concept that seems guaranteed to both be hilarious and also end in real life carnage.

Dick has caught sight of Bruce and Tim approaching, and beams in their direction. “Tim! You ready to fly?”

Tim looks at the Waynes, and the cloudless blue sky above. He feels a hesitant smile start to tug at one cheek, despite it all. 

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Before Tim knows it, they’re back in Gotham, sunburnt and mosquito bitten, some of the tense knots in Tim’s stomach having unwound during his time away. Alfred’s deft hands have gradually and continually added comforts to Tim’s new room: bookshelves, desk, and framed photos appearing as if by magic. Many of Tim’s favorite snapshots of Bats and Robins can only be hung in the Batcave, but a new candid shot of Tim and the others in their civilian lives seems to appear on Tim’s bedroom wall every other week. Tim moves only one - a picture of all of them smiling on a Maine beach - and then only to bring it closer to his bed, where he spends more time than he’s willing to admit to out loud staring at before he falls asleep. 

Bruce’s prized complete set of the Grey Ghost mystery novels now rest at home on a shelf next to Tim’s surviving book collection and figurines. His camera and Stuart now sit in pride of place on a bedside table. A knitted Robin costume, fitted to Stuart’s exact measurements, appears one day after Alfred’s come and dusted Tim’s room.

With September around the corner, he and Jason are staring down the barrel of a new school year. Jason drags another armchair next to his extra cushioned and well-loved one in the library, so the two of them can spend rainy mornings sitting and finishing the summer reading Tim’s been procrastinating on. 

Although the days are growing shorter, there’s still plenty of afternoon light left for Jason to pour all of his remaining attention into a new project: building Tim the best adventure course the extensive grounds that constitute Tim’s new backyard have ever seen. Tim is given free rein in its design, but given that he still tires easily, most of the heavy lifting and grunt work falls to Jason, who promptly delegates it to Bruce. On these afternoons, Tim is commanded to sit in a lawn chair to ‘supervise,’ which chiefly seems to consist of resting and watching Jason bullying the richest and most powerful man on the eastern seaboard into fetching and carrying and generally being a menial gofer, which Bruce tolerates with equanimity if not outright good humor. Dick’s gone back to work part-time in Bludhaven, but more often than not he stays at the manor. On these frequent occasions, Dick assists the proceedings by sitting near Tim and loudly heckling his father and brother. Even Selina stops by, lazing gracefully on a chaise longue next to Tim with an Alfred-made cosmopolitan in a martini glass in one hand, offering advice to the sweating laborers and casting the occasional predatory gaze over her sunglasses in Bruce’s general direction. Tim pretends not to notice.

When not building Tim a course that would put to shame any Ninja Warrior competition setup, Jay patiently tolerates hours and hours of learning to skateboard, playing video games with Tim, posing for pictures and tour guiding Tim through the manor grounds for photography walks during the golden hour. Jason agrees immediately to any of Tim’s hesitant proposals to spend time together.

The only thing Jason is wholly unwilling to talk about, avoiding the topic like the plague, and shutting down immediately if it does come up despite his best efforts to avoid it entirely, is any talk of Robin or of Tim’s potential participation in the night life whatsoever. When Tim works up the courage to ask about sitting on comms in the Batcave with Alfred while they patrol, Bruce seems to be of a similar mind, dodging the question by firmly insisting Tim needs plenty of sleep and rest for a full recovery.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious to Tim that this uneasy and avoidant detente regarding Tim’s place in the Waynes’ night life had an expiration date. The simmering pot of discontent was doomed to boil over sooner or later. And when it does, it’s at the dinner table.

It all starts unassumingly, with a good-natured debate over the correct way to slice a sandwich. In the middle of it, Dick gives Tim a wink, mentioning Tim joining them on a future mid-patrol rooftop snack. The warm feeling this little aside causes to bubble up in Tim’s belly is unceremoniously popped by Jason angrily and too-loudly snapping, “Not gonna happen, Dickwad.” 

There’s a surprised silence from the rest of the table at the abrupt change of mood. Tim looks down at his plate, trying to keep the hurt off his face. 

“Hey,” Dick says sharply. When Tim schools his face and looks up, Dick’s face has tightened in warning. “Melodramatic gloom lord is B’s thing,” he informs Jason. “Quit stealing his schtick.”

Somehow, before Tim knows what’s happened, the conversation has twisted and turned in on itself, spiraling like an out of control rollercoaster. Bruce clumsily attempts to intervene, which only succeeds in making both brothers round on him. Sounding completely done, Dick points out Jason’s hypocrisy, and the whole thing suddenly ends with a red-faced Jason standing up from the table with a loud scrape of his chair, throwing his napkin on a half-eaten dinner plate and yelling, “Then maybe there shouldn’t be a Robin at all!”

