Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jean-Paul is Azrael, he is also not Azrael at all. This is one of the most important ways that he is unlike Bruce. When Tim talks to Bruce (well, sans his persona that he puts on for everyone else,) he can think of Batman too. Hold them beside each other in his mind. Jean-Paul bears no great resemblance to his alter ego.

Jean-Paul is the nice guy who works in security on the ninth floor, with a middling degree in computer science from.Gotham's community college. He's unassuming and sweet. When Tim runs into him at Wayne Tower. Jean-Paul invites him for lunch at the staff cafeteria and he does so a bit shyly, awkwardly, so Tim has to ask him what's up? Oh you're going to lunch… you good? You sure? He has to drag the invitation out of him.

Muscles hidden beneath a slightly loose security uniform, long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose and get pushed back up over and over again. He looks the part of the innocent, fresh-faced, just out of college, or about to be, kid. Just another hipster- talking at length about computer jargon that Tim barely manages to keep up with despite his own proficiency in the matter. Jean-Paul looks like he has a strong stance on whether Pluto is a planet or not. He looks like he had long, detailed opinions on the original Star Wars trilogy. Azrael does not.

Azrael can kill in the span of a heartbeat, and the only thing keeping him from murdering people now was- well, Tim wasn't sure.

Azrael walked a thin line that just barely separated him from the ruthless conditioning of the vaguely named System that Dumas had imposed upon him. Jean-Paul, however, had a mind supposedly clear of all this.

But they were not different people. They weren't even different personalities- not in the clinical sense. They shared memories and opinions and tastes. Azrael, when asked, said he was Jean-Paul. That he did not feel differently, as a person, at his core. They both thought Pluto wasn't a planet. (And Tim thought, quietly, that the distinction between planets and drawf planets was arbitrary. A way of trying to label a universe of chaos, that did not make sense. It could be both a planet and not. He thought Jean-Paul-Azrael was wrong.)

But Bruce picks him and Tim is professional enough to put his own feelings aside. Jean-Paul is occasionally nice to him, gives him candy he swiped off someone's desk, makes small talk (he gets excited when Tim tells him he likes Star Wars,) and Azrael is a good fighter, who learns quickly and shows decent results.

Tim does not hate him. He accompanies Jean-Paul to the cafeteria when he asks.

"It was nice of him," Jean-Paul says, as he peels the wrapper off his straw. He does so in strips, and Tim thinks this is odd. It's ineffective, and it makes a mess. "To be honest with you, Tim, I still don't quite get why he's being so nice to me." Jean-Paul motions around them- to the tower, then to his nametag. "Look at this, all of this."

Tim smiles, "You don't have to get it, you know. He just likes to help people. Especially people in a bad place who want to do better. He believes in second chances."

Jean-Paul smiles, looking earnest and kind, and he leans back in his chair.

"You know, I never expected this. Even when my father showed up like that- when I found out about-" Jean-Paul waves his hand in lieu of saying Azrael, and the truth that they could not speak of in a public setting. "I just never expected to meet him."

"Why not?" Tim asks.

"I hardly thought he was real," Jean-Paul admits. "And if he was that he'd be... Less..."

Tim doesn't know what the last word is. It's fine. The intentions of the sentence might carry over better in the ambiguity of the statement. Bruce is hard to grasp, as a concept, hard to believe as a real person. As a man. He seems fake. Batman is Bruce and they are both larger than words. Unreachable.

Tim and Azrael keep their tones lowered as they speak, carefully avoiding any mention of capes, of Batman. It still manages to rub Tim the wrong way, because, no, no one really cares about their conversation, and no one is listening, but Tim is paranoid by nature, and tutelage under Batman has only made that instinct worse. Jean-Paul lacks this instinct.

Tim nods tightly. "He's like that, I guess," He shrugs. "Unexpected."

Tim doesn't mention that Bruce Wayne, for all his otherworldliness, is, really just a man at his core. Vulnerable, flawed, but brave. He is also quite predictable. Jean-Paul-Azrael, on the other hand, is unpredictable.

"Yeah," Jean-Paul taps his fingers along the table. "I guess. Unexpected."

-

There were reasons to brush the initial red flags aside.

One, Azrael didn't exactly have an easy past. His brain was something like scrambled eggs in his skull, and his behavior was the result of ruthless conditioning. Tim had known from the beginning how volatile it was, and he'd asked to map it. An experiment, put Azrael in a controlled environment and measure his response to different stimuli, engage in hypothetical scenarios and put down how the neurons in his brain fired. Azrael had not taken to the idea, and smashed a lot of really nice equipment.

("I just have to do this," Jean-Paul said. He was in a cot in the med-bay even though Tim was the injured one. A piece of monitoring equipment wedged in his arm. "I have to do these things. I have to do them this way. I'm- it's like I'm his vessel."

Tim shivered. He plucked out the piece of shrapnel without comment on it.

"I understand, conceptually," Tim said. "But we'll need to really know what that means eventually. This sort of thing would help you understand yourself better, how to cope."

"Not yet," Jean-Paul said. Tim looked at him and saw that he was shaking.

"Okay," Tim said.

"I've got it under control until you- you hook that stuff up to me. Let me get better first, I've had enough of people prodding at my mind."

"I understand.")

Despite this, Azrael and Jean-Paul had managed to repeatedly make good decisions. He was tough, and occasionally cruel, but he spared even the worst enemies, and sometimes during his worst tempers. He had not killed since his initial conditioning and trauma. He is erratic, angry, but, according to a traceable consistent pattern of action through less controlled evidence, capable of making good decisions.

Two, Bruce trusted Azrael. And it seems, honestly, that Tim will forever blindly trust Bruce, no matter what happens. So, by logical syllogism, Tim trusted Bruce so he trusted Azrael.

Three, Tim was too busy to really see-

In his civilian life Ariana was… not dating him, yet, technically, but Tim knew it was coming. It was all clumsy and weird on Tim's part, and probably reckless on hers considering she'd just lost her father, moved in with her aunt and uncle too fast for a mourning period, and, reportedly, her last breakup had been messy. She was kind of a messy person, and so was Tim and they lived on opposite sides of town, went to different schools, and, and, and-

Tim didn't have the time for it by any means. It was still happening.

Meanwhile: his dad was awake, a guidance counselor almost called the police, Tim failed to take Bracuda down, and Nightwing had yelled at him for... for a long time, for that one. Arkham and Blackgate had their doors opened. Forcibly.

Then Bane.

And Bane-

Changed everything.

It was a series of events that piled on top of each other (like Tim was stacking them with the Robin-green gloves that Bruce had trusted him with,) until the weight came crashing down upon Batman's head- his neck- his ruined spine-

Batman asked him not to help, fearing another dead Robin, but Tim should've helped anyways, or should've helped more, because Tim was expendable, but Batman wasn't. He should've helped differently, should've helped correctly

And the real story begins there.

It starts where everything, for a night, ends.

With Alfred and Jean-Paul at his doorstep, Bruce's spine cracked and shredded like Bane had taken his teeth to it instead of his knee (over and over again.)

It begins when Azrael looks on at Bruce in the medbay cots and Tim is too horrified to do anything, to see anything but Bruce.

(Bruce who looks like he's already dead.)

He does not see Azrael's considering expression, how he looks to be in the middle of a forming idea. How he looks s little too long at Bruce- a little too long at Tim.

(Of course everything is clear in hindsight. Tim knows it's bad to look at the past and think of how to change it, but he can't seem to help himself. And maybe he is self-destructive. Maybe the action brings him a small comfort because it's like trying to turn it into something else- a lesson, perhaps. So that next time, when things go wrong, he will feel less like it's his own fault.)

-

There's a long time where Bruce doesn't wake up.

"He's going to need more than fighting spirit, Tim," Alfred says, and there's demeaning hint to the words that Tim has never heard from Alfred before. He's always been too polished for such childish spite, and the fact that it's slipping out is proof of of Alfred's own grief.

Tim knows he doesn't mean it, so he doesn't respond. Tim doesn't say that he already knows that, of course he knows that. He's been through the scary precipice of death once already with Jack Drake and he knows how little fighting spirit means when faced with the inevitability and surprising closeness of death.

Tim doesn't say anything.

But, he wants to scream and yell and cry, and when Alfred says they need the decadron to heal him, it's… it's almost like a breath of fresh, greatly needed air. It's risky, strange medicine, with a name certainly not patented by the FDA, but Alfred says it's the only way to reduce the swelling and to give Bruce a chance at recovery, and Tim wishes he didn't feel so relieved by the fact that when Alfred tells him this it's like being given a mission debrief.

Tim isn't eager, exactly. No, eager was the farthest word from correct.

But Tim did climb into the batmobile with what could be misconstrued as enthusiasm. It was more a feeling of belonging. Relief at the ease that such a thing brought. Tim has a place to be, and a thing to do. He needs to save Bruce.

Tim just needs to-

He needs to do something. Always.

"You need to accept that he may not pull through this," Jean-Paul tells him over the sound of the roaring engine. No matter how good Wayne-Tech is, they can't soundproof the inside of the car entirely. And it would be stupid to– hearing, knowing what was happening outside, was important. "It would be good if you prepared yourself for the worst."

Azrael's voice seems to ripple out across the dashboard, gaining strength as it travels, and. It hits Tim like a tall wave, it crashes down on him.

"Don't say that, Azrael," Tim says, shutting him down because it is the only way his hands aren't going to start shaking. "I don't want to hear it."

He turns to face the man with the sternest eyes he can muster. He realizes Azrael has seen worse, and Tim has a mask on, and he probably just looks like he feels: like a scared child.

"There'll always be a Batman," Tim tries to insist, anyways. "Always."

"Gotham will always have someone," Azrael says, his tone gives nothing away, and it makes Tim want to punch him. Want to ask how he sounds so calm. "But Bruce-"

"There will always be a Batman!" Tim says before Azrael can finish the sentence. "Gotham can't survive without him."

I can not survive without him. This, he doesn't say. It goes unheard.

"Bruce is strong," Tim says. "He'll pull through."

The words can not stop themselves, and Tim is powerless against the force of his conviction. He has to say it because he has to believe it. He can't afford the liberty to believe otherwise.

"Don't raise your voice at me," Azrael hisses, and his eyes dart briefly from the road to pin Tim to the passenger seat. "You know that I'm right, Tim."

Tim cowers slightly against the glare. He can not quite lift his eyes again for the rest of the car ride.

They get Bruce the drug. Bruce survives, Batman doesn't.

In too many ways, Azrael is right.

-

Bruce looks small. Bruce has never once looked small before. But he does now: his broken torso is hidden from view beneath the blankets, but the wires running from beneath the cloth, carrying fluids out, and other things in, reveal the truth. Bruce is hurt, he is crippled- a word Tim finds unpleasant, offensive, but that his dad uses so much it has started to eek into his vocabulary- and he is weak.

Tim does not cry at the sight, because Robin doesn't cry. Robin is the pillar Bruce leans on, the cane to support his weight, the bandage over his gaping wounds, which are currently very, very gaping. Robin does not cry.

The steady beeping and Bruce's heavy breathing are the only noises left in the room as Alfred disappears upstairs to get them all some tea. He'll have to let it cool down and give it to Bruce in small, slow sips, and Tim will have to leave before that happens because he doesn't think he can stomach watching Alfred feed Bruce like Bruce is a baby bird, or someone much, much older than he is.

"I'm sorry," Tim says.

It is the first thing out of his mouth, a little too quiet.

"Don't be," Bruce says, his voice gravely in a different way than usual. His throat sounds sore.

Tim imagines that without a cast encircling his broken, broken neck, the man would be shaking his head in that solemn way he does. Tim has grown very used to his expressions. The Bruce smile and frown, The Bruce shake, the Bruce nod, the little disgusted grimace, or the quirk of his lips that means he's amused, the Bruce- Bruce seems different now.

The thing is, Bruce has always been solemn, but he wasn't sad. This has always been an important distinction. Bruce was serious, grim. But he wasn't sad.

Yet, he is sad now. Without any way to express his anger, and Tim knows Bruce is a very righteously angry man, he turns to sadness instead.

Blue eyes flick over to Tim's.

They look far too much like Jack Drake's, Tim thinks. Though his dad's are brown, it's not the color that matters. It's the little lines at the corners, the depth of misery.

Too much. Too close to home. Tim Drake's life and Robin's are sharing uncomfortable parallels and he does not have any proper coping mechanisms to handle it. Tim isn't even sure if he's ever thought about needing proper coping mechanisms before, and he doesn't know where to start, and it's not like he has the time to spare worrying about them.

Everything had been fine. Now, suddenly, he is losing a second father to the hands of a cruel man, and the mentally crippling confines of paralysis.

Tim can not deal with two men in wheelchairs who need Tim to fix them.

But Tim has to. He is Robin, and he is a Drake, and never before had those titles felt like hands on his neck, but they do now.

"It's not your fault Robin," Bruce says, but his voice is weak, tired, and hazy with pain medication. "Tim."

Tim doesn't reply. Everything he can say to make Bruce feel better feels like a lie, and though Tim is used to lying, he can't seem to do it right now. All the words get lodged in his throat like rocks sitting in the tight, gentle flesh of his esophagus. Lodged and stuck and painful. Everything is so dramatic and painful. Like a bad play.

Then the moment passes. Bruce's voice comes again, more serious, more pointed.

"There needs to be a Batman," Bruce says after a minute.

Tim knew this conversation was coming. He'd been preparing for it.

"I'm sure Nightwing can-"

"No!" Bruce yells. "No," he repeats, softer and more pained. "Dick needs to live his own life. Not this."

Tim hears the unspoken intention behind it.

Bruce Wayne does not want Dick Grayson to end up like him, and Dick Grayson has to stay away from Bane right now because Bruce Wayne can not lose another Robin. Especially Dick Grayson. (Tim, he might be able to get past, eventually, but Dick Grayson has to be safe and okay or Bruce Wayne will never get better.)

"I need you to ask Jean-Paul Valley to take the cowl," Bruce says, and the carefully controlled distance in his voice feels better than the vulnerable kind of insistence that Tim doesn't need to be sorry or whatever. The distant, commanding voice of Batman is much more familiar, and Tim lets it fall over him. Commands snap into place around Tim and hold him up. It makes things easier.

"And you'll be his Robin," Bruce tells him. "You will keep an eye on him."

Tim nods. "I can do that."

"You can, Tim," Bruce says. His eyes are distant, looking at some spot behind Tim, and at nothing in particular.

A mission. Tim can take on a mission and be useful and do something with himself. It is something to do besides thinking about how small Bruce looks in the medbay, and how quiet Alfred is in the wake of the attack and Bruce's condition.

Bruce has always seemed untouchable, Alfred, too, like otherworldly beings that existed outside of the realm of mortal failure- the kind Tim made a frequent example of.

But now, Tim is seeing them exposed as human for the first time. They are hurt and nursing their wounds and it makes Tim feel wrong. His world feels upside down, twisted into a sickening, warped version of the earth he was used to.

The two people Tim had thought could never be taken down seem thoroughly beaten. Shocked into a dark silence in one fell swoop by an enemy Tim had seen coming and not been around to help defeat.

Bruce takes a shaky breath in the stillness between them and settles empty, hurt eyes towards the ceiling, and Tim does not cry, because Robin doesn't cry.

You did good, Tim wants to say.

You tried your best, maybe, or, You'll pull through this. I know you can..

Tim doesn't say anything, because nothing feels right or true or like anything near enough and he is scared that if he speaks it will release the dam he's built to keep the tears from spilling over.

Robins don't cry.

Drakes cry even less.

-

Jack Drake is nicer in the wheelchair. He was never that cruel before, just so... distant.

Jack and his mom had never been abusive. They never hit him. Jack Drake just liked to grab, when he wanted to be listened to. That was all he really ever did, he grabbed Tim by the biceps and held him still when he told him something and sometimes it hurt. He still does this, but he's nicer now, and sometimes the grip will falter like Jack realizes what he's doing, and then he'll apologize and let Tim go. Tim finds being apologized to an uncomfortable thing- it makes him feel worse, somehow.

Tim wishes he was not grateful for this small mercy, because it came at a steep, steep price. Losing a wife and the ability to walk would probably keep a lot of people from hurting their caretaker.

Tim is useful. Tim makes dinner, gets him the remote when it's too far for him to reach, Tim schedules physical therapy with Dr. Kingsolving ("You should make him call me," the doctor always says, but she's never angry at Tim,) rolls him into the car, gets his special-condition driver's permit when the chauffeur keeps calling in sick and drives him there every day. He helps sometimes with the stretches that need a second pair of hands and though the silence is awkward and the feeling odd, Tim thinks that said exercises are the first time he has touched his father and it didn't hurt afterward.

Tim wishes he didn't notice, didn't acknowledge, how it only took Janet's death for them to grow closer.

Tim is just like that, maybe.

People die. Tim fills a void. Jason dies, and Tim becomes Robin. Janet dies, and Jack needs someone around. Tim is good at that.

Tim forgives them, of course. He forgives his dad. Would forgive him even if he did hit him. Tim had always forgiven him before Janet died, (Before fury became emptiness,) and he would certainly continue to forgive him now. Maybe not as quietly, but just as assuredly. Bruce was guaranteed forgiveness, too.

"You pity me," Jack says, as Tim rolls him up to one end of the dining room table. “You think I’m just some- some useless fucking cripple.”

Which means tonight will be annoying.

"I don't," Tim says, and Jack's fist finds itself wrapped in the fabric of Tim's shirt. A familiar feeling.

"Don't lie to me, boy," Jack says. He releases his hold suddenly. Tim stumbles back a step. He shouldn't stumble back any steps. He deals with worse daily than Robin. Tim. But he does stumble because he isn't Robin without the costume on, he's just... Tim.

"I'm not lying."

"Then what has got you looking so goddamn pathetic? Why are you looking at me like that?"

You are in a wheelchair. Bruce Wayne is bedridden. Jason Todd is long dead. Nightwing yelled at him when he botched the Bracuda case. Now he's gone somewhere in Bludhaven and Tim couldn't seem to stop failing him. You didn't see Bane laughing at me.

Azrael was telling him to expect the worst.

Alfred is like a shadow in the gaping halls of Wayne manor. Like a ghost.

Tim clears his throat. "I made pork chops," He says, avoiding the question. "your favorite. With the apple."

"Well that's," Jack sighs. "Good. Sorry, Tim."

The fury is drained out of him in a second.

Tim shuffles away to the kitchen to make them two plates.

In the morning, Dr. Kingsolving visits.

"Tim!" She says, with a smile. When he wakes up, she's on her way out and he runs into her by the kitchen.

He hardly knows her, but she always does this. She greets him warmly, makes small talk. She updates him on Jack's condition- and she does so with kindly worded language, and she uses simple terms. She tries to explain everything, and she makes sure he follows along.

He smiles back.

"Dr. Kingsolving," He says.

"How are you?" She asks.

Tim stops in his tracks- he can't remember who asked him that last. It has been a while.

"Fine," He says, curtly.

"Hm," She doesn't seem to believe it. "Well, your father was a bit off today. Did something happen between the two of you?"

"Er, no, not since you last visited," Tim frowns. "What's the matter with him?"

"Oh, it's-" she frowns. "Well, he's just being stubborn, then. Nothing you can fix then." Tim bristles, but only on the inside. "Has he thought about therapy?"

"That's… you?" Tim says.

"Mental therapy. A psychiatrist."

"Oh," Tim says. "I've been looking into it. I'm going to get him one, there just hasn't been a good fit with many new patient slots, yet, and I only have so much time to call, unfortunately. School usually conflicts with the hours they're open."

"No-" she clicks her tongue, then smiles kind of fondly which surprises Tim. "You're a very good kid, Tim. But has he mentioned anything about therapy? We've- well, we had talked about it. He said he was going to look into it."

Tim blinks. "I- no. He hasn't."

"I see."

She lays a hand on Tim's shoulder.

There are clearly things she wants to say, but she doesn't. The hand falls. "He's not made a lot of improvement this week- he's stagnating. Do make sure he does his stretches this week?" She looks sort of guilty when she asks, but she asks it of him anyways.

"Yeah, of course."

"Tim," She says, suddenly. "You know, I know what it's like to be the caretaker, and not just because I'm a doctor, and I know it's hard." The hand returns to his shoulder. "I don't usually get to personal with my patients, but I can see my own situation in yours. Take care of yourself, okay?"

It doesn't help, but Tim appreciates. And, years from now, Tim will observe this memory from a much farther place and think of how he should've pried. That the kind, but ultimately polite relationship they shared could've been more- he could've seen.

At that time Tim pats her hand and says, "Thank you, Doc. You take care of yourself, okay?"

-

Azrael digs his fingers into the fabric of the batsuit harder than necessary when Tim hands it to him.

"You think I can be as good as him?" Azrael asks, tone hard to decipher.

He sounds hungry, Tim thinks. Maybe not an appropriate reaction given the circumstances, but getting the title of Batman is surely a heady experience, no matter what had to happen to have it bestowed upon you.

"No one is as good as him," Tim says, simply. He believes this with his full heart, no one will ever be as good as Bruce Wayne, he is Tim's hero, and he tries to put that into words. He does not know if he succeeds but he tries. "But Gotham needs someone."

Azrael unfurls the fabric just enough for the flash of the bat across the chest to reveal itself. He swipes a thumb over the surface of the thick material. That special blend of Kevlar and nylon that Lucius Fox had made just for Bruce Wayne. Only for Bruce Wayne. Because no one else was supposed to have to take this burden on.

Not for a long time, anyways.

"No," Azrael says, "I'll be better."

Tim scoffs. "You won't."

Azrael cuffs him upside the head, faster than Tim can even react. Maybe he could've dodged if he'd known to expect anything, but his guard had been down as he hadn't expected to have to react at all.

"Do you talk back to Batman?" Azrael asks.

"Whatever," Tim rolls his eyes, and rubs a hand along the sore spot at the back of his head, hoping that this is meant to be playful.

This is most likely an attempt at a coping mechanism, right? It's not like Tim can judge someone else's attempt to deal with things. He has quickly realized he has terrible ways of handling trauma, and he hasn't been kidnapped and forced to be trained as a killing machine by a cult- or whatever exactly it was that happened to Jean-Paul in Switzerland.

"You're Batman for right now, but you're not supposed to go out without me. I'm still in charge of you," Tim warns. "And this isn't permanent."

"It might be," Azrael says, voice low. "You know that as well as I do, Robin."

Tim ignores him. "Nothing has changed," He lies, "I'm still training you, you just have a different costume, and we're speeding up the process."

Azrael doesn't acknowledge that Tim has been heard at all, his eyes are fixed on the black point of the bat beneath his fingers.

"But Bruce wanted this," Azrael says.

"Yes," Tim says, warily. "But I'm in charge."

"Thank you, Tim," Jean-Paul says.

"Jean-" Tim begins.

"I will wear it with pride." That's Azrael.

But, the thing is, Jean-Paul Valley is Azrael, and now he's Batman, and Tim is Robin, his Robin, according to Bruce’s instructions, and it's not his job to question him, just to train him. To trust Bruce- that Bruce made the right decision.

Tim knows well enough how to not talk back. Janet Drake taught him well- told him to keep his chin up, back straight, mouth shut unless prompted, and while Robin has warmed Tim's tongue just enough to distract and do his job correctly- Bruce has also instilled in him the need for quiet and stealth and discretion.

Tim also knows how to pick his battles, so he just shuts up and leaves.

The door to Jean-Paul’s apartment shuts behind him like a gavel banging on a podium.

-

Ariana kisses him and Tim wishes he was happier about it. He likes her, he thinks, he likes her a lot. It's just that there's so much going on, she's not even near the top of his list of priorities. Which isn't fair, at all, and Tim feels bad but it's not a list he can easily rearrange when there's things like stopping drug trades and bank heists at the top of it.

Tim kisses her, and he can only think of dreadful things.

"That bad, huh?" She asks, that little hint of a Russian accent that Tim likes adding a lilt to the words.

"N-no," Tim stumbles over his words. "Uh, I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted. You're really, really great, and I really like you-"

She smiles and Tim finds his hand wrapped up in hers.

"Good," She says. "But maybe smile when I kiss you, Drake? Then I'll believe you."

Tim smiles, "Of course," He says. "Of course. So, uh, you like me?"

"I did just kiss you," She says, bluntly.

Tim nods. "Right."

Belatedly, he realizes that this is his first kiss.

They kiss again. She's not good, but she's better than him, and now willing to give it a try. They're just surface-level things- barely there at the corners of his lips. Brief touches. Her eyes are sparkly, and then she's pressing a little harder.

Tim does like her-

He does-

He lets out a muffled sound and her giggles pass over it. So he just lets her press on.

He tries to focus on her. The way she smells like laundry and bread and paint and her lips taste like some kind of Smuckers flavored chapstick. Her hands are blazing warm against his cold ones. It does not keep his thoughts away- Jack Drake, Bruce Wayne, and Azrael Valley- but it does make the smiling easier.

-

The new Batman and Robin train together for a week before Tim says he can go out, and the entire time Azrael complains. Tim racks up more injuries on the mat than he ever had with Bruce, but this just makes him feel vindicated in his decision. Azrael isn't Bruce, and they need at least this time to grow accustomed to each other's habits. They need time to grow accustomed to each other.

Tim teaches him Bruce's techniques the best way he can. It's vastly different from the brutal and deadly style Azrael carries from St. Dumas, but he learns quickly, even though it's difficult for him to adapt.

"I fail to see how he manages to fight so well," Azrael says, and grits his teeth. "He does not fight practically."

Tim finds the room spinning around him as he's taken down onto his back. He forgets how fast Azrael is, and just how hard he tackles. All the breath leaves his lungs as he lands, and Tim's back had already been one large bruise before this. His muscles have been sore- he thinks they're healing slower. He's not eating enough. That happens sometimes, when he's stressed.

"It is practical," Tim says. "It's just different, and it's not deadly, but it's not meant to be," Tim sees the furrow between Azrael's brows worsen, and Tim tries a different tactic. "But you're doing well, you're a fast learner."

Azrael stays perched above him. Quiet for long enough to make it awkward.

"I think I finally get you," Azrael says, tilting his head.

Tim does not move, he stays as still as possible with Azrael's legs bracketing his sides in. He stamps down his instincts and reminds himself this is not a hold he needs to break free from.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Tim asks.

"You, Robin, Boy Wonder. You keep Batman… in check," Azrael says. "You keep him from going too far."

"Yes," Tim says, simply. "That is the idea."

Azrael finally lifts off and away from him, and he does not offer a hand to help Tim up.

"Batman needs Robin," Tim says as he stands. "Without Robin, Batman isn't- he isn't the same."

Tim is not sure he's ever actually shared these ideas with anyone. Tim had years observing Batman under his belt, learning the ins and outs of the cape, and he knows, better than Batman himself, what Batman means to the world. And, well, if anyone else should know of Tim's analysis, then it's probably Batman's successor.

"Robin is the distraction at the beginning of the fight, and at the end of it, he's the one to comfort the victims," Tim explains. "Robin keeps him from going too far, as you said, but he's also what keeps him going. He's what keeps Batman from just being some guy in a leather suit. Robin turns him from some crazy guy in with a shitty revenge-plot, into someone with something to protect."

Azrael hums. "That's high praise to give yourself," He says.

No.

"It's not-" Tim ducks his head. "It's not for me."

It's for Dick Grayson, for Jason Todd, for the better robins, the ones who managed to protect Batman. To do their job. It's for the idea of Robin, the role that Tim tries and fails to play as well as they ever did.

Azrael stares at him oddly across the room as Tim goes to his abandoned water bottle and drinks his fill. The work of training is hard, sweaty, exhausting, and, he thinks dryly, as the whole of his back pulses with the heavy beat of his heart and his blood rushing through him, it is painful. It's worth it, though, because Tim thinks he's seeing progress, and he has to see progress because this is his job right now. His duty to uphold something in Bruce's absence. There has to be progress or Tim is failing.

"Let's take fiver," Tim says. Somewhere behind him, he hears Azrael agree.

Tim pulls his sweaty shirt off, and it falls to the ground with a wet slap. Tim breathes in, just feeling his lungs inflate, and flutters a hand over the expanding surface of his chest as he goes.

Breathe in, and breathe out. Calm and steady, like Bruce has taught him.

It's a calming motion. It doesn't quite work to ease his racing mind, to bring it away from thoughts of Dick Grayson and Jason Todd, and all the things that he can't do, but it is an attempt.

"I didn't give you that one," Azrael says.

Tim's eyes snap open.

"What?"

"That," Azrael points to his exposed shoulder. Tim follows the line, to the row of fingerprints high on his arms. "It's too fresh to be from a patrol, and I didn't give it to you."

No, Tim knows. There's no need to repeat it.

He just can't believe he'd been so stupid, as to forget about that particular bruise.

"I got in a fight," Tim says.

"No you didn't."

It's not a question.

"I did," Tim says. "It was just a fight."

Azrael huffs. "But not with another kid."

Suddenly Azrael is stalking over towards him and Tim fights the instinct to flinch away. The man's hand rises to the surface of Tim's arm. His fingerprints brush along the imprints.

"What are you doing?" Tim hisses.

"It's too big to be a kid."

"It doesn't matter who I fought," Tim says, straightening his spine against the urge to go boneless and slack beneath Azrael's piercing stare. "So just drop it."

"Is it enough Batman would get involved?" Azrael asks.

Tim answers, honestly, "No."

"Then I'll leave it," Azrael says, and releases the feather-light grip. (Tim doesn't know if there is another time that Azrael touches him like this, softly. This is the first and last time. It's almost kind. A bad part of Tim wonders about what would've happened if he'd said something- Azrael would have felt bad for him. Seen him as a victim. Protected him. Avoided it- then he thinks maybe it was inevitable.)

"You'll leave it," Tim echoes.

Azrael's eyes still drag down the whole of Tim's body. The boy bristles against the considering gaze. "You can handle yourself, Robin, I'm sure."

"Don't act like you didn't just beat me up for an hour, when you should've been focused on listening to me instead," Tim snorts, without amusement, taking a step away, suddenly not caring if the action looks subtle or not. "You're not-"

His father's face flashes across his mind, hurt and empty, and nothing like Azrael's cruel smirk as he swipes his feet out from under him. Beat him in combat, again and again, and again.

"You're not better than him. And it's none of your business, okay?"

Azrael is intense in his dismissal. "I said I'd leave it, I'll leave it."

-

Ives greets him at the cafe, with a cheeky grin.

"So," he wiggles his eyebrows at Tim. "Out of nowhere, you, Tim Drake, text me that you kiss this mysterious Russian girl from," Ives goes all sing-songy, and he nudges Tim with his elbow, "Moscow. This, and I quote, from you, totally awesome chick who wants to be a fashion designer, and wears cool jackets and that you barely know. I mean, you dog, Tim Drake. I didn't know you had it in you."

Tim raises an eyebrow in confusion before he remembers. Ariana, right. Right. Tim kissed her. She likes him, he thinks, and she kissed him. Tim had just sort of been there.

"Yeah," Tim says, and he takes another long sip of coffee from his mug.

So he's distracted, maybe, and he feels bad for Ives, but Tim has other things on his mind. He'd had patrol for the first time with the new Batman last night. It was the first chance to test Azrael in the new role.

Ives frowns. "You could stand to sound a little more excited about it."

"I'm excited," Tim says. "I like her. See," Tim forces his lips to curl upwards in a smile. "Excited."

Patrol had gone very well. Too well, maybe.

Tim knew that Azrael was brutal, but it was still hard to watch. Even with Bruce's moves under his belt, he doesn't move like Bruce at all. Bruce moved like- well, Batman. Azrael didn't.

Tim made the reports in the cave with some restrained guesses. As restrained as he could be- broken noses, broken wrists, broken legs. The sounds of bones snapping under hard pressure, and brutal strikes. Azrael as Batman moved with the efficiency of a machine, as well as the sympathy of one.

"What's that face supposed to be?" Ariana asks when she arrives. Tim hadn't heard her coming. She slides in on Tim's other side, and she presses a little too close, but Tim doesn't say anything. The warmth of her is nice, and there's not much left in Tim that is willing to complain about anything to anyone right now. Especially when it's Ariana just trying to be nice. "That face. Are you constipated?"

