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It all starts when Tim’s eight years old.
His parents just got back from poking around in a Chilean burial site, and like usual, they brought a couple of definitely-not-legal souvenirs.
Tim walks through the display room, checking out the new finds. Old coin? Boring. Deformed skull? Kinda cool, might be fun for pretending to be Hamlet. Book that whispers to him to kill people? Eh. Boring. Red porcelain statue of a baby with the head of a goat and eyes that follow him? Hey wait, that one’s kinda cool. Cool as in absolute-nightmare-fuel-that-will-keep him-up-at-night, but still cool.
Tim grabs a chair from the dining room and drags it to the display case. Standing on the chair, he lifts the case, making grabby-hands as he prepares to pick up the statue, when—
“Timothy! Get away from that!” His mother runs into the room and swoops him off the chair, setting him down on the ground and placing herself between him and the statue, as if he’s a male lion preparing to eat her cub. He wasn’t even planning to eat the statue, just maybe lick it a little, for science! “Only your father and I are allowed to handle the artifacts, and only with gloves!”
Tim crosses his arms and pouts, giving his mother his best Bambi eyes. They always worked on his nannies when he was still young enough to need them. His Bambi eyes have led to many instances of eating sheet cake for dinner and on one particularly lucky (or unlucky) day, escaping police custody. (That wasn’t even his fault, that lady started it when she pinched Tim’s cheeks.)
She rolls her eyes, “Nice try Timothy, that hasn’t worked on me in at least three years.”
Tim grumbles but lets her drag him by the arm out of the room, closing the door behind them. He looks back longingly as he’s pulled down the corridor, away from his ugly demon goat baby statue. He’s already grown severely attached, and he desperately wants to run back in and touch it, mostly to spite his mother. But he can wait, because he’s patient and has swimming pools full of self restraint.
Besides, his parents will be gone in a few days, and then he can play with the thing as long as he wants, with no pesky adults around to stop him.
—
It takes a whole week, but finally, finally, Tim’s parents have left again. They’re off to Tibet, and the house is once again blessedly empty. He waits by the window until their car drives off, and then it’s an all-out Olympic-level sprint to the display room. He may have swimming pools of self restraint, but those swimming pools emptied the second his parents walked out the door.
He stops only briefly to grab another chair from the dining room. As he stands on it in front of the case containing his hideous hell-chic statue, he rubs his hands together like a nefarious villain. He lifts the glass and seizes the statue, cackling in victory. The eyes start to glow, and the porcelain heats up, but there’s no way Tim’s letting go. He just got his hands on the thing, for God’s sake!
A crackling noise like fire fills the room, and smoke pours out of the goat’s nostrils. The smoke solidifies into a figure that looks a little more beast than man, with red skin, horns, and a goatee that looks like something a tracksuit-wearing mafia boss would wear. Tim would know, he’s seen several while out in Gotham, and only like, three pulled a gun on him when he talked to them. This guy isn’t wearing a tracksuit though, he’s shirtless (ew, there could be kids around) and the rest of him is wrapped in shadows.
“Alright, what the fuck have you summoned me for, you little shit,” his voice booms, echoing.
Tim raises an eyebrow. If this guy thinks he’s going to scare Tim by swearing a lot and giving off demonic vibes, he’s got another thing coming. That’s basically Gotham’s version of saying good morning, sir. “I wasn’t tryna summon you, Mr. Knockoff Darth Maul. I just like this statue and my mom didn’t want me to touch it, so obviously I had to touch it.” He squints, “Who are you?”
The shadows grow taller, and the guy grows taller, throwing his arms out like some C-tier rogue. “I’m Lucifer, fuckwad. You know, the Devil? Satan? That statue summons me, runt.”
Huh. Well, that does explain all the goat motifs and the sounds of fire and faint screams. And the guy’s whole appearance. Huh. Cool. “Wait a minute, this is awesome! I always wanted a friend but apparently I’m ‘unapproachable and offputting’. But you can’t run away! I have your summoning statue. Ha! I’m never getting rid of this thing. You’ll never get away from me now!”
Lucifer screeches in outrage, “You can’t do that! That’s not how this works! You get one wish, fucknugget. No way in Hell am I babysitting you, shrimpy.”
“Ew, I don’t need a babysitter! I’m free-range!” Tim pauses to add gagging sound effects for good measure, “and besides, I totally can and will do that. For my one wish, I wish to be able to summon you with this statue whenever I like. Take that, Lucy! Can I call you Lucy? I’m gonna call you Lucy.”