Fingers twisted almost painfully in his own napkin, Tim sits stupefied, blood pounding in his ears. Presumably summoned by the shouting, Alfred appears in the doorway into the kitchen to admonish this breach of tabletop etiquette with icy firmness. “Master Jason.”

At the same time, Dick, face like a thundercloud, turns to the head of the table and asks Bruce pointedly: “You gonna chime in on this?”

Before Bruce can say anything, Jason, who has turned away from Alfred in furious shame, catches Tim’s eye. Whatever he sees makes him clamp his jaw shut, and he turns and storms out of the room without another word.

In Jason’s wake, Bruce drops his head slightly, and gives a heavy exhale. Looking at Alfred, and then at his oldest son, he murmurs, “Perhaps Jason is right.”

Alfred gives a sudden cough, but when Tim looks up, he can’t read the older man’s carefully blank expression. 

Dick now stands abruptly, throwing his napkin on the table as well. “Thanks for dinner, Alf -”

“You are very welcome,” Alfred responds, in the weary tones of a beleaguered trench soldier.

“- but I’m gonna need to talk to Bruce alone. Downstairs. Now.” Dick gives Tim a look that has an apology in it, overlaid on the evident and increasing depth of annoyance, which he directs at Bruce unrelentingly until Bruce stands and follows him stiffly from the room.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

“Don’t tell me you can’t see it’s inevitable.” Dick tries to keep his voice below a yell, fists clenched and leaning over on his knuckles across the evidence table from Bruce. Dick’s temper had frayed further in Bruce’s silence behind him on the way into the dubious privacy of the Batcave, and now it is quickly on its way to unravelling entirely. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how it went with me, when you first took me in. And Tim’s a million times worse.”

Bruce is hiding behind a mask of stoicism, the one he uses when he’s agitated and doesn’t want to show it. While Tim recuperated, Dick had been patient around Bruce’s and Jason’s reticence to discuss the inevitable future, given the circumstances, but he hadn’t anticipated whatever the fuck Bruce thinks he’s playing at now. He’s been avoiding having this conversation for weeks, Dick thinks. Tough shit for him. Enough is enough. He’s adopted Tim, for Christ’s sake, and he can’t keep hiding from All Of What That Means. Tim’s almost back to being fully able to physically cash in the checks for unmitigated chaos he seems to write as regularly and habitually as brushing his teeth before bed. 

Bruce is leaning with studied casualness on the side of the evidence table that’s separating him from Dick, but there’s tension in the lines of his body. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Bruce disagrees, tone wry. “Perhaps only a thousand.”

“I’m serious,” Dick says through his teeth, refusing to be distracted by the Twilight Zone feeling of playing the straight man while Bruce is out here cracking jokes. 

“So am I,” Bruce says, all traces of levity gone. “He’s safe here, at the Manor. There’s no need for him to be a part of the Mission.” He looks down, shakes his head. “It’s dangerous. This life is too dangerous for a child. Tim has a brilliant mind. He doesn’t need to be out in the field to do casework, if that’s what he wants to do.”

Dick can’t believe the level of deliberate obtuseness Bruce is stubbornly insisting on displaying. “‘If that’s what he wants to do.’ B. He’s been following you around Gotham for a year without getting caught by you or Jason or anyone else. He stole the Batmobile to save you. You’re really gonna claim you think you can keep him caged if he thinks he can help?”

Face shielded and unreadable, Bruce gives Dick a piercing stare. “He’s not you. He’s not Robin.”

Dick straightens, crosses his arms over his chest. “You sure about that? Cause from where I stand, he sure as hell acts like a Robin.” He heaves a humorless laugh. “You two are goddamned hypocrites, both of you. He’s not like us? You’re damn right he isn’t. Tim doesn’t need revenge, or to be saved from going down a dark road. Tim just needs a family. He needs our family.”

Bruce is stubbornly looking anywhere but at him, and it’s royally pissing Dick off. He slaps the metal table between them with an open palm, the sound loud and startling enough to bring Bruce’s eyes back to him. “You want to keep Tim safe, keep him alive?” Dick demands. “Train him how to defend himself, as quickly as possible, before it’s too late. He needs the physical skills, he needs safety gear, he needs at least one person to be with him watching his back, because he’s already proved that he’s stubborn and reckless and brave enough to damn well find a way to get out there himself without having any of that. Tim’s made himself a part of this before any of us even knew he existed. And if you try to stop him, you try to keep him tied up in bubble wrap and trapped here in the Manor?” Dick huffs a mirthless laugh. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen, if you’re too willfully blind to see it coming. You’re going to lose his trust, he’ll end up going it alone the next time he thinks he can help, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets himself killed because he doesn’t have the skills to defend himself or someone he trusts to have his back.”