Ives erupts in laughter.

"Oh my God," Ives groans. He makes a face at their touching shoulders- and how Tim falls deeper into her side. Ives steps out of the booth, clumsy with amusement. "You're making moony eyes. I'm going to the other side."

Tim goes pink. "Hi," he says to Ariana.

She curls her hand with his underneath the table and squeezes.

"Hey, Tim."

("This is too much," Tim said. He rolled the unconscious man over off his broken arm. He couldn't set it, but he could take the pressure off. "You're new to this, I know- but this is too much."

"Honestly?" Azrael's arms crossed over his chest, over the bat-signal so Tim couldn't see it anymore. "It's probably not enough."

Tim scowled. "And I'm telling you," He laid the arm across the man's chest, careful not to jostle it. "It's too much. Pull back, Batman, or you won't be Batman. I gave you the cowl, and I can take it away."

Azrael got close. He moved faster than Tim could follow, until he was pressed into Tim's space. "Is that a threat?" He asked.

"It's a promise," Tim said. "If you're going to be Batman, you have to follow his rules."

Tim's rules. The ones he already had to enforce before when Bruce lost Jason and went on a rampage, and Tim had to stop him from this same path of reckless violence.

There were not as many broken bones the night after Tim took his stand.

A win, Tim supposed. But it did not feel like a victory. It did not feel like Azrael listened to him in the slightest.)

"I can hear your brain working from here," Ariana says. Ives nods, furiously agreeing, mumbling something about steam coming out of Tim's ears. "You want to talk about it?"

"You know what I want to talk about?" Tim asks. Ives and Ariana both lean in. "This test I had in civics, Ariana, it was awful."

"Oh my God," Ives groans "Don't get me started. Civics," He spits the word, "Why do they make me take civics? I'm a computer man, you know? Not a history guy. The standardized school system just hates me, because I have a particular skill set, and that is hacking the government-"

"Philmont offered to tutor us," Tim heaves a sigh.

"And we said no," Ives groans, a hand lands on Tim's shoulder in commiseration. "And he probably aced it, but, hey, see Philmont code a video game. He can't. We just have practical skills, Tim."

"Sure," Tim says.

"I think knowing how your government works is a practical skill, probably more than hacking it," Ariana pipes up.

Ives scrunches his nose up. "Tim," He says. "Break up with her. It's not too late."

Breaking up would mean they're dating. So, they're dating.

Tim smiles as the two of them bicker over his head. They're both taller than him, but that's something Tim is used to, and with them he doesn't really mind.

He catches Ariana looking at his mug of black coffee as he refills it from the pot the waitress left. Her words falter for some reason, then, after another minute, her playful argument with Ives comes to a close. Tim doesn't know who won, and he guesses it doesn't matter- they are getting along and Tim is happy.

Ariana purses her lips, but she doesn't pry, just squeezes a little tighter with her hand still on his, and then releases.

Tim wishes he didn't feel so guilty.

("I'm going to be telling Batman-"

Azrael's breath was hot in his face. And Tim's collar pulled tight around his neck as a fist curled into it.

"You'll tell Bruce what?" He shook Tim hard, "That the streets are cleaner? That we've got a lead on Bane? Don't bother him, kid. Doesn't he have enough going on?"

Tim shrunk beneath the words. He knew Azrael was right. And he would not put this on Bruce's shoulders.)

"I'm fine," Tim mouths to her. Ives is on another rant so he didn't notice.

"You sure?" She mouths back.

Tim nods.

The waitress shows up at their table before she can ask another question.

-

Two weeks of hard, brutal patrols later, the tension rises between Tim and Azrael. It grows tighter and tighter with each exchange of gritted teeth every-

This is not how we do things-

This is how I do things- The-

You should've seen him coming Robin-

A palm strike would've been more effective, Batman-

You should've been faster Robin-

What were you thinking Batman- they could've been hurt- I, no, that's fine, but-

Don't get in my way or you're going to be hurt- I'll break your nose- don't get ahead of yourself you goddamn brat-

Well, it's not my fault you let Abattoir get away. You made the right decision to save the bus, but you shouldn't have had to make the decision. You're sloppy and Bruce never would have-

Because Abattoir does get away. He's their highest profile case right now, so it matters the most, but he's actually not the only one. Jean-Paul-Azrael is, somehow, getting messier.

Well I'm Batman now, aren't I?

And every night Tim goes back, fills out a report, lies a little about his injuries, doesn't mention Azrael scruffing him by the neck, or the unfulfilled threats because they're just threats and Tim is fine. Tim goes home, checks in on his dad, and works on case files, or, when he really can't sleep, he works on schoolwork until he blissfully, finally, passes out over his desk.

In the mornings, Tim wakes up early to eleven separate alarms which he has set at five-minute intervals, drinks two cups of coffee, covers up the bruises.

Throughout it all, anger stretches between him and Azrael like a string pulled long and taught. Their cases progress not because of their teamwork but despite it, but... Tim gets better, he thinks. He's learning what sets Azrael off and adjusting. As fucked up as his brain is- there are ways to adjust to it.

At its core The System is like any other code, like Python, or HTML. It's just a series of commands, all acting on the machine of Jean-Paul's brain. It's electric pulses that say yes, or no, or kill, or not kill, and if Tim considers it this way, it becomes a problem he can tackle, and a thing he can fix. Pick it apart. Debug it. Humans are just machines, ultimately very predictable, even Jean-Paul-Azrael, surely, and Tim can figure this out.

Longer training sessions before or after patrol are effective in mitigating some damage, and though Tim's own body feels the strain of extra physical exertion, more than even the steady thrum of soreness he'd had before, it is a small price to pay.

Tim learns to reword critiques with careful, select praise- Batman likes to- Batman says you're doing well, but if you could- as if Tim has talked to Bruce more than once in almost two months.

Or, Tim phrases everything like straightforward logic problem, sentences as efficient as possible, and backed up by another source, because her doesn't trust Tim- the data shows- out reports- training videos in the computer- even if none of it is true, it's easy enough to slip into. Tim has always been good at compartmentalizing and it helps when talking to Azrael.

But better is far from fixed. Far from good.

Azrael lifts his clawed hand high in the air, above an already beaten man, and Tim, angry, hasty, not quite thinking, flicks his bo staff out to stop him.

Sharp knives scrape along the wood.

There's no hesitation before the question is asked.

"What are you doing, Robin?"

Tim pulls on his staff and Azrael's grip doesn't give. Tim doesn't try again.

"Stopping you from going too far," Tim says, simply, and without inflection. "I've told you, this isn't how we operate."

The tension snaps all at once, Tim thinks that perhaps if he'd been listening closely enough he could've heard it breaking, like the sound of bones giving beneath Azrael's hard strike. Azrael narrows his eyes beneath the cowl and moves.

Tim feels the tug a second before it happens and he braces his feet against the ground. Azrael tugs a second time, and it's harder than Tim expects. He goes flying, and his feet skid to a halt at the same time that his face smacks into Azrael's chest.

Tim stumbles backwards, and catches the sight of Azrael's other hand balled up in a mean looking fist. Tim goes to block but his bo staff is still caught in Azrael's grip, and all Tim manages to do is get his hand smashed between Azrael's fist and his face as the blow connects.

Then, Tim stares at the warehouse ceiling.

He notices all the details at once, and he considers them. There are two catwalks, suspended by cable wire. Rafters are in good repair, the joists are evenly spaced all the way down. There are eighteen ceiling lights spread in a six by three pattern, the big, industrial-strength, kind. They are using LED bulbs, Tim thinks, which have a good lifespan, and a smaller carbon footprint. These may have been the criminals possibly supplying Bane with venom, but at least they made some kind of effort to care about the environment.

LEDs are also very bright. Tim shuts his eyes against the blinding light as he gets his elbows behind himself.

A large shadow blocks them out as Azrael's feet, in Batman's boots, land in front of him. Jean-Paul is tall, and the tread of the boots make him even bigger. The black if the suit should shrink him, but it doesn't, especially in this well-lit room. From this angle, Tim on his neck, the light shines on the man from above and behind, and he looks bigger than life.

"Don't get in my way," Azrael says. "I am doing the job you've given me."

"Don't try to maim the enemy," Tim spits, and with sudden clarity and anger, he rises to his feet all at once. A swift move that Nightwing taught him. Tim is not nearly as graceful as Dick Grayson, more like a cheap imitation, but at least he can learn something. He's good for something. "And I won't have to."

"Why are you so defiant?" Azrael growls. "You say you help, but all you have done is make my job harder."

Tim draws himself as big as he can.

"I already told you, Batman needs a Robin," Tim says, he yanks at his staff and Azrael makes a point of Tim knowing that he didn't steal it back, Azrael is letting it go. "Because someone has to keep you in check, keep you focused. That's my job, and you may not like it, and you may think I'm not doing it, or doing it right, but I am. You may think it's useless, but it's not," Tim growls. "And trust me, you're making it way more difficult for me too, bud."

Azrael's newly added claws just manage to clip him as Tim sidesteps a swipe. Tim acknowledges it, labels it, and files it away. It is good that they didn't tear through his suit, otherwise he'd have to stitch it himself. Usually Alfred helps with repairing the suit but Tim doesn't want to bother him right now.

"Now get your head on straight," Tim points down to the lower floor of the warehouse. "We're not finished here, and you're getting sidetracked."

"I-" Azrael's voice softens for a moment. "Sorry, Tim," he says. "My brain- gets away from me. Sometimes it sees you as a threat."

"Get it on straight, then," Tim growls. "Quickly."

Azrael gets more serious at Tim's tone. His programming deciding that Tim is not its biggest threat anymore. Never mind that Tim shouldn't be a threat at all.

-

Two days later. Azrael hits him again. Jean-Paul apologizes, but it's less kind. Something like- I didn't mean to- and Azrael smacks their shoulders together as they leave and barks for Tim to get in the car like Tim is a dog and Tim- well, stupidly, he follows.

-

The batmobile idles only a moment as they pull into the cave.

Azrael is on him the moment Tim is out of the car, and he finds his already hurt back pressed hard against the unforgiving metal. It digs into Tim's bony spine even through his suit.

"Do you like being a problem?" Azrael asks.

"I already said, I'm doing my job," Tim's hand clutches at the clawed one on his shoulder. He knows how to get it off, but he's not looking to escalate into a worse fight. This isn't about protecting himself, anyways. It never was.

"Come on, Robin," Azrael's other hand scrabbles at Tim's face, at his jaw. "Don't lie. I think you seem to like getting on my nerves-"

"Jean," Tim smacks the second hand away. He gets hit back for his efforts, a harder shove into the batmobile. Claws tear through the fabric of his suit there and Tim barely registers the pain among all of his other injuries. "We've got to report in."

Azrael steps away. Batman's cowl comes off his face, and the face of Jean-Paul is so odd like this. His blonde hair is let loose and the sweaty strands stay clumped as they fall onto his shoulders. There's no hunch to his posture or hesitance in the way he moves his hands. He doesn't look like the sweet guy who works at Wayne security at all.

"Then go do it," Jean-Paul says. Jean-Paul, because it's that much harder for Tim to distance the two, to put them into their correct boxes when Jean-Paul's face is revealed.

Claws dig into his shoulder, kevlar and fabric straining underneath them, and Azrael uses his grip to pull Tim away from the car. He's released and pushed hard in the direction of the computer.

Tim doesn't stumble. He just walks.

Filling out reports is supposed the worst part of the job and, according to Bruce, Tim was not only the first Robin whoever did them willingly, but the first one ever to fill one out by himself, without needing a reminder or extraneous circumstances prompting him to do so.

Tim does not believe that's true for a second.

"Any injuries?" Tim asks over his shoulder.

"None of note," Azrael says. He's close, his voice loud in Tim's ear, but Tim had known that by the reflection of him in the computer's reflection.

Tim watches him as he fills out the details. The gauntlets come off, followed by the chest plate, then the rest of the armor, buckles coming undone with a clink. Azrael takes his time with it. The boots are undone, and they hit the floor with a dull thud, knocking Gotham out of their tread. There's a little pile of dirt left behind when he picks them up and ties the laces together so he can hang them with the rest of the costume.

Tim knows Azrael is watching him. He can see Azrael's stare narrowing in on the back of his head in the reflection. Tim does not react to it.

When everything is in the system, put away for Bruce's approval later, which will most likely come in the form of a curt text, Tim turns around to find Azrael leaning against a nearby computer station. The screen is dark but Tim knows that it is currently running data for the Justice League. That is its function. Everything in the bat cave has its purpose. It is not fit for useless or even dormant things.

Jean-Paul considers him with a small tilt of his head. Or, Azrael does. Azrael, Jean-Paul, and Tim does not know where the timid programmer ends and the vigilante begins. It is disorienting.

"Yes?" Tim asks, impatiently.

Any sympathy, or careful consideration, is wiped clean off of his face. Azrael, then.

The smallest twitch of Azrael's left eye lets Tim know that the petulant tone has gotten to the man. Tim certainly prefers his mask on, but at least he can see the man's expressions without it.

"Spar?" Azrael asks, motioning lightly to the mats.

Tim scoffs, already feeling his aching muscles, the slight throbbing of his cheek from Azrael's earlier backhand.

"Not tonight," Tim says.

"You're tired?" Azrael asks. "You've gone longer before, Robin. Bruce trained you better than this."

Tim wonders when Azrael started calling him Bruce, instead of Batman.

The correct answer, or, rather, the true answer to the taunt is yes. Tim is tired and sore and he can't wait to shower. In the shower, he can cry or punch the tile, or just sit there long enough for the warm water to undo some of the tightness.

Tim knows this is the kind of hurt that comes back later. Leslie Thompkins has told him on numerous occasions, with her words, and with her eyes, that vigilantism is only a marginally better habit than being a chain smoker. But Tim doesn't care. He knows he should, but he doesn't.

"I need to get home," Tim says instead of answering him.

Azrael steps in front of him when Tim stands from the chair. "One round," He says, looking down at Tim from the fringe of his blonde hair. "Unless, of course, you…" Dark eyes stare down the bridge of a strong, Roman nose. He's got an intense face. Every feature perfect for casting a long shadow. "Can't."

"Fine," Tim says. Resigned, more than angry.

But he is angry. As always, Azrael is unfortunately right in his prodding, and Bruce has trained Tim better than this. Tim is better than this. Tim wants to prove it.

He's also above these taunts. Or, he's supposed to be above giving into them. But Azrael sounds too much like his father, and too much like the bullies at school who like to corner Philmont after class, and that Ives tells him to stay away from like Tim couldn't beat them into the ground.

But Ives isn't supposed to know that Tim can do that.

Tim is good at keeping a secret.

He's not so good, apparently, at keeping his emotions in check.

Maybe it's because he's fifteen, or maybe it's just that he's so tired and sometimes it's better to just give in. Easier to let things happen than fight them.

Azrael's face does not give away his expression but Tim can see it in the ease of his movements as they head over to the fighting ring. He is pleased.

"No weapons," The older man announces at the edge of the ring.

Tim has already abandoned his bo staff, and he doesn't think anything of the command until he sees Azrael eying the batarangs and smoke bombs tucked into his belt and along his leg pouches. Tim rolls his eyes- like he'd use them in a spar- and decides to just shuck the whole costume. It would take him more time to unpack all the little nooks and crannies of the suit than to just abandon it. They don't usually spar in costume anyways. He's left in leggings and an undershirt.

His mask stays on, not because he cares if Azrael sees his face or not, but because the solvent to get it off isn't particularly close and Tim doesn't feel like delaying this by going to go get it.

"Let's get this over with," Tim says. His boots go flying when he kicks them off haphazardly. His socks are thick with sweat. Tim peels those off too.

Get it over with.

Get home.

Get a shower. Get in bed. Wake up. Make some coffee. Do his makeup to hide whatever bruise that punch gave him earlier and whatever new ones he gets from this. Have a day off to nurse the wounds and run some errands. Buy the groceries, get his father to physical therapy, get him home, clean the kitchen, clean his father's room, not his own room, do some casework, and do his school work. Hope that there's a message from Bruce. Stay up until he passes out because falling asleep seems impossible these days.

Tim readies himself at one end of the mat, feet sliding to balance his weight, hands rising to protect himself.

Azrael does the same.

It is not a fight that ensues, it is a beat down. It always is. But this time it is worse, Tim is pushed into the defensive immediately as a foot sails for his knees and threatens to blow them inwards. An odd choice of attack, but one Tim doesn't have the time to think about as Azrael rounds on him and continues in his assault.

It is all Tim can do, sleep-deprived, sore, and about as motivated as a slug, to just dodge.

Azrael feints for his side and Tim moves away.

He doesn't get out of the way fast enough when Azrael suddenly changes direction, and feels the full strength behind the blow that slams into his solar plexus.

In fights, Tim thinks in terms of the medical dictionary Alfred had given him as required reading.

The solar plexus: A direct hit in that area will paralyze the diaphragm, forcing the breath out of the lungs, and will leave the injured person feeling, as many describe it, breathless. It would've hurt more if Tim wasn't already out of breath.

He isn't even able to try and get away from the kick that knocks both his feet out from under him. So he just lets it happen, then lets gravity (at nine point eight meters per second squared, exactly) take him down hard onto the gym mats. His head bounces once across the rubber, then falls back down and settles.

Tim wheezes. He coughs as air floods back into him. It's not fast enough, the narrow streams through his nostrils are not enough but Tim refuses to open his mouth and pant, just breathes harder.

He almost gets back up. He thinks of all the potential counter attacks he could use. A jump to his feet could provide some extra momentum to attack- but then feels angry and tired, and done, so he doesn't.

"You win," He says once there's enough oxygen inside of him to speak. "Are you happy now?" Tim asks, "Because I'm going home. And, Jean?" Tim coughs, but keeps a serious tone, "If you try anything like you did todau again, you can count me out of being your lackey."

A long minute passed between them, and neither of them move. Tim sighs, and finally goes to leave.

A foot lands on his chest before Tim can push himself up the rest of the way. The heel presses down with just enough pressure to keep him pinned.

Tim's eyebrows furrow. "What are you-"

"You know what I think, Tim?" Azrael interrupts him.

Tim huffs. The foot is not coming down hard enough to interrupt his breathing, and pushing it away seems like more trouble than it's worth.

"What do you think?" Tim asks, sarcastic.

"I think you hate me," Azrael says. "You think I'm incompetent. You think I'm too violent. That I'm bad at this. That I am inferior."

"No," Tim lies. "I don't. What is this about, Jean?"

"But you," The foot presses down harder. Tim feels his heart skips a beat beneath the pressure of it and he hopes that Azrael can't feel it through the calloused bottoms of his feet. "You just want to be a good soldier for Bruce."

"Get off."

Azrael continues "You've never even thought of yourself as a very good Robin. You don't think of yourself as a right-hand man. You said it yourself- you're not Batman's shield or sword. You're his inhibitor. You keep him in check."

There's a cruel twist to the words, the same way the edge of his heel slips down between Tim's ribs. The gentle bones within him seen to shift beneath his foot, just to give him room, so he can dig further into the soft, giving flesh.

The pressure on his ribs increases as Azrael drops down. He kneels on his other leg and half of his considerable weight falls right onto Tim. For the first time since the fight started, Tim yelps in pain.

His chest creaks under the pressure, threatening to break. Azrael's face is swimming over his own.

"Ugh," Tim groans. "Get off."

Straightforward. Refusing to acknowledge the taunts. His hand latches onto Azrael's ankle, and he tries not to acknowledge the growing seed of panic inside of him.

Azrael ignores him.

"I think you fancy yourself a first line of defense for Gotham," Azrael muses. "But not against the criminals. Against Batman."

"Get off, Jean or I'll get serious," Tim warns, voice panicked despite himself.

"No you won't."

Azrael's foot moves, but Tim isn't fast enough to get out from under him before Azrael drops more of his weight forward, and there's a shin against Tim's throat. Not pressing hard enough to choke, but threatening to.

"See, you're strong, but you're not strong enough, and I don't need a Robin," Azrael says. "I don't need a Robin. I'm not weak, and I certainly need no protection from myself. I find you insulting. You just weigh me down."

Azrael spits as he talks. Tim wonders if he knows.

"But I'm stuck with you, anyways," Azrael admits, exasperated like Tim is the problem. (He probably is, he always is. That's what his father always said.) "So if I'm going to do this job while dealing with your rules, despite you being beneath me, then I think I might as well get to put you in your place, too. Quid pro quo. Is this not your job?"

Tim flails upwards, messy with desperation and exhaustion. He already knows his attempt to fight this won't work.

Azrael catches Tim's hand before it can connect with his nose.

The bones in Tim's wrist grind against each other in the grip as Azrael twists it sharply and pins it above his head. The bones don't break, but Tim knows that if he moves even a centimeter they will.

"Bruce will not approve of this behavior," Tim says, out of breath.

Azrael's hand is very big around his wrist, wraps around it easily. Azrael's fingers overlap his own thumb with ease. Tim does not care for the reminder of his size, or his age.

Tim really feels all of fifteen right now, which means he does not feel like much at all.

Bruce has said that his size is both an advantage and a disadvantage, and it takes a lot of work to reap the pros of being small, it is very easy to fall victim to the cons. Right now Tim can't imagine it ever being an advantage. He just feels so fucking small. He's always hated the feeling.

He liked that, when he was Robin he never really felt like that. Bruce gave him the toolkit to fight back. To use his size as a weapon instead of letting it hold him back.

Why couldn't he use it now?

"What'll you even tell him?" Azrael asks. "That you purposely sabotaged an attempt at gathering information and punishing criminals? That you're being a bad Robin for his hand-picked successor? I've made progress- I know you've seen the same police reports that I have. You know I'm doing a good job here. Crime is down."

The shin is taken away from Tim's throat and lands on the other side of his waist, parallel to Azrael's other leg, both knees digging into his chest. Tim squirms, feeling very trapped.

"You want me to believe you'll go to him and whine and complain and ask him to get rid of me while he's rolling around in a wheelchair?"

Tim sucks in a quiet breath.

The hand lets go of his wrist, and Tim doesn't move it.

"I don't think you'll say anything at all, Robin."

And is driven right into his stomach.

Blunt trauma to the abdomen can result in a laundry list of complications. Ruptured bladder, tearing, internal bleeding. There's a lot to be hurt right there, and that's why people curl up to cover it. Intestines, kidneys, the liver, the spleen. Tim does not think this hit will be enough to cause any lasting damage, and he will not check- despite knowing how sneaky organ damage can be. That if something was wrong there's a good chance he wouldn't even notice until he was halfway to dead.

It's better than getting hit in the face, and so Tim doesn't care. It is a spot he can easily hide. The foundation is getting expensive. Not that Tim has any shortage of money. Not that anyone is checking his expenses. Not that anyone cares.

The fist drives forward, and then stops, flattens. Tim moans in pain, only vaguely acknowledging how the hand moves downwards.

It is a logical progression, Tim thinks, from one abuse to another. It is a particular kind Tim has never faced before. But he knows enough about it in terms of crime statistics, pamphlets at the Thompkins clinic, and victims he met as Robin.

He knows that the way his soul seems to leave his body and watch on passively from above is a common trauma-induced reaction when faced with the inevitability of an oncoming attack, of assault. The last defense mechanism. A flight response for the physically flightless.

-

Tim does not have a final conversation with his dad- it is a screaming match.

Tim goes home, he finds his father waiting for him, eyes stormy, with a plastic bag on his lap that Tim doesn’t recognize.

His father asks him why he was out so late, and Tim just shrugs.

His father does not pick a fight. To Tim’s surprise, his dad asks if he’s okay.

“I’m-” Tim blinks. “I’m alright.”

"I called the school,” Jack says.

"Ah."

"The last time we fought, the attendance office said they were close to calling the police on you- and I know you’ve been skipping, but, Timothy, they suddenly said you haven’t skipped a day. Then I remembered how you used to hack into the attendance records at your boarding school-”

Tim scoffs. “And now you care?"

"I've always cared"

Tim sucks at his teeth. He shouldn't say anything, but he does because he's angry and everything inside of him hurts.

"No you haven't. You just care because it isn’t boarding school, and you’re not on some great adventure. Because you can't just ignore me."

“I care because you’re my son,” Jack grits out.

Tim laughs.

“A fact that never made you even look in my direction, before. Look, dad," Tim says, derisively, "You can care now, or whatever, and you can pretend you give a damn about me, but don’t pretend like you always did.”

“We’ve already had this argument-”

"Yeah, we did,” Tim huffs. “And you were just jealous that I was spending time with the neighbors because you’re hurt and you’re insecure. Then you went behind my back, talking to my guidance counselor, telling her about Mr. Wayne, who has been nothing but good to me-"

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Jack says, cutting him off loudly. “You aren’t one of them, but the way I- the way I treated you was. But we both know I never hit you like that," He motions to Tim at the other end of the hall, "Like whatever has you wasting away. And if it’s fucking Wayne…"

The sentence trails off, low and warning. There's...

He sounds genuinely hurt. Confused.

The fight drains out of Tim as quickly as it came.

Tim shakes his head. “It’s not him,” Tim says, “We’ve had this conversation, Dad, Bruce Wayne is a good man,” He sighs. “And currently, he’s bedridden because of a jet-ski accident, he couldn’t even hurt me if he tried. He's less- he's less able to move than you are.”

Tim's voice cracks. He hates the way it sounds.

“Kid,” Jack says, and the wheelchair moves across the front hall. “If your girlfriend-”

“It’s not her,” Tim says. “Ariana is sweet, and we're barely even dating. They’re just- they’re just fights. You should really see the other guy."

Tim should leave the jokes to Jason Todd, probably. He's a poor fit for them. He's not a very funny person. Sarcastic on occasion, but too serious for much else.

“If you keep coming back to me like this,” Jack says, deathly serious. “I’m going to ruin Wayne, I don't care if he's Gotham's sweetheart, and has gold streaming out of his ass. I don't care. And if it's your little girlfriend, she'll be deported in a fucking heartbeat, you understand? I don’t need the rest of my family dead. And, if Wayne is-”

“He isn’t,” Tim says. “I know you hate him. But he’s not-” Tim sighs. “He’s a good guy. I like him, and he would never do anything to hurt me...”

On purpose. Probably.

Jack scowls.

“If I get a lick of evidence that he’s doing whatever it is that has you going through about a bottle of foundation a week,” Jack says, lifting the plastic bag at his side, showing Tim that it’s the trash. The trash Tim had been hiding in his room. Makeup, bloody bandages, an aspirin bottle. "I don’t care what you want me to do, I don't care if I'm stuck in this chair, I’m fucking killing him. And if you come home like this again? You’re not being allowed back out until you're going off to fucking college, you hear me?”

“Understood,” Tim says, wondering how he could’ve been so stupid.

Leaving evidence.

That was so amateur. Immature. Stupid.

Jack sighs.

“Just,” He clicks his tongue, “Just get to bed, Tim, you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Tim does.

He doesn’t get out of it for two straight days.

It is Doctor Shondra Kingsolving's arrival that brings him out of it. Tim sees her car arrive in the driveway, and Tim rolls out of bed in response. He didn't know she was coming today, and it must have been hos dad's doing because he'd felt like he couldn't ask Tim to drive him. Tim feels a little guilty about that- he decides he'll make them all tea. Well, just the two of them. Him and Kingsolving. It's something.

"Tim," She says, voice very soft and welcoming. "It is good to see you."

At least someone thinks that.

Her warm eyes twinkle at the sight of him, and though they take in his tired face and frown, she doesn't ask, which he is very grateful for.

"Hey, Doc," Tim says. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm on Mr. Wayne's case now," She said, "and I thought it would be easier to start doing house visits for Mr. Drake, too, because you live so close."

"Oh," Tim nods. "That's good," He says, happy that there's someone else to help out.

He makes her tea, and leaves when he hears his father's voice calling downstairs, and the stair lift turn on. He calls Ariana on his way out.

-

An afternoon spent walking around Gotham later finds his head splayed across Arianna's lap. Watching her smoke.

It's a satisfying action to watch. Inhale Exhale. The tip burned like a little sun between her lips. Tim thinks he likes her, even when she teases him for not smoking.

"Some of us just like it," Ariana says, her other hand runs through his hair, manicured pink and purple nails scratching along his scalp in a soothing way. Tim likes that there's no one else on the porch.

"Sorry," Tim says.

"Oh, don't apologize," She says, rolling her eyes. "I'm not upset."

Tim smiles. "I didn't think you were."

She takes another long drag, then lets it go. She smiles back, her face exposed in a way that is still new to him, but becoming familiar.

"Tim," She says, "you're-"

His phone goes off, interrupting her.

"Sorry," Tim quickly apologizes, and she waves him off.

-

"I will handle it," Bruce says. "I'll find him."

Tim nods. Alfred is watching them from inside. Tim can't see him, but he can feel the man's eyes on him through the window. Alfred is probably standing there, polishing silver, and doing the same thing that Tim is: wondering where Jack Drake has gone.

"I am sorry, Tim, I didn't think that Bane would-"

Tim shakes his head and raises a hand to stop him. "It's not your fault," Tim says. "I didn't think of it either."

Didn't connect that Bane would target Tim, too. He hadn't seen interested in Robin, probably hadn't been until he figured out how much hurting Tim would hurt Bruce. Or, well, how much hurting Tim would make him feel inadequate. Ashamed.

Now his dad is gone, and Shondra Kingsolving, too, and it would've been Tim, if Tim had been home.

"I've put a target on your back," Bruce says.

Tim shrugs. "Robin is a target," He says. "We both knew that. This isn't your fault. Bane just wanted to hurt you, he didn't care who it was and if it wasn't Jack, it would've been someone else."

The yard of Wayne Manor is now all snow-dusted and cold, but it is not for this reason that Tim wraps his jacket tighter around himself. He looks to the left, trying to decide if, through the leafless trees, he can see Drake Manor. It is empty now, and though it's not like it ever feels particularly full of life, or like a home, the idea of his dad once again being gone hurts.

He sighs, breath misting in the air.

"It would've been you," Bruce says.

"I could've handled it, if it was," Tim says. "I know how to run away."

He calls Ariana a week later, after avoiding their planned date on Wednesday. There's an Azrael-sized handprint pressed like a brand into the small of his back, hidden beneath a sweater, claw marks down his shoulder blades. He rolls over onto his stomach with his phone pressed to his ear and listens as her worries spill out over the line.

"You didn't show up to our date, Tim!" She says. "And you haven't been calling, your friend Ives told me haven't been at school. And you've been ignoring me, and I... miss you. I'm really worried- I thought you were hurt- or you were dead."

Tim has never liked the way that voices sound over the phone. All washed out and staticy. It is so much harder to hear any inflection and any emotion and for thirteen years this was how he could remember his parents: distant phone calls. Devoid of a real connection.

But Ariana's emotion is strong enough now that Tim can pick up something. Concern. Everyone seems so concerned about him, and they probably should be, but Tim doesn't want them to be.

He is handling it. He can deal with this and then worry about getting better, or whatever he needs to do. He just has to get through this.

Whatever this is.

Tim's heart lays heavy against his spine and presses him into the mattress like an anchor he can't lift.

"Tim?" Ariana asks. "It's been days. Maybe we could see each other tomorrow night?"

"I can't," Tim says. "I'm sorry. I'm really busy right now."

A pause, a little horrified mumble Tim can't make out through the receiver. Another downside to phones.

"Again?" She asks. "Why did you- why did you call, Tim?"

"I'm," He swallows thickly. "My dad's missing," He admits, "And I've got a…” What is Bruce, really? “ A… friend. He's hurt. He just went looking for my dad though, and now there’s-” His breath hitches- hitches again, “I think I might just be really lonely."

"Tim-"

Tim feels the tears coming. Even phones can pick up the sound of crying.

"I'll see you," Tim says, his breath hitches a moment. "Bye."

He hangs up, takes a shaky breath, takes his emotions, and stuffs them away. Writes them down, rolls the paper up, sticks it in a bottle, throws it out to sea, and watches it drift away. No more thoughts, please, he begs. No more.