He groans, “I hate that fucking statue. Just don’t call me Lucy, shitstain.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not the boss of me. Hey, I’m the boss of you now! Come on Lucy, I’m hungry. You can help me make a sandwich.”
—
Tim’s time keeping Lucifer as his friend (or captive) comes to an end after only a few short months. It was great for Tim, he used to get pretty lonely being in Drake Manor by himself, but now he finally has someone there with him! It’s great having someone to cook for him (Lucifer burns everything, even a salad somehow, but Tim’s hardly any better so he can’t judge) and having someone there to watch reality TV with him (Lucifer’s only set fire to the TV like, twice when the dating show contestants picked the wrong people, which is totally reasonable).
But it all comes to a head one night when they decide to order pizza for dinner.
“Triple anchovies, no cheese and double pineapple?! Are you fucking insane, shitlicker?!”
“Hey, this is what I’ve always ordered! It’s really good!” Tim defends.
“I’ve taken people to Hell for far less, bratface! Hand over the damn phone, let me order!” Lucifer lunges for the phone in Tim’s hand, but he rolls out of the way like a matador dodging an angry bull. He bites Lucifer’s arm as he goes, growling and sinking his teeth in deep until he tastes blood. Or whatever the Devil has instead of blood. It tastes a little like bacon. Yum.
“Sir? Are… are you still there?” the poor teenager on the other end of the line asks timidly.
“Still here! Do you deliver?” Tim shouts over Lucifer’s cries of anguish.
“I-yes?”
“Great!” he rattles off the address as he ducks under the dining room table and ends the call as he yells, “Too late, Satan! The pizza’s on its way.”
Lucifer charges forward, sending the table flying across the room. It hits the wall hard, cracking in two. Oof. Whatever, Tim always kinda hated that table. Hopefully his parents don’t ask why a new dining room table has been charged to their credit card. But if he could get away with ordering that vial of bright green glowing liquid from the dark web last month, he can probably get away with this. (Sue him, he was really sick and the liquid apparently had healing powers. And it worked! If he had a short temper for a few weeks afterwards and his eyes sometimes glowed a little green in the right lighting, well, that’s his business.)
Tim darts out of the room and down the corridor at a speed that could make even the Flash jealous.
“Get back here, fuckface!”
He ducks into the first room he comes across with Lucifer hot on his tail (literally, the guy runs a little hot when he’s angry) and cringes when he sees they’re in the display room. Oops. He’s brought a bull into a china shop. He backs up as Lucifer lunges for him, his back knocking a pedestal over. He twists around, going to grab whatever was on the pedestal and bracing himself for the impact of an eight-foot-tall ripped-as-Hell (ha) demon monster crashing into him. If Satan doesn’t kill him now, his parents will for breaking one of their artifacts.
Oh no. It’s the statue, his hideously beautiful bright red monstrosity. The world seems to slow down as he topples over from the weight crashing into him, fumbling for the statue. He catches it, it slips, he catches it again with the tips of his fingers, it slips, it crashes into the ground. Crap.
White smoke curls out of the shattered remains. Everything’s quiet for a moment, and then Lucifer laughs; a booming, mean laugh.
“Holy shit. It’s over. I’m free! I’m fucking free!”
“Lucy, wait, come on. We’re friends, right? Don’t you wanna stay? I can bribe you!” Tim pleads.
“Fuck no, kid. I’m outta here. In fact, I’m going to give you a little parting gift. You’ll no longer be able to die, any wounds you get are just gonna heal right up. It’s a win-win situation, I don’t ever have to see your ugly little face again, and you get to be immortal.” He laughs again, raising his arms to cast the spell.
“Hey, no, wait! Is this like a restraining order? You can’t get a restraining order against me! That’s just rude!” Tim whines, pouting and giving Lucifer his best Bambi eyes.
“Too damn bad. See you never, buttbrain.” He’s gone in a puff of vapor that smells like rotten eggs. Magic swirls around Tim, red patterns glowing brightly on his skin before fading until they’re no longer visible. Aaaaand he’s alone again. Great.