Bruce has taken on the stillness that he uses to hide a full-body flinch. He leans towards Dick, opens his hands wide, placing his fingertips carefully on the table, like he’s afraid moving any quicker or putting any more pressure on will shatter him like glass. Like the words are painfully ripped from him against his will, Bruce says quietly: “I couldn’t save him. He was shot, trying to protect me, trying to protect Jason. Tim bled out in my arms, Dick.”

The memory of the first time Batman had taken a bad fall in front of Dick-as-Robin, and the roaring panic attack that had left him with tremors the rest of that sleepless night afterward forces its way to the front of his mind. Sympathy and shared heartache softens Dick’s tone, even as it keeps his resolve firm in attempting to force Bruce to be what Tim actually needs him to be. “He saved you,” Dick reminds Bruce, gentler, but unrelenting. “Did you forget that part? Babs and I wouldn’t have gotten there in time if Tim hadn’t done what he did. And you did save him. Isn’t that what Robin and Batman have always done?”

Bruce looks away, into a shadowed corner of the cave, fingers flexing and curling again. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’ve often regretted —” He stops, starts again. “I didn’t want this life for any of you. Maybe Jason’s right, and there shouldn’t be — not if it means —” 

Dick stiffens, feeling like he’s being stabbed by the same poisoned dagger Bruce had used before, to inflict the deep wound that had sent him to Bludhaven in the first place. Coldly, Dick bites out, “I don’t remember Robin being your idea or even your decision, Bruce. Robin may be your partner, but Robin was never yours. Although that didn’t stop you from giving it away.”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his forehead. “That was a mistake. One I deeply regret. But I - Dick, I can’t.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” Dick asks, frigidly.

Bruce breathes in and out, heavily, then drops his hand, looking Dick full in the face, something very like anguish and a silent plea for understanding in his expression. “I can’t lose one of you. It would - it would destroy me, chum. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Dick is brought up short by this unprecedented turn into open vulnerability. It doesn’t snuff out the flames of his anger entirely, but after a long moment’s pause Dick trusts the embers to be banked enough for his voice to remain even when he responds. “There’s more than one way to lose a son,” he tells his father, and has to turn away, pressing his lips shut tightly and exhaling through his nose before continuing: “Don’t do that to Tim. Don’t push him away by smothering him. All you’ll end up doing is pushing him out of the nest to fall or fly on his own, telling yourself you’re protecting him.”

“Dick —”

“Tim deserves better than that. And I want to believe you’re better than that. That you learn from your mistakes. But Bruce?” Dick warns, turning halfway to look over his shoulder at his father. “I’m only gonna tell you once. If you don’t get your head out of your ass and teach him how to defend himself enough to let him survive being part of this family, if you don’t do right by him — I’ll do it myself.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Tim knocks hesitantly on Jason’s door with two knuckles. There’s no answer, but it must not have been fully latched; it opens a crack to reveal a teenage form lying on top of the red and black pinstripe bedspread, under the posters and playbills that decorate the walls. When there’s no further sound of either welcome or of angry swearing, Tim shuffles inside. 

Jason can’t have failed to notice his entrance, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge Tim, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and rhythmically tossing an empty, well-worn cigarette carton end over end.

If Jason wanted him out, he’d have no problem telling Tim so, loudly and with plenty of curses, Tim reasons. He nudges a creased trade paperback copy of East of Eden over until there’s enough room for him to perch on the edge of the bed near Jason’s feet. Something pokes Tim as he sits, and he pulls out a battered old bottle cap from under his hip. Nervously toying with it between his fingers, Tim quietly offers, “I’m sorry.”

Jason stops flipping the carton, heaving an enormous sigh and flopping an arm over his face. “What are you sorry for, kid?”

For being a square peg in a round hole. A cuckoo in the nest. For somehow managing to screw things up so much that you maybe don’t want to be Robin anymore, Tim thinks, this last being a horror previously unimaginable. Tim’s still holding out hope it was just Jason blowing off steam, that once Jason’s had some time to calm down he’ll be able to see there’s no reason for something so drastic and just - just dumb. Just because he doesn’t think Tim should be, or is capable of, being part of the night life - which, for the record, Tim also considers to be an extremely flawed and illogical analysis of the situation, not to mention deeply hurtful - doesn’t mean that Jason shouldn’t be.  

There just can’t not be a Robin. Where would Batman even be then? 

Afraid that speaking any of these thoughts aloud might fan Jason’s smoldering temper, Tim hedges, “It’s my fault everyone is upset.” He rubs a finger down the ridged edge of the cap, for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

“It’s not your fault,” Jason says, sounding like he’s caught somewhere in the middle area of a triangle made of resignation, frustration, and placation.