-

Alfred finds Tim passed out in the library. He had fallen asleep on the floor, in the middle of reading a book.

Tim does not wake up when he is called, he does not wake up until Alfred is at his shoulder shaking him.

Tim rolls onto his back and blinks, trying to make sense of all the things around him. Smooth wooden floors, the second pavilion in the library, the ground is all nice cherry wood and the room smells of old paper. He's in the section about medicine. Halfway through a specialized encyclopedia of body-enhancement drugs and their effects, because Bane's Venom is still a mystery, and Tim thinks, that maybe if he could get a lead on the drug, he could figure something out. They haven't been able to decipher it so far, because human DNA taints it, and it doesn't react until it mixes with said DNA.

Tim closes the book and shuffles it out of Alfred's view. Tim is not supposed to be looking into Bane.

But neither is Azrael. And Azrael had just lost to Bane last night, without Tim by his side.

Tim notices other things: his mouth feels like cotton and tastes like staleness, like he hasn't brushed his teeth in a few days.

Actually…

When was the last time he brushed his teeth? Washed his face?

Allfred's concerned eyes look him over. Tim can see the way they catch on the week-old bruise on his cheek.

Alfred is wearing the same thing he always wears but Tim can see the smallest details that reveal how things have changed. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up. There is a layer of dirt along the cuffs of his pants and a looseness to the waist that implies it is not the first time he has worn them since a good wash and ironing.

"Master Timothy," Alfred says. "You look quite…"

"Awful?" Tim croaks, voice crackling with puberty and sleep and pain.

Alfred's eyes crinkle with a sort of exhausted, desperate mirth. "I was going to say unwell," Alfred extends a hand towards him, "but awful works too. Do you have a fever?"

Tim flinches at the hand.

Which he hadn't meant to do but does, and he knows Alfred sees it because nothing escapes his sight.

Alfred frowns. "Master Timothy," He says, tone soft, caring, worried. "I've been reading your mission reports. You've been taking an awful lot of damage in your patrols lately."

And there's the guilt.

Guilt gnaws at Tim like it's living, breathing, hungry. Like it's tearing through the layers of his skin one by one. Like each layer of his epidermis is being carefully removed as of it's just a film that gathers on top of a still liquid. It is just Tim that is left: his muscles, his veins, his bones, everything comes to be exposed and raw under Alfred's scrutiny..

Then, hurt. Because Bruce was supposed to be reading those, not Alfred.

"I'm-" Tim starts to gather the books on the floor. "I'm sorry."

Alfred makes a displeased hum. Tim nearly flinches again at the sound.

"Now why would you say that?" Alfred asks, and the genuine kindness in his voice is so, so warm. Gloved hands begin to help him to clean up, much faster than Tim's shaky ones. "You've nothing to be sorry for."

Tim doesn't know what to say to that.

"I did wonder, though, who's been helping you treat them," and now there's a hint of reprimand, but it's as soft as everything else Alfred says. Soft, but firm. "And I can see that the answer is no one."

Tim shrugs. "I'm okay."

"Well, you will be," Alfred gathers all the books into his arms and stands from his crouch to start organizing them. Tim offers to help and gets gently dismissed. "Once I get you some dinner, perhaps?"

Tim smiles, hesitantly. "That'd be nice," Tim admits. "I haven't eaten yet."

Alfred continues shelving the books. From behind, Tim can spot more small irregularities in his uniform, the uncombed hairs at the top of his neck, the stain on the sock he's worn for a week straight.

"It does look like you've lost some weight," Alfred says, Tim readies a comeback, but Alfred just shakes his head. "I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duties to you, Master Timothy."

"It's okay," Tim says, "I know you're… busy."

Alfred turns around and there's a heaviness in his shoulders that he tries to combat with a smile.

"Not too busy for you, dear boy," he assures Tim. "You haven't been around, you go straight home from the cave- I've missed you. Let's get some dinner,"

"Is B coming?" Tim asks as Alfred falls in step behind him on their way to the dining room.

He can't see Alfred's expression, but he thinks he can hear the frown.

"I'm afraid he's not in Gotham right now, Master Timothy. He left this morning, searching for your father."

"Oh," Tim wrings his hands together. "I forgot."

Nightwing is waiting for them in the dining room. Or, not Nightwing, just Dick Grayson, dressed in his civvies, and they're sweatpants, which meant he wasn't just here for an hour or two, he was staying a night or had stayed a night. His hair was on the side of messier than usual, and the bags under his eyes were visible across the room.

Tim feels a little betrayed that Alfred didn't mention him. He knew that Tim would've left if he'd known.

"You look like shit, Tim," Dick says, waving him over. "Almost as shit as I feel."

Tim moves forward slowly on socked feet. "That's what Alfred said," Tim smiles, but he does not feel like any of this is particularly funny, he just thinks he'd really like to see Nightwing smile back. "Hey, Dick."

"And I guess Alfred also forced you downstairs for dinner?" Dick asks as Tim settles in the chair next to him. He moves slowly, trying not to aggravate his sore body. Tim was not overly concerned with them pinpointing his exact patterns of movement. "Because I was pretty ready to just rot away in my room, myself."

"Yeah," Tim says like Alfred would ever have to force him to do anything. Alfred asks, and Tim melts. There's no challenge. "But he's a good cook, so he's forgiven."

"Of course," Dick smiles, and Tim feels a bit more at ease, a bit more right. "And his food is the only reason I came back, of course, no other reason."

"What other reason is there?" Tim jokes back, sarcasm light and teasing. "There's no other reason."

Dick sighs. The air between them grows tense in a second.

"You know I, uh, I didn't know until yesterday?" Dick asks, there's a tinge of anger to it.

Tim gapes.

"Oh," Tim says. "No. Oh my God, why? It's been weeks-"

"And no one called me," Dick growls. "So I found out at my wedding. Because he wasn't there. And neither-" Dick fixes a hard look on Tim. "Were you. Just Alfred, who finally told me that B's back was broken, and there's been some other hard-on-for-justice lunatic running around in his suit."

Dick snorts. "It did explain the costume change. Not exactly... Bruce's style."

What Dick means is that Bruce wouldn't have claws, and a red visor, and those stupid little shoulder pads that Azrael has added to the getup. He keeps muttering to himself during patrols- another upgrade, another.

"Oh my God," Tim blinks. "I- I'm so sorry. I've been so busy."

Dick holds up a hand to stop him before Tim can crumble into a mess of apologies.

"I'll say, you look like you've been busy. No, it's fine, Tim, you didn't miss much anyway," Dick says. "It was called off."

Tim blinks. "No! No way, you and Starfire were so-"

"Titans business got in the way, and now the Titans are-" Dick groans again. "As per usual, I overestimated how much I could have a life and be Nightwing at the same time. It was stupid to think I could get married," Dick says, blithely. "I've seen Bruce and Selina dance around each other for years."

"Don't say that," Tim insists. "Hey, don't say that. You're not Bruce, and Koriand'r is definitely not Selina Kyle."

Dick snaps his eyes to him.

"Thanks, I guess," Dick says. "But you don't know what you're talking about. You weren't there."

Tim bites his lip.

"I'm- I'm sorry," Tim apologizes, again. "I am. But you know it's true. You're not some doomed bachelor. I mean, come on, you're Dick Grayson. You're a lot more capable of a healthy relationship than Bruce."

Dick's face falls into the table, forehead meeting it with a thump. He mumbles into the surface of the wood. "I might be. I might be doomed. Forever."

"No," Tim says. "You're going to be fine."

"You say that, but you have no guarantee that anything is going to be fine."

"Well," Tim shrugs. "Is being alone forever really the worst fate?"

Dick whines like a kicked dog.

"Master Dick," Alfred says, sliding a plate in front of Tim, piled high with salmon and quinoa salad and greens. The kind of meal he thinks Tim loves. "Do pick your head up off the table; you're meant to be eating off of it."

Well, actually, what Tim really loves is doughnuts and potato chips, but Tim likes this too because it's how Alfred shows that he cares, and he can't live off of junk food forever.

-

Azrael loses to Bane, and he retreats. It is a blissful week of quiet, and then it is over.

Sometimes, Tim talks to Jean-Paul, and it's like Azrael is just an illusion- not real at all. Jean-Paul is all ditzy eyes, and nerdy jokes and Tim gets whiplash at the sight of calm behind the man's expressions. The same man, and yet so different. Tim wonders if he even knows what Azrael does, and the uncertainty of that haunts him.

Maybe, if Tim is honest with himself, (he isn't,) this is a part of what keeps him from going to Bruce. The idea is that there is something beneath the programming, and beneath The System.

Maybe Tim has always been a very flawed and very forgiving person. Maybe he wants it to be true- That Jean-Paul has no idea. Doesn't know why Tim flinches sometimes when he takes the helmet off.

Forgiveness is a good thing, right? Like how Ariana and Ives forgive him for disappearing so often. Without forgiveness, life doesn't ever move on. Get better. Tim wants things to get better.

Tim kind of gets what Bruce sees in Jean-Paul. Kind of.

Tim just has to try harder.

"I'm going to go after him again," Jean-Paul says. No, Azrael.

A moment ago they'd been talking about cases in an almost civil manner- and his tone has suddenly darkened, his hand is on Tim's shoulder and he's staring intently at the screen where Tim was just reviewing police reports on Bane. Jean-Paul never touches him like this.

Tim grimaces at the loss of Jean-Paul.

It really had been a nice week.

"Bruce said not to engage," Tim reminds him, patiently.

"Only because he lost," Azrael huffs. "And I'm not asking you to come with, Robin," He says, "I'm just telling you what's going to happen."

Tim breathes through his nose.

"What happened to following my rules?"

Azrael had been doing well. Tim paid the price, his body kept the score, but there'd been no more incidents outside of their own scuffles for a long time. Maybe three in the past month.

Tim does his job. He is still the shield for Gotham’s citizens, though it is in a different way than before. He keeps Batman in check. He keeps the city safe. He gives Batman a Robin. Someone to lean on. Someone to use.

Maybe, Tim realizes, Azrael had just been too embarrassed after Bane defeated him. Had just been waiting for his courage to return.

"I'm going to defeat Bane," Azrael says, there's no question in his voice, no hesitation. "And you can't stop me."

"There are other cases to focus on,” Tim says, “And right now, they’re the priority.”

“Over the man who broke Bruce’s back?” Azrael hisses.

Tim can feel the manipulation a mile away, and he brushes it off.

“Bane isn't something anyone has to tackle right now,” Tim says in retaliation. “And, yeah, we've got things we need to work on- not everyone is back in Arkham yet," it's true, even after months of work there's still more to do, Scarecrow is an especially big concern, "And I've got Abattoir tracked down after you let him get away last time.”

Tim stands now, the ease from a conversation with Jean-Paul effectively smothered. They'd been putting off patrol long enough, anyways.

"Abattoir?" Azrael asks, sounding offended.

"Abattoir," Tim confirms. This is a moment he will remember forever. "Every concern must be taken seriously- and you let him get away last time."

Azrael narrows his eyes, and Tim continues, not feeling particularly inclined to lay off.

“We need to find out why Clayface was helping him,” Tim says without pause, “We still don’t know what happened. Did you forget about losing to Clayface, too?” Tim puts just enough practiced challenge into his voice, “Or maybe you’re just going to let Abattoir get away a second time? Do you want to get yourself killed by Bane first?"

The System kicks in like a charm. Tim thinks he's getting better at manipulating it.

He has to be getting better at it.

There are no other possibilities that are acceptable. No other alternatives. Tim has to be good enough, has to do what Bruce has said and train Jean-Paul and Azrael into a good enough Batman while he's away. There's no room for failure because civilians are at stake and Tim needs to be a good Robin or he might not ever be Robin again.

Batman needs a Robin. Gotham needs a Batman. Bruce needs to be safe long enough to get better and then, in the future, Tim can worry about everything that's happening in the present.

Tim is not sure if it is hope that he feels for the future.

But he knows he wants Gotham and Batman and Robin to have a future.

Ideally, he might just be there to see it too.

-

Abattoir falls.

His real name, Tim's brain supplies, is Arnold Etchinson. Or, well, it was Arnold Etchinson. White male, five feet ten inches, one-hundred sixty pounds at his last Arkham check-up, he showed signs of paranoid psychosis, schizophrenia, and major depression, possible type one bipolar disorder. He held the belief that his entire family was evil, and decided to kill them and, according to the on-staff psychologist, absorb their life force to become more powerful and rid the world of more evil.

It seems that it had become less about his family though, the way he'd been acting. When he and Azrael arrived, Abattoir was just attacking everyone in sight.

Abattoir had been screaming for blood. To feed him. To make him stronger.

Tim can't help but wonder if Abattoir's delusions are at all like what The System believes. Blood and vengeance are not things Azrael does to save anyone, just means to an end, to make himself better. Stronger. Whatever. Other people's suffering is not important to him, and saving them is only a means to an end, a tool for his own ascension.

Tim wonders if Bruce was wrong- even though Bruce is never wrong.

There's a chance that The System, or whatever psychotic thing has taken root in Jean-Paul's brain, is so much worse than either of them ever believed. Perhaps they were actually wrong about the man himself, and Jean-Paul is a man of unknown darkness. Maybe Azrael was never the problem.

Maybe the man currently standing before Tim is not someone who has ever been trying to do the right thing.

Tim doesn't know. He also doesn't know if it matters.

What matters is: Abattoir is dead, and Azrael killed him.

The smell of burning flesh is grisly in Tim's nose. Wafts through the air like claws scraping across a chalkboard. Tim has dealt with Firefly, he knows what it smells like. Recognizes it immediately.

But he can't vomit here, that would leave too much DNA on the scene, too much information, and too many possible people who might be able to say that Robin was on the scene, and then pinpoint it as his. Tim swallows it back down.

Tim is...

He...

There is a bad smell in his nose, bad taste in his mouth, screams echoing in his ears, ringing, ringing, ringing, and the sight of a fucking murderer wearing Batman's costume in front of him. Abattoir is dead.

Tim had rushed forward, pitted on by the screams for help as Abattoir hung in the air. The man had been desperately reaching for a Batman who did not push him down or help him up, just twitched a finger, briefly, over his grapple gun, and then seemed to decide that Abattoir was better off dead. Azrael let it happen slowly, gruesomely, watched each of Abattoir's fingers come loose until there were no more fingers hanging on the ledge.

Tim didn't see Abattoir hit the hot, molten metal like it was water- his eyes fully fixed on Azrael standing tall on the catwalk above- but Tim heard the sound of something being breached, and sizzling beneath the screams. He heard the way Abattoir's voice pitched higher and higher until it was gone entirely.

Tim had smelled it.

His imagination is surely worse than anything he could've seen, so maybe he should've just looked.

Bruce was wrong this time, Tim realizes.

Azrael is wrong. This is all wrong.

Azrael's head snaps up to Tim.

The eyes of the Batman cowl are red now. Tim had honestly been relieved to make the change. The less that Azrael looked like Batman, the easier it was to deal with everything.

"You let him die," Tim says, voice heavy, hard to get out of his throat. "You just-"

"Shut up!" Azrael yells. His hands come up, gripping either side of his head. "Just shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

He runs out.

Tim should follow him, probably. But he doesn't, he is too busy swallowing down the fact that Bruce had been wrong.

Abattoir is dead.

Tim's body is sore. Inside, outside, all at once. Tim has done everything for nothing. Bruce was wrong.

Abattoir is dead. Tim just watches his murderer shoot a grappling hook up. Doesn't care to see where it lands, just watches the gleam of his combat boots reflecting the light as they speed upwards through the air.

Then Azrael disappears.

-

Dick finds Tim collapsed over the bat-computer, mid-report. His face had smashed the keys in, leaving a long trail of nonsense letters on the screen that Tim was going to have delete later.

"Tim," Dick's hand squeezes his shoulder. "Did something happen?"

Tim runs a hand along his cheek, where the keyboard has left an indent in the skin. He runs it through his hair next, trying to get it back to some semblance of okay. It's matted and tangled, more knots than anything else.

Tim probably smells too. He doesn't know when he last showered, and it had been a long patrol. The weather was cold, and Tim already ran cold, but the physical exertion of patrol still gets him sweaty and miserably hot without fail. Dirt is sticking to his ruddy skin, and he can't wait for a shower.

Work and sweat and toil. This has been Tim's life for weeks- months now, waiting for Bruce to come back, trying desperately to keep all the pieces together.

And Abattoir is dead.

Bruce was wrong.

Tim needs to answer Dick. He knows that. But he can't seem to speak at all.

"Tim?" Dick asks again, another hand on his other shoulder, Dick crouching so his face is in Tim's eyeline. Something twists in hi stomach when he remembers how he'd been kneeling in front of this chair for very different reasons the other night. Despite his feverishly warm skin, he shivers.

Dick is all worried now, muttering and talking, and there are hands on his head, and Tim realizes that Dick is checking for a head injury.

"I'm not hurt," Tim says, oddly calm. "Abattoir died. I watched it happen. This is just, uh, shock, I think."

"Oh," Dick stills, the franticness leaves him, but the worry doesn't.

"It's, like, I don’t know," Tim chokes on his saliva. Coughs. Dick frets and frets over him as he does so. His hands rubbing on his back feel like they’re very far away, but closer than anything else and Tim barely fights the urge to lean into them. "I was right there, and I couldn't save him."

"You don't have to talk about it yet," Dick says, assuredly. "But you're okay, though? No broken bones?"

Tim shrugs. "Regular patrol injuries."

Technically, if the last month and a half set the precedent, Tim is not lying.

"Well that, and some major exhaustion," Dick says, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "Come on, let's get you looked over, and get you showered, and in bed. Maybe some dinner, too. You eat dinner yet?"

Tim nods. "I ate before patrol."

"Really?" Dick asks, sounding doubtful. "Because Alfred didn't make anything. He left this morning."

"No, uh,” Tim racks his brain for the memory. "He made Shepherd's Pie."

Dick frowns as he helps Tim out of the seat. Tim doesn't need the help, but he lets Dick pull him up and out of the chair, the other boy's large, warm hands firmly planted on Tim's biceps, grounding him, and holding up when Tim's shaky legs try to drop out beneath him. It is so different from the way anyone else holds him.

Sometimes it's easier to just let things happen. To float off somewhere else other than the present, and let the world go over him like the tides. Ebb and flow. In. Out. Like breathing. Like Bruce taught him.

"That was yesterday," Dick says, tugging him into his side.

"Leftovers?" Tim guesses.

Dick sighs. "There aren't any."

Tim doesn’t have the capacity in him to be sheepish. "I may not have eaten dinner, then."

Dick moves so his hands are in the best position on his elbows. He's all guiding, gentle motions. Pressure points. At his elbows, they don't dig into the skin of his arm, and keep the limbs from flopping. Tim remembers that Dick has done this before- he's good at it.

Dick has the solvent in his hand, he's telling Tim to close his eyes, and his thumb gently pushes along the edges of the mask until it's free. He eases it off, wipes the solvent away. A paper towel takes the tacky residue off with soft but clinical precision.

"You've got to take that suit off before I look you over," Dick says. "Do you… got it yourself?"

Tim hesitates.

("Get it off," Azrael breathes, hot in his ear. The seatbelt has been ripped free from the buckle. There's a big hand tearing at the catches of the Robin suit.

Azrael feels like heat. A torrential pour of blonde hair cascades downwards from his scalp, and brushes uncomfortably across Tim's nose. It itches, and Tim's body tenses, threatening to sneeze.

Tim's hands rise, unsteady on the catches at his shoulders, the cape comes off.

"Faster," Azrael demands. The chairs creak beneath their combined weight, Azrael's moving back and forth. The seat warmers aren’t on, but it feels like they are. "You're faster than that, Robin.")

"Look the other way?" Tim asks.

"I-" Dick furrows his eyebrows, but nods. "I’ll just, uh, walk over to the computer for a minute, fix up all that button mashing your face did,” Tim winces, “Which is fine, and totally understandable, and I’m not upset. It is just an excuse for me to leave you alone for a minute,” Dick assures him. “Just don’t fall asleep while I’m gone, alright?”

Relief washes over Tim. He is not scared of Dick, and he is eased because Dick even gives him an option. Azrael did not give options, he just takes.

Tim clicks his belt so it comes loose, and pulls it off. folds it twice into his hand. A practiced motion.

"I'll try not to," He says. Dick’s footsteps retreat.

When the costume is off, and Dick returns, Tim can hear the hitch of his breath.

“Someone grabbed you,” Dick gasps, rushing forward. Long, usually nimble fingers brush hesitantly across Tim’s pale skin. “God, Tim, how much have you been going out? There’s so much.”

Tim shrugs. “Patrol," He says, simply, "Jean-Paul wants to go out every night, I try to go with him as much as possible. Bruce said I had to watch him.”

"This is..." Dick grimaces, he looks angry, and Tim feels a spike of fear. "Too much."

"Bruce said we should go out less," Tim says.

"But..."

"But he's not here," Tim says simply, "and Jean-Paul is determined."

“So you’re watching out for him,” Dick’s hand brushes along his cheek, and cups the back of his head. “But he’s not doing a very good job of looking out for you.”

Without much thought, Tim shakes the hand off, and Dick retracts like he has been stung.

“I think Bruce was wrong,” Tim says, words make his tongue feel numb and tingly. “I don’t think Jean is a very good Batman at all.”

Dick snorts. “It wouldn’t be the first time B was wrong,” Dick says.

Tim doesn’t know what to say, so he just lets Dick guide him over to the cots. Tim’s undershirt comes off, and the second hitch of breath is harder, deeper. Tim is glad that Azrael leaves no hickeys- he doesn't really like kissing at all- and that the handprints on his hips and back are all faded into the larger mass of bruises enough to be unrecognizable.

“Tim!” Dick yells, aghast. “Fuck, you look like you’ve been hit by a train. I- Why haven’t you said anything?” He comes to the side of the bed, resting a hand on Tim’s knee, gently, very gently. “Your reports said you were getting more hurt- but you didn’t write down half of this!”

Because it didn’t happen on patrol.

Tim bites his lip. Shrugs.

“I didn’t want to worry him,” Tim says, honestly. “He’s got enough to worry about.”

“Tim-”

“And I’ve got it handled,” He says. "It's a lot- but I'm okay."

Dick grimaces. “I am suddenly very glad you were not at my wedding.”

Tim tried not to feel hurt by the statement. “Because…?”

“I feel like you might’ve passed out, fallen on the cake or something,” Dick begins to check him over for internal injuries. The external ones are obvious enough- and Dick is careful as he brushes a hand over Tim’s ribs and checks for breakage. Dick will probably insist on scans.

"Sorry," Tim says.

"Not because you're a klutz, kid," Dick says. "Farthest thing from it- I've seen you on patrol. Alfred just told me he keeps finding you passed out. I should've... I should've asked, I'm sorry."

Tim should feel annoyed, but he doesn’t. Dick’s concern makes him feel guilty, but it also makes him feel cared for in a way he hasn’t felt for weeks. Dick is not Bruce, but this is something Bruce would do.

“You know that cake was the only good thing I got out of the whole thing,” Dick says, with a sigh. Dick finds an infected cut along Tim’s back, then, and one of those claw marks had grown angry and inflamed. “You get dragged, kid?”

“Something like that,” Tim sighs. “The cake?”

“Well,” Dick presses gently on the cut, and Tim hisses. The antiseptic and bandages are picked up off the table. A moment later, a pair of tweezers. “Okay, so, technically, Kori’ doesn’t need to eat-”

“She absorbs ultraviolet radiation,” Tim supplies.

“I- well, yes,” Dick says, continuing. “So I got to pick the flavor. I went with a pancake theme.”

“Breakfast food is your favorite.”

Dick chuckles, a soft, deep thing, and it is very soothing to hear. “Yeah, so it was all vanilla crumb with milk chocolate chips, maple frosting, whole nine yards. Like 10 layers tall. Little Dick and not-so-little Kori' figurines on the top. The most decadent thing I’ve ever seen- and when the marriage was called off, I ended up having to take it home, along with all the other food-”

“Because Starfire doesn’t eat.”

“Exactly,” Dick says, “It was such a nice wedding. And Kori, man, she was the best. She planned everything else, you know, with Bruce’s help, because of course Bruce had to get involved with every little detail. I tried to help, and she told me I have bad taste- Bruce didn't say that-"

"But he implied it," Tim finishes his sentence, "Can you blame them? You did get a pancake cake," Tim points out.

"Oh man and that cake Tim. God, and what a waste- all that food, of course it was so good, the best stuff I've ever put in my mouth. All the catering was amazing- Everything was the best that money could buy, 'cause Bruce bought it. He had it delivered anonymously, paid all the companies hush money to keep it on the down-low 'cause it was a super event and there were so many capes there. I tried to stop him- but he doesn't even see money as, like, an object, and he wouldn't listen to me. He never has," Dick snorts. "That's his love language, you know? It's things. Gifts. And he bought me one of the best things money could buy, tried to give me the best wedding ever. You should've seen Kori in her dress, she just- wow. I'll never see anything more beautiful than that,”

Tim hums, sleepily, entranced by the sound of Dick’s voice.

“And then Bruce didn’t show up," Tim says.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Tim says. Dick shakes his head, tells him there's nothing to be sorry about.

“I was... really worried, you know?” Dick sighs. “I was so angry, and I am angry, but I was so fucking worried. I hate him, and we fight, but I love him too, and It's not like he's- He’s not like-”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah,” Dick says.

“But you care about him like he is.”

“You know me too well,” Dick says. “It's a bit creepy.”

“I’m just observant,” Tim counters. "The Bruce stuff is... obvious."

"And the pancake stuff?"

"There's a lot of unused Bisquick in the pantry. Bruce doesn't eat anything sweet for breakfast unless you're around."

"Right, he likes eggs."

"Three, in a mushroom omelette, usually, or two fried and on rye toast," Tim says. "Prepared by Alfred using butter, not oil, in the red pan, which is the second to largest in the kitchen..." Tim shrugs. "Bruce Wayne is very predictable."

Dick laughs, “Yeah, he is, and he's very, very imperfect," There's a small press of metal to the top of Tim's back. "You’re a real good kid, Tim, way better at the whole detective part of the gig than I ever was, I'll tell you that. And you're sweet,” Tim feels the cut re-opening, and he hisses. “So I hope you know me picking out the debris from this cut is not personal in any way whatsoever.”

-

He can’t remember what happens in between sleeping. There are just flashes of hazy memory and awakeness. Alfred calls him to say that his dad is alive- that they're hot on the trail, but there's no real news.

He mostly sleeps. Three days pass like that. Sleeping, and then the sight of his ceiling, fan blades not spinning, all the lights off,. He eats through the box of protein bars stashed under his bed, drinks water from the tap and his cupped hands whenever he remembers he should use the bathroom every once in a while. He doesn’t get up for more food, doesn’t let the door of his bedroom open again.

Azrael taking Bane down is the only thing that gets Tim out of his room for the first time since that night. It shouldn’t be. Tim knows that he should’ve immediately told Bruce, told Dick, told everyone, but he hadn’t. He’d been so tired.

He still is.

He feels like he could sleep forever, and he would still be so, so tired.

The news reports that there are over twenty civilians in the hospital, none dead, but several injured, two in critical condition. When Tim hacks the cave computer, no one has reported a thing.

Bane has been arrested, so at least Azrael didn’t kill him. And is it bad that Tim almost wishes Azrael killed him instead of fucking Abattoir? If Azrael was going to go off the deep end and murder someone- then he should’ve at least gone out on a note like Bane. Not Abattoir.

When Tim returns to the manor, he tries to sneak in the usual way first, and he finds that the underground entrance to the Batcave is bricked off.

Fucking bricked off. Because Azrael does not do things in halves, never did as much with Tim. He always went the full way, pushed as far as he fucking could, and he doesn’t install a door, he doesn’t just lock the space off, he bricks off the entire cave. Every backdoor is shut off completely. Tim wonders how the tack has even had the time to dry. It probably hasn't.

Tim should take this as his warning to stay away for good, and he doesn’t. He takes it as an incentive. His bandages have not been re-applied since Dick, but they’ve stayed tight to his skin, and they make a slick-slide noise underneath his clothes as he slips through the one open entrance to the cave, past the now boarded windows of the Wayne manor, and makes his way to his Robin uniform at the other end.

There’s a new car next to the batmobile.

Lucius Fox must be busy, even in Bruce’s absence, then. Tim gathers his Robin uniform, and, against his better judgment, goes to the vehicle currently hidden beneath a sheet. He lifts the fabric up and over, and it falls to the ground.

The car is much smaller and sleeker than the batmobile. There are only two rows of seats, although the back ones look like they’ve got far more legroom than a normal car’s. It’s bright red, and there’s a yellow Robin R on the side.

The license plate calls it Redbird. The three letters of RED and the four letters of the word BIRD are crammed on either side of a strike of black paint through the middle of the license plate. With a tiny spark of amusement, Tim wonders if the thing will get towed for not having a real plate.

But it’s the (currently folded up) wheelchair ramp at the back that lets Tim knows it’s his. That there is a space carved out in Bruce's life for Tim, and even Tim's dad, if Tim ever wants to tell the man the truth. That he and Tim, even with all their hardships and complications are a team.

(”I got my learner’s permit,” Tim saif to Bruce a couple weeks ago. Bruce’s head twisted towards Tim. There was a spark of pride in his eyes..

“You’re a little young for that,” Bruce said, not upset, but curious.

“My dad is, uh,” Tim’s eyes flitted to the wheels of Bruce’s wheelchair, “Someone needed to be able to drive, you know?”

Bruce regarded him with a warm look. The warmest look since before Bane. Since before the Arkham breakout. Since before everything.

“Maybe I’ll get you a car.”

Tim smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

For a moment, Bruce's eyes sparkled. Outside the window, the first snow has just touched the ground, and when Bruce shifted the gears of their conversation to acknowledge it, Tim felt an errant flicker of hope thrum between the two of them. A frequency that was dim, but certainlythere. )

“Oh,” Tim says, flattening his palm against the sleek metal. “B, you-”

“What are you doing here?”

Tim is fast, but he is not fast enough. Tim drops the Robin clothes so his hands are free, but he can only scrabble uselessly at the modified Batman gauntlets. The claws dig into his neck. Tim's feet thump useless across Azrael's shins, his thighs, his abdomen, his chest plate, as he is lifted high into the air. Tim feels small, and Azrael’s arm is long.

He’s so much bigger in the armor, and Tim is so much smaller without his mask on.

Dick- Dick is at a hotel, not the manor. Bruce is God knows where, and Alfred left to be with him. Tim is…

Here. He is here, alone with Azrael, dangling several feet above the ground, in gym shorts and a plain cotton tee, his Robin uniform too far away to reach, and there are little rivulets of blood going down the back of his neck where the claws are going in, threatening to shred him.

He can’t breathe.

“Wayne needed you,” Azrael growls, voice thundering from his broad chest, fingers crushing into Tim’s Adam’s apple, it can’t even bob against the tightness of the grip. He can’t swallow. If Azrael doesn’t choke him out, then his neck is going to break from the pure crushing force. There is a good chance that he’ll die like that, and if he doesn’t die, he’ll be paralyzed.

Just when his dad gets better and when Bruce gets better, Tim will get his neck broken, and he’ll be the one in the wheelchair for a while. He has always really liked Barbara Gordon, and maybe she'll finally give him the time of day after this. They'll have some shared trauma, after all.

“I don’t need you- I never needed you. I will be Batman without some pathetic excuse for a sidekick.”

Tim flails, and the edges of his vision go black. Tunnel in.

“They will fear me like they never feared him!” Azrael roars. His voice echoes across the cave.

Bounces back against Tim, and rattles him enough to get his foot flying. It connects with the armored cowl. Tim puts enough force in it to hurt, to maim, but with the armor, all it does is hurt Tim. It sends searing pain up through him. The nerves fire through his shins one by one. He might’ve broken a toe.

It doesn't hurt Jean-Paul through the armor, but it gets his attention, and Tim is released.

Tim falls to a heap on the ground.

He can see underneath the car from this angle, and he idly thinks about Lucius’ engineering and handiwork are quite spectacular. Down below, it smells like gasoline fumes, dust, and the leather of Azrael’s boots. They creak as he moves.