The doorbell rings. Tim puts off his impending existential crisis over the fact he can no longer die and answers the door, taking his pizza from a harried-looking delivery worker. He takes it to the kitchen and sits on the floor to eat, dipping a slice of pizza into a jar of peanut butter as he thinks. He should probably test out his new abilities, right? Obviously, he’s not going to try killing himself or anything like that (at least not yet), but he could try giving himself a papercut and seeing if it heals.
After he finishes his pizza (which was delicious, screw you Satan), he heads to his parents’ study and picks out a book. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of the page until a bead of blood appears. He wipes it away, and sees the cut is already healed. Cool. So this is real, then. He can actually heal himself. A few more tests will need to be conducted, and he wants to see how it works with more major injuries, but he’s not going to just break his arm on purpose or something.
He can wait.
—
Tim climbs out of his hiding place in a dumpster like an oversized but slightly more feral raccoon and scales the fire escape, camera around his neck. Since gaining his new abilities, he’s began following Batman and Robin around at night, taking photos of them. It’s something he’s been wanting to do since he found out their identities a few months back (and seriously, Bruce Wayne? The man Tim’s seen dancing drunk in only his underwear on ice statues at several galas is Batman?), but he’d been worried about getting hurt and having to explain how it happened. Now though, he doesn’t have to worry! At least in theory. It’s only been a few weeks, and he still hasn’t gotten any major injuries to test that out.
He crouches on the rooftop and snaps a few photos of Robin as he kicks Killer Croc right in the face, springboarding off of him into a somersault. Croc roars, chasing Robin as he darts further down the street, and away from Tim’s line of sight. He gets up and sprints towards the edge of the roof. The gap to the next building is about eight feet. He can totally make that. Probably. Whatever, too late to change his mind now, he’s already got the momentum built up. He leaps forward, and instantly knows he’s made a miscalculation.
He drops down four storeys, clutching his camera tightly to protect it, a sickening crack echoing in the alley as he hits the ground.
And ouch, his neck is on fire. Weirdly enough, he can’t feel or move anything below that, a choked whine escaping him as he tries. He can feel a puddle of warm liquid forming under his head, growing steadily, as sharp pain throbs from the area. But then, another sickening crack echoes, and his head snaps back into the right position. Feeling floods his body, and he can move again. There’s a sound like a whole lot of bubblewrap popping as his skull fixes itself and the skin sews itself back together.
He feels as good as new! Wow, so he really can’t die. That’s… something. Okay. Tim picks himself up off the ground, brushing dirt off his pants. As he turns to leave the alley, boots thud onto the ground behind him
Ah crap. Batman. Batman—who hates metas—probably just saw him break his neck and crack his skull open and then get back up. This is… a pickle. A really big one. One of those jumbo ones he’s seen at theme parks. Now he’s hungry. Are there any pickles in the fridge at home?
“Kid, are you okay? I saw you fall.”
Oh, right. Batman. Well. This is going to be interesting. As Lucifer taught him, if all else fails, gatekeep, gaslight, girlboss. He pulls his hood up as he turns around and crosses his arms “I didn’t fall. I took a calculated leap. And the building isn’t even that tall, it’s only like, two storeys.”
“It’s four storeys.”
Damn. Batman’s math skills are better than Tim had hoped. “Whatever, that’s barely anything.”
“I don’t mean to freak you out, but you should be dead right now from that fall. I’m pretty sure I heard your neck snap.”
“Nuh-uh, that was just my camera cracking.”
“Your camera looks fine to me. And there’s a puddle of blood right behind you.” Batman steps out of the shadows, pointing at the very fresh and very large pool of blood.
“Mr. Batman, sir, this is Gotham. I’d be worried if there wasn’t a puddle of blood behind me. There’s one behind you, too, right next to that dead rat.”
“That may be, but—”
“Look, it’s Joker! He’s escaped!” Tim yells, pointing at a rooftop behind Batman. Predictably, the man whips his head around, and Tim takes off sprinting in the other direction. He heads back to the dumpster he’d hid in earlier, avoiding the used needles as he sits and waits.
That could’ve gone a lot better. But it also could’ve gone worse. At least Batman didn’t catch him and put him in Arkham-for-tots, or whatever he does with meta kids. And now Tim knows what happens when he gets a major injury! He’d like to be able to test it again in a controlled environment with a stopwatch to see exactly how long it takes to heal, but… that really hurt. It seems pretty much instant, anyway. Just a few seconds of searing, brain-melting pain, and then he’s all good.