Tim is unconvinced. “I think maybe it is, though. Like, my fault that you think you have to stop being Robin. Which you absolutely don’t, by the way,” Tim adds hastily. “You can’t.”

Jason removes his arm from his face, and rolls over onto his side, resting on an elbow. “Hate to burst your bubble, Timbelina, but you’re not the boss of me.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but his knee is still bobbing with nerves.

“And anyway,” Jason continues, then seems to re-think whatever he was about to say. “I shouldn’a lost my temper.” He huffs ruefully. “Again.”

Chewing his lower lip, Tim does not fail to notice Jason isn’t falling over himself to specifically say he didn’t mean what he said. Tim turns, pulling up one knee on the comforter, searching Jason’s face for signs that he’s going to immediately disown this terrible idea as a joke. “But Jay. You love being Robin.”

Jason doesn’t deny this, which Tim considers a good sign. He sighs again, shoving himself upright and hooking an arm around Tim’s neck. Yanked into an aggressive hug, Tim can no longer see Jason’s face. Gruffly, Jason informs him: “Not more than you.”

Tim is pretty sure the actual Robin probably loves Robinning more than Tim loves it from afar, even if it’s pretty darn close, and he’s about to say as much when he realizes what Jason actually means. 

Both thrown for a loop and warmed, Tim hugs Jason back, needing several moments to process this. He tries to subtly disguise a sniffle into the shoulder of Jason’s t-shirt. 

“Please don’t give up Robin,” Tim whispers. 

Jason groans something indistinct that, from what Tim can make out, sounds like it mentions both death and white hairs. 

“What?”

“Look,” Jason says, sounding extremely put-upon, “I’ll think about it, alright?” 

Thank god, Tim thinks, relieved. He nods into Jason’s shoulder. 

Jason heaves yet another irritated sigh, and pulls back, rolling off the bed and shuffling over to some beat-up sneakers.

”Where are you going?” Tim asks, rubbing a hand under his nose. 

“I need some space, Timmy.” Jason stuffs his feet in halfheartedly, bending the backs of the shoes under his heels, then turns back, grabbing the bottle cap and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He leans over slightly, narrowing his eyes as Tim pretends to take interest in the Pride & Prejudice poster on the opposite wall instead of making eye contact. “I’m not mad at you, and I’m gonna come back, all right? It’s just, I don’t wanna say things I’m gonna regret. And if I stick around other people right now I think I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

Looking at his hands now that Jason’s between him and the old timey silhouettes and cursive, Tim nods.

Jason doesn’t move, still awkwardly half-crouched in Tim’s personal space. “I’m gonna be back,” he repeats.

Tim nods again.

This is apparently not good enough for Jason, who crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna need you to say it. Out loud.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna be back.”

“Yup,” Jason confirms, popping the p. “Now say, ‘I’m a huge nerd.’”

Tim does look up at this order, splitting the difference between dry and innocent to obediently parrot: “You’re a huge nerd.”

Jason punches Tim in the shoulder before turning to leave, grabbing a light jacket off a chair as he goes. “Close enough.”

Waiting until Jason’s footsteps fade away down the hall, Tim rubs his shoulder and quietly mumbles, “Ow,” before wandering in the direction of the Batcave, still feeling vaguely unsettled.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Dick finds Tim standing, lost in thought, one hand raised and resting on one of the display cases. Dick’s childhood aerialist costume is stored upstairs in the manor, and the hodge podge outfit and mask he’d made of whatever clothes he could get his hands on, newly orphaned and hell bent on trawling Gotham in search of revenge, was disposed of long ago. The outfit that Tim’s staring at so intently through the glass, though, is the first one that meant something more, something greater than the sum of its parts. It’s the first Robin costume, the one he had designed with Bruce, to honor the roots of his first family, made by Alfred’s hands out of the finest quality fabric Wayne Enterprises’ R&D division could produce. 

Dick vividly remembers the fights with Bruce over the design: Bruce practically having kittens at the safety risks presented by not covering every square inch of his new ward’s skin with bulletproof armor the envy of any bomb disposal unit, and Dick staunchly insistent on the flexibility and maneuverability of the leotard he’d spent the majority of his waking life in before setting foot in Gotham. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, Dick reflects wryly, as Etienne, Haly’s fire-breathing juggler, had been so fond of saying.

Dick meanders closer, nudging Tim’s arm companionably with his own. Tim nudges back, dropping his hand from the glass. Noticing the print left, the younger boy uses the hem of his t-shirt to conscientiously wipe it clean.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Dick says, after a moment. 

Tim dips his chin slightly, shakes his head. “Sometimes I think - I dunno. Maybe I don’t really belong here.”