Tim coughs as air floods back into him, he closes his eyes against the glint of gold armor catching the cave’s light. Red eyes are moving like swerving headlights, watching him.

Then his brain begins to fire again. But not fast enough.

(Never fast enough. Never enough.)

He feels the weight of Azrael drop on top of him before he has quite caught his breath, and Tim’s eyes fly open. A hand settles on his throat- not doing anything yet, but resting there in a clear threat.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Azrael says, his other hand pulls at his armor, and latches come undone with little clinks. It takes him forever to get out of that ridiculous suit. It's been upgraded so much it doesn't even look like Batman anymore- not in passing- not even in the abstract.

Tim’s hands fly to pull off the hand at his throat, and thick muscle bulges along Azrael’s forearm when he squeezes in warning.

Tim drops his hands.

“But, you’re going to learn to fear me, too,” The cowl comes off with a click, and blonde hair spills out of it. Tim hates when he takes the cowl off. “And you’re going to learn how to stay out when someone doesn’t need you-”

The cowl- or it's more like a helmet now- is thrown to the side violently. Tim’s head is angled backward by fingers in his hair. Tim's neck extends, stretching to go with the grip, and providing a larger place for the other hand to press down. His oxygen cuts off once more.

“Or want you.”

-

“I guess you’re not quite, useless,” Azrael huffs in his ear. He’s not even panting from the exertion.

Tim grunts, out of breath. There’s a ring of fingerprints on his throat like a collar.

“But you’re nothing much as a vigilante,” Azrael tilts his head. “Or as a hero at all.”

-

Azrael leaves him there and goes to clean up. Tim drags himself upwards, using the car handle as leverage because without something to hold onto he can’t stand. He drags his shorts back up after him. At least they’re not jeans, and the fabric is loose and soft over his shivering legs.

The keys are easy to find on the keyrings. In some sort of petty revenge, Tim takes all of them and throws them over a railing, they scatter on some lower decks and a few fall into the empty abyss of the cave floor.

He only keeps his own set.

They’re labeled REDBIRD, all caps, there’s a little charm with an R in red and yellow, and it chirps when he presses on it. A recorded sound of a bird call. Tim would bet real money it's the sound of an actual robin. The car is one of the most thoughtful gifts Bruce has ever given him.

Tim wrecks it on one of the brick walls Azrael has made.

The front end of the car is entirely destroyed in the crash, the window cracks over the passenger side, then the line of destruction travels across the surface of the glass, and caves in. A brilliant shattering.

But Tim was right in his deduction, and the paste wasn’t dry between the bricks yet, so he doesn’t just die on impact. The wall explodes outwards from the armored car.

He's not dead, but there might be some brain damage on his part. A concussion from the way the momentum pushes him forward, and then the airbag smacks him back into the chair. It would be nothing worse than whatever he’s gotten in the past couple of weeks.

Tim kicks the dented door away. Leaves the car abandoned halfway through the wall.

Tim knows better than anyone how endless the tunnels are that stretch out beneath Gotham. At least it’s not the sewers. At least Killer Croc is back in Arkham.

Tim does not mind how far they go. He thinks he might need that right now. Something to fall into, endlessly, forever.

And the miles and miles and miles of backways, and secrets that spread beneath the city is good enough. He doesn't care where he gets lost in them. Where he ends up. For a minute, maybe two, maybe a lot longer than that, maybe hours, maybe a year, he just needs to disappear.

He just wants to be gone. Nothing. He wants to be like the broken glass, scattered across the dark concrete.

He realizes too late that he has left his shoes behind, as he has to carefully avoid all the sharp edges. He doesn’t do so because he wants to, it’s just instinct. Because he can’t run away without good, working feet.

There is a flashlight in the glove compartment and extra batteries. Tim sticks the batteries in the pockets and tightens the string on his waistband, all of his clothes have grown looser on him in the past month or so, and Azrael had undone the string, let them fall loose, and Tim had to get himself back together.

Then, Tim just-

He goes.

Chapter Text

Almost a year ago, Tim was on the way to Hong Kong from Paris, tracking down King Snake. It was the third night after he, Shiva, and Rawlins had taken off from the city, and it is the first time he tastes death.

Tim was somewhere near Russia when it happened, but he didn't know the exact location He was frequently blindfolded for the course of this trip– he was not allowed to see the faces of their drivers, or the places they stopped. Shiva had ducked his head down low with her hand as they boarded and instructed him to speak to no one.

He was pretty sure they were past Poland.

He had no intention of completely staying to Shiva's promise. He had a desperate need to feel grounded, which was sometimes stronger than his survival instinct. Tim was always pushing his luck... but it was late, and before Tim could listen or look around for long, desperate to understand his circumstances exactly as they were, night fell. The train went quiet with sleep quickly, like a candle being snuffed out. Just a breath, and he is alone.

What Tim did know for sure was that the three of them, along with a few of Shiva's lackeys, had traveled quite far. Tim didn't know exactly how far, but it was far, and it was a distance achieved with almost alarming speed. Every day, they'd be out from seven in the morning until late at night. Hiking, climbing, training, or (at least Tim was) shoved in the back of a van with a bag over his head. Shiva didn't like to stop, but even she could admit the physical need to sleep occasionally. Sleep one of those inescapable needs, even if rest, in her mind, was something different, and less necessary.

Having already weathered several weeks of grueling training, Tim was used to going all day. Clyde Rawlins was not. At night, the FBI agent (who reminded them frequently he was usually in investigations, not fieldwork,) would collapse as soon as they arrived somewhere for the night. Shiva thought it was unprofessional and distasteful, but Tim was almost jealous. Tim, on the other hand, was tired, but he was not yet to the point of exhaustion where he could easily fall asleep. And while the train rattled its way to the unknown, he lay awake in his bunk.

That night, his insomnia was worsened by the moving. His bunk swayed back and forth as they raced along the tracks, and if he had food to spare he might've thrown up from the constant motion. After thirty minutes of not accomplishing anything remotely close to sleep, Tim decided that he might need a break in scenery. He'd go for a walk, that was all, and try again. So, he slipped out of his bunk (which wasn't easy because he was three high on the wall and didn't want to wake the men beneath him), and headed for the back of the train. He grabbed his coat as he went, readying himself for the cold wind that would greet him. The dark, vaguely Siberian countryside would have to count as enough of a change because it was his only option.

The enemy attacked him at the caboose twenty minutes later, and Tim nearly toppled over the railing he was leaning against when she came down upon him. It would've been embarrassing to die that way, not even to the blade that sailed through the space his head had just been occupying, but from losing his balance.

Tim put up a good fight, despite the odds being against him. His bo staff, which had come away from his hip when he'd heard the ninja descend, wasn't made for the tight platform between the door and the railing. But he dodged and rolled and reacted, and he smacked her head hard enough that she stumbled into the door, and grew sloppier. Tim had even thought he was winning up until the point his legs gave out beneath him.

A slice on his arm, earlier in the fight. He'd foolishly disregarded it because it had missed anything vital. The posion had raced quickly through his racing veins.

Tim decided, watching the sky rush past him, unable to turn his head away from it, that he hated being paralyzed. He hated it so much that there was a chance he'd prefer being dead to the confines of immobility.

"King Snake," the woman hissed, her face swam into view, and her boot settled on Tim's neck. A long, thin blade danced along the soft, exposed skin of his cheek, "sends his regards."

The boot moved backward, but before the blade could take its place, Tim heard a sickening crack.

The assassin's head twisted to the left at a sharp angle, and she crumpled. Her limp body fell away, revealing the imposing form of Shiva behind her.

Shiva kicked the still-warm corpse. There was no reaction. Tim watched, frozen, as Shiva picked the body up. He couldn’t shake his head, or move away from the sight. And Shiva placed its still belly onto the railing, so that her head was balanced over the side, and then eased it off the rest of the way.

They were going too fast to hear too much of anything. At least, Tim didn't hear the body hit the ground, or if he had, it was easy enough to write it off as something else. These were small mercies.

"Pathetic," Shiva said to the empty air. And then she turned to Tim. "You too. You should know better than to let your guard down."

Tim could not respond. And even if he were able to speak, he’s not sure he would. He felt sick, and he felt useless because he wanted to be Robin to help people- not get them killed because Shiva had to step in and save him.

With his head turned to the side, he could only stare at the fleeting countryside and the railroad tracks that were disappearing into it. At a point on the horizon, a place where the light was pitch black, and a little blue, everything folded into one spot, and at that spot the two sides of the railroad tracks came together into one line and became nothing soon after.

Shiva walked on silent feet across the metal until she was standing just on top of Tim, her feet on either side of his legs. "If you are to be of use to anyone, you need to learn how to be vigilant. Suspect everything. Plan for everything. There is no rest for people like us."

The door opened and closed, and she was gone. Tim watched the world disappear behind him, and he couldn’t help but feel like something inside of him went right along with it.

-

When Tim opens his eyes all he finds waiting for him is cold and indifferent darkness.

Very, very cold.

Closing his eyes does not make it any warmer, but at least when unconsciousness wraps its waiting arms around him he no longer feels the cold.

-

About three months before Tim almost died at the end of Azrael’s arm, Tim cornered Jean-Paul after a training session with a pair of scissors and told him that the hair had to go.

If Jean-Paul did not look like Bruce Wayne that meant he didn't look like Batman. Sure, he was big, and he was tall, and he could fill the suit just fine, but there were enough other differences that changes were necessary. The image of Batman was important, and consistency mattered.

Azrael's face was hidden by the cowl, and he could pitch his voice low and gravely so that it sounded like Batman (Still, Tim had him watching footage of Bruce as Batman, and reciting lines back to him… until Jean-Paul clipped him upside the head in annoyance), it was only his hair that was a glaring issue. His hair was long, cornfield blonde, and very much not what Batman had three weeks ago.

“Absolutely not,” Jean-Paul said. Because he liked to do everything the hard way.

“You have to," Tim stressed. "Continuity is important. People will notice."

There was more to it than just that, of course, but listing all the reasons out loud would take a very long time. Tim wasn't even sure he completely understood them all, and he didn't think he could put every reason that Jean-Paul (absolutely, must, has to,) cut his hair into words. Tim just knew that the image Batman projected was important. It was doubly important in times of crisis, and Bane had caused more than a little catastrophe. Gotham needed a strong anchor. The citizens needed to trust that Batman would take care of them and that they were all still safe after Bane showed everyone how weak a defense Arkham and Blackgate are against this city's worst criminals.

Batman needed to stay the same.

“I agreed to be Batman,” Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “Not Bruce Wayne.”

“Moot point,” Tim sighed. "They're the same thing.”

“Evidently, they're not," Jean-Paul said, and gestured to himself in the batsuit.

Tim sighed as he twirled the scissors across his fingers. He was not scared of cutting himself, he'd had plenty of practice messing around with batarangs, Tim fidgets with them when he's nervous on patrol, and he is nervous more often than he'd like to admit, and they were certainly much sharper and more dangerous than a pair of barber scissors. .

“It isn’t forever, Jean,” Tim said. “And it’s just hair.”

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth, but at least he didn't say it might be forever. If Tim heard him say something along those lines one more time, he might have just given up on the whole thing. Gone solo. Blackmailed Constantine into doing black magic and fixing Bruce's spine, (which was not an idea Tim has given up on, either.) Tim was just so sick of hearing everyone talk about Bruce never coming back. Bruce would come back, and Tim was sure of that.

Azrael brought up the fact that might not happen more than anyone else. Even the most reactionary of Gotham's news blogs were not so intense with disbelief. Azrael seemed to take Tim's refusal of the idea personally.

“I’m not cutting my hair,” Jean-Paul said, firmly. “And neither are you.”

"It's only temporary," Tim said.

Jean-Paul flicked his hair over his shoulder in an almost childish display of resistance. "No."

Tim never did get to cut it.

Instead, he got very good at using bobby pins by watching YouTube tutorials. In the weeks of wrangling Jean-Paul's blonde hair into the cowl, he grew a new sense of appreciation for the tight buns his mother gave herself for public appearances. How she ever managed to do it by herself, Tim would never know. It wasn't like he could ask her. Those moments were always Jean-Paul moments. Silent. Strangely intimate.

When the cowl turned to a helmet, though, Jean-Paul's hair was no longer a concern. Everything was hidden behind a new, bulky mask that Tim said he did not approve of (but was lying when he did so, because, in truth, he hated looking at the man's face,) and was promptly ignored. Jean-Paul sort of disappeared too.

It was easier, in many ways, without Jean-Paul's nice side there.

It would've been even better if Azrael got left behind instead.

It… would've been better if Bruce never left.

-

There is a steady drip in the distance. Somewhere water falls ever-so-slowly, in evenly spaced intervals. Again, and again, a drop forms, falls, and breaks open with a small tink against a hard surface. It is the most grating sound Tim has ever heard.

Then something nearby squeaks, and a fluttering sound follows, like rustling fabric or wings.

Bats, Tim thinks. The first one flies away, and another one follows, the sound of leathery wings beating in the air as they wake up and stretch out. Noise seems to echo in every bit of damp air (and it is damp, humid, thick, but cold,) and it sticks around like there's no where for it to go. The echo of the caverns is sickening and disorienting, confusing his mind on how the structure of space around him looks. A third bat squeaks, and Tim knows he can't stay where he is- he must wake up.

Concussions come with a laundry list of symptoms that Tim, even at this early point in his career as Robin, (though quite experienced in the field of being thrown around by bullies that are bigger than him,) is quite familiar with.

A headache. Check. Ringing ears. Check..

Vomiting would probably be happening right now if there was anything in his stomach. So, check.

Fatigue. Check.

These are also symptoms of systematic sleep deprivation, hypothermia, and/or a number of other afflictions Tim could currently be dealing with because of his recent physical and mental trauma. Tim has no real way of finding out what's wrong with him, and without any resources available where he is, he has no way of immediately dealing with it. But he's pretty sure he has a concussion, at least.

Tim peels his eyelids open, a difficult task despite its simplicity (mostly because one of them is too swollen to open.) He is once more greeted by darkness. It feels as if he has already woken up here once or twice, and gone back to sleep, but the memories of this are hazy enough to be imagined. He supposes it doesn't matter. His hand fumbles for the flashlight he doesn't remember leaving next to him but knows it is there. He clicks it on.

His feet are sprawled out in front of him, his back propped up against a wall of damp stone. He recognizes nothing- There is nothing to note, no landmarks. When he moves the flashlight around he sees that the tunnels seem to continue forever in either direction, without any indication of change.

He notices immediately that he's not in his Robin uniform, and that this is an oddity. He should be in his uniform, because this is obviously an offshoot of the Batcave, and with his amount of injuries, this occurrence would be connected to his vigilantism. He wonders, then, about Batman. Because if Tim is hurt, then Bruce might be hurt, too. Is Bruce okay? Is he-

There are a blissful few moments where Tim can't remember how he got here. Of course, he ruins them by trying to figure out what's going on. It's Batman's fault for training him so well.Tim remembers. He wishes he didn't.

Dragging his legs up, Tim sighs. The appendages come to him slowly. His muscles tired, and not entirely in his control. Ignoring a not-so-great twinge of pain coming from his left thigh, he eventually manages to get his legs close enough to grab them, and hugs them tightly to his chest with equally exhausted arms. His fingers dig into the skin of his knees.

In a slightly better state of mind than when he sent his car through a brick wall and nearly killed himself, Tim acknowledges that it was very, very stupid- not to mention, self-destructive- of him to run into the caves. He has only made his circumstances that much more daunting, and they were already insurmountable.

However Tim is not at liberty to spiral right now. He can't sink into these thoughts and let them consume him, or he might just give up. If he gives up, he will just go back to sleep, and he can't do that. Giving up is not a viable, or permissible option.

So, right now he needs to follow Batman's teachings and make a plan.

His first priority, taking stock of the situation, second: thinking through possible solutions. His third: Acting on them. In his case, this means finding a way out of these caves and getting himself some medical attention.

Tim releases one of his hands to pull out his phone. It doesn’t turn on when he presses the power button. Doesn't even react. So, he can't call Dick or Bruce (or Ariana, who he really shouldn't be thinking of calling, but who Tim really, really wants to talk to right now.) Tim doesn't have the extra battery that he usually carries and doesn't even have a charger if he gets out of here and finds himself an outlet. He'd been stupidly unprepared to face Azrael.

Whatever.

There probably isn’t even any signal here and if Jean-Paul decided Tim was worth the trouble then it would be an easy way to track him.

Actually…

Tim takes out the battery from the phone and pockets it. Just in case.

He'd need to use someone else's, or just get to someone he knows in person to talk to them. The latter is preferable, even if it's easier said than done.

At this moment, Tim counts it as a blessing that Bruce insists on Tim carrying a shatter-proof, waterproof, ridiculously heavy-duty watch. Bruce bought it for him on his fourteenth birthday..

Dick had once said, Tim couldn't remember when, Bruce's love language was gifts. The thought brings a little bright spark of warmth to Tim's chest when he clicks the button on the side of the clock face, and it lights up. to his watch, it’s nearing six in the morning, though this doesn't mean much to Tim. He's not sure what day it is.

Tim stumbles to his feet, his head swimming at the sudden upright motion- his hands shoot out for the wall to steady himself. He has enough battery in the flashlight to last him a while, but he wishes he’d had the mind to grab some of the other things Bruce stocks the cars with. A first aid kit, maybe, emergency rations, maybe a fucking batarang or two, so Tim doesn't feel so vulnerable.

His feet slap against stone as he goes, he's too tired to walk silently, and on this loud, echoey stone it's especially not worth the effort. Tim shivers at the feel of the cold, wet ground. Each step feels difficult, and every time the soft bottoms of his feet meet the surface below, the feel of it travels through all of him.

Cold.

Up ahead of him, more bats wake up, stretch out their wings, and cautiously watch him go.

-

Two months before Tim experienced what was decidedly the fourth worst night of his life (the others being, in no particular order, his mother's death, Jason Todd's death, and Bruce's almost death,) Arthur Brown broke out of prison.

Cluemaster and two other convicts make a raft of milk cartons and paddled their way to shore undetected. They are only discovered missing when they didn't show up for breakfast. The Gazette's mine AM show named the others involved as Titus Czonk, and Lester Buchinsky the Electrocutioner.

It's a spectacular example of Gotham's inadequate security. Her hectic state.

Buchinsky had stopped claiming to be some sort of anti-hero now, at least, and had embraced his life of crime- or so said the reports from his psych evals that Tim read through- Tim didn't know if it was better or worse that Buchinsky had accepted his darker nature and stopped pretending to be a hero... because he wasn't a hero, Tim was bitter about the idea, but the man had stopped Bruce's heart once, so Tim didn't exactly want him getting any meaner.

The three escapees enlisted the help of a hypnotist living on the same floor of cells as the Electrocutioner. Footage that Tim acquired from the prison shows how they used their shared time working in the warehouse to plan. Arthur Brown shot the hypnotist on the way out. The man spent three days in critical care before eventually succumbing to shock, blood loss, and a nasty infection that set in from the general lack of care at Gotham Prison's medical ward.

After three or so hours on the computer picking through footage and rapidly spawning news articles on the topic, Tim compiled a decent (if slightly spotty) record of all these events. He sent it to Stephanie Brown in an email the girl wouldn't be able to trace.

Stephanie Brown who Tim… hadn't thought of in a while.

City cameras picked up the purple spot of Spoiler just one night after her father's escape. She raced through the ports, presumably searching for the place where her father washed up on shore.

Tim erased every instance he could find Stephanie Brown appearing. It was simple enough to get the bat-computer to trace her signature, and the machine tracked her across the city, wiping footage as it went. Tim has made a mental note to tell her to better look out for cameras… if he ever got the chance to see her again.

Spoiler, unlike Azrael, is someone Tim would be more than willing to help train. It would just mean convincing Bruce. Bruce could often be very unforgiving and stubborn about these sorts of things, so the chances were slight that Tim could help her in any real capacity.

(That Bruce would know about.)

Maybe he was just thinking about talking to her because he was lonely.

Lonely enough to send an email with everything he knew, hoping that she could, in some impossible world, trace it back to him. Even if he knew she never would.

-

He hopes for impossibilities. He knows he is an awfully hopeful person, for someone who considers themself a realist, and adjacent to a pessimist. He picks up facts like trinkets, prides himself on clean logic, and yet-

Yet-

He hopes.

He fools himself often, hinges himself on ideals. Tim swings wide on them, and he hopes.

-

He faces his first wall.

From up above, Tim can see that the tunnel extends beyond the steep drop-off. It isn't even that tall, but Tim's hands are shaky and cold, even if walking has gotten his muscles warmed up and a little more cooperative.

He takes a deep breath and puts the flashlight in his mouth to free his hands. His teeth dig into the rubber grip harder than necessary, but it would be a very bad thing if it fell, so Tim digs them in a little deeper- feels it squeak beneath the strength of his jaw.

Thin, red fingers take hold of two steady-looking divots, just deep enough to fit the digits, and his feet follow closely behind. The stone is slippery and wet.

Tim pulls himself up and wishes for a world where he will not fall again. His hands scramble along the stone, searching for the next place to grab-

And eventually. A long time, five left turns and a right curve later, there's a ladder.

Tim does not recognize it, even though it's probably on Bruce's maps somewhere. Tim had planned to memorize them… at some point. Bruce had told him to be prepared in case the Batcave was ever under attack, but it had felt like an impossibility so Tim had busied himself learning other things first. Stupidly.

Tim's sore, bare feet slap against the metal rungs. The rusted latch on the door needs a hard yank to finally come loose. It screeches with disuse and rains red, corroded dust onto his face, but it opens. Once it's free, Tim pushes up the heavy metal with tired arms. They ache against the strain of more exertion.

(His mind supplies that this is an effect of dehydration, hunger, and exhaustion. His body isn't sure if it would expend the energy it has on healing or moving. )

As soon as the metal begins to creak open, Tim feels warmth slip through along with a thin sliver of light. He does not breathe a sigh of relief yet. Relief still feels far away.

-

Two weeks before Tim's carefully built stack of cards goes toppling, he visits Ariana's place late on a Saturday. Bruce told him there would be no patrol that night over the phone, becauseht Tim shouldn't be patrolling every day and Bruce has been remiss in his duties, in watching over him.

Tim is not an idiot, so he didn't throw rocks at Ariana's window or anything cliche like that. He biked over to her place and called her on the phone to get her attention. Bewildered, and a little sleepy, she opened her third-story window as soon as he explained that he was standing outside of it. She was in her pajamas, a loose T-shirt over some green, silky-looking shorts, and her hair was messy, in a cute way. She was looking at him like he was an alien.

"Tim?" She asked, rubbing at her eyes, and hanging up the phone. "What is this?"

"I wanted to see you," Tim explained. He cleared his throat awkwardly, "if this is… a bad time I can leave."

"It is, a little bit, but you're fine. I'm happy to see you," She shrugged. "Talking to you is better than a nap, anyways."

Tim smiled. "Can I come up?"

She frowned slightly, and Tim watched as she turned around, and then looked back at him. "I'm sorry, I don't think so, my parents are here. Maybe I could come down?"

Tim raised a hand to stop her. "I could climb?" He offered. "They wouldn't see me."

She raised an eyebrow. "That seems dangerous."

"Can I try?" He asks.

She seemed to debate for a moment in her head, her final expression landed on amused. She rolled her eyes. "Sure, be my guest, Tim."

Tim locked his bike up with one of Batman's locks so it' was secure, and clambered up the side of the building quickly. When he reached the top, Ariana looked impressed, and she greeted him with two kisses. One on the cheek, then another on his lips. Tim immediately felt better.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Ariana asked.

"My neighbor," Tim said, it wasn't a lie.

"You never told me you could do that," She pulled him into the room, and Tim took his first good look at it. "It's kinda cool," she smilex, "and hot."

Tim blushed, and she laughed good-naturedly.

Her room was the opposite of his own. Her place was small but full. The furniture was beat up, second-hand, but well taken care of. Several pieces of it had been painted, or varnished in bright colors, and the fabric on her desk chair was certainly not the original- she'd reupholstered it with denim.

Nothing matched, but for the most part, there was a sort of harmony among the disarray. Still, some more permanent, big pieces, like the dresser, just didn't go with everything else, and there was a stack of unpacked boxes in the left corner. Tim was reminded then that she'd only lived there a few months, really, and barely that. She'd moved in with her aunt and uncle after her dad died.

Her room was full of projects. Drawings tacked on the wall, half-sewn clothes piled around a sewing machine that took up an entire corner. Her desk was a mess of papers, and a half-open computer, dangerously close to two open cans of soda. Blankets with bright patterns were thrown on every lampshade. Everything smelled like perfume.

It felt more lived in than any bedroom he'd ever had. He'd never been one to accumulate things. Dick's childhood bedroom at the manor kind of looked like this. Ives looked like this.

Tim supposed he really liked people like this. People who accumulated. He thought maybe there was a bit of envy in that.

"Thanks," He said, finally.

"Any other skills you're hiding in there, Tim?" She curled a hand around his bicep. "I feel like there's a lot you don't tell me."

The last sentence had weight to it that Tim didn't want to think about. He'd tried his best to reassure her he wasn't seeing anyone else when she accused him of it last week. He was pretty sure she believed him.

"No. I'm kind of boring, actually," Tim said.

"Oh, please," She scoffed. "I don't think you're boring. Come on, Tim, I know you've got something. Please? Entertain me. Make it up to me for waking me up?"

He wanted to tell her.

"I used to do gymnastics," He blurted out, eager to change the subject before he said something he shouldn't in desperation. "I can still do some of the flips. I was never the best, but-"

"Oh, you should show me sometime," She said and started guiding Tim to sit on the edge of her bed. Once he was sitting, she plopped down next to him and the mattress bent under their combined weight, so they fell closer together. Her shoulder was warm against his."I've always wanted to learn to climb that wall, too. I need a better way of sneaking out."

"You shouldn't do that." Tim said.

"Only sometimes," She said back, a little coyly. Then, in a more serious tone: "Not so much now that I'm with Uncle Vari and Aunt Nat, have less of a reason to."

"Trying to cause less trouble?"

"The neighborhood is worse," she told him, blankly. "I mean before was bad, but Dad had money from the, you know, crime. My aunt and uncle don't. Surprised you didn't get jumped on your way here."

"I pedal fast," Tim said, kind of lamely. Not too lamely, he guessed, it earned him a good-natured laugh.

"Maybe you're just lucky?" Ariana said. And, yeah, it was true in a lot of ways. Tim was lucky.

"Right," Tim said. Without thinking, he held out his hand towards her. A moment later she laced her fingers with his across their laps.

"You're being awfully touchy," Ariana joked. "Is something wrong?"

Tim's cheek fell into her shoulder. "I'm usually touchy," He said.

She squeezed his hand. "No, I'm touchy," she corrected. "You just let me do it. We hold hands a lot, but you've only reached out for my hand, like, once."

Tim blinked. "Really?" He asked. "That doesn't… sound right. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing wrong with it," She said, assuring him. "I mean I don't think there's anything wrong with it. I don't know, you're my first boyfriend, and I'm just a touchy-feely person, and you've never said anything," She squinted, "Unless there is something wrong with it…"

When he felt her begin to pull away he sunk deeper into her side.

"Just surprised," Tim mumbled into her shoulder. "I like holding your hand."

Her hand was soft, warm, and delicate and not at all like Azrael's. Touching it, he could feel how not alike they were. Her calluses were in different places, like the one on her index finger because of how she held her pencil. None between her thumb and index finger from the hilt of a sword.

Ariana chuckled. She pressed her chin into the top of his head.

Tim would think this would disgust him. That people, and touch, would all be awful. But it was better. He could not explain it.

"Tim, is something wrong?" Ariana asked again. "You can tell me, you know."

"My dad, and- and just-" Tim said, saying it was his dad was not a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. "I think I told you before, I'm, uh, I'm lonely. It's really hard right now without him."

Ariana stilled for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Tim," She said. "I- uh. I wish I could help more. I wish you'd-" She stopped herself, and then continued after a beat, "Do you know what makes me less lonely?" She asked, lifting her head.

Tim's head rose at the same time and he met her gaze evenly. Her eyes were a very deep brown, almost black, and Tim thought that they looked very warm. Comforting. All of Ariana was warm.

She pressed her lips to his, they were warm, too. It wasn't sexual, and it didn't feel sexual, it was romantic. Soft, and giving, she was just as clueless as he was about these matters, and just as unwilling to go too far, too fast.

Tim thought about how he didn't want to lose this. He didn't want to lose these good moments. He thought to himself, not for the first time, but with a little more conviction, that something must change soon. Something must happen, or come to an end because Tim needed more time to kiss Ariana Dzerchenko. To appreciate her, and not just her warmth, and she deserved so much better-

Then Abattoir died.

-

Tim surfaces in a large, grassy field, and he finds that the sun is directly overhead, at a spot that means it’s just past noon. The grass is tall enough to brush up his knees, and it rustles as he steps through it. At one end of the field is a fence bordering a street he doesn't recognize, but it's a street, which means it goes somewhere, and it is not wet, itchy grass full of bugs, so Tim heads to it and walks along the asphalt.

It's not until he walks for a while and sees the gates of the Gotham cemetery looming on the horizon that Tim knows where he is.

As the crow flies, it's a fifteen mile hike. He does not have the time to think about it.

Tim knows the layout of the cemetery grounds. Tim has even met the groundskeeper a few times. A nice man, who once brought him a Tervis full of hot chocolate after Tim spent two days in a row at Jason Todd's grave. It was a different time, then, and got whatever reason there's no groundskeeper here right now.

It makes getting inside the groundskeeper's cottage much easier. Tim finds the key after the third fake looking rock on the ground that he tries, and makes his way inside.

Tim feels a rush of warmth greet him as he enters, so he shuts the door quickly behind him to trap the hot air. His fingers kind of hurt with the temperature change.

At least it's not snowing anymore.

The building is almost a house, but not quite. There's a small kitchen, small office, and a small bathroom. Everything in it is small because it's not a place meant to be stayed in for a long time.

Tim feels bad but counts it as a necessary evil when he swipes the groundskeeper's clothes from the front closet. He gets himself a thick sweater with a tall neck and it has a logo for a sports team he doesn't recognize across the front. A thick wool pea coat goes on top of that.

He'll return them some time, somehow.

Some more snooping procures him a box of Cheerios stuffed in a desk drawer and a glass of water. He debates starting the electric kettle in the kitchen, and then leaves it.
He doesn't end up eating the Cheerios, either. He thinks about it and then thinks that his throat hurts, and he might throw up.

Tim looks at himself in the mirror when he finishes running the tap.

He looks awful.

The gym shorts do nothing to hide his cold, skinny legs, or the bruises. The groundskeeper's clothes are so big on him that they seem to swallow him whole. Luckily, the sweater at least hides the handprint on his neck, and Tim hasn't seen it yet, but he knows it's there, and he... doesn't want to see it.

He looks like a kid. He doesn't like that.

He's got also a nasty cut on his cheek, and his right eye is completely swollen shut with a red, almost-purple, bruise. He barely recognizes himself. Even outside of the injuries: his hair is longer than he remembers it being, he looks tired, and weary.

He supposes he hasn't been paying much attention to his reflection lately.

Tim looks away.

He finds the landline anchored on the wall outside of the restroom.

Tim had Dick's number memorized as soon as it was given to him. Partially because Bruce said it was an absolute necessity to know it, but mostly because Tim was paranoid, and Tim was still kind of fanboying over being given Dick Grayson's cell phone number.

Bruce has managed to become more of a person than a celebrity to Tim, even if he's still unreachable, but Dick still stayed on a nice, tall pedestal in his mind.

Dick picks up on the third ring.

"Hello?" He asks, and Tim's breath hitches at the first sound of a human voice since last night. "Who is this?"

"Dick," Tim says, or… croaks, and talking hurts. Until now, his throat was just another drop of pain in a large pool of it, and Tim is realizing how bad the damage might be there, too (bruised trachea, what else? There's any number of bad things connected to manual strangulation,) He clears his throat but it doesn't help. "-t's Tim Drake."