Tim stays silent as footsteps pass, and then a grapple line fires. He waits a few more minutes, and then climbs out of the dumpster. He heads home with his new knowledge and a bounce in his step.
—
When Tim put on the Robin costume to save Batman and Nightwing from Two-Face, he really wasn’t expecting it to be a long-term thing. He thought he’d save their asses, make them talk everything out (and hopefully go to therapy, lord knows they both need it), and then get the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t want to replace Jason, he didn’t want to become the emotional support child for three grown men! But now, here he is.
It’s extremely risky with his abilities, and he’s had to learn how to slow down the healing process enough to let Alfred stitch up and bandage his injuries. It’s super annoying, he just wants to let them heal in seconds and be done with it, and he does do that most of the time. But if someone sees him get injured, he has to let them treat it the normal way. He was scared at first that Bruce would recognise him as the kid he saw fall off a four storey building, but he seems to have completely forgotten the whole incident.
After spending more time around Bruce, he’s learnt the guy doesn’t actually hate metas, he’s just a little weary about people having inhuman abilities in his city. Which Tim thinks is kinda valid, seeing as how many rogues Gotham seems to pump out. Human rogues are bad enough, superhuman ones are just plain annoying. While he knows now Bruce wouldn’t throw him in Arkham over his powers (probably), he still hasn’t told him about them.
At first it was the fear, then there was never a good opportunity to bring it up, and now he’s been Robin for two years and it kinda feels a little embarrassing to say out of the blue, hey so I actually can’t die and all my injuries heal! Funny, right? And I’ve been like this the whole time too, I’ve just been lying to you and making my injuries heal at a normal rate so you wouldn’t find out.
It’s been too long now, and so it’d just be awkward to mention it at this point. So he doesn’t, and when Bruce insists on sending him to Titans Tower while they catch the new rogue in town with a vendetta against Robin, he agrees.
After all, what’s wrong with a little vacation?
—
Jason’s back in Gotham and life is going great. His debut as Red Hood started strong with him cutting off eight heads and putting them in a duffle bag (and people really need to give him more credit for that, because he had to go to six different stores to find a bag big enough, and then he had to cauterise the heads so that the blood wouldn’t leak through the bag! It was a lot of work, okay people) and then he dropped a bunch hints about his true identity and made it very clear through several gruesome and highly detailed letters what he intends to do to his replacement.
Who, it turns out, is some dumb ass rich kid who became Robin before his mom died and his dad went into a coma. Seriously, how stupid is that?! The tragic backstory is meant to come first! Why the fuck would anyone don the scaly panties before going through significant trauma? To be fair to the kid though, at least he added tights underneath. But still. There’s definitely something wrong with Timothy Drake, and it isn’t just his desire to dress up in a costume and follow a grown man in a fursuit around the rooftops. (It was less weird when Jason did it because at least Batman had adopted him. He wasn’t just following his eccentric next door neighbour around like some people.)
And now that Batman and Nightwing have locked the kid in Titans Tower so he’ll be ‘safe’, it’s time to teach the little shit a lesson. So, Jason takes the zeta into the Tower, turns off all the electricity, puts the whole thing on lockdown, and sashays up to the main floor while humming ‘California Gurls’, just for kicks.
—
Tim emerges from his room after spending twenty-four hours straight working on cases, completely forgetting about eating or drinking. Suffice to say, when he remembers there’s a microwave burrito in the freezer, he’s thanking every higher power for his luck. He puts it in the microwave and crouches, watching as the seconds tick down. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.
Then, the whole place goes dark. The microwave stops. He curses every higher power and groans. Red lights start flashing a few seconds later, signaling the emergency lockdown procedure.
It’s probably just a malfunction, Tim reasons. He’s sure it’s nothing. He takes the half-cooked burrito out of the microwave and takes a bite. Still frozen in the centre. Ugh.
A low whistle comes from behind him, and he spins around to come face-to-helmet with the Red Hood. Of-fucking-course. “Can you just let me eat my burrito before you do whatever it is you came here to do? I’m really hungry, man.”
Red Hood pulls out a gun from his jacket and clicks the safety off. “Nope. I make the rules here, asshat.” He fires the gun at Tim's shin.
Pain explodes in the limb, and he curses and hops from foot to foot for a second. The pain slows, and then stops altogether. He puts the leg down tentatively and walks closer to Hood.
“The hell’s wrong with you, kid?! I just shot you!”