Dick stamps down on the rising fury at Jason and Bruce’s epic mishandling of the situation. “Blatantly false, baby bird,” he says lightly, slinging an arm around Tim’s thin shoulders and squeezing him tight to Dick’s side. 

Tim’s wound too stiff for Dick’s liking, but he does heave a sigh and thunk the side of his head into Dick’s rib cage. “You heard what they said, though. What Jay said. And it’ll be my fault if he gives up Robin.”

Dick had heard, alright, and he’ll deal with his other sibling’s bullshit later. For now, he says dryly: “You may have picked up from the subtle hints Jay’s been leaving, that he’d prefer it if you never got so much as needed a bandaid, or saw the other side of sunset from anywhere but a cozy bed for the rest of your natural life.”

Tim scoffs. “Stupid. He worries too much.”

Dick has the fleeting mental image of pre-Tim Jason, tough as nails survivor of life on the streets, being told he’d one day be accused of handwringing, pearl clutching worrywartism, and briefly wishes he could convince Wally to take Dick back in time just so he could revel in the look on Jason’s face. 

“He’s always been the nervous grandma type,” Dick lies shamelessly. More seriously, he adds, “It really shook him when you got hurt, you know. All of us were. But especially him. Especially because of how it happened.”

“I’d do it again,” Tim declares mutinously.

Dick closes his eyes briefly. “I know. We all know. All too well.” Dick slides his arm off Tim’s shoulders, gently turns him until he’s fully facing Dick. More optimistically and charitably than he feels, he explains: “Bruce and Jason… they’re going to be insufferable about this for awhile, but they’ll get over it.”

Tim cocks his head doubtfully. “Bruce doesn’t seem like he gets over this kind of thing.”

Dick concedes the point. “No, he’s always insufferable. You get used to it.” He shrugs. “Or just learn to ignore it.”

Tim scrunches up one side of his mouth, then looks up at Dick through his eyelashes. “What about you? Don’t you…” Tim trails off, seeming unsure.

Luckily, Dick has spent enough time getting to know the ways of the Tim over the last several weeks to make an educated guess at what he’s trying to get at. “I love you, Tim,” Dick says, cutting to what he suspects is the heart of the issue. “You’re my littlest baby brother.”

Tim stares at him with shiny eyes.

Dick feels a lopsided smile tugging at his cheek. “If it makes it easier for you to believe, I could be insufferably overprotective too. But… I have a feeling that it wouldn’t be all that helpful to you.”

Tim shakes his head slightly. “No.”

Dick gives an exaggeratedly casual shrug. “I mean, I could try, if you want? I bet I could out mother hen even Bruce. Duct tape so many pillows to you you couldn’t see, stick you in one of those big plastic zorbs and lock you in a containment cell til you’re ninety.”

Tim is smiling now, too. “No, thank you.”

Dick taps a faux-thoughtful finger to his lips. “We could go low tech. I could just - sit on you -” He demonstrates, eliciting a shriek from Tim. “- forever. Here in the cave. Have Alfred bring us all our meals.”

Tim is laughing, wriggling like a hooked fish and deploying surprisingly lethal bony elbows in the attempt to get free. “You’d have to get up to pee sometime,” he points out, between snorts. 

“Curses! Foiled. You’ve found a hole in my flawless strategy,” Dick laments, fingers diving for the ticklish spot behind Tim’s knee.

Some time later finds the two of them spread eagled face-up on the practice mats, Dick having run out of made-up stalactite constellations to show Tim.

Idly, Dick muses, “You know, before I ever came to Gotham, Robin was my parents’ special name for me.”

Tim turns his head to the side. The wide eyes and raised eyebrows make it clear that Dick’s found a bit of information that had escaped even the most fervent of Tim’s stalker investigations.

“That sounds really nice,” Tim says, sincere and a bit wistful. “Your parents having a special name for you, I mean. They must have loved you very much.”

There’s a brief spark of rage at the realization that Tim’s obviously never been given a nickname from his parents. Dick returns his gaze to the stalactites, finding the constellation he’d dubbed Bulbasaur, until he’s sure the anger won’t show on his face. At least Jason’s gotten that part right, with Tim, Dick thinks. 

“They did,” Dick says, feeling nostalgic. “Robin was their love for me, and then - I made it into something more, with Bruce.”

Tim seems to be thinking deeply about this, waiting for Dick to continue.

Dick flops over, rolling until he’s on his stomach, chin resting on folded arms. “I outgrew Robin, when I was ready to fly as an equal to Bruce. I needed a new name, one I chose for myself, for who I am now.”

Tim nods thoughtfully. “And then Jason became Robin.”