"Oh, Tim!" Dick greets. "You alright? You sound awful."

Tim can hear the undertone of worry behind Dick's voice. Dick wouldn't talk about Batman business over the phone in direct terms, of course.

Tim doesn't know how to answer the question, so he doesn't. He slumps forward until his forehead meets the wall, and he sighs.

"You need to pick me up," Tim says, wincing again at how rough his voice sounds and feels.

"Tell me where."

Tim croaks out an address, and Dick arrives forty-five minutes later.

Tim barely recognizes the passing time between these two events. He doesn't think he does anything during the interim while he's waiting for Dick, just sits at the desk and stares at the wall. Usually, Tim can't stand sitting still. He could, of course, if there was a purpose to the act, and he was plenty patient, if necessary, but otherwise, Tim hated resting. Not when there were more important things to do.

But it's almost as if Tim is someone else right now, someone else entirely, and he is watching this all play out from an invisible vantage point somewhere else. His reflection certainly doesn't look like him, and the memory of how alien he looked to himself makes it that much easier to distance himself. The thought is oddly comforting.

When Dick arrives, Tim greets him at the door with his head down.

"Are you okay, Tim? What happened?" Dick asks immediately, a worried crinkle at the corner of his pinched eyes. Tim recognizes the tone as Dick's victim-handling tone. Tim wishes he didn't like how kind Dick's voice was. Idly, he thinks Dick would make a really good social worker.

Tim ducks his head a little deeper. After a long moment, he says, "Dick, I'm sorry, you-" Tim chokes.

"Hey, hey," Dick reaches forward to grab Tim's shoulders. "You're okay. I'll get you fixed up, and I'll get you home, I just need to know what happened. Did you get hurt as Robin, or as yourself?"

Tim shrugs. "Both," He says, and he sees the frown on Dick's face get deeper. "I fucked up-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Dick soothes. "It's okay. Whatever you did, I'm not mad, I'm just glad you're safe. Breathe, buddy. Hey, look at me, follow my breathing," Dick slows his breathing, and it's loud enough for Tim to hear. Tim hadn't realized how much his own has sped up, though his breath is more of a wheeze. "In- good. Out. In-"

After a few minutes, when Tim is finally breathing on his own, Dick pulls him into a hug. Dick is tall, much taller than Tim, and probably taller than Tim will ever be, and his long arms encompass him entirely, pulling around him like a curtain. Tim sinks into the embrace.

"Azrael," Tim finally says, the weight of his name on Tim's lip eases slightly at the admission, but it doesn't lift. Not at all. Tim suspects it will not lift for a long, long time. Still, it feels good to say it out loud.

"Azrael?" Dick asks.

Tim nods. "He almost-" He sucks in a sharp breath, and it hurts. "He killed Abattoir, he almost killed me. He tried-"

"Fuck," Dick says, and his arms around Tim tighten. "Tim, what did he do? What happened? Was it fear gas or…?"

"No. Just him," Tim says, voice shaky. "And I was so stupid."

"Hey, hey, it's okay, you're not stupid, you're not stupid at all, Tim, this is Azrael's fault, not yours," A hand rubs circles along Tim's back. "Let's just get you somewhere safe, okay, baby bird?"

Tim sniffles into Dick's chest. It's embarrassing, but Tim can't find it in himself to care.

"Please," Tim croaks.

Dick's arms squeeze even tighter.

"I'm sorry," Tim says. "I don't mean to-"

"Don't be. Don't be."

-

The hot water beats the tile at a constant pace. It reminds him of the caves- the steady drip of water splashing down onto the tall columns of stalagmites. Tim focuses on it and pretends he can't hear Dick yelling at Bruce over the phone in the other room.

The hotel soap isn't great, but Tim doesn't know if he's allowed to use Dick's, so he makes do. He scrubs his body clean four times. It doesn't feel like enough. He does it a fifth time, quickly. He washes away the evidence with his nails and hot water and vindication.

Tim had asked to use the shower as soon as Dick stopped the car, and Dick had reluctantly agreed to let him.

"That place always reminds me of Jason," Dick says to Tim as he steps out of the bathroom. "The graveyard, that's where Bruce buried him."

He's in Dick's clothes now, and they're much better than the mothball-smelling sweater from the graveyard. Dick had provided him with a shirt and sweatpants that are almost falling off but are made of soft, organic cotton and feel comfortable. They smell nice, too, like detergent, old spice deodorant, and Dick himself. Dick had apologized to Tim when he handed them over, explaining that he hadn't done laundry since he'd gotten here from Bludhaven. Tim doesn't see it as a problem.

"These are comfortable," Tim says, hugging the soft clothes to himself. "Thanks."

Dick's eyes are now looking over Tim, and Tim knows it's not the clothes he's looking at. Dark blue eyes fix on Tim's neck. Tim can’t stop himself from seeing it this time with a high collar, and he wishes he could still hide it.

Tim wonders if Dick is even really looking at him at all. Dick might be thinking of a different Robin. One who is dead and gone, and who Tim has always just been a replacement for. Which Tim has been doing a real bang-up job at being, lately.

"Me too," Tim says.

Dick raises an eyebrow. "You didn't know him, did you?"

"No," Tim says.

He mimics the motion of taking a picture, and Dick's eyes widen in understanding. "Oh," Dick says. "You took pictures of him too, huh?"

"Didn't need to know him," Is what Tim settles on saying, trying to explain what he wants to say in as few words as possible.

Dick nods, he seems to understand. "You're a good kid, Tim."

Tim shrugs. It's easier not to talk when he doesn't have to. Talking so much is already taking its toll on his throat. Tim can feel it. But, at least, he can still speak. Azrael hadn't taken his voice, too.

"Come here," Dick says, and he waves him over, motioning to a chair. "I'm getting the first aid kit. I know you just got dressed- but you have to take the shirt off so I can see, you can put it in right after I'm done if you want. And I'll give you a sweater if you're cold?"

Tim nods. Dick and Tim have already done this once before- and Tim has gone through post-patrol care with Bruce many times. Somewhere, in his brain, Tim doesn't want him to see, but the thought feels very far and distant, and it's very difficult to feel much of anything right now.

Anyways, it's not like he has a choice. These were the consequences of a lot of bad decisions. Maybe he'll be lucky, though, the bruises on his torso are numerous enough that they've mottled together and don't look like handprints.

Dick comes back, and Tim has the shirt off. Dick doesn't gasp or suck in a breath, instead, he sits in front of Tim with one of the angriest expressions Tim has ever seen on his face, and Tim is aware enough to feel alarmed at the sight. Why does this keep happening? Why does Tim have to face this humiliation? Hasn't he faced enough?

"Dick-" Tim tries, softly. He doesn't know why Dick is so mad, and he can't help but feel a little scared at the sight. Maybe Dick was lying and Tim had pissed him off.

"I'm going to kill him," Dick says, furiously. "Bruce won't stop me this time, I'm going to kill him."

Speaking hurts too much, and breathing hurts, so Tim just shakes his head.

Dick shakes his head. He starts bringing out the antiseptic from the first aid kit. "I probably should've killed the Joker, too."

They let the declaration hang in the air.

"Fuck," Dick hits the first aid kit with his hand and it slides across the table. He grabs his keys, instead, he stands back up. "This is worse than I thought- you need a hospital. I should've taken you straight there- but you didn't-"

Tim tilts his head in question.

"Never mind," Dick shakes his head with a guilty expression. He grabs his wallet and pockets it, and throws Tim the overcoat he'd been wearing before. "Let's go."

Tim pulls his shirt back on, and the sweater and coat follow. He stumbles out the door behind Dick.

He wonders if breathing has always been this difficult.

-

Tim's eyes fly open, and he nearly rips his intubation tube out.

It is his first reaction upon waking up because the last thing Tim remembers is them putting in the tube, and how much he'd wanted it out. He'd needed to be awake for it, they'd said, patients whose airways are in danger of collapsing become harder to intubate once they're asleep.

"You're safe," The doctor says, pushing his hands away from his face. "You're safe."

Tim opens his mouth and she shakes her head. "No talking, okay, Mr. Drake? You've had surgery on your neck and we don't want to risk tearing the stitches. Okay? Just breathe."

-

The hospital is a bustle of noise and activity. Tim stares at a row of beds across from him, which look more like stretchers for transport than actual beds, that are crammed too close together, with no partition in-between.

"Not enough cots," The doctor explains when she catches him looking. She has bags under her eyes.

She checks his reactions with efficiency. His knees, his eyes. She presses lightly down on his chest, and he winces.

She ups the painkillers.

"Not opioids yet," she says, voice calm despite her harried expression and deep eye bags. "I know it hurts, but they have a high rate of respiratory depression. So, for now, we've got you on benzodiazepines. It's not the good-good stuff, but," She offers him a kind but tight smile, "I’d say it's pretty alright."

Tim nods weakly. She'd told him not to speak, so he doesn't. He doesn't like not being able to talk, but at least the painkillers, and her quiet fixing of the tubing on his face, help ease some of his nerves. His head feels light and woozy on whatever they are. They make it all feel less.

Not happier, or sadder, just less.

"I'll start you off light, and we can work our way up to the heavier stuff, okay?"She asks. "We're going to go through some tests to check for brain damage, then we're going to talk. Would you like someone else here with you while I talk?"

Tim shakes his head.

His vitals are taken with clinical efficiency.

When that is done, and she ensures he still has good motor skills in his hands, enough to write, she slides him a legal pad and a blue-ink pen and tells him to write any questions down. Tim signs to her in ASL and her eyes widen.

"I'm sorry," She says. "I don't know ASL. Would you prefer a doctor or nurse that can-"

Tim waves her concern off quickly. He likes this woman and he doesn't want to try his luck with another doctor.

He clicks the end of the pen, and he doesn't like the sound of it. He also wishes the lights were dimmer in here.

She asks him a few questions, the president's name, the name of the capital, and he answers them to her satisfaction. She seems relieved when he gets them all correct.

"Good," She says. "Thank you, Mr. Drake."

The list of expected injuries: concussion, broken ribs, heavy bruising, some internal a few infected cuts that had earned him a drip of antibiotics along with his painkillers. This list went on for a while.

She doesn't mention sexual assault. Tim doesn't know if she's not telling him or if his shower successfully hid the evidence, but he hopes it's the latter. It's a crisis best saved for later. First, he has to deal with things like laryngeal collapse.

"If you had been any later, you would've been in danger of this being fatal," She says. "Injuries on the larynx can occasionally go on for weeks without being noticed, but when it comes to blunt trauma this severe, it can be lethal withinhours. It goes unseen sometimes because people don't immediately expect it from strangulation. In cases like yours, I’d say it needs to be caught within twenty-four hours and fixed within forty-eight for best results. Which," She smiles, comfortingly, but not too happily. "We managed to do. We got you in critical as fast as we could, had you under straight away. You should thank your brother for bringing you in when he did."

Tim furrows his eyebrows. This explains some things- they may not have caught the sexual assault beneath all the other injuries which has taken priority. But the explanation confuses him in other ways... his brother?

"Your brother," She says again. "Richard Grayson, the man who dropped you off here, that's how he introduced himself."

Dick. Tim's eyes widen, and he slowly nods. "You're not lucky that this happened," She says, honestly. "But you're lucky that we caught it, and that you had enough remaining healthy muscle to sew it back together. Now, I can't say with certainty that there will not be more complications down the line, or that your voice will sound exactly the same- it’s too early to judge, but you have a good chance of recovering from this completely."

She talks fast. That, or Tim has a hard time following, but the pain meds make him feel floaty and nice so he's not too stressed about it.

"It's by some miracle that your arteries were not damaged," She says. "Brain damage is nasty. It is still a possibility. But you tested fine. We'll tell your next care providerto see if anything comes up in the future."

Tim should be freaking out, probably, but the drugs make it easier. Instead, he just nods.

"Now, I'd like to spend more time with you, but I have other patients," She says. "It's crowded. But I'll do my best to be back.x She clears her throat.

"The nurses will run some more tests, and then a police officer should be coming by. They have said that all your family is cleared of suspicion," she sounds doubtful, "And they can come to see you before they take your statement," She gives him a look. "I can send a nurse to tell your family that you can take visitors now, if you'd like, but I also don't have to, do you understand? Technically, as a minor, you don't have a choice, but I like to give people the option to delay visits until after interrogation... Especially in cases like yours."

Tim shrugs. He writes on the paper, 'Send them in.'

She purses her lips, but nods.

"Remember," She says as she steps out. "Complete vocal rest for now. No talking, whispering, or even clearing your throat if you can help it. The nurse should be bringing lunch in a couple of hours. I promise it'll only be a liquid diet for a few days. If you rest, you'll heal."

Tim lays his head against his pillow. The door shuts, and Tim hears the sound of her receding footsteps. They are quickly lost in the loud noise of the room around him.

Vocal rest for a week or two, she said. Then, he'd be looking at carefully limited speech for weeks to months afterward, depending on how his healing progressed. It was possible he'd never get his voice back in the same capacity- even as she held out hope for his recovery.

Bruce, Tim guesses, has somehow managed to get himself written in as family. Tim guesses it's okay, he does want to see Bruce right now, and he is the one who could give Tim the most thorough update on the outside world. The doctor told him he'd been out for almost a week, and he's itching to know about the Azrael-Batman... situation.

He also wants to see other people besides Bruce, though. Ariana, Ives, Philmont, fuck, his dad.

He really wants to see his dad. The thought bring tears to his eyes- even as the drugs make them feel strangely sluggish.

The door is constantly opening and closing, and Tim watches, anxious, but also not, because of the drugs, as people run in and out. It's because he's watching the quick stream of activity, people constantly moving, that he's confused when the door clicks open and no one immediately walks through.

A woman's back pushes the door open. Something follows her. Two large wheels roll through the doorway.

Jack gets turned around to face Tim once he's completely inside.

"Out," Jack growls at the woman who wheeled him in, though his eyes don't leave Tim. "I can do it by my Goddamn self."

The woman nods, not reacting to the treatment. "I'll see you later, Mr. Drake," She says, politely. She shuts the door behind her, looking mildly annoyed.

Wordlessly, Jack rolls himself over to the bed. Tim watches, numbly, as his dad struggles to navigate the tight space between Tim's bed and the one pulled in next to it. The patient on that cot, for his part, doesn't say anything when Jack accidentally jostles him, just gives him a brief glance. His father's knees bump against Tim's cot. Tim is actually sort of grateful for it, when it makes the bed shake a little, because he knows it's real, and then, suddenly, yhe rest of the world feels fake. For a moment, it is just the two of them.

"Tim," Jack says, clearing his throat. His eyes are shiny, even for the bright light of the hospital."I missed you."

Tim signs back to reply, happy to abandon the notepad. "missed you too. Did not know you were back."

"Good thing Janet made sure you took all those language courses, huh?" Jack asks. "She was one smart chick."

"Where have you been?" Tim asks.

"Got in last night from a hospital, out of state, something owned by those… Capes. The league, or whatever they're calling themselves now," Jack says, with an awkward shrug. "And now I'm back in another hospital. Tim, you wouldn't believe how insane my life has been- or maybe," Jack frowns and looks him over. "You might."

"Are you hurt?" Tim asks.

Jack's eyebrows furrow. He sighs. "You're asking me?" Jack asks, incredulous. Tim shrugs. "God, Tim, I'm so-" Jack takes a long, shaky breath. After a long moment, Tim can hear the clock on the wall clicking in the time it takes for Jack to speak again. "I'm glad you're okay."

Tim smiles weakly at him.

"Glad you are okay also," Tim signs.

"They weren't after me," Jack scowls. "They were after my damn PT of all things, Dr. Kingsolving. I was just in the wrong place. But," Jack buffs, and, uncharacteristically, he stops himself from going on a rant. "I'll tell you about that later."

All of a sudden, Jack looks at Tim with newly intense eyes. "The police are going to find these bastards, whatever gang did this to you," He says, suddenly, and he reaches out to seize Tim's hand. "And I'm going to make sure they suffer."

Tim stares at the place where Jack's hand grasps his own. The hold of it is so tight, that it is almost painful but it does not hurt.

Tim looks at Jack purposefully and shakes his head. Jack makes a confused face and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get the words out, Tim starts to ease his way up from his pillows. Tim slowly, awkwardly, reaches forward towards his dad, and it's only when Tim is halfway there that Jack seems to understand Tim's intentions, and he moves forward to meet him.

Tim doesn't know if they've ever hugged before. Isn't that pathetic? Isn't it pathetic that this is quite possibly their first hug? Tim decides he doesn't care.

It's an awkward thing, with Jack stuck leaning out from his wheelchair, and Tim's legs still tucked in the tight sheets on his bed. Tim doesn't care about that either. He just cares about the fact that, right now, his dad is alive, and here, and Tim can feel him beneath his fingers. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Jack suddenly hugs him with such ferocity that Tim thinks the man might be dying.

"I'm sorry, Tim," Jack says.

Tim shakes his head against his dad's shoulder.

"I'm going to be a better father," Jack says, desperately. It's so unlike him to sound vulnerable. "I'm going to be there for you, Tim. This isn't going to happen again. I know I’ve promised it before- and I let this happen, but this time I mean it."

Tim isn't allowed to make noise, so when the tears spring up at the corner of his eyes Tim lets them fall silently. They soak into his dad's shirt. Tim resists a sniffle as he buries his face into his dad's shoulder.

They don't hug for too long, and neither of them are capable of such a thing. Especially Jack, who ends up being the one to push Tim away, clearing his throat. Tim eases back into his pillows, weirdly enjoying the kinda scratchy feel of the covers against his back and neck.

"I thought a lot about you while I was away," Jack says, mouth in a serious line. "And I'm not going to fail you anymore."

-

The story: Sad teenager, missing father, a city in crisis, the wrong place downtown. His attackers, whoever they were, drove him out of the city and attempted to dump the body in the woods by the graveyard, without realizing Tim was still alive.

Dick had kept the details sparse besides the phone call Tim made, which the police would've been able to find, so Tim is free to fill in the blanks- or not fill them in, as appropriate. But Tim figures this out on his own- Dick doesn't visit him.

Lying without a voice is easy. It helps that the officers have probably dealt with five other Tims this morning. The doctor from before wasn't lying when she said they were overworked.

The officers seem frazzled and unkept when they arrive. Throughout the interview they are distracted. This means they either don't care about Tim, they're bad at their job, or too overworked to be good at it.

They don't mention a thing about sexual assault.

The hospital gives him a care packet when he is released, only three days after he wakes up, even if his dad insists that they have the money and insurance for him to stay longer. Tim is the ones who asks to go, because while he'll miss the painkillers. The hospital makes him feel like a sitting duck, and a clueless, unprepared one. Useless.

The care packet looks thick enough to be a novel. Tim reads it on the long, mostly silent ride home.

"Did you see how crowded it was in there?" Jack asks, eventually. Tim looks up from his papers. This is probably the first thing Jack has said to him since this morning.

Tim nods.

"I heard that it was Batman, of all things."

"Batman?" Tim asks. For a moment he wonders if it's more appropriate to spell the word out or make the separate signs for bat and man. He settles on the latter. He doesn't like how much adapting he has to do just to speak now. It makes it take much longer.

Jack nods. "Yeah, I mean I knew he was crazy, you have to be to dress like that, but, damn… to plunge the city into this kind of mess..."

Tim thinks reading is easier than thinking so he goes back to it. He doesn't know what's going on in the world and it's stressing him out but there's nothing he can do about it right now. He never got his phone back- and figured out at some point that it's because he left it in Dick's hotel room. He still hasn't talked to Bruce, and there's been no news in his room- even though he asked for a paper. When he'd asked, Jack had just raised an eyebrow and said: "What the hell do you want to read the newspaper for?" because he was trying but wasn't that good at being unconditionally kind yet.

Jack instructs the driver to wheel him in, but Tim steps forward and waves the man off.

"Tim," Jack says, gruffly. "You're injured."

"Not arms," Tim signs.

"I can make it up myself, I didn't mean-" Jack sighs. "Fine. Let's just go in "

Tim rolls his dad to the ramp they'd installed a few months ago, turns, and pulls him up to the door. Once inside, his dad waves Tim off and grabs hold of his wheels himself.

"I've got things to do today," Jack says, rolling himself farther into the house. "Unfortunately. I'm sure you know Janet used to handle much of the business, so it's a mess because she's been gone and I haven't... Stepped up. I've got PT after that, some new woman, Dr. Winters. Kingsolvong-"

Jack pauses for a moment on the name. His physical therapist- another story Tim has not been told.

He clears his throat.

"Well, my old PT's office recommended her."

Tim nods. "Need me to drive?'

"No, no," Jack says, "I'm handling it. The new driver is here because the old one wouldn't take more hours."

Tim bites his lip. It's… a good feeling, he decides, that he feels right now. Because his dad is trying. His dad hasn't tried in months.

"I should be back by six," Jack says. "I have someone scheduled to come around with groceries later, but I'll be home by then so don't worry," Jack clears his throat and looks away like he's embarrassed. "I told them what the doctors told me to get you from the store- but if you need anything…"

Tim figures out what the niggling wrong is. Jack Drake does not know how to show affection.

Tim just nods, because what matters is that Jack is trying. Trying matters. Asking Tim what he wants matters. It matters.

"Frozen fruit" he signs. "and spinach for juice."

"Fruit and… do that second word again. Frozen fruit and…"

Tim ends up spelling it out with deliberate slowness. Jack nods, awkward again. "I'll tell her."

"I'll write anything else I need after the groceries come," Tim signs, "thank you, Dad."

Jack nods. He doesn't quite smile.

Tim walks to the foot of the stairs and stops. He turns around to his dad.

"Yes?" Jack asks.

Tim breathes through his nose. Forming the sentence would be hard enough with a full vocabulary and working vocal cords. As it is, Tim does not like to let things like.

Tim signs, "You can try. You do not have to change."

Jack processes his words for a moment, and then solemnly shakes his head.

"No, Tim, that's not true," Jack says. "Things need to change. And things will change. I can't be the same man and be a good father."

Tim clicks his tongue.

Tim just heads upstairs because he doesn't have a response to that. Not one that would warrant the effort of sign language at least. Having to translate everything into ASL has made him think a lot more about the necessity of words. He’s never been that talkative, and this just makes it that much easier to fall into quiet.

Tim opens his room to find it in disarray. (The slip of paper slipped between his door and the frame was still there, though, which isn't necessarily a sure sign that no one has come in, but a good one. And when he checks his computer, it doesn't report any abnormal activity.)

Tim is concerned by the state of his room until he remembers the week he had moped around following Abattoir's death- which, right, is something he needs to tell Bruce about. The death, not his pity party. Tim would've told him earlier, but Bruce hadn't visited him, so it's not like Tim has had a chance.

Well, if Bruce is in town.

As his first order of business, Tim showers. He showers for over an hour, and by the time he's out, Jack has left. Tim is both relieved and anxious because of his absence. His dad has spent the majority of the last three days hanging around the hospital, and while Tim enjoys the company his dad is not particularly good at giving it.

Jack's personality changes are for the better, but they're still very much in a transitory phase. The man is awkward in a way Tim doesn't quite understand how to deal with yet.

When Tim is finished in the shower he pulls on a pair of fresh boxers, a sweater big enough to drown in, and, while it's not enough to wash off the feel of Azrael, it helps.

Second order of business, Tim checks all the locks in his house, finds none of them moved and all still intact.

Third, he picks up his room. It's not hard, and it's a distraction, but one that at least makes him feel useful. The work mostly consists of throwing away food wrappers. He gathers the several cups he'd used for water into one stack and takes it to the kitchen, washes them by hand, and then then he strips his bed free of the grimy sheets that smell like sweat. He goes to the closet to get himself a fresh, white set, and when he opens the door he finds some new additions.

On one hanger is the groundskeeper's sweater and coat hung up together. Dick's clothes are also there, hung up. It does not surprise him in the slightest that Bruce bypassed his security, though it makes him angry for some reason, and it also makes him much less confident in his conclusion that Azrael hadn't gotten in.

Tim frowns, and checks the pockets of the jacket, because Bruce is predictable, and he does, as he'd predicted, find his phone there.

He clicks it on, it's fully charged. The sound of a text chimes within five minutes.

Tim checks online first. He types in Batman to the search the bar, sees the first headline, and the accompanying picture of Azrael-Batman (Azbat, maybe? Tim needs something new to categorize him as,) beating on Anarky and promptly closes it all. He goes to his texts instead. There's a lot from Ariana, a lot, and his friends. Tim eyes them guiltily and ignores them in favor of his newest message from Dick Grayson.

Dick: How are you feeling?

Dick: B totally hacked the hospital records so I know it's bad, but still

Dick: Worried about you,

Dick: Sorry it was the hospital and not Leslie. You were there for a bit when you were near fatal. Had to transfer you cause she was overworked.

Tim can't laugh derisively because it will pull open his injury, so he just stares blankly at the screen. Eventually, after a long moment of inaction, the sheer impossibility of answering a question like that leaving Tim in too much shock to say anything, he texts back.

Tim: Well. I can't complain.'

Literally.

Dick: Right

A second message follows a moment later.

Dick: Wanted to visit, but they said only family could come in :(. Want to see you!'

Tim wishes he had a good sense of humor, but he doesn't. He can't laugh at the fact that Dick is asking him to do something he's not even physically capable of doing. Well, not that he's allowed to laugh, either.

Tim: When?

Dick: Today? I can pick you up. Don't have a car, but I'll steal B's. Lunch, maybe? Some non-hospital food for u?

Tim would like to eat something that isn't soup, and isn't served to him on a grey plastic tray.

Tim: The food has to be soft.

Dick: Can do.

Tim supposes he'll have to put a pair of pants on if he's going outside, and something to hide his neck. Suddenly, the energy that had gotten him to clean his room seems to have vanished.

But, as he pulls the jeans from the drawer, he stops. He checks Dick's sweatpants that are hung up on his closet and he finds a note, folded twice. In blue pen, it reads: You said they were comfortable. You can have them, if you want.

And Tim doesn't cry. He puts the note on his desk, breathes shaky for a little bit, but doesn't cry.

A part of him is so sure the doctor had said she cleared all visitors to see him, not just family. But maybe he'd made that up, he'd been in and out of it on pain meds for days now.

He decides he won't mention it. Words are too precious to waste.

-

Dick fusses. He's fussy in the way a mom is, (or is supposed to be, Tim thinks, Janet wasn't ever like this.) Dick gets out of the car, checks that Tim is sturdy enough to handle being touched, and then hugs him. Dick is just a touchy person, Tim supposes, like Ariana is and like Tim is… slowly figuring out that he is, too. He'd never been hugged much, as a kid, and Tim decides that he likes it.

Dick isn't babbling when he gets out of the car, because he's a little too composed to babble, but he is fretting. He's telling Tim that he's too skinny, that the hospital has not been feeding him enough, and he's brushing Tim's hair free of his face, to see it- that his black eye looks better. It's sweet, really.

"Milkshakes," Dick declares. "You look like you need a milkshake. You can have milkshakes, right?"

"With spoon," Tim signs.

"Right, straws are bad," Dick says. "Same thing when I got my wisdom teeth out. Maybe just ice cream is better? Or frozen yogurt?"

Tim shrugs, and Dick stays quiet. When he realizes Dick is waiting for an answer, Tim hurriedly responds with "either."

Dick doesn't frown, just slowly nods. "Ice cream?" He asks.

"Yes," Tim signs, unsure of why Dick needs his clarification.

"I know a good place," Dick says, heading back towards the car. "And I'd tell Bruce to come, but-" Tim's eyebrows furrow in concern and alarm. And Dick rushes to reassure him. "No, he's fine, he's just… he's busy right now, and you're not in any shape to go see him," Dick shoots a glance left and right, "I'll tell you in the car."

-

Shondra Kingsolving, Jack Drake's physical therapist, was not the reason Jack Drake was kidnapped. At least, not initially.

(Large dark eyes look up at him, and Shondra had always looked very sure and confident the few times Tim had talked to her. She does not look like that now.

"W-" the sounds stall in her mouth, then she looks confused z and then she looks away, whatever she was going to say forgotten.

Dick places a hand on Tim's shoulder.

"I want to go," Tim signs. Desperate.)

She does, however, provide a convenient excuse for the league to give as explanation for being targeted by Bane, in lieu of having to reveal Tim's identity as Robin. It is easy to blame a woman, who no longer has the capacity to deny anything. She is mysterious and scary enough to leave his dad with perfectly sated curiosity, because she has superpowers, because he didn't want to think about. The excuse was just enough to not want to know more.

Because that's what they tell his dad- it's her fault. And they don't tell him that she survived.

He vaguely remembers her words from before- what had she said? She knew what it was like to be a caretaker. That she saw herself in him. To take care-

Tim will try to remember. He can not guarantee perfection in that undertaking, but he will try.

Maybe Dick is trying to remember too. Maybe that's why Dick tells him about her before he tells him about Bruce.

They eat their milkshakes without getting out of the car. Tim mostly picks at his, and he feels bad for wasting it, but can't bring himself to finish it. Dick does it for him, but Tim thinks it's just to be polite, not because he wants it.

Time feels weird. Dick tries to make a joke about how Bruce never let him eat in the car before and it doesn't land.

Then Dick tells him the rest:

Bruce had recuperated from his injuries some. Gotten better in that he was not in a wheelchair or hobbling with a cane. Then, Shondra Kingsolving killed- well, didn't kill herself, but gave away everything that made her alive do that he could walk- but that was still not good enough.

Bruce lost.

When Tim's ice cream is thoroughly pushed with the back of his spoon, Tim folds up his used napkin, creasing with his thumbs as he goes, until it is a small, very compact square. He packs the napkin in the cup, his spoon follows after, and he's done.

Dick keeps talking, and Tim can't hear him.

(Tim takes one last look at Kingsolving, and thinks about his own hospital bed.

And how it could've been him. How they'd checked him for brain damage at the hospital, has asked him to come back later for more tests, just in case.

Brain damage. Brain damage. Tim thinks that if he lost that level of autonomy, was reduced to what Kingsolving was, he would kill himself. If he could kill himself. If, in the hypothetical scenario where he had incurred such a thing, he still knew what suicide was and the ability to carry it out.

He thinks not knowing how to kill himself would be scary.

She blinks at him once more without seeing him, and Tim can't get away from the room fast enough. He moves so rapidly away, seeking a place that is anywhere else, that Dick is surprised, and calls after him in concern.

It is selfish to think it. There is a woman in a hospital bed, who is hurt. But he can't stop thinking it.

It could've been him.)

And Bruce fought Azrael and Bruce lost.

-

Tim finishes writing everything down in just under two hours. It's a lot to write, but he has always been good at typing fast, and constantly filling out reports as Robin has made this kind of writing second nature. He excludes the unnecessary bits.

His report is as thorough and clear as he can make it. He sucks to what he believes are objective facts, he avoids conjecture.

His hands are not shaking, haven't shaken at all, which he is almost surprised by. When he was a kid his mother had tried to beat that quirk out of him by way of a ruler to the back of his hand, or a swift, discreet flick when they were in public. Tim was a nervous, awkward, and quiet kid, and his hands shook, and his mother didn't like it.

Dick kept himself busy while Tim was working. Tim had heard him puttering around in the safe house behind him. The sounds of Dick moving throughout the space are constant, and random in nature. Some frustrated keyboard typing- clattering of pans- pacing footsteps- doors opening and closing. It doesn't make Tim flinch. It doesn't.

Today, more than any other, has shown Tim that Dick really… isn't that old. It's a strange thought because Dick is certainly an adult, more than Tim is in any capacity, because Tim is kinda fifteen, compared to Dick's almost twenty-three, and while Dick is a very capable and mature adult, he's a young adult. Tim knows Dick has been hurting throughout all of this, but he'd never seemed confused before.

Dick seems confused now.

In the car, Dick had seemed confused. Concerned. Still, he had laid a firm hand on his shoulder, when Tim went unresponsive, held it there, pulled him through that feeling of emptiness. It's a lot like the hand that lands on his shoulder now.

Right, because that's also Dick's hand.

"You're done?" Dick asks from behind him.