Tim walks until he’s in front of Hood and takes a bite of his burrito. “Skill issue,” he declares around a mouthful of rice and beans.
Now, many might say antagonising a crime lord who stuffed eight heads in a duffel bag a few weeks back is a bad idea. Especially when said crime lord has some kind of beef with Robin. But hey, Tim can’t die, and what can he say, he’s a little pissed with this guy. Like, he preaches about how much he hates people who hurt kids and made killing those people a major part of his whole thing, and then he goes and writes overly-dramatic letters about all the ways he’s going to hurt Robin. Who is a kid. That’s asshole behaviour, honestly. So Tim’s going to ragebait with him a little.
Tim lets Hood take his arm and twist, grunting at the pop. Hood stabs a knife into the joint, and Tim screams. Okay, he can’t die, but he still feels pain all the same, and that really fucking hurts. Also, it made him drop his burrito.
“Still a skill issue, fuckhead?"
He can hear the grin in the guy’s voice. The pain fades away, and Tim matches the grin with one of his own as his shoulder pops back into place, and the knife wound seals back up with a hissing, squelching noise. “Yep.”
Hood rears back, stumbling a little. Then, he stops and chuckles. “You’re a meta. Okay, then. Does the big bad Bat know?”
Tim tilts his chin upwards and looks Hood right in the eyes—well, the white slits where his eyes presumably are—and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy.”
“Oh, so he doesn’t know. Well, I’ll just have to tell him, won’t I?”
Tim laughs. “You think he’ll believe you? You think he’s going to believe a mentally unstable criminal over me? You realise the cameras were cut when you turned out the power too, right? You’ve got all the audacity and none of the proof. Hilarious.”
Hood stutters for a moment. Tim picks his burrito off the floor, wiping off any dust (okay, it’s kinda gross, but he’s really hungry) and shoves the rest of it in his mouth.
Hood seems to shake himself, and pulls his gun out again. He fires four times, hitting Tim square in the chest every time.
Okay, ouch.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to find a way to kill you, and then I’m sending you straight to hell, Replacement.”
“Nuh-uh. The devil has a restraining order against me, shitlicker.” Tim takes great delight as a few grains of rice and beans hit Hood’s chest as he speaks, still chewing. What can he say, he learnt from the best. Who would’ve known Satan himself would be a bad influence on an eight year old?
Hood laughs and puts the gun away, pulling out a knife instead. “Okay, you’re kinda funny, I’m still killing you though.”
“I’m not joking, Lucifer wants me less than my parents wanted me,”
A half laugh, half choke sound comes through Hood’s voice modulator. “Damn, kid. I wouldn’t want you either.”
“Good thing you’re not my dad then.” A thought enters Tim’s mind, and a spark of panic flows through him, “Wait, you’re not my dad, right? Oh my god. I always kinda wondered because Jack is kinda crazy—”
“Replacement, you’re crazy. And I’m not your da—”
Tim cuts Hood off, he’s on a roll now. “Holy shit! Now it all makes sense! Your grudge against me, because you’re my dad and you’re scared of how much better than you I am, and our shared flair for the dramatics—oh by the way, the heads were kinda cool I guess but the notes were just a little over the top, they read like something Edgar Allen Poe would write but a little less gruesome—”
“Kid! I’m not your damn dad!”
Hood unlatches his helmet off, and Tim finally takes a breath. Once air is in his lungs again, he looks up to see… some guy. Some guy wearing a domino mask, with dark hair with a shock of white at the front like a skunk. Tim squints. The guy looks a little familiar. Probably because he’s definitely Tim’s dad and he’s recognising his own features or something.
“Woah. The resemblance is uncanny, too. I’ve got your black hair and I’ll bet your eyes are blue under that mask, too—”
“I’m not your fucking dad! I’m only nineteen!” Hood yells, throwing his helmet against the wall with a clatter and stomping a foot. It reminds Tim of a toddler having a temper tantrum. “Don’t you recognise me?!”
Tim squints again, looking a little closer. “...No?”
He rips off the domino mask to reveal glowing green eyes. “I’m Ja—”
Tim’s jaw drops, “Holy shit! My eyes glow green too when I’m angry sometimes!”
Hood throws a knife at Tim’s chest. He grunts and pulls it out.
“I’m Jason!”
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific. There’s like, four guys in my class at school named Jason.”
“Jason Todd, asshole! The dead Robin!”