Dick can’t help the slight edge in his voice when he corrects, “Bruce made him Robin. And he’s been an excellent one. I’m proud of him. But - it was never really Bruce’s to give.”

Tim rolls over, too, until he’s mirroring Dick, on his belly, chin on hands. “What does that mean?”

Dick considers his answer. “It means,” he says slowly, “that when Jason is truly ready to move on from being Robin, whether it’s now or someday, I’m going to decide who takes it up next.”

Tim rolls with this, nodding. “Oh. That sounds fair.” His eyebrows wrinkle a bit as he seems to turn this over again in his mind. “Kind of messed up that Bruce did that without even asking you about it, though,” Tim eventually says, sounding gratifyingly annoyed on Dick’s behalf.

Tone carefully light and even, Dick agrees, “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it.”

I’m Bruce’s equal, now. Dick considers it. Guess that means he’s not the only one who can make decisions about the family business without consulting the OG partner. 

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says, popping to his feet, a mischievous smile starting to spread on his face as he heads to the cave controls below the Bat-computer. “There’s a bunch of candles and a lighter in there.” Dick gestures to the closest ‘in case of power failure’ utility closet. “Mind grabbing them for me?”

Confused but agreeable, Tim also gets to his feet. “Sure, Dick.”

A quick check of the cameras confirms they’re likely to be undisturbed for some time longer; Jason is on the grounds near Alfred’s rose bushes, walking Ace, and Bruce is in the kitchen, head bowed over a mug of tea, while Alfred appears to be talking, giving B a stern look over his own steaming porcelain cup. Even so, after dimming the lights, Dick keys in the command code back door that quietly disables the automatic alarm from warning the others that the Batcave is being temporarily locked from the inside to ensure some peace and quiet for the solemn ritual that’s about to take place.

“Did you want a flashlight, too?” Tim asks, having returned, now juggling one in addition to the several candles and matchbox he’s scavenged from the closet. 

“Not the right ambiance for what we’re going for,” Dick tells him, taking the flashlight and playfully wiggling his eyebrows while flicking it on underneath his chin, scary stories around the campfire style, before turning it off and setting it aside. 

The playfulness subsides as he leads Tim to the secluded part of the cave that still, after all this time, holds the weight of memory clear as day in Dick’s mind. There’s a sense of rightness to it, setting up the candle in the exact spot Bruce had positioned it a decade ago; kneeling opposite Tim, this time, welcoming him into the fold of the warm and flickering candlelight keeping the darkness at bay.

The flame lit oath that he swore to Bruce, the one that made them not just family, but partners, should have seemed in retrospect almost silly, a relic of childhood, but somehow Dick finds there’s still a real sense of magic to it. The words come as easily and earnestly to him from the distance of a decade past as they had the first time, repeating the vow after Bruce’s deep and serious voice, talking about honor and danger.

“…that we two will fight together against crime and corruption and never swerve from the path of righteousness,” Tim echoes, sure and steadfast. The same wonder and excitement that Dick remembers feeling when he had been in Tim’s place shine in Tim’s eyes like the reflection of the candle flame. Although he’s doing a much better job of containing it under a veneer of calm studiousness than Dick had, at his age. 

Dick wonders if Bruce had felt the same weight of responsibility for the child across from him, the warm anticipation of teaching him to protect and defend, and the giddy connection of having family to fly with.

“Welcome aboard, partner,” Dick says softly, and can’t help but match the wide, glowing grin that spreads across Tim’s face.

Feeling the need to act mature and responsible, Dick gravely lays down some ground rules, chief among them that in exchange for the clandestine mentorship in the defensive arts (until Bruce gets over himself and surrenders to the inevitable) Tim is not allowed to be more than man in the chair and forensic investigator except on Dick’s say-so, and is absolutely not allowed out on his own at night until Dick has trained him enough to keep himself safe. Tim, for his part, still basking in awe and delight, almost falls over himself to agree to these terms. Given the givens, Dick is ready to treat this with a healthy dose of suspicion, except for the expression that Tim gets at the prospect of flying Gotham’s skies with a brother at his side, which is so wholly vulnerable and raw that it silences any doubts that Dick would otherwise have had on the subject. It leaves him utterly convinced he’s made the right call, regardless of what Bruce and Jason will inevitably have to say about it.

Getting to the really fun parts, now that Dick’s satisfied he’s covered the mature and conscientious bits, he asks, “So what do you want your name to be, when we eventually get you out on the town?”

Tim gets an unexpectedly shifty look on his face. “Um. I dunno.”

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you,” Dick realizes aloud. “I bet you already have a name picked out for yourself.”

Caught, Tim stammers, “I mean. I sort of was calling myself something. In my head. But it definitely wouldn’t work for that.”

Now positive that this is going to be a gold mine, Dick asks, grinning: “What was it?”