Tim nods without looking. Dick asks Tim to upload it to a flash drive, and there's a USB dropped into Tim's palm a moment later. Tim does that.

Dick rounds the couch and gathers the laptop and USB at the same time he presses a mug into Tim's hands.

"It's tension tamer tea, and there's a lot of tension to be tamed right now, I think," Dick explains as he checks over the laptop. "My mom used to make something like it for me when I was upset, but I couldn't find any linden tea here. Not anything exactly the same. This was the next best thing."

Tim lifts the mug and scrutinizes the tea. It's a soft golden brown, almost yellow, and it smells flowery. Tim has never been much of a tea drinker, though he drank it without any complaint, and would make himself some when they had tea in the house, but he thinks it smells nice.

Dick disappears for a second, and Tim hesitantly blows the steam away and then takes his first sip. It's not coffee good, but tea isn't coffee, it is a different kind of drink.

Dick's socked feet pad silently back, and the older man flops on the couch beside him. Somehow managing not to spill both their mugs.

"I remember finding it a couple of years ago," Dick starts. "With Bruce, I never had to go grocery shopping, and then when I went to college I was suddenly on my own and I remember going to the store and I just- I had no idea what I was doing," Dick laughs. "Alfred had taught me how to cook, but not how to shop, and I was so overwhelmed being by myself. I couldn't ask anyone for help. I mean, going home wasn't an option, and I wasn't really talking to anyone, you know? I was still mad at Bruce for firing me, and Babs was mad at me for just moving all of a sudden without talking to her about it at all- and I had the Titans but they're all worse at regular life stuff than I am- Kori' still treats the grocery store like it's a museum. So when I went I had no idea what to do, and no one to ask… then I saw the box for this stuff and remembered my mom making tea for me, all of a sudden. And I couldn't believe I'd forgotten at all.."

Tim takes another sip. He decides it's good.

"She was a good mom," Dick says, fondly. "I really couldn't believe I had forgotten all the times she'd had me drink this. When I was sad, or when I was angry, or I couldn't sleep."

"She sounds nice," Tim signs, briefly setting the tea down to make the motions and then picking it back up. He's not sure what else to say. This is a new level of casual comfort Dick is sharing with him, and while Tim does not find it bothersome or unnatural, he's not sure what the appropriate reactions are.

Dick doesn't seem to mind Tim's response, though. Tim counts that as a win.

"She was," Dick says, his fingers curling tighter around the handle of his mug. "Tim, I'm sorry you've been left to flail and try to get through this all on your own. Do you remember what you told me at the graveyard? I know you were a little out of it."

Tim shakes his head.

"You said this happened because you're stupid. Tim this…" Dick sucks in a breath. "This isn't your fault. And you getting hurt was not because you were dumb, it was because he tried to kill you.”

“He is a bad Batman," Tim signs.

Dick nods solemnly. “Yeah, he is, but he won’t be Batman for too much longer, okay? Bruce and I are going to fix this."

Tim wants to believe him, but for some reason, Dick's words do not feel like comfort. They should, everything about this moment should be comforting actually. Throughout it all, Dick has been kind, generous, and comforting. He and Tim have grown to be close in a way they weren't a couple of months ago. Yet, Tim does not feel confirmed or hopeful like he has before.

Bruce lost.

Then, of all people, Bruce chose Shiva to train him back into shape to fight Azrael.

Tim can't help but wonder if Bruce intends to kill the man. It's not that Tim wants Azrael alive, but Tim doesn't want Bruce to kill him. Tim has spent months keeping Bruce from stepping over that line, and now the man is training with Lady Shiva. Shiva likes killing people, Tim knows that.

Tim still remembers the crunch of the assassin's neck when Shiva twisted it on the train. The sound of Edmund Dorrance's face as he fell-

When Tim had tried so hard to keep the man from falling-

The abrupt moment when Abattoir's scream was silenced.

His life has an alarming pattern emerging. Tim does not cause death, but he can not seem to stop it, and it feels like just as terrible a burden. The ninja on the train, King Snake, Rawlins, Abattoir, and the overcrowded hospital he'd spent the last few days in. All these things Tim could not stop-

Tim takes another sip of tea. It is alright. Tim wishes he could appreciate it more, and he does appreciate it- all of it, but appreciation of the effort doesn't mean it's enough.

"Not me?" Tim asks.

Dick sucks in a breath. "Well, you're not Robin right now, Tim."

Tim's tea is set down with a clatter, his hands are halfway to asking a panicked ‘what?’ when he's interrupted by the sound of the multiple locks on the front door clicking open.

The door opens quietly. One would think a man who grew up in a house that was so silent would not mind making noise, but he became the opposite- scared to breach the calm of quiet..

Tim's hands settle in his lap and ball into fists. Bruce's coat lands on the rack in the hall as he walks in. Bruce does not, however, take off his shoes, which was something he always did before going into the manor. Alfred made all of them do it, and if they were coming through the bat cave they were always told to pick up and carry their shoes to their rightful place by the front door. Unless they were hurt, then Alfred would take them himself.

"Tim," Bruce says, fondly, and why Tim is so angry at the sound of the man's voice he's not sure. Tim should feel relieved, having been waiting for the relief of Bruce's presence for weeks.

Tim's eyes are fixed on the rapidly cooling tea in front of him. He had set it down on the coffee table. It is maple, with a glass pane over the top. No rings on the wood, no smudges on the glass. This whole safehouse is like that, an imitation of a lived-in space- but upon examination, clearly unused. Tim's never lived anywhere that looks like anything else. His family's old apartment has looked like this, the house with his dad looks like this, and so does his barren room in Wayne Manor. Tim only knows what homey feels like from the impressions of it in movies and books and visits to friends' places. He misses Ariana, wants to be in her room, with her.

"You should've told me you were coming back," Dick says, frowning. Tim suddenly finds Dick close, when the man turns around and leans across the back of the couch, he's close enough to Tim that he must be blocking some of Bruce's view of him. Tim realizes that Dick is in fact trying to do that- block Bruce's view. It's almost protective

Bruce's shoes tap against the floor at an even pace. Tim suddenly thinks: of course, Bruce is up and walking, and Jack Drake is at his physical therapy appointment, having to start from zero for a second time.

This isn't fair logic, and Tim knows it, but he's still angry somehow. He feels volatile.

Tim stands and turns. Tim asks, "Am I fired?"

Bruce stops. The slightest hint of a smile (or, the absence of negative emotion on his face,) falls away immediately upon Tim's question. Bruce's brows furrow. A moment later he carefully, slowly says, "No."

Dick makes a weird face. "Tim," Dick asks, sounding bewildered, "What? Why would you ask that?"

"You" Tim points his finger at Dick. "Said I am not Robin."

"You're just benched temporarily,” Dick says. “We talked about that in the car. I- Tim, why would we fire you?"

"He would" Tim points a Bruce, then looks at Dick. "He fired you"

Dick scowls, but Tim knows the expression isn't for him. "Yeah and I wouldn't let him do that to you, Tim. This is," Dick's glare tightens on Bruce. Tim feels a little guilty, but also very upset and confused. "His fault, not yours."

"I do not need to be in timeout," Tim signs. It's not exactly how he wants to say it, but he doesn't have the vocabulary in ASL yet, and he's relearning it as he goes. He wants to say that he doesn't want to be benched, but he can't think of the word bench, and he's not sure how he'd turn it into a verb either. He doesn't like feeling as limited as he is. "I can help."

"No, Tim," Bruce says. His forehead gains another crease, and his tone doesn't leave room for an argument, he's being awfully expressive today. "It's not timeout, Robin is being put on hold because you got hurt."

Tim now jabs a finger at Bruce. "You need help."

"Tim," Bruce says, seemingly at a loss. "This is non-negotiable. I have help," He gestures toward Dick. "And you've already gotten hurt because of me, it won't be happening again."

"I am being fired."

"You're not being fired," Dick reassures him.

"For the near future, you're being benched, that is all," Bruce says, firmly. The Batman tone would normally make Tim cower, but not tonight."That is final."

Tim scowls.

"Tim," Dick says. "Hey, I know it sucks-"

Tim shoots Dick a glare, getting the man to back off. Tim immediately feels bad, and he signs off a quick apology.

"You feel guilty," Tim signs, desperately. His hand wavers over his chest on the world guilty. "I feel guilty too. I can't do nothing. He killed a man. I was there."

Bruce raises a hand in a clear motion to stop. And Tim, damn it, he still listens.

"This is not your fault, Tim. This is my burden to carry and you are not going to help me while you're recuperating from yourl injuries," Bruce sighs. Tim drops his hands, he is desperate, but he is realistic, too. This is a futile argument.

"Still," Bruce tacks on, sounding troubled. "Why didn't you tell me something was wrong? I left you here to handle things, I thought you would at least say something."

Tim freezes.

Dick is on his feet in a second, crowding Tim behind him. "You don't get to ask him that," Dick says, all at once furious. "You just said this was your fault and you were right. Tim tried to tell all of us, Alfred said Tim explicitly-"

"He didn't say anything," Bruce says, calmly.

Whether he means Tim or Alfred is unclear and Tim guesses it doesn't really matter. Either way, the information never got to Bruce, and no matter what Dick said, Tim had gone and made sure of it.

Dick would be hissing if he was a cat.

“He’s a kid," Dick growls.

“You would’ve said something,” Bruce says.

Bruce’s words wrap around Tim's heart and squeeze.

He’s right, Tim thinks, Dick would never have let it get so bad.

Maybe Tim deserves to be fired.

He just doesn't want to be.

"Jesus Christ," Dick says. "You put a piece of shit in charge of Gotham- didn't even think to ask anyone else about taking on the mantle of Batman, foisted everything onto Tim, and now you're asking him, the kid who has been working with this psycho for months, why he didn't tell you something was wrong? He's a kid, Bruce."

Bruce grunts. "Is this about not asking you to be Batman, Dick?"

Dick's eyes flash dangerously, and he sucks in a sharp breath after the question. Bruce doesn't even seem to notice there's something wrong with it. He doesn't seem to ask it as a jab, or a deflection, and maybe that's worse.

“A little bit, Bruce," Dick admits, angrily. "You didn't even try to ask- did you even think about me as an option? Probably not. You couldn't possibly ask me, so you picked up some random murderer off the street because apparently anything would be better than me. And- and then, you didn't even tell me you almost died, and someone was taking your place, you just didn't show up at my wedding. Which you still haven't asked about, by the way, it went horribly. And then, Bruce, then, you almost killed another kid. And maybe that does start with the fact that you didn’t even come to me at all- didn’t think about me- when I could’ve helped you."

Bruce, for his part, at least looks guilty. The final sentence in particular makes a pang of angry, horrified guilt cross his features.

"You didn't let me help you fight him, either," Dick tacks on.

"No," Bruce says. "Because it's my-"

"Burden" Dick growls, finishing his sentence. "I got it when you said that before."

"You're too emotional to fight him one on one, Dick," Bruce says. "You'd get yourself hurt."

"Too emotional?" Dick asks, voice rising. "Bruce, I'm not your sidekick anymore- you're not scared of me getting hurt, you're scared I'll kill him and I-'

Tim taps Dick's arm, and the man immediately calms down. He turns to look at Tim.

"Stop," Tim signs with his open palm, much like Bruce had moments ago. "I want to be Robin."

“Tim-” Dick and Bruce say in tandem.

“Please,” Tim emphasizes with what finality he can muster.

Even if he's upset with Bruce right now. Even if he's hurt. Even if he's irrevocably changed and different now, he wants to still be Robin. He doesn't need Bruce thinking too hard about Jason Todd and getting rid of him. Batman needs Robin. Tim is Robin. Tim needs Batman and Robin to survive all of this. Tim wants a chance at his own redemption too.

Dick's responding frown is such a haunting expression that Tim thinks he might not ever forget it. It's so deeply upset that Tim almost apologized for his words.

Bruce doesn't look any better.

"Tim," Bruce says. His mouth is a thin, unhappy line, and his eyes look pained. "I am sorry that I chose Jean-Paul. I was wrong, you've shouldered that."

Dick sighs. He looks to Bruce, then back at Tim.

"You should be sorry for more than that," Dick says, not looking at his dad. "Let's just go, Tim. It's late now, and you need to go home. I’ll drive."

Bruce grunts in acknowledgment of Dick's words, and his large, now slightly slumping form lumbers away from the entrance to let them through. Dick leads Tim away without looking back.

Tim looks back. Bruce makes eye contact only for a second.

-

The car shifts into park, and Dick's fingers drum along the steering wheel.

Tim looks at his house from the road then back to Dick longingly. Dick sighs at the sight of him making Tim feel very small and sad. He wonders if he looks as pathetic as he feels. Probably, with the whole neck situation. At least he's not a dog so they can't give him a funnel collar.

"I'm not a very good brother, am I?" Dick asks. When Tim's eyes widen, Dick continues, "Sorry that's- Sorry. I just feel terrible."

"You are not my brother," Tim signs. "and you are not terrible."

"Basically your brother," Dick says. "Or I should be, I'm not around too much, I know."

"It's O-K."

"No it's not," Dick says with sudden intensity, "None of this is okay."

When Tim doesn't respond, Dick seems to realize how loud he just was. Dick apologizes quickly, tone immediately softer.

"I don't want to make you sit out," Dick says. "I know how frustrating it is to be benched, trust me, I know, I still hold some grudges about timeouts I got as Robin. But I'm also the adult now, which means I realize some of them were necessary. I just don't want you to be hurt more. I already caused enough damage. I should've seen that he was pushing you to patrol so much, that he was unstable, I just-"

Dick takes a deep breath.

"I fucked up once," Dick says, his voice weighty. "I never bonded with Jason or took care of him like I should've, I wasn't even here when he died, I didn't really know anything about him until I was looking at him while he was lying inside his coffin. Tim…. I- I don't want to do that to you. I don't want to get to know you after you're already gone. I know that Bruce can be a lot, and I'm still mad at him too, trust me, I've basically been mad at him since I was nine, but he- we have your best interests at heart. You should let us handle it."

Tim stares.

"I went after him, you know?" Dick asks. Tim shakes his head, eyes widening with the information. "I tried to. Bruce lost, and I didn't want to sit around so I was ready to do it myself, but Bruce stopped me. Locked down the safehouse and wouldn't give me the code to get out and we yelled for hours. It- it made me mad for a good while, until I realized that I really… I might've killed Azrael if I'd gotten the chance. It's not the same, because you're alive and that matters so, so much, but I understood more of how Bruce felt when Jason- and I think of how I failed him- that I was angry then, but I wasn't that angry, and, suddenly, it's like I'm hurt for both of you, now, like everything from Jason has finally hit- and I won't fail you like i did him."

Tim slightly leans over the middle compartment between them and lays a hand on Dick's arm. Dick grasps it.

"And it was good for me, even if I wish I'd killed him," Dick says honestly, sounding guilty. "And the Joker. My emotions can… get the best of me, so I need to just pull back sometimes."

Tim nods. He feels Dick's grief in his words, it feels palpable, something dark and viscous.

Dick squeezes his hand. "My advice is to wait this one out. Let me and Bruce handle it. You can just take care of yourself and heal in the meantime. I mean, I want you to just take care of yourself for a while. I know it's hard to sit back and do nothing-" Tim shrugs. "Well, it was always hard for me."

Dick lets his hand go after another, more final squeeze. The pulse of his broad palm against Tim's should be calming but It isn't.

"I just don't want you to do anything you regret," Dick says.

"O-K," Tim signs. He doesn't know if he means it.

Dick sighs, sounding relieved.

"Thank you, Robin," Dick says, his hand lands on Tim's shoulder and squeezes.

The gesture reminds Tim of Bruce.

-

Feeling disappointed, empty, and another emotion that he can't quite place, Tim watches Dick drive off down the road.

When Tim steps through his front door, his dad is already there.

It is an eerily similar scene to the last time Tim fought with him, and Tim feels his heart skip a beat at the sight. It skips another at the look on his dad's face.

"Haven't you learned your lesson?" Jack asks.

Tim blinks, the door hasn't even shut behind him.

"Tim, I asked you a question," Jack says, his tone dangerous, and upset, but not loud, yet. "Haven't you learned your lesson? Aren't you smart, boy?"

Tim stands on the edge of the hall with wide eyes.

"Tim!" Jack barks. "Stop staring at me like you're stupid because you're not. Where the hell have you been?"

Tim brings his hands up, feeling numb. "To see my friends," he signs.

"Friends?" Jack asks, almost sarcastically "Really? What friends?"

"Ariana," Tim lies.

"Oh, that girl. That fucking girl. Well did you ask me if you could go out and see her?" Jack snarls. When Tim shakes his head, Jack continues before Tim can do anything else. "Don't you think you should ask me if you can go out?"

Tim narrows his eyes.

He realizes suddenly that the third emotion inside of him is anger.

Tim doesn't know if the anger started as a reaction to the fear, but if it had, it doesn't matter. He's scared too, scared of his father's temper, Bruce's disappointment, Azrael breaking into his house and killing him. Dick's guilt is buried inside of him too.

The anger has grown into a separate beast, and now the two feelings are at war inside of him. Fury and fear.

"I've never asked before," Tim signs.

"You've never almost died before," Jack says. "You've never been a fucking mute before. You're one day home and you're already messing around with 'friends'," Jack shakes his head.

Tim slowly closes the door behind him. Jack doesn't stop talking- no, his dad is mostly yelling now. This isn't a conversation.

"It was your own stupid decisions that got you into this mess, Tim!" Jack yells. "And you're already back to running out the moment you get home. I was trying so hard to just move on. But if nice cop doesn't work, you're going to see how mean I can be "

Anger is winning the fight inside of him.

"What are you talking about?" Tim asks.

"Oh, so you think I'm a fucking idiot, Tim?" Jack asks in return.

Tim shakes his head.

"Then why are you always lying to me?" He asks. "Because it looks like you think I'm an idiot to walk all over."

"She was worried," is what Tim tries to sign. His father doesn't even look. " have not seen anyone in days."

"You haven't even been back a day" His father says, voice low. "Is it that you have a death wish, Tim? Are you suicidal?"

Tim almost tries to yell in response before he remembers that he can't. His voice itches at his throat to be let out, and it stays trapped inside. Tim hangs his head low and tries to keep it from escaping.

His father waits for a response that doesn't come.

A long, long moment stretches out between them.

Eventually, Jack sighs. "Don't think for a minute I'm fooled by your story, Tim," He says. Tim looks up at him in alarm. "I'm not a goddamn idiot- I'm not the idiot you take me for. I haven't forgotten that you were already being beat to shit before I left. I called Ariana's parents-" Tim doesn't correct him, that he'd parents are dead- "And that was a Wayne car."

Tim shrugs. He lifts his head, glowering. He lifts his hands-

"I don't want to hear it!" Jack cuts him off. "See it, hear it, whatever. You can look at me like that all you want. I don't care if you hate me right now, Tim. I'm putting my foot down on whatever this is. From now on, things are different. You're going to tell me when you're leaving the house. You're going to tell me where, you're going to tell me who you're with, and how long you plan to be gone. You're going to be driven and picked up by a driver-"

Tim's eyes go big, and he shakes his head violently. "This is too much-" he begins.

"No! This is the fucking verdict, Tim! This is it! These are the consequences of your actions. From now on until the day you're out of here, you will be asking permission every time you step foot out of this house until you're eighteen. I've already got a security company coming to install cameras in a few days-"

Tim's eyes must be buggish by now. They feel in danger of falling right out of his skull. He keeps shaking his head as his dad speaks. Every word feels like it compounds on those that have come before it.

"What?"

He gets ignored.

"This is what happens when you get yourself almost killed-"

"You don't understand-"

His dad is not even looking.

"House arrest until you're eighteen-"

Tim clenches his fists at his side. What's the point of having a language to communicate with if no one listens to him when he uses it? He might as well not know ASL at all for all the good it is doing him. People don't seem to take it as seriously as words. Like there's something less meaningful about them because they're not coming from his mouth. Maybe it's just that Tim can't turn the volume up on his hands- and part of winning an argument is the ability to scream louder.

Tim can't scream at all.

"Do you understand?" Jack asks. "I will not tolerate you getting yourself hurt any longer. I promised I would take care of you and if that starts by being mean, then so be it."

Tim slowly nods. There are a million hurtful things on the top of his tongue, and curling in the palm of his hand. Tim just wipes the glower off of his face into something carefully blank and nods until Jack turns away.

Jack looks like he's about to say something. Tim uses the advantage he does have over Jack, like how his dad is lording his voice over Tim, and runs upstairs before the man can say anything else.

He slams his door shut as hard as he can. Jack does not follow- not that he can at any good speed. Tim dreads the day his father gets his legs back, and it gets that much harder to run away. It is not a thing he should be fretting, and he does want his father back to normal.

And… Tim wants him healthy, wants him happy, but... Tim will have a lot of reckoning to do with a healthy father and a normal life. A lot of undoing. Maybe it'd be good for him, but he doesn't want to do it. He just wants to belong somewhere. He wants to belong as Robin again.

-

Tim is awake before Shiva's knife is at his neck, but he stays still until it threatens to nick the skin.

He dodges the blade at the same time he sends his bo staff out to knock her over.

It doesn't connect of course, but she is off of him in a moment, jumping back into his room. Tim is up to his own feet a moment later.

His neck again. She's relentless. She is a machine of death. Optimized engineering, every gear and wire is in place for this sort of work- it is not what she is made for, but Tim could believe it if she told him that. Tim blocks every blow, but it is all he can do, and she keeps him firmly on the defensive.

He's up against his bookcase the first time he sees any chance. He gets low, he tries sweep her feet out from beneath her, but she springs upwards before he can successfully do so. One of her feet connects with Tim's cheek, and he rolls to the side with the blow to ease the impact. They end up on opposite sides of the room.

He can barely see her in the dark. The only light in the room is moonlight making its way through the window. It’s a bright, almost full moon, but Tim's room is big, and it's cloudy.

A kunai aims for him out of the darkness, seemingly a lost cause, destined to miss- no, to just barely catch the side of his arm, he realizes, Tim blocks it. Its trajectory turns sharply when it makes contact with his staff, and it thunks as it hits a piece of furniture behind him. He winces. /i>

"Good, that would've killed you if it had hit," Shiva says. "You're not so pathetic as to forget all your lessons.

Tim tilts his head in silent question.

He doesn't call her a liar, partially because he can't remember the sign for the word and partially because it doesn't matter if he points it out. There's no poison on the kunai. She likes him too much to kill him. It is part of why, despite everything else about her, Tim is happy to see her here.

"Hm," Shiva hums, sounding pleased. "You know, I like you better without words. Words only get in your way. The best weapons always speak the least."

Tim tries his luck and collapses his bo staff, though he doesn't put it away entirely, just tucks it loosely into the waist of his sweatpants.

"You talk plenty" Tim signs with his now free hands.

He is lucky, Shiva doesn’t attack. Instead, she responds with a slight, mirthless laugh. "Only the most powerful can keep their words," She says, a cruel playfulness to her words. "And you are far from powerful right now, Tim."

"What do you want?" Tim asks.

"I'm embarrassed," Shiva says, sounding distinctly less playful. "You are a protege, and you are my student, and you've been bested by some terrible Batman copycat. It is shameful."

Tim can’t sigh, but if he could, he would be.

"Out" Tim signs, belligerently, and then points to his window. "not interested."

"No, you are," Shiva says, without a hint of doubt. "Because you don't want to just let Batman and Nightwing take down your rapist all by themselves, do you?"

Tim nearly falls over.

"Yes, I know," Shiva says, sounding almost bored with the realization. "Of course, I know. It's a wonder your detective doesn't. But he’s distracted by his guilt, and I suppose he’s busy- I have been training him after all," She frowns, but it's a carefully controlled reaction, like everything else that flashes across her face, and it's faintly amused. "He's a much worse student than you ever were.”

"How?" Tim asks.

Shiva tilts her head. "How do I know? It is obvious. Perhaps it is because like knows like, or perhaps just because I know you, and you are my student, which means that you're normally better than-" she motions to Tim and his room with a smooth sweep of her hand. "This."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Moping," She says. "I've taught you better than to sit around and mope."

Tim studies her carefully, unsure what he's meant to say in response.

Shiva moves forward, fast on her feet, much like a snake darting to attack. Tim raises his staff to block an attack, but to his surprise, she only gathers her kunai that lodged itself into Tim's dresser and slinks away.

"Batman plans to fight Azrael on April third," Shiva says, in a breath, she has moved across the room again. One of her feet balances on the ledge of Tim's window.

She doesn't need to say what she means for Tim to understand. She expects Azrael to be gone by then.

Don't disappoint me goes unspoken as well.

Her other foot comes up to meet the first. She steps out, and is gone with the light spring breeze, disappearing like a whisper heard by no one.

Well, no one and Tim.

Chapter Text

The smell of coffee draws Tim downstairs before he's even fully awake, almost as if he can smell how fresh and warm it is from his bed. The thought occurs to him, as he shucks the covers off and mourns the loss of their warmth, that this is strange. Even with his father's new enthusiasm for parenting, he has yet to cross the bridge of cooking for the two of them, and though Tim will usually see him in the mornings they never sit down and eat. If Tim gets downstairs before noon, his dad will only rattle off something about his plans for the day- business, physical therapy, more business- and then leave.

Tim pulls on a pair of loose shorts, stumbling away from his room with sleep climbing to the corners of his eyes.

There's a woman Tim doesn't recognize in the kitchen.

She's accompanied by his dad, who is already rolled into his seat at the table, a pot on the stove with contents that Tim can't see, and freshly brewed coffee. She is using one of the fancy paring knives to chop strawberries, the motion of it clearly practiced, and dropping the slices into a bowl. It's mostly full, which means she has been at this for a while despite it being early.

His dad's newspaper is open in front of him, and Tim feet still at the sight of it, leaving him staring from the edge of the kitchen as a blurry picture of Azbats- as Dick took to calling him, Tim didn't care for the name- grapples across the front page.

He's been avoiding the news, but he has heard of the chaos of Jean-Paul's reign from his dad's rants. Batman's erratic and dangerous behavior is relayed to Tim in long, rambling, and generally angry spiels about politics and other people's percieved incompetence. These speeches are not new, but the amount of them and their length has been increased significantly. Jack seems equal parts desperate to form a new kinship between the two of them, unsure of what to do with silence, and pleased that Tim can't interrupt him.

Jack notices him standing there, and Tim is grateful when the paper is laid down so the picture is hidden from his view. His dad's mouth is full, though whether it's the orange juice, coffee, or what looks like oatmeal, Tim isn't sure. Unable to speak, Jack just motions for Tim to sit beside him.

A little part of Tim, the one that has been silently festering inside of himself, wants to keep standing, or to sit on the opposite end of the table from his dad, just to be difficult. The larger part of him, more calm and resigned, trudges over and sits down where his father directs him.

Ever since their fight they've had a shaky truce established between them, and Tim has had no real reason to break it. Acting out would be nice for about one minute.

Tim really doesn't need to upset the only person he is currently able to speak with. There have been close calls, namely the afternoon where Tim finally rolled himself out of bed, and away from season three of the Clone Wars, at two PM and accidentally set off the new security system downstairs.

The woman cutting fruit finally takes note of him when Tim sits, and she lays the knife down carefully. She turns, Tim takes note of her outfit: she's wearing khaki slacks and a button up shirt covered by an apron. It is simple, professional, and the fit of it is off enough that it seems like something issued to her rather than bought on her own.

"You must be Timothy," She says. Tim isn't sure what her accent is, it's middle-eastern of some sort. There's kindness to the words- but it's clinical. Professional. "Do you have any preferences for food? I've got oatmeal ready, unless you want something else. I heard you can't chew."

Not quite. Tim can chew, but he can't swallow anything that requires much chewing. It's not a difference worth pointing out, so Tim just gives her the simple sign for good, and hopes it translates. For the last week since he got home, his diet has been limited by Tim’s and oatmeal is better than yet another smoothie.

She looks to his dad. His dad nods.

"He said oatmeal is fine," his dad assures the woman.

She nods and begins to make a bowl.

Tim sends his dad a questioning eyebrow, and Jack replies, "Tim, this is one of the new members of staff. She'll be coming in on weekdays to help Ms. McIlvaine."

"One?" Tim asks, trying to make the question evident in his expression.

What Tim wants to say is one of, but he finds that he doesn't know how to do so.

Sign language is not a perfect equivalent for English, of, for example, has no direct translation, and it's frustrating for Tim who thinks first in English, and tries to translate what would be his usual response. His response. The thing that he- that he wants to say. Not that ASL is in any way an inferior language, but he feels coltish, using it, unprepared, shaky. Even knowing so many languages, able to think in them, even his speaking mind has a hard time with ASL. He doesn't like relying on emotion. On body language. On expression. It's usually enough just to have the words, to get pronunciation down from a phonetic chart.

That isn't enough here. He'd only ever known it the way Janet had it taught to him anyways- which was for diving- cause she said someday he was going to go on a dig with them underwater and he'd love it, and-

Anyways. For all his respect of the language, Tim can't find any fondness for it when he's being forced to use it, and unable to do so correctly.

At least Tim is slightly better with a week of practice under his belt, and his father, who knows even fewer signs than Tim, isn't complaining when Tim improvises and probably misuses signs.

Tim doesn't particularly care that he's not really signing right, it's not like he has been talking to anyone but his dad, and if his bastardized version works for him then it’s ultimately fine. But he does care about how much he wants to say, and can’t. He’s ever even been a particularly chatty or expressive person, but, well, he liked being able to speak.

"I've hired more than just her," Jack says. "You already met the new drivers, and we've got a gardener, too. I thought it was time we got this place back into shape- everything is overgrown. Looks like shit."

Tim purses his lips, but doesn't say anything. A bowl of oatmeal is slid in front of him. While Tim wasn't looking the woman, had topped it with honey, strawberries diced small enough to swallow whole, and what looks like peanut butter. Tim signs a quick thank you. Then, remembering that she doesn't know what that means, Tim he nudges his dad. Tim does the sign a second time.

"He says thank you," Jack translates for him.

The woman nods, and goes back to the counter. She begins wrapping the strawberries to put them away. "Of course."

Tim picks up his spoon and twirls it between his fingers. Anxious. He wishes he had a batarang to twirl.

New staff is a troublesome idea. New staff means new people in the house with some frequency- meaning people who could question Tim's behavior, or potentially go through his things. Tim, of course, keeps anything incriminating hidden, and has done so since he found out Dick Grayson was Robin, but that doesn't mean Tim wants people in his room.

His dad's new security measures- the cameras, the motion sensors, the door locks- these were easy enough to circumvent, but other people would be a lot more difficult.

What Tim is really upset about, though, is that he wasn't told about this before it happened, or asked if he was okay with it. He has no say in the matter.

Tim knows this is probably normal, he's just not used to it because his life, while not particularly crazy besides Robin, hasn't been average either. After all, he's a kid, Jack is his parent, and therefore holds the autonomy in their relationship but for almost fifteen years Tim has been allowed to live with a strangely large amount of freedom. Tim is… he's so happy Jack is here, that he cares, but his presence is also stifling and Tim wants nothing more than to get out from underneath it.

Jack makes a displeased sound when he checks his watch.

"I've got work soon," Jack explains. "More whipping those idiots into place. Fuckin' Christ,” he mutters, “Did I tell you the latest?"

Tim shakes his head more out of obligation to respond than actual interest and Tim half-listens as his dad goes on about someone and their most recent (in his dad's words) spectacular fuck up.

"And you know, Tim," Jack says, prompting Tim to look over at him. "I was wondering what you're going to do today while I'm gone. It's time to start thinking about going back to school."

Tim just shrugs.

Jack sighs. "You've gotta go back soon, you don't want to fall behind anymore."

Tim passes the spoon over his knuckles a few times, then sets it back down.

"I know," Tim signs. And he does agree, but school is hard to think about at that moment. Or, ever. "I will think."

"I mean it," Jack adds, firmly. "I know you skipped while I was gone. But, Tim, just because you could fall back a grade and still be on track doesn't mean that you should. You're smarter than that. But if it's- if you need to-" Jack grumbles, trying to find the words. "If you need time, to fall back. It won't be good, but you have to tell me."