Huh. Well, why didn’t he just say that? Wait a minute—”Oh my god, the devil has a restraining order against you too?!”
Jason screams in anguish and charges at Tim.
—
At some point, after being shot eighteen times, having three limbs removed (apparently, when he loses a limb, they just grow back! He’s totally going to use that in the future for pranks) and being stabbed countless times, Tim’s tired Jason out. He fights back, of course, his bo staff isn’t nearby but he bites, kicks, scratches, and repurposes several kitchen utensils.
Jason is slumped down on the floor, groaning weakly and face red and sweaty. Tim sits on his back so he doesn’t get any ideas.
“So you really can’t die, huh?”
“I mean, I tried to tell you.” Tim flops backwards and stares at the ceiling.
The power suddenly comes back on and footsteps echo from down the hall. Moments later, Batman and Nightwing run into the room.
“Tim? Jason? Are you boys alright?” Bruce walks over to check for a pulse on Tim’s neck.
He sits straight upright and goes to bite Bruce’s hand. He moves it out of the way just in time. He’s learning! Tim’s taught him well.
“We’re fine, B,” a groan echoes against the floor, “or I am, at least.”
Jason sits up, shoving Tim off his back as he does. Then, they look at each other, before Jason yells and points at Tim, “He’s a meta! He can’t get hur—”
Tim follows suit, “He’s not dead! He’s a zombie—”
“-and he can’t die and—”
“-and he came here to try to kill me—”
“-his wounds kept healing—”
“-he’s an asshole and I’m still not totally convinced he’s not my dad—”
“Boys!” Bruce shouts over the noise. Tim and Jason both shut up and glare at each, and Dick watches them both with his mouth hanging open.
“Now, Tim. What’s Jason saying about you being a meta?”
Oh hell no, Tim’s not doing this right now. “Your son is back from the dead! Why are you asking about me? Why aren’t you surprised? Hold on, when you came in you called him Jason! You knew!”
“Tim, wait—”
“No way, you knew Jason was back and you just didn’t tell me?! You didn’t think to tell me the psycho murderer after me is your dead son?!”
Tim pauses to breathe and looks up to see everyone staring at him.
Dick steps forward carefully, “Timmy, honey, why are your eyes glowing green?”
Crap. Whatever, back to the basics it is. He points behind them all, “Look, it’s Joker! He escaped Arkham!”
As all their heads snap to where Tim pointed, he takes off sprinting for the zeta tubes. He hears them calling behind him, but he’s already dematerialising.
Unfortunately, he steps off the zeta and straight into the Batcave.
—
Two hours, eleven bite marks, and one straightjacket later, Tim’s been manhandled into the medbay for an interrogation.
He sighs and resigns himself to his fate. He tells Bruce, Dick, Alfred, and Jason (who is currently having multiple wounds—courtesy of Tim—stitched up) his whole story, from the ugly demon goat baby statue to Lucifer’s metaphysical restraining order. He explains his powers in full, and answers all their questions with only a little more biting. Once he’s done, Bruce rubs his temples and sits down.
“And what about the glowing eyes?”
“Ah, right. That’s most likely from the mysterious magical liquid I ordered on the dark web when I was eight.”
“The what?”
Two more long-winded explanations later, it turns out Tim may have drunk Lazarus water on accident, which is coincidentally the same stuff that brought Jason back to life. Small world, huh?
He also may have accidentally revealed just how little supervision he’s had for his whole childhood.
“Tim, I think I’m going to have to have a talk to your father after this. It’s just not normal to leave a child without a nanny from the age of eight—”
Jason shoots up as soon as Alfred finishes his last stitch, “And he said his dad is crazy, and he thought I was his dad because I’m apparently less crazy than his actual dad! B, you gotta adopt him! If you don’t, I will. You’re still a little shit, Replacement, but you’ve got one hell of a bite and that really fits my brand. We’d make a great team.”
“Speaking of which, you guys should probably all get checked for rabies.” Tim’s pretty sure he doesn’t have rabies, but he did pat that raccoon last week. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Oh, great, the kid’s got rabies—wait, don’t distract me! Bruce, quick, adopt him! I know you keep the paperwork down here somewhere…” Jason, Bruce, and Dick turn around and start looking through cabinets.
Oh, fuck no. Tim is a free-range Robin, and he’s not letting three grown men with adoption problems change that!
“Look! Joker’s escaped Arkham!”