“You know what? It doesn’t really matter -“

“Oh, it absolutely does,” Dick insists. “I want to know. No, I need to know.”

“Um. It was - actually it sounds kind of dumb now that I think about it.”

“Tim.”

Tim looks like he’d rather be shot again than admit to it.

“Tim,” Dick wheedles. “Timmy. Baby bird.”

Not making eye contact, Tim mutters, all in a rush: “Detective Drake.”

Dick feels his eyes growing huge and hears himself making a high pitched noise reminiscent of a teapot just reaching a boil. He strongly suspects he might actually die of cuteness.

Tim’s cheeks are growing increasingly red. 

Slowly, Dick reaches out both hands to either side of Tim’s face. Unlike Jason, who would have immediately removed both Dick’s limbs at the wrist for this offense, Tim looks up in embarrassed confusion. Encountering no further resistance, Dick indulges the impulse he’s been fighting off since being jumpscared in an alleyway by a tiny kid with a huge camera, and squishes Tim’s cheeks.

Nose adorably wrinkled and eyes crossing slightly, the resulting fish lips make it slightly garbled when Tim asks, “Dick? …Why’re you smushing my face?”

“Because you’re the most adorable littlest brother in the whole entire world,” Dick responds reasonably.

Tim does pull away at this, clearly trying to play it cool while blushing so hard his ears are now fiery red under the mop of dark hair.

Taking pity on him, Dick says firmly, “I love Detective Drake. Love it. 10,000/10, no notes. Critics are raving: best thing ever. But you’re right, it’s not going to work for the night life. I think the main issue there is that it’s considered bad form to include your real name in your vigilante identity.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, rubbing a knuckle on the side of his nose. “I mean. Obviously. Who would do that.”

“What do you think about Night Owl?” Dick asks, leadingly.

Tim makes a face. “Um.”

“You can be honest,” Dick promises.

“It kind of makes me sound like an insomniac?” Tim points out. “And to be honest, I enjoy sleep. Like, a lot.”

Dick smoothly moves on to the next names on his mental list. “What about Owlet? Or Chickadee? Hummingbird?”

“No offense? But those are all way worse.”

“Work with me here, Timmy. Hm. Okay, wait, wait - I can’t remember. What are baby bats called?”

Tim answers factually, “Pups,” at the exact same time Dick hazards, “Bittens?”

Tim looks horrified. “Dick, no.”

Dick shrugs. “Eh, we’ll workshop it.”

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

The fairy lights, strung in swoops and arcs above where Tim lays between Dick and Jason, aren’t strictly necessary yet. The sheets and blankets they’ve affixed to all the furniture in the sitting room near the kitchen are keeping the inside of their fortress pleasantly dark and close, like a giant cocoon, but they aren’t thick enough to keep out the afternoon light that floods through the great bay window overlooking the ocean at this time of day. 

The view and the ever-present soft sounds of life in the house, Alfred performing mysteries of culinary science, and Bruce’s quiet footsteps wandering by, probably in search of a coffee refill or a snack, has made the room one of Tim’s favorites to spend time in, even before Dick and Jason descended on it with overflowing hampers of fabric, ties, and tacks. Ace adds to the domestic symphony with soft smacks and grunts as he gnaws on a chew stick from atop his throne of nested pillows in a blanket alcove nearby.

“Tim,” Jason intones, and shifts among his couch cushions, in the manner of someone preparing to announce something of momentous import. “It’s time for us to teach you how to play… the most dangerous game.”

Tim stiffens with excitement, feeling a thrill of hope go through him that Jason’s finally changed his mind. “Vigilantism?”

Jason flaps a hand like he’s swatting away a gnat. “You’re not allowed to be a vigilante until you’re collecting social security.”

Tim crosses his arms over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, out of Jason’s view on his other side, Dick gives Tim a sly wink.

“The other most dangerous game, Tim-Tim Teroo,” Jason continues.

Tim considers him doubtfully. “…Russian roulette?”

Dick chokes on a laugh.

Jason shoves a palm in Tim’s face. Tim slaps it away. “Of course not! Your dad’s Batman, doofus. No, it’s worse.”

Recovering, Dick agrees solemnly: “The relationship destroyer. The ultimate test of the bonds of brotherhood.”

Jason raises both hands towards the ceiling, spreading them as though unveiling the name on a lighted placard. “Mario Party.”

“No,” Bruce’s deep voice flatly intones. The blanket flap serving as the fort’s front door lifts abruptly, and his head pokes in, narrowed gaze on his elder sons. “You’re both still banned.” To Tim, he explains, “Alfred’s favorite vase was a casualty of war the last time they played.”

Dick ruefully admits, “Alfred does not forget. And he has not forgiven.”