"I know," Tim signs again.

His dad doesn't look pleased by his response, but he's not angry, either. Tim doesn't like being the object of his pity, but in that split second, an idea comes to him, and he sees his chance in his father's hurt looking expression, and he decides to take it.

Tim waits a moment before adding, "Today," then he pauses, "I want to see my friends."

Jack scowls "Ariana?"

Tim shakes his head. "Ives," he spells out.

Jack purses his lips tightly together.

Tim looks down at the table, trying to look small, and he sees, out of the corner of his eye as his dad's stern expression crumples and is replaced by a tight frown. He's frustrated, Tim can tell, but forgiving. Tim feels bad, playing on that pity, but he does it anyways.

-

Tim gets three hours.

It's not long enough, and it will be reinforced by a chauffeur driving him to and from the arcade (a place called the Bat Cave, and covered with superhero kitsch, which is funny for a reason Tim definitely doesn't explain to his dad. His dad already looked annoyed by the fact that Tim would be going out at all,) but Tim doesn't push his dad for more time after the rules are set. He's too scared of losing his permission to leave the house in the first place.

He does, however, invite Ariana despite his father's express instructions not to do so.

She shows up a few minutes late, and though she slides next to him in the booth, careful to keep her arms away from the greasy, laminated surface of the table, she doesn't reach out for his hand like she usually does.

The arcade is dim besides the light coming off the machines, and Tim thinks she looks pretty. Even in dim, unflattering lighting, she just shines with it.

Tim can also see a nervousness to her face that he hadn’t expected. He’s not sure he’s seen it before. She wasn’t someone who got anxious very easily. Nervous, maybe, but not anxious. Tim liked that about her. She wasn't confident, exactly, but she knew herself. This was new. An edge to her smile that wasn't there before.

"Hi, Tim," Ariana greets him curtly. "Ives, it's been a while, didn't know you were coming."

"Oh, yeah, Tim has been keeping us apart 'cause he knows no girl can resist my charm" Ives grins "We, or, well, I was just talking about how cool Tim is going to look with a surgery scar on his neck. It's going to be so…. Mmm what's a good word for it?" Ives taps a gangly finger on his chin a couple times, then his face brightens, "it'll be very anime."

Tim rolls his eyes, and does the sign for shut up, even though he knows Ives won't get it. It must translate his annoyance well enough, because Ives laughs.

"And then there's that," Ives sighs. He asks Ariana, "Do you know ASL?"

Ariana shakes her head no, looking at Tim with wide eyes while she does. She ducks her head away when Tim shifts to stare back.

This is the first time either of them have seen him in person since the incident, and though Tim had explained some of the details over text, they had yet to see him. Ives had quickly gone his usual route when faced with a hard situation, and used humor. But judging by the look on Ariana's face it seems like she doesn't have such a ready scapegoat.

Tim extends his hand until it bumps against hers. She weakly squeezes it in response, and then lets go, drawing it back.

Tim frowns.

Trying not to feel the distinct emptiness left behind, he curls his fingers tight and stuffs both his hands into the pocket of his hoodie

"Me neither," Ives sighs. "Do you know Morse code? That's an option- I know Tim knows it."

"Uh, no?" Ariana raises an eyebrow. "You do?"

Ives continues grinning. "What can I say? I like codes, I had a phase, and me and Tim used to use it to talk to each other in chem. I know binary, too, which is something Tim here doesn't know for once."

"He knows a lot of languages?" Ariana asks.

"Oh, literally, like, fifteen or something. I don't even know. It's crazy. I mean it's almost enough to make you hate him. Of course, I love him anyways, and he loves me so I forgive him. There's enough room in the world for two genuises."

Tim scoffs.

"Genius, huh?" Ariana asks.

"Well, I've got As in everything except art?"

"Well you can't be a genuis in art," Ariana says, "That's kind of the point."

Ives continues scrunching his face up. "That sounds confusing. And dumb."

"It's not dumb just because you don't get it," Ariana defends.

"Tim," Ives looks at him, "Please tell her it's dumb."

Tim smiles at the two of them, and throws his hands up.

I-D-K, he taps out against the table.

Ives sighs. "You're no help."

"Huh, you really do know Morse code," Ariana says, "You never told me. Didn't even know you spoke another language. Next thing you'll tell me is that you spoke Russian this whole time."

"Oh," Ives says, not helping. "He does a little."

"Oh," Ariana says. Her next question comes out in carefully slow and simple Russian. "You speak?"

Tim nods. He knows the sign for a little bit, but instead he pinches his thumb and pointer finger together until they're almost touching to try and explain that, while not fluent, he does know some Russian. He'd learned it after his trip with Shiva. He's better with romance languages.

For a quick second, before Ariana can hide it, she looks shocked, and not in a good way.

"You never told me," She says, still in Russian.

"Ah, now I'm jealous. I uh, I know pig Latin, and, like, Python, Java. Do those count?" Ives asks. When neither Ariana or Tom respond, Ives continues. "Personally, I think the world would be easier if we all had chips in our head and we could relay things with a thought. Just go full sci-fi. Bring back Babylon," Ives says. "Words are, like, too much trouble, and you only get like half your ideas across anyways."

U-R-C-R-A-Z, Tim tells him.

"I'm not crazy, Tim," Ives says. "I'm hurt you would even call me that. I'm a revolutionary. The world is just scared of change."

"No," Ariana says with a giggle, "You're crazy."

"Well that's a compliment from a lady."

"No, it isn't."

"Oh hey," Ives suddenly jerks his chin towards the door. "Look who it is. Plastics."

When Tim turns around he sees Karl Ranck and a few people he vaguely recognizes from school coming through the door. He thinks the Indian girl is in his math class- he's not sure. So far, he has generally kept to the smaller group of Ives and Ives' friends.

"Plastics?" Ariana asks.

"It's just a-" Ives makes an aborted motion with his hands as he fails to come up with a good explanation. "Reference."

Karl notices them as well, and he grabs one of his friends by the elbow, dragging him over towards their booth. Most of the group starts breaking off in different directions, but Karl and a couple others walk up to their booth. There is a surprising lack of malice in Karl's big grin.

Tim had never much thought of Karl as a real problem in his life. Tim thought Karl should have been nicer to his friends. But he wasn't evil. Tim did not hate him.

"It's fucking Drake! The man, the myth, the legend," Karl says, his hand lands on Tim's shoulder and shakes him. "I haven't seen you in ages, man! Someone said you got shot. What happened to your neck?"

"I heard he was the one who shot someone," one of the friends says conspiratorially, a girl with braids that Tim thinks is on the basketball team. She tacks on, for clarity, "After they broke into his house."

"Really?" Another girl asks. "I just heard he had cancer."

Tim says nothing. He can't.

"It's not that exciting. Tim was just in the wrong place…" Ives says, sounding serious for once, "And he can't talk right now. Throat injury."

A thick silence descends upon their group, and Karl's.

Tim fidgets, it feels like the awkwardness is his fault.

He thinks that, if Ariana weren't acting weird, this would be the point where she'd lay a soft hand against his back and leave it there. She doesn't. Instead, Karl Ranck's heavy palm firmly pats Tim's shoulder, and then eases off.

"Dude, that's fucking awful, I'm so sorry," Karl says, surprising Tim. "That's shit. Gotham is fuckin' shit right now, man."

"Eloquently put," Ives says. "Gotham is fucking shit."

Slowly, but surely, other members of the group begin to peel off and go elsewhere, until only Karl and his friend are left.

"You mocking me, specs?" Karl asks.

Ives quickly puts his hands up. "Not at all, Karl."

"I don't want to punch you, Ives," Karl says. "But don't tempt me."

"Oh, hey, you called me Ives- I didn't even know you knew my name, you always call me specs like you're a bully from an eighties movie," Ives says, then he turns to Tim. "I can't believe you're friends with this guy," Ives tells him.

Tim furrows his eyebrows in confusion. He doesn't hate Karl, but he wouldn't call them friends.

"He's only like half the asshole he pretends to be," Karl's friend says. “Come on Karl, I’m supposed to be kicking your ass at air hockey right now.”

"Hey, man," Karl says, shrugging his friend off, his eyes back on Tim. "Whatever happened, you didn't deserve it, when you can talk, tell me the assholes' names, and I'll fuck them up for you."

Tim blinks, taken aback by Karl's kindness. Maybe they are friends, at least, to Karl. It's… a surprisingly nice thought.

"They'll fucking shoot you," Karl's friend says.

"Not if I shoot 'em first," Karl says. "’Man, the world is full of fucked up people, some of them need to be taken down a peg. Tim, you should've had a gun. They wouldn't fuck with you then."

Tim isn't sure how to respond to that, but he's saved from coming up with something by Ariana speaking up instead.

"Alright, alright," Ariana says, suddenly. "I don't want to talk about shooting anymore."

Karl laughs.

He doesn't leave, but he does, without kicking up any fuss, change the subject. Football isn't a very good subject to divert into, but Karl is well versed in it enough to carry most of the conversation.

Ariana tells them to leave, but it still takes a couple more minutes for them to actually go. When they do, Karl and his friend throw their arms around each other's shoulders and laugh their way over to the air hockey table.

"That wasn't that bad," Ives says, once Karl is out of ear shot. "But

"I hate guns," Ariana says, ignoring Ives'

"I mean, yeah," Ives says. "Doesn't everybody?"

Ariana looks off in the distance at nothing in particular. "I mean it, I hate them. My dad loved them, used them all the time. Like they were just any other tool, like they were a wrench, or a TV remote. And then he got shot, doing reckless, stupid shit with guns. He was always getting beat up- like it happened to him once, when he was a kid, and then he thought, if he could get up one time he'd always get back up. Then he got shot and he died. I didn't like that. Don't come over telling my boyfriend to get a gun, like that does you any good in Gotham."

Her hands ball into fists on the table.

Ives nods, awkwardly digesting that information. The details of her father's death are new to Ives, but they are not for Tim.

But he wasn't supposed to know that. She'd never actually told him that before. Tim feigns surprise at the information, looking at her with wide eyes.

It makes him feel terrible. That he's not supposed to know. Robin was supposed to know. Tim wasn't supposed to be Robin because he'd never told her he was. It felt almost like a breach of trust. It felt worse to have to pretend for her. To keep up a lie.

"You know what," Ives slaps his hands against the table. "I'm hungry. I was thinking pizza? Anybody else want pizza?" Tim perks up at the mention of food, and Ives immediately adds. "Just cheese pizza, none of that artichoke heart crap you tried to pull on me last time, Tim. Pizza is a communal food, it takes a village to eat it, so no crazy toppings."

"Pizza sounds good," Ariana says. "And artichoke hearts aren't that bad, Ives."

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

Tim shrugs.

"Oh yeah," Ives says, "Tim, you can't order it.."

Tim shots him a dirty look, and Ives laughs. "Too soon?" The boy asks.

Tim rolls his eyes.

-

The rest of the afternoon passes by, and it is only marginally better. Ariana continues to be oddly distant, and Ives goes on a rant about Street Fighters that takes up a decent chunk of time. When Tim relays the message that he needs to leave, (G-T-G, in Morse code against the side of the Pac Man terminal, Ives leans in close to hear) his friends react sadly, but he also feels the slight relief that cascades over all of them.

It's not really anyone's fault, and it's not that they don't want to see each other, Tim knows this, but it has been a tense afternoonb where it should've been fun.

"I can wait with you," Ariana says, quickly. "Kind of want to go out for a smoke, anyways."

"Ew," Ives says. "Smoking, really? Your lungs are gonna be black by the time you're twenty."

Ariana flips him the bird. "Like one a week," She says. "And even if it wasn't, you fuck off. They're my lungs."

"You sure sound American, nobody can tell me what I can do with my body!" Ives wrinkles his nose. "Whatever, go out and smoke. I want to talk to Tim for a minute myself."

"I-" She grumbles, her eyes shifting over to Tim– clearly, she'd wanted him to come with her. She had something to say– and Tim was pretty sure he knew what it was. "Okay, fine. Don’t take too long."

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute.”

She walks out, looking disgruntled and searching her coat pockets for a lighter. When she's out of the building, Tim looks over at Ives.

Ives rubs a hand along the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

"Sorry, I'm stealing you from your girlfriend for a minute," Ives says. "I just wanted to talk to you- as much as you can talk right now- for another minute, alone." Ives fidgets. He starts to pace back and forth between the arcade machines. "I just feel like I haven't seen you in forever. And, like, two weeks isn't forever, but it's a long time for me to have like zero contact. And you weren't exactly arund before the accident, either."

Tim stares at him. Ives may have pulled him aside for that, but Ives' fiddling hands tell him that there's more the other boy wants to say.

"And I mostly wanted to ask if you're okay. I mean I think I'm your only friend who knows you well enough to know that you didn't tell her," Ives points at Ariana through the glass door, she's on the other side of the street, and turned away, flicking a lighter until it ignites, "That you were skipping school even before this shit went down." Ives' voice sounds much more honest and bare than it has been all afternoon. "I mean you're my best friend, and you've barely told me anything. And, like, I don't need details of-" Ives glances at Tim's neck, "What happened... but I'm worried about you, Tim. And I don't need you to change, but I want you to know I'm here. And selfishly, I want to know, you know, more. I want to help."

Tim reaches out slowly, grabbing a hold of Ives' forearm. Ives looks confused until Tim taps out S-R-R-Y against the boys freckled skin.

"Tim," Ives says, softly, and Tim becomes suddenly aware of how close they are. That Tim is touching him. "Is it your… dad?"

Tim shakes his head in a fervent no. As strained as their relationship was, this blame did not fall on him. He was, at least, not the enemy. A complicated different thing, but not his enemy.

Ives breathes a sigh of relief.

E-X-P-L-A-I-N, Tim waits a moment, stilling his finger against the soothing coolness of Ives' skin. Did he even know Ives ran cool until now? L-A-T-E-R, Tim waits.

"Tonight?" Ives asks.

Tim nods.

"Okay," Ives says. "But it's gotta be very serious texting, not our usual shit with stupid emojis. Can you tell that I'm trying to be serious?"

Tim nods. He smiles. Talking to Ives always brings him a warm feeling in his chest.

"Yeah, no funny business," Ives says. "Shame. You know I love it when you talk dirty to me-"

It's Tim's turn to push the other boy away, and Ives stumbles back a couple steps, giggling.

The door opens to their side, and Ariana leans in, leaving one hand outside that's presumably holding her cigarette. "Hey, uh," She glances back over her shoulder nervously. "You guys coming out?"

"Yeah, yeah, what's up?," Ives says, stepping forwards. She backs off to let him and Tim through the door. "Something wrong?"

"Just assholes that I'd rather not look like a lonely girl around," Ariana says, and then points her finger to the little parking lot to the side of the arcade. It's mostly hidden around the side of the building, and is shared by the crammed together shopping plaza, and it's currently full of so many modded-out sports cars that sort of ooks like the worst car show ever.

Ariana takes a long drag of her cigarette, and frowns.

Also in the parking lot are the presumed drivers of said cars, and if Tim wasn't already used to the ridiculousness of Gotham villains, and also been told not to make any noise that could pull the stitches on his neck, he would’ve laughed at them.

The flock of men in colorful jumpers and Party City masks is not quite funny enough for him tonight.

Tim instinctively searches for the baton he keeps clipped at his waist, but finds nothing, and then remembers that his baton is still stuffed in the floorboards underneath his bed.

"Shit, I saw those guys on the news. Didn't they rob a bank?" Ives asks. Ives drops to a panicked whisper, "Do we, uh, call the cops?"

"Fuck the cops," Ariana says. "They haven't done anything yet, cops will just make it worse. They'll leave soon. I bet they're all talk."

"Well," Ives says, "it's not just them."

A tall, blonde head of hair, which is definitely Karl Ranck, flocked by the one straggler of his group, the girl with the braids. Everyone else is seemingly gone. Tim squints- they're half hidden behind one of the cars- but he sees that Karl has an arm out in front of the girl, between her and the men, and every time one of the men moves, Karl shifts a little as well.

The leader is a bulky man with a red windbreaker. Tim warily eyes the bulge of a weapon tucked into his jeans.

Ariana pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand, looking disappointed. "Idiots," she groans. "You rich kids are all idiots."

Tim takes a step forward, and both Ives' Ariana's hands lands on his arm, jerking him back

Tim shrugs them off, but doesn't keep walking. Ariana sends him a sharp, questioning look.

"Tim…" Ariana says, sounding worried. "Don't be stupid."

A minute passes, and something happens, something must be said, because Karl's face turns angry. The thug he's talking to is shorter, but bigger, and meaner looking. He shoves at Karl's chest, sending him into one of the cars. The blonde hair falls out of view, then returns, and Karl is aiming a sloppy punch at the man's jaw. Karl's hit doesn't land, and Tim is halfway there by the time the kid is splayed out on the concrete.

Tim hops over the hood of the silly looking car. It's tires rims are blinding, and there's lightning painted up along the sides. The execution of the design is tasteless. It's almost offensive. And off the hood, he drives his foot into the back of Red's lnee before he can stomp on Karl's face. The man goes down hard.

Karl groans, blinking up at him.

The athlete's nose is bent at a grisly looking angle, blood drips down his face.

"Tim," Karl says, then his face scrunches when blood slips into his open mouth. "Fuck. Get outta here, dude."

Tim shakes his head.

He sees a flash of a pink out of the corner of his eye, and dodges as they try to grab him.

Fighting is familiar, Tim realizes. Easy. Even when he's out of practice it is easy to slip back into the correct stance. To go through the motions. It feels good. The adrenaline. The way he can turn his mind off of everything else. Just awareness. Just physical response. The mathematical equation that decided whether to kick, punch, roll, and step. To turn left, slide right. Fall right into it.

Nightwing was more graceful, even when he was angry. Jason was a powerhouse– brutal, strong, decisive. Tim was a more calculated fighter. He didn't have the same strength, or agility, but he was careful. Tim aimed for perfection.

Tim flips one of them, purple jacket, over his shoulder. The man's body dents the hood.

Red is down, he'd hit his head against the pavement when Tim swiped at his feet, and this leaves blue, purple, who is slowly lifting himself off the car, orange, two shades of green, and the one man wearing something like hot pink. Magenta?

Ariana would call it hideous.

They look ridiculous, and Tim is about to kick their asses.

The upper halves of their faces are protected by their masks, but their jaws are open, and when blue, comes in for a hit, Tim drives his palm into the vulnerable spot there. Blue's head jerks backwards, and Tim uses his own momentum, and blue's lack of defense, to land a kick on his stomach.

Blue keels over.

"Fuck!" He sounds pained. "He knows karate or something!"

Blue grasps at his stomach and Tim takes stock of his situation. The girl is currently trying to stop Karl's bloody nose from running and getting on his shirt. Red is down, blue is down but might possibly recover, purple is dazed, but standing, the greens are hanging together at the edge of the fight, sticking by each other's sides and looking hesitant, orange is the tallest, and what looks to be the heaviest. He's the easiest to track in his eyesore of a jacket, and he's also the closest, and Tim just needs to wait for him to move so he can use the man's heaviness against him-

There's a gunshot.

When Tim swivels to see, he immediately notices red's jacket has been hitched up, and the bulge Tim had been earlier is gone.

The bullet hits no one. It bounces, hot and crumpled, off the pavement. Ariana's hand flies back with the recoil, but she rights it, and then keeps the gun carefully aimed towards the ground.

Everything in Tim stops at the sight.

"Here's what's going to happen," Ariana says, carefully, and she's not talking to Tim, her dark eyes are fixed upon where orange's eyes would be through the mask. "You're going to get in your ugly cars and leave before the cops get here."

"The cops aren't here right now, little lady," hot pink says, his voice high, nasally, and very angry.

"They're coming," Ariana says. If Tim focuses, he can see her hand, the one not holding the gun, shaking behind her back.

"No need to be such a fucking bitch," orange says, gruff and deep, and Tim feels a hot flare of protectiveness surge over him. But he doesn't move. A deep sense of shame washes over him when he realizes that her plan was better than his. "That kid started it when we were just flirting with some of the girls, alright? You and karate kid can calm the fuck down."

"We're very calm," Ariana says. "The same can't be said for the neighbors. You should have stuck around Hamilton. This is a nice neighborhood, they're all picking up the phones right now."

"Fine," orange says. He jerks his chin one last time towards Tim, and even if Tim can't see his eyes, he can feel the wary glance trailing over him. "Let's roll," orange says, in a louder, commanding voice. "Bucket and Bills, you guys help Chaser."

The two green jackets hoist the red one up, the dark green at his knees, and the light green at his shoulders. Bucket, Bills and Chaser, Tim guesses.

"Bard," Purple says to the orange one, now fully upright, and clutching at his face. "That little motherfucker broke my nose, at least let me punch 'im."

Another gunshot. This one also ricochets off the pavement, it arcs high in the air, then clangs as it comes down and hits a parked car, Tim doesn't wince at the noise but the same can't be said for the gang members. They mutter, heading back to their car.

"You already broke his nose," Ariana says, nodding towards Karl, she takes a moment to lower the gun again, just as carefully as before. Tim can hear the nervousness start to leak into her voice more as the interaction gets prolonged. "He was just protecting his friend."

Bard sighs.

"Guys get Chaser into his car, already" Bard says. "Chaser, man the fuck up. He's like five feet tall, he couldn't have kicked you that hard."

"Fucking judo shit," Chaser mumbles.

When the men are all gone and only they remain, Ariana drops the gun like it's burning her, she drops to her knees and begins to cry. Tim sits next to he, but she smacks his hands away when he reaches to comfort her.

He makes one more aborted attempt to reach out, and it takes her two minutes of crying to say something. It comes out as gibberish at first, and in Russian, but when Tim begins to make it out-

"You're an idiot, you're an idiot, you're-"

He almost wishes he didn't.

"You're an idiot," she says, in English, voice shaky, breathless, and scared.

Tim nods.

She continues. "You're so stupid, and reckless. Why did you do that? You could've been killed-"

Then in Russian, mangled by her choking, she says, "Idiot, idiot!"

"Fuck," Karl says. Tim turns to look at him, his blood has seeped through the front of his shirt, and his hands are covered with it, the girl who had been helping him is breathing heavily into his shoulder, and Karl keeps an arm protectively curled around her waist. It doesn't look romantic, though, just a matter of ease. Karl needs to be propped up, and the girl next to him needs to calm down. "My ears are still ringing. Tim, what the fuck was that?"

Ariana's sobs sound like they're louder than the gunshot, even though Tim knows that this is logically impossible.

He reaches out for her again, this time she lets him.

Tim rubs a small circle on her back.

A car horn sounds right next to the parking lot.

"Fuck, is that the police?" Karl asks.

"I lied about the police," Ariana says."This isn't," She breaks off to sniffle and laugh at the same time, "Come on man, this is Gotham, no one gives a shit about gunshots. They were just stupid enough to believe me."

"Speaking of, uh, gunshots," Karl side-eyes the gun. "What do we do with that?"

Good question, Tim thinks. It's not one he has an answer for.

"I guess we should call the police now though, right?" Karl asks.

Ariana shrugs. "Probably."

"Um," The girl curled up at Karl's side says. "I can call the cops."

"I already did," Ives says, running up from behind them, he sounds out of breath despite the short distance from the arcade to the parking lot. "And an ambulance, but I guess no one's too hurt. I thought they'd kill Tim."

"Someone's hurt, Specs, my nose is fucking broken," Karl says. He brings a hand up to his face, and the moment his fingers brush over his nose he hisses, and brings it away. "And I think that Drake's girlfriend is in shock."

"My name is Ariana," She says, sounding angry in an empty kind of way. "What's wrong with being in shock?

"Fucking, nothing," Karl says, "It wasn't an insult, Ariana

Another honk of a car horn, Tim reluctantly lets go of Ariana to look for the source.

It's the new driver. Tim's new driver, the one his dad had hired.

-

The police station is noisy. People talking, running around, typing, answering phones.

"I think," Ariana says quietly, almost drowned out by all the noise, and the surprisingly loud sound of the vending machine running beside them. Tim bought them both cokes as they waited for Ives to get out of questioning, and we're now sitting and feeling awkward in the shitty chairs at the station. "That this is… it's too much for me right now, Tim."

Tim sips at his soda.

"I know you care," she continues, "and I really like you, and I know you're going through something but- I can't do this."

Tim can't say he's surprised. He's not stupid. He doesn't hold it against her, just nods. Their hands still entwine in the space between their chairs. He can feel how lightly she holds him, like he's fragile, somehow.

It's funny, he doesn't even feel like crying. He thought he would.

Beside him, Ariana sniffles.

"I know, and I know you mean it," she says. "You're a good guy, but you're a terrible boyfriend and I don't just want to be the girlfriend, Tim. I really care about you, and you're never really here. Even right now, it's like I'm only seeing a little part of you, and I can't be caught up in that, do you understand?"

-

Jack doesn't pick him up. Instead, Mrs. Mcllvaine greets him after Tim has given his statement.

The two of them and a chauffeur that Tim doesn't recognize all head home.

"This fucking city," The driver says, trying to make conversation.

"Language," Mrs. Mcllvaine tuts.

Tim snorts.

Gotham is fucking shit, Tim thinks, hearing Karl's voice saying the words inside his head. Tim sinks further into the chair.

But the part that Karl may not understand, is that Gotham is also home. Fucked up, grim, and stupid, it's Tim's home, and a place he wants to protect. He doesn't think he likes the city, but he does love it. It's like family.

When he arrives home, the new maid is leaving. She waves him goodbye as she steps into her car. Once she is gone, and Mrs. Mac disappears with the chaffuer's offer to drive her home, Tim is alone until Jack gets back.

He feels silly. Dumb. For a moment he'd thought that the staff would make the Drake Manor feel too full, and overwhelming.

A stupid thought to him now. There's just something about the house that is missing- and it can't be replaced, no matter how many new people step inside of it.

This is a stupid thought too, wholly irrational and abstract, it doesn't make any real sense at all.

-

Ariana: Tim I'll still be here if you just need to talk

Ariana: let me know you're okay?

Tim does. Then he puts his pillow over his face, and falls asleep like that.

-

When Tim was nine he took his first picture of Batman.

A few years later, right after he told Bruce that he needs a new Robin, like, yesterday, he also told the man that the first picture was an accident. That initial picture of Batman was just a random bit of luck that a young, starstruck Tim decided he wanted to replicate.

This was a lie.

It took him three months, a lot of urban exploration, and hours scrolling through obscure forums, to figure out Batman's patrol routes. They were confusing, and Bruce often changed them. The man made sure to methodically, and carefully cover every inch of the city with some frequency, but also changed just how he did so.

However, Bruce Wayne was also predictable. There was a formula. Simple math. Tim cracked it.

Tim would never say as much to Bruce's face, but it is true. Bruce is a creature of habit, and Tim, nine years old, and (admittedly very, very) starstruck, had figured him out.

And when he aimed that camera towards the night sky, a dark, but gentle blue with Gotham's light shining off the atmosphere, and he captured that first picture, he felt like he could figure out anything.

-

Ives messages him at three in the morning, and Tim's fitful sleep jerks him awake long enough to read it. Ives: buddy im sorry but what was that are you secretly a ninja or something

Ives: or like an underground mma fighter

Ives: whats ur fighter name??

Ives: The Drake

Ives: oh no wait, back to classics, Karate Kid

Ives: no: Judo Junior

Ives: Tyke of Taekwondo

Ives: Boxing baby

Ives: Five foot and FURIOUS

Ives: ayways that was really cool I totally saw u flip that one guy

Ives: also terrifying, im TERRIFIED I totally thought they were gonna kill you and that police interrogation was awful but I also just think police are scary in general

Ives: Tim?

Ives: Don't make me send u a picture of my dick.

Ives: ill do it!!!!

Ives: if u dont respond

Ives: at least tell me if youre okay??

Tim sighs, his eyes straining at the blue light of the phone screen. Sleep is threatening to drag him back under. So far, it has been a fitful night of waking up and passing out and it looks like he's nearing the passing out part of the cycle again.

Tim: You caught me, I'm in an illegal fighting ring.

Tim: No, but,

Tim: I do Taekwondo.

Tim: Really. I'm sorry I scared you

Yes, he misses being Robin. But it's started to turn into a resentment. It has been weeks and months of missing Bruce, missing the way things were, they way they're supposed to be. If he keeps trying to be Robin, he'll only keep hitting a wall. Being Robin felt impossible. Out of reach.

So, he had to start thinking: what could Tim Drake do?

And he remembers that, largely outside of anyone's influence, Tim was nine when he got his first picture of Batman on his nice film camera. He is still proud of it.

Before Bruce, or Shiva, or even Janet taught him how to fight, and to think, Tim had already had to figure things out for himself. He had ideas, and the drive to act on them. He was resourceful..Kids were easy targets, and Tim could not avoid every wandering eye. He'd ducked and weaved through Gotham's underbelly as a kid, and he had… mostly succeeded.

He knew it already. Ariana had been right to call him out on it. He was reckless, and now he had an idea, and if she knew what he was thinking of right then, she would have called him stupid and she would have been right.

She'd say he was stupid, suicidal, ridiculously. She'd say "what's that thing about cats and curiousity?"

But he's not dying tonight. No, he shakes his head, he's not suicidal. It's only going to recon.

With that thought, Tim digs out the pile of heavy grey fabric in the corner, reaching past all the photo boxes.

It's a few years old, and it's a tight fit. But all the protection still sort of, almost falls in all the right places, and that's what matters.

It's definitely not as well made as the Robin suit. Not as pretty, colorful, or streamlined. It was athletic wear. Kevlar he put in once had access to the batcave. It was shoddily made at best. Tim had borrowed a sewing machine from the home ec classroom to make it, and there are parts of it that looked unfinished and sloppy.The kevlar is heavy in a way that the high-tech weave for the Robin suit very much isn't.

But that's fine, Tim thinks, adjusting the waistband.

He'll be keeping his distance tonight, so no one will see him.

And his Robin suit isn't exactly an option. Bruce would kill him if he knew he was going out, and wearing the suit was like painting a target on his back for the man to aim at, fire, and take Robin away from him forever. Besides, It's either still in the batcave somewhere, or destroyed. Probably thrown in the fireplace to burn by the ever-so-dramatic Azrael

At least he still has a mask. The only alternative he has to that is a balaclava and Tim doesn't want to look like he's going to rob a bank more than he has to.

Tim throws on a dark hoodie and sweatpants over the thin layer of armor. They're loose, but not so much that they'll get in the way.

His dad's security is easy to disarm. He'd gotten himself a way into the system the first night it was set up. He just- he hadn't wanted to break it. Not yet.

Using his computer, the alarms to his bedroom window are shut off. The cameras all go dark with another.

His bike is in the garage, and as he hoists his leg over the seat he remembers all the nights he was eleven years old and setting off just to catch a glimpse of Robin, and taking a picture to try and make it last.

Tim curls his hands around the handlebars, and he remembers that he is Robin, but has always been more than that, too.

Chapter Text

Someone saves him, is the thing.

Because, well, that's what everything is about isn't it?

-

This is research, Tim tells himself.

Just research.

It is no different from his usual casework. The kind he does from the bat cave, on the nights that Bruce wants him to take a break. The kind that doesn't get him into fist fights.

The kind that usually entails stakeouts- but said stakeouts are usually done with Batman at his side, and more preparation. A lot more.

Click.

One of the thugs from before slides up his mask to take a smoke. He does this despite the fact that the mask doesn't cover his mouth- a fact Tim finds amusing.

He's got a nasty, purpling bruise along the underside of his jaw and Tim is sure he’s the one who put it there. Tim is not proud of it, per say, he doesn't enjoy inflicting pain, but he also doesn’t manage to conjure up any sympathy when he rubs a hand gingerly over the spot and winces.

He also has crooked nose, like it has been broken and reset incorrectly. A nasty sort of face despite his pink jacket.

Tim notes this all now, with the intention to log it on Bruce's systems later.

If they happen to be arrested in the time between now and when he next has access to the batcave, well…

Click.

He hits the button on his camera. Evidence.