Jason flaps a dismissive hand. “Fiiiine.”

Cheerfulness unimpeded, Dick declares, “One Night Ultimate Werewolf it is, then!”

“You can’t play that with only three people, dumbass.”

Eyes twinkling with mischief and victory, Dick sits up, hair brushing the lowest dip of a strand of fairy lights. “Well, in that case, it’s a good thing I begged, borrowed, and pleaded to get permission for you youngins to have a slumber party, then.”

Forehead crinkling, Jason props himself on his elbows. “B’s not usually that much of a hardass about friends at the Manor. Who’s coming over?”

“You two are.” Dick fishes around in his jeans pocket, and comes up with a black piece of fabric, which he hands to Tim. Smoothing it into gently molded curves in his hands, Tim discovers it’s a domino mask. “We’re going to Titans Tower.”

Mulishness warring on his face with poorly hidden awe at the idea of being invited to hang with Dick’s Titans, Jason’s rendered silent, looking to Bruce for confirmation.

“One night only,” Bruce clarifies. “No missions, no heroics. No leaving the Tower. Masks stay on. Protect your identities.” 

Dick turns sardonic eyes heavenward during these strictures.

Wide-eyed, holding the mask like it’s made of blown glass, Tim asks Jason with cautious optimism, “…You’re going to be Robin tonight?”

Jason looks down for a moment, seeming to be give it serious consideration before coming to a decision. “For tonight.” 

“…and after?” Tim prods hopefully.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Timbit.”

Tim brings the domino closer to his face, looking through it at Dick’s wide grin and Bruce, who has the faintest lines crinkling up at the sides of his eyes and mouth. “What am I supposed to call myself?”

“Your codename for the night is Bantam,” Bruce informs him.

Tim says nothing, a warm feeling bubbling up in his chest. It’s maybe not as badass as like, Raptor or Falcon, sure.  But he’s just been given his very own codename by Batman. 

Dick volunteers, “I voted for Fledgling, for the record.”

Jason scoffs. “Course you did.”

“Cause he’s our baby biiiiird!” Dick sing-songs, throwing an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “We coulda called him Fledge!”

Jason bumps a shoulder into Tim’s ribs, sending him a commiserating glance. “Coulda been worse. You coulda been Egg. Or Egghead. Or Bushtit.”

“No way. That’s a themed villain name if I ever heard one,” Dick denies, shaking his head emphatically. 

Tim is still speechless.

Bruce gives Tim a tiny smile that belies the sternness of the order: “Stay in the Tower.” Turning to Dick, he demands, “No injuries more major than bruises.” He gives Jason a stern glance. “No permanent marker, piercings, tattoos, or anything else of that nature not specifically mentioned.” Jason pouts; Bruce continues to the room at large, “Keep your brother out of trouble.”

“I know the ways of the Tim,” Jason says darkly, adding with a pointed stare in Tim’s direction: “I’ll be watching. And I’m bringing the zip ties.”

Bruce sighs deeply, giving Tim a moment of anxiety that he’s reconsidering things altogether. To Dick, he instructs, “Keep an eye on your brothers. Both eyes.”

Dick salutes crisply.

Bruce points to Jason and Dick. “Don’t get into any situation, either of you, worrisome enough that your brother will feel the urge to intervene.”

Rude, Tim thinks indignantly, but this thought seems to sober the others, leaving both older boys grimacing.

Bruce bends over carefully, leaning closer to Tim in a way that tests the structural soundness of the blanket fort despite Bruce’s attempts at delicately navigating the smaller space. “I want you to call at any time, for any reason. If you’re uncomfortable or there is anything you need, I will be there.”

Behind the back of one hand, Dick stage whispers to Tim: “He’s gonna have the supersonic jet on standby the whole time.”

Jason knocks his shoulder companionably against Tim again, before sitting up and seeming to begin getting into the spirit of things. “Come on, let’s get packing before B changes his mind.” Bruce allows himself to be bullied aside by his older sons, Dick following Jason out. The sounds of them racing off, bickering over what snacks to beg from Alfred, echo down the hallway.

Kneeling, Bruce gently takes the domino from Tim, activating the adhesive and gently smoothing it over Tim’s brow and cheekbones. When he’s finished, Bruce puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders, giving him another tiny smile.

“Have fun, Tim. Try not to get in too much trouble. Alfred and I will be waiting for you at home.”

Home. Tim’s home; his forever home. Wayne Manor. Tim reaches up, running wondering fingertips over his domino with something approaching awe. Impulsively, Tim lunges, flinging his arms around Bruce, who laughs, tightly squeezing him back. Grinning, Tim gets his feet under him, and gives an exhilarated whoop as he races out the door to chase after his brothers.