Another one that Tim recognizes, Big guy, orange jacket. His face is exposed as well. Tim smirks at this.

Click.

It was easy to keep up with them. They were mingling, All of them completely unaware of Tim watching from above. There were thirty-two men in total, and Tim kept that tally as he saw cars coming and going.

Men is a gracious term for them- the oldest seems, at a stretch, twenty-eight, maybe.

Two green jackets. What had they called them before?

Bucket and Bills. He didn't know which one was which.

Worth noting, though Tim wasn't sure why yet, was that everyone he'd seen in that parking lot was still there.

In the same fashion as before, the two boys them are keeping to themselves at the edge of the group. Their own car is sleek, but less decorated than others, the color more plain. Tim watches them grow tense whenever another member walks by. Their masks stay in place.

Brothers, maybe.

The two of them look soft around the edges in the way everyone else isn't. They look out of place.

Tim zooms in as Bucket brings out something from his back pocket and offers it to the boy beside him. Tim can’t quite see it, but he does catch the moment of light that bounces off of it. A thin sheet of foil. Drugs.

He presses down on the top of the camera as their hands fumble with it.

Click.

As Tim listens in on their conversations– cars, girls, call of duty– it is particularly evident how young they are. He can see it in the way they stand.

They're small fry, and Tim probably wouldn't have even spared a glance at them, especially with Gotham as chaotic as it was now, if they hadn't shown up by the arcade.

Even with their recent spike in activity, and a couple of abnormally well-executed robberies the Speed Boyz were nothing. Not when compared to men like Scarecrow, who was out there somewhere– stsying quiet, but certainly plotting.

He stretches his legs from their uncomfortable position crouched low on the walkway, as they are starting to grow tired from the strain, and then he clicks through the last few pictures he’s taken.

What was he doing there? It wasn't exactly a personal vendetta, but it was close to one. He didn't have any particular rage against the Speed Boyz, but they had put themselves in his path, and he needed something to focus on.

"Man I wish they'd let me run first tonight."

Tim tilts his head as he listens. It's hard to hear many conversations in detail with the echo of the warehouse, but these two men stand just beneath him.

Tonight- That’s something interesting. That feels less pointless.

“Ah, loosen up,” the friend replies. “The last one went well, right? They don't want to mess with the chemistry.”

"Hey, you know how Freckles said they got jumped by a bunch of guys? I heard it was just a kid– one kid."

"No way," the guy laughs.

"Yeah did some kickboxing, and broke Freckle's nose."

"Fuck off."

"It's true."

Tim smiles to himself.

Something suddenly pushes the warehouse. Someone yells from down below.

"Cluemaster is here!"

Cluemaster?

He raises the cabbage towards the floor once more.

Click.

He tunes back into the conversation below.

"I don't know," One says.

"I'm telling you, he's an asshole. Super annoying."

Cluemaster. Definitely.

As he creeps along the walkway, towards the window he came in from, he hears something.

The smallest little click at the edge of his awareness.

He stops, and watches curiously as a streak of purple pushes open a window on the other side of the warehouse. Two blue rubber boots slide through the window, and then spoiler drops to the walkway parallel to Tim's own, her cape fluttering behind her. Tim meets the wide eyes of Spoiler’s mask across the darkness of the rafters.

A moment passes between the two of them, and though they’re both wearing masks, Tim knows that their expressions are likely a mirror of each other: equal parts curious and bewildered.

Tim hasn't seen Spoiler in months- she must be wondering why Robin is here and-

No, wait. She wouldn't recognize him. He's just a stranger.

Tim lifts his hands in a non-threatening gesture and Spoiler tilts her head towards him in a silent question. Tim spreads all his fingers except for his thumb into a v. I come in peace.

She puts a hand over the bottom of her mask as if in thought.

Tim raises a finger to his lips then points to the crowd below, signaling her to be quiet.

She's obviously there for Cluemaster.

Tim points to the window she just snuck into, and then makes a shooing motion with his hands.

She shakes her head. In a display of defiance, both her gloved hands come to rest on her hips and she jerks them to one side.

It's childish, and in response Tim feels his headache grow both in size and pain.

Tim shoos her again, but this time she simply ignores it.

She leans over the railing in front of her, and moves her head to look over the whole warehouse floor.

She points a finger to the front of the warehouse. The door there is the kind big enough to allow large machinery through, at least two stories tall, and it, and the one at the back of the building have been left half open to let incoming cars in and out of the space.

His gaze follows her finger, and then watches as another car comes in. It's not a fancy sports car, but rather a white, nondescript van. No license plates. Widows that look illegally tinted. It's not on theme.

Speed Boyz cared about theme.

An outsider.

the effect is instantaneous: The whole building goes quiet. It's silent enough to hear the van's brakes whine as it slowly eeks the middle of the building. Cluemaster steps out, slamming the door behind him harder than necessary. It seems that the man has decided, post-imprisonment, to forego his usual cluemaster disguise, and has embraced his plain face. It's just Arthur Brown in a pair of cargo pants and a dark, athletic undershirt. No stupid costume. He looks scarier like this, a lot less silly. Prison seems to have instilled a new edginess to him. He's jumpy.

Two men get out behind him, and Tom clocks them as the other escapees from Arthur's daring escape.

One of them is the electrocutioner, and Tim scowls at the sight of him.

The Electrocutioner had nearly killed Bruce once. He was a sick man, with a perverted sense of justice. He thought of himself as an executioner. But he didn't even pass for an anti-hero sort. He was selfish, cruel, and, according to his presence at the robbery, he'd let Cluemaster feed into his greed. They had formed a comraderie.

Stephanie Brown curls her fingers around the railing.

He holds up a hand to stop her when she looks like she's going to jump. It takes a moment for her to notice, and she looks annoyed but she steps back.

The men gather closer as Cluemaster walks to the front of his car, forming a messy half circle around him. The sound of his footsteps echo threateningly in the new, heavy silence. For a moment, the blue eyes, and the long, blonde ponytail, remind him of someone not that different, but a lot scarier than Cluemaster.

Tim quickly banishes any images of Jean-Paul from his mind. Now is definitely not the time to get distracted.

“Alright, boys,” Cluemaster comes to a stop, and settles his hands behind his back. “It's time."

A murmuring. The energy is difficult to percieve. Giddy, but nervous.

Cluemaster repeats himself, louder, more demanding, “Come on, dId you hear me?" A moment of tense silence, and then Cluemaster bellows with his arms thrown out to his sides: "This is the biggest hit of your lifetime! "

He pauses. A grin grows on his face. "It's time for you to earn a name for yourselves!"

The yell spurring them on, the group starts yelling. They build in volume, working to hype themselves up along with Arthur. The villain smiles darkly at the display.

"In this city, you either grow, or you die. The time is now, while Batman is distracted, while the city erupts into confusion! We won't get another chance like this."

Tim rolls his eyes.

At the tail end of the cheer, Cluemaster begins speaking again, everyone going quiet at the sound of his voice.

"Tonight is important– it will define who you are, what you can become, you have to pull this off, there's no losing. The opportunity is coming, and we are taking it!" Cluemaster starts. Tim looks over at Stephanie Brown, and watches. "It'll be the first time you Rugrats take on something as big as this. Are you sure you're ready?"

Another cheer. Cluemaster continues talking, but it's not helpful to Tim- just more words of encouragement. Are you ready? Are you sure? Let me hear you! like a coach from a shitty movie about high school sports.

Tim is sick with the sudden realization that Cluemaster is their mastermind.

That he'd taken a fledgling gang full of young, some of them too young, members and managed to imprint on them.

The man has never really been a threat, and he isn't, even now, not really, but Tim could admit he had his strengths. He had new strengths, too, if he was pulling off something like this.

He was smart, but before prison he'd been too cocky to properly utilize it. He was charismatic, but before prison he'd been too caught up with himself to focus on recruitment.

But he also had a long way to go. Throwing his lot in with the Speed Boyz was definitely an odd decision.

Tim decides to tune out the speech as he waits for it to be important, or less corny.

Tim watches across the room as Stephanie's shoulders roll up tight by her ears, either in anger or anticipation, and then her head jerks, purposefully, looking at something below them.

He looks down where the eyes of her mask are turned. The two kids in the green jackets respond with less enthusiasm than the rest of the group. From up above, Tim sees how their hands wind together in secret, hiding the display of affection by standing back away from the main crowd of people.

He wonders if Stephanie is thinking the same thing.

He had a plan forming, but he'd need to figure out how to get Stephanie to understand the plan, too.

Before he can think too long on a solution, Tim hears the roar of engines revving beneath him, and he startles.

Time feels impossibly fast as he watches Stephanie jump over the railing. She immediately makes herself small behind some cars, zipping in between them, and carefully avoiding anyone's eyes.

More cars kick and rev to life. Engines breathing warm, excited breath in the air. It's loud. They're all screaming and running or peeling out of the garage. Radios crackled alive, headlights come to life like the eyes of an animal. It all happens too quickly- Cluemaster's van begins to back out the large doors.

Tim runs down the gangway to where he sees a spot at the end, mostly dark, and mostly hidden from view, though admittedly, not entirely, and he jumps. His weight-lifting gloves from the sports supply store aren't as thick as the ones from the Robin suit, but they help to reduce friction between his hand and the supporting rail as he slides down it.

He's off as soon as he has hit the floor, weaving in-between cars to the last place he'd seen the two boys with the green jackets.

Bucket and Bills are easy to take down.

Tim strikes from behind, feeling a little bit like Robin, and a little bit like a wraith, and wraps his arms around the boy's neck. For once, he's not too much bigger than the person he's attacking, so it's not too hard to take him down.

The other one sees him, of course, aims a fist for Tim's face, only to get the heel of a boot in his own. The boy stumbles back a good few steps, his mask skewed from the force of Spoiler's kick.

Tim tilts his head up towards Stephanie. He nods in acknowledgment.

"So who the hell are you?" She asks. Tim can barely hear her over the roar of engines echoing against the walls.

Tim hops up to his feet. He makes a fist and taps his lips with his knuckles.

The great thing about the sign for mute is that, even if no one knew any sign language, it would convey the meaning through the mere act of using it.

"Oh, you're mute," Stephanie sighs. "Great. That makes this so much easier. No offense."

A shout, and the man recovers from being kicked. He rears back to throw another punch, at Spoiler this time. Tim moves in between her and the man, and uses the man's own momentum to throw him. He slides across the ground until he rolls into a car.

Tim points towards one, then towards Stephanie, and he drops back over the first one just as he starts to regain consciousness.

He takes the mask off him and slips it onto his own face, over the one he is already wearing. After that, Tim rolls the boy onto his front so he can yank his jacket off his shoulders.

"Oh," Stephanie says, drawing out the noise with a tone that sounds like excitement. "I get it."

The boy she took down tries to stumble to his feet. Tim hears the clipped noise of pain as Stephanie hits him with something to take him back out.

Tim knew he liked her- she's smart, cocky. She reminds him a little bit of Jason Todd, a bright little spark of defiance and toughness. Tim watches as she begins yanking the jacket off of the other unconscious boy, more roughly than Tim had.

Tim puts Bill's jacket over his hoodie, pulls the hood out from the neck, and zips it up.

The keys are in the jacket's left pocket. Tim dangles them from a finger to show Stephanie, then stands again, and motions for her to follow. He knows which car is theirs- he remembers these sorts of things- so he points to it.

"Damn," Stephanie says. "Damn. I like you."

-

Tim took the wheel and raced after the retreating cars, pulling up the back of the pack.

Stephanie's big blue gloves thump against the radio box on the top of the dashboard. It's not standard by any means. The wires run into the stereo, and it's presumably connected, somewhere, to the car's battery so it can run.

A final thump of her hand and the radio kicks up into life. The voices fill the car immediately. Tim doesn't see it, but she must find the volume because it's suddenly getting louder.

His eyes are on the road in front of them, desperately keeping his eyes glued to the double white lines, and jerking in and out of the little bit of traffic that's out this late at night. There's more and more cars as they get closer to the city, and it takes more concentration the farther they drive.

"Taking a left on Myrtle-"

"A right on Hardee-"

Some whooping.

"Anybody know where Bucket and Bills are?"

Tim shoots his head to the radio.

"They were the last out-"

"They're behind us- kids, you were supposed to break off with the green-"

Tim lets one hand off the wheel as they race around a left turn, and snacks Stephanie hard on the shoulder.

"Hey!" She shouts, indignant. "The hell?"

Tim points insistently to the radio, then back to the two of them.

"Bucket?" The radio crackles.

Tim points again frantically, and the pack of cars now turns to the right. Tim yanks on the wheel so hard, straining to turn in time, that he's scared he'll break the thing off. It seems to bite back into him.

Another car races up alongside them, and Tim briefly looks over towards them as they wave and gesture at them- they look angry. Stephanie looks too, longer, and they must do something that explains it because she starts grabbing at the radio.

The car moves to pass them.

"Oh!" Stephanie shouts. "Fuck, okay-" She fumbles for the detachable part on the side of the radio.

"Here," she says as gruffly as possible, dropping the pitch of her voice. It's not too convincing- but Tim hopes it's enough with the crackle of the radio helping. "Bucket here- Where's-" a release of the button, a small curse, "Green? Where's green?"

"Kids, you need to pay more attention. Take a left on James ave and thirty-first, you'll get there."

"Got it!"

She points towards something with a shout.

Tim sees it coming before she points. The corner they listed approaches fast on his left, and he races through a red light, jerking hard so that he can make the turn. The radio goes flying out of Stephanie's hand with the action, and she scrambles across the seat to get it where it landed between Tim's feet.

He sees what must be Green crew up ahead, easy enough to spot, and it's another turn, a slight right, more of a diagonal, so, just a little easier on the axis, to meet up with them.

There's way more pedestrian cars here, now, and they're getting thicker. Tim's heart beats faster at the sight.

They're tearing through Gotham- and Tim recognizes the side of town that they're racing for.

So they'd been scouting out the arcade for a reason.

Stephanie's now looting the back seat, dragging up a duffel that had been left there and had been flying about for the whole ride.

"Oh, shit!" She says. "There's some cool gadgets in here, I didn't know they were so well equipped," she rifles through it, "Though, I guess Cluemaster likes his gadgets."

He does.

The radio keeps going off, and a few cars peel off from their group- one by one taking off into the streets.

It's five more minutes of driving before they're upon it. About ten or so cars have gradually dropped off from the radio chatter- Tim hears it because they announce it every time with a-

"Freckles down. Eleven."

"Wow!" Stephanie shouts. "You can drive better than some of those goons. And they're not bad."

"Keep going men," Cluemaster says, gruffly. "I'm on 'em now. Purple team-"

"Ugh," Stephanie groans. "Gee, that guy is an asshole."

Tim doesn't like it. He thinks he gets Cluemaster's plan- as chaotic as it is. The man is relying on strength in numbers, using the Speed Boyz a little bit like canon fodder. And the groups matter, because they'd been upset that Bucket and Bills we're driving with the wrong people, so that likely means they're not all going towards whatever the target is- some of them are distractions.

Tim is lucky enough to be in the main group. He knows this because he sees them- and he sees the other cars as they race out from parallel streets to his own.

The Arcade on one side of the street, and three armored vehicles in the middle of the road, cars racing out and circling them like a school of piranhas twisting in the water. The Speed Boyz, Tim realizes, are herding them.

"Gadgets, please, gadgets," he hears Stephanie say as he twists into formation behind the other cars and tries to think of a plan. "Reveal your secrets."

She makes a noise, presumably discovering something in the bag, and begins to roll the window down. Tim winces as the wind tears into the interior of the car, and the pressure unbalances inside. He doesn't have the ability to even it out by rolling down his own window and it hurts.

At least his concussion is over, or it'd be that much worse. Especially with the way the car just keeps going in a circle- again and again.

He thinks he might vomit anyways.

The girl half crawls out the window, her torso hangs out from the side of the car.

"Sorry!" Stephanie yells, and Tim doesn't know if she's apologizing to him or someone else- but he hears cars crashing around him now.

"Oh, bullseye!" She yelps, "Right in the tires, that's gotta hurt!"

The car rounds again around the narrowing circle, and Tim sees the car twisting over and out of the road ahead of him. It bounces a couple times before it stops upside down.

"I really hope that didn't kill someone, I don't need that on my conscience," She says. There's a little pop, and then another squeal of someone's tires failing. "Boo-fucking-yah! You should see me right now, I'm fucking killing it."

Tim rolls his eyes, and slowly steps on the brakes. The cars are breaking formation around him, their right circle spiraling into every direction, a few cars retreating and disappearing. His eyes can't follow it all.

The radio is going off- Tim had barely heard it in that last minute, couldn't possibly process the noise coming to his ears while also hearing Stephanie, but he focuses in on it now over the skidding of his tires.

"Breaking formation, we're losing men."

"Do we pull out?"

"Who's shooting our tires?"

"Cops-"

"There's no-"

"That car with the green stripes-"

"Who the hell is in that car?"

Cluemaster.

"The spikes. They're using our own spikes against us."

"It's Bucket and Bills-"

"Clearly it isn't!" The voice practically roars over the radio- straining out of the speakers, too loud for the audio quality to keep up.

Stephanie jerks back into the car, she snickers and takes the radio.

"Hiya," She says, not changing her voice this time. "I'm afraid your night has just been spoiled, boys."

Stupid line, Tim thinks. Stephanie grins like a panther.

"Spoiler!" Cluemaster screams. "You reckless little bitch!"

"How's my favorite not-so-supervillain?" Stephanie teases.

Tim drifts the car to a complete stop now, after two particularly dizzying spins as he slams the brakes hard. The tires went a little too hard against the asphalt, the smell of burned rubber wafts through Stephanie's open window.

The nose of their car is pointed towards the back end of the three armored vehicles. Cluemaster is directly across from him, facing him at the other end.

He sees the driver's door get thrown open- and he arrives.

For a moment the long blonde hair and furiously angry face reminds Tim of Azrael- and his racing heart skips a couple of dearly needed beats at the sight, his hands freeze up on the steering wheel.

But Stephanie doesn't hesitate. She throws that duffel bag to the floor and kicks the passenger side door open, and she's out on her feet in only a few hasty seconds.

"Hey motherfucker!" Stephanie yells, running forward to meet the angry Cluemaster. "Let's fucking go!"

Then Tim sees the differences. He sees how Cluemaster isn't tall enough, the orange bandana around the lower half of Cluemaster's face, and the boots- brown, not black, a steel toe on the outside, not built in.

Stephanie runs, and it's a stupid move. Not yet fault. She's just not playing to her strengths correctly because she doesn't know how to yet. Tim didn't think it was fair to her not to try and help her out, and had told Bruce as much, multiple times–

But, well, Batman doesn't listen to Tim, he knows that much now.

The thought is sort of…

What? Freeing? He feels angry, but it's good.

Tim breathes hard through his nose and hops out of the car after her. He tackles her between two of the armored vehicles- out of the way of a gunshot from one of Cluemaster's henchmen.

"Don't!" Tim hears. Cluemaster. "Don't shoot her!"

"But–!"

Tim drags Stephanie away around the other side of the car. The distant roar of more approaching cars upon them.

"Just get the fucking trucks! Don't fuck it up!"

Tim smiles. The trucks. That's important- not just the things in them. He throws a hand over Stephanie's mouth- not too hard, but enough for her to understand- and he grabs at her hip. She makes a weird noise, but Tim rolls his eyes, and just keeps searching for the grappling gun he knows Batman gave her.

It's not as good as a bullet, but the force of the hook still breaks the handle on the door of the van. Tim throws the back of the doors open, and then throws himself inside, letting go of Stephanie's face.

Stephanie reaches out, and he meets her hand halfway, pulling her up after him.

The van is full of crates- not money, as Tim had assumed.

A terse silence stretches out- the vans are soundproof, apparently. The van shook once as a door shut, then another time. The van began moving. Tim holds onto the shelves so he doesn't go flying, and Stephanie does the same.

"Good thinking," Stephanie says, sarcastically. "They'll never find us inside the van."

Tim gives her a long look, and takes the Speed Boyzmask off his face.

"Yeah, I guess we hardly needed the disguises- but that was smart thinking. I know, because I thought the same exact thing."

She hums, squinting at his him.

"You know," she says, imploringly. "That mask looks an awful lot like Robin's- So you... you- do you know Robin?"

Tim nods.

"Cool, so do I."

Tim smiles. He points to himself.

"Okay, yeah," She snorts and her cheeks split with a grin. "Kinda figured. What happened, man? Last time you uh-"

She waves her hands around.

"Well, you were talking."

He looks away. He's not sure how much he would explain, if he could, but he can't- so it doesn't matter. He just shrugs.

"Okay, I can work with silent and mysterious," She says, she crosses two muscular arms across her chest. "You weren't super chatty before anyways."

She slides slides against the wall until she's sitting, and Tim follows suit.

"Thanks for that email," She says. "That was you right?"

It takes Tim a moment to remember, but then he does. He remembers sending her everything he could on Cluemaster right after his breakout.

He nods.

"It helped," She says. "So thank you."

-

The vans roll to a stop, and Tim and Stephanie are standing up together in one simultaneous movement.

She's keen- untrained, but keen enough that she'll train well. Tim, who'd been sort of resigned to Batman's ultimatum that he wouldn't train her, suddenly feels angry at the oversight, again. Anger, tonight. He couldn't shake it.

Tim looks up, towards the hatch on the ceiling of the van– he points to it.

"Oh, perfect," Stephanie whispers, looking at it. "That's all we got for an escape plan?"

Tim shrugs.

She clambers up the shelves until she can stretch her short arm out and reach the grate. It unlocks with a click, and then she pushes it up and away. She pulls herself out, rolling onto the van. Tim climbs up after her.

"Did you hear something?" Tim hears as he surfaces. A brief flash of an orange jacket stepping away from the van and back.

Tim immediately curls up and flattens to the top of the car. Stephanie moves behind him to slowly close the hatch behind them and then follows suit.

"I didn't hear anything," Someone else says.

"This is fucked," yet another man says- his voice is younger. "I thought Spoiler wasn't supposed to be a threat," then the voice grew angry and pointed. "Cluemaster."

Cluemaster speaks up. "We've got the goods- we lost men, but it's fine- more for the rest of us, huh? But she's not able to drive yet. She doesn't even have her learner's permit…"

"I almost have my license," Stephanie mutters, so quiet it's like nothing. "Seriously."

"I knew we shouldn't have trusted him!" It's orange jacket with red pockets, Tim recognizes him now- what was his name? Tim was having trouble keeping track of them amidst the chaos.

Mech, it was Mech. Blue jacket was putting a hand on his shoulder.

Titus Czonk speaks next. He's one of the escapees that had gotten in with Arthur Brown. Electrocutioner is stood next to him like a stern looking statue. God, Tom really hates that guy.

"Come on, let's calm down. Clue is right."

Tim raises an eyebrow at the nickname.

Mech scoffs, shakes his head. Tim just sees a hint of it, the way his hair bounced with the movement. The bowl cut. Who even had bowl cuts anymore?

"Don't call me-" Cluemaster groans. "Whatever, everyone, check the vans. I told you where the trackers are- get them out. Then we go," a pause. Cluemaster stomps once, and hard. "Now!"

Footsteps scatter.

Stephanie nudges Tim as the men disperse to follow the instructions.

She leans in very close to his ear to whisper: "Hey, you got this one? I'll go to the other van, then we get number three together?"

Tim hesitates. It's risky.

Eventually he nods. Stephanie moves to a crouch, and then to standing with her knees bent low.

She flips over to the next car, landing impossibly soft on it.

"Did you see that?"

"What? Dude- get over here-"

Tim shuffles to the end of his car. He has Cluemaster,

And Electrocutioner.

Great.

"The door handle is broken," Cluemaster says, and Tim wriggles away from the end.

"Must've been hit," Buchinsky says.

"Yeah…" Cluemaster says- then his head shoots up, and Tim just barely manages to duck out of the way. "Probably got shot."

Cluemaster messes with the handle for another moment, but eventually drops it and climbs up into the van, Buchinsky watching him do it.

A long moment passes, and then something is tossed out the back. A little mechanical thing- the tracker, Tim thinks. It hits the ground, dormant.

"All good now," Cluemaster says. "You get back in, Lester, I'll take the car. Meet you there."

Tim moves a little closer to the edge again, and he does it in time to see Buchinsky nod.

Tim lets out a silent sigh of relief, and he waits until one of them leaves. Electrocutioner goes first- and Tim scowls. It was Buchinsky that he really wanted the element of surprise for- but it's fine. Annoying, but fine.

Arthur Brown makes a move to step out of the van, and that's when Tim swoops in.

His feet land solidly on Arthur Brown's chest, solar plexus, hah, and his breath leaves the man all at once, stopping any shout from getting out.

Arthur moves to shout and Tim clocks him across the face- follows it up with a punch from the opposite direction. Cluemaster goes down hard.

The car starts moving, and Tim inwardly curses. Already?

The momentary distraction is enough for Arthur Brown's boot to swipe out and take Tim's knees out from under him. A hoarse, almost silent little yelp escapes despite him. It hurts. He hears something slam behind him.

-

He blinks his eyes open and time has passed.

His head must've hit the floor of the van harder than he thought. The van is stopped, now. And there's a sound outside of it, sort of like rushing water, but… thicker, somehow. A different consistency.

"You little shit!" Cluemaster is yelling in his face- hands fisted in the collar of Tim's stolen jacket. "You Steph's new boyfriend, huh?" He shakes him. "You fucking-"

The long blonde hair and the yelling makes Tim's fight or flight- mainly fight- instinct flare up. His palm hits the underside of Cluemaster's chin, and then he knees him hard in the crotch before twisting out of the hold.

"Fuck!" Cluemaster yells- and that's right. It's Cluemaster. He sounds a lot like his daughter when he says it-

Not that Tim would say that, even if he could. Neither Stephanie or her dad would like the comparison.

Arthur moves away, shaking his head. Surprisingly, he doesn't go to attack Tim again, but busies himself with the door to the van.

The man grunts, trying to open the door. Tim doesn't move to attack him, curious.

"You fucking kids," Cluemaster groans. His blue eyes shoot back to meet Tim's through the mask. "You don't even know what you did- do you?"

Tim crosses his arms over his chest.

When he gets no reply, Cluemaster narrows his eyes.

"Either you're ignoring me, or you're a mute," Cluemaster sighs. "Fucking hell. My daughter is dating a mute? She deserves better- though that girl probably loves having a sounding board. No offense."

Tim rolls his eyes.

Surprisingly, Cluemaster drops to the floor and buries his head in his knees. "These doors don't open from the inside, you know that? Even though you broke the handle- it still locks on this side. I don't- You don't even know what you've done."

Tim tilts his head.

"We're going to die in here," Cluemaster drags a hand down his face. "And you don't even know it."

Cluemaster shakes his head.

"We were going to bury the vans overnight," Cluemaster explains. "Down in the railroad district, made the pits a week ago. It was a good plan! Keep them out of reach for a few days. Big plan. Big payoff. Lot of people were gonna be happy. I was going to have a gang, a real one," he shakes his head again. "And I'm going to die in a block of concrete."

Tim gasps, another hoarse sound.

He scrambles towards the ceiling, and yanks on the grate and it gives way- but only to a torrentially slurry of grey sludge coming through.

Cluemaster frowns as Tim closes it. The splotch of concrete mix that managed to get in settles into a puddle on the floor, and the dawning horror takes root inside of him at the sight. It is a feeling both angry and numb.

"I can't fit through that anyways," Cluemaster says.

You did not wake me up? He asks.

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn't understand.

Tim wants to bash the man's head in. If Tim had gotten out, he could've let Arthur out. But he can't point out the stupidity of Arthur's logic- can't say anything. Can't ask if Arthur even considered Tim's help. Maybe he had, maybe he'd even tried to get Tim to wake up, and Tim had just been unconscious. Maybe Tim is being unfair. He didn't know.

It doesn't matter, in the end. He's here. The option of escape that was the latch has just been stripped away from him by another man's stupidity, and Tim's own, and he can't even scream about it.

Maybe he should- maybe screaming, and tearing the stitches will speed up the process of dying.

Though, oxygen deprivation- not by way of Azrael's claws on his throat, at least, more the carbon monoxide poisoning variety- is supposed to be a good, peaceful way to go, and bleeding from ones' throat isn't, so he better not.

Besides. His screams wouldn't even be all that worth it. They'd be hoarse and they wouldn't even sound like him.

He was just supposed to be doing recon. Information gathering. Research. Then he-

Did this to himself.

And he is alone again now. Spoiler came and went from his life like a bright spark, one hopping off a fire, so hard to catch before it hits the ground, and Tim hopes she's alright wherever she is.

Arthur Brown doesn't count as company.

He's alone.

He always seems to be alone at these moments. The worst of them. It is after, that someone comes along with smiles and first aid- Alfred, Dick, Bruce- but only because he gets hurt. He gets himself hurt. But tonight there will be no after, will there?

He wonders what dying will feel like as he sits down on the ground across from Arthur Brown- who has splayed out against the door now, legs in front of himself.

Surely dying this way can't be worse than anything else.

-

"You know kid," Arthur says. "This is going to be a confusing night for Stephanie."

Tim perks his head up.

"Her dad and her boyfriend are going to die on the same night, in the same traumatic way," He huffs. "Talk about issues," Then Cluemaster- Tim supposes he should really just call him Arthur in his head, now, they're about to both die together, such a thing brings about some mutual understanding- laughs.

-

The light in the back of the van goes out.

"The battery," Arthur says.

Tim nods. The battery.

-

"And the thing is," Tim's eyesight is hazy. It has been… hours? He's not sure.

Tim has spent them flicking through his camera roll- listening to Arthur's rambling as it slowly becomes more mumbling than talking. The words slowly become more and more dismantled, tangled up with each other.

"The thing is-" Arthur repeats. "I haven't told my daughter I love her in ten years. Isn't that sad? I haven't been to a birthday party in forever. I-" He chokes. "I missed so much, being the way that I am. Never made that time for others. Now she hates me- and I kind of hate her too."

Arthur moans. "I don't want to hate things, I don't want to hate her," he says, "I love her, I don't- I don't like myself. I think that's the truth of it," He says it like an epiphany. "I hate myself."

Arthur falls over.

It is worse than the cave. There is no crawling out of this one on determination alone. He doesn't get to make the decision-

-

Oxygen is a mere trickle in his lungs. The vestiges of life and being have been filtered through their bodies now, and turned into poison.

At the very least, this is an easy kind of death. Soft. Confusion, weariness, and a peaceful unconsciousness before the lungs fill up one last time and then... stop. Not very difficult to face or understand.

Cluemaster's prone body is across him. Slightly delirious, Tim wonders if he's a corpse. He leans forward, reaching out and pressing his fingers to the man's neck. There's a pulse, even if it's weak.

He checks his own pulse. Just as gentle, barely there beneath his skin.

Tim shivers and falls back to the hard, unforgiving floor of the van. Cluemaster groans- Tim had woken him up, apparently.

"Dying was not-" he breathes hard. "How I expected tonight to go. Big payoff. Gang. It was going to be good."

Tim would tell him not to waste the oxygen if he could speak

Time passes strangely in the interior of the van. It stretches like a rubberband, but one that never stops and snaps back into place.

It's worse than the caves- after- here there's no fresh air, and there's nothing to break up the dread he feels. In the caves he was in worse shape, had been- but he had been moving.

There is nothing more that he hates than inaction. Being trapped.

He rolls over onto his back, not remembering when he'd rolled into his side. Cluemaster is out again, the wound on his head bleeding sluggishly.

There's something above him- a noise. Constant. Loud.

-

A thud.

Idly, Tim remembers the grate on the ceiling. The one that he'd closed- so as to not let the concrete flood the truck.

And then there's light. A shearing sound of metal being torn away from the top of the roof, and it comes streaming in- bright LED focused into one little spot. A flashlight.

Then a hand is extended to him from near that spot of light, fingers unfurling as it comes down. The divots between are just big enough for Tim's fingers to latch into.

It's reaching for him, Tim realizes.

He takes a deep breath, feels cool, fresh air, stumbles to his feet and he takes it.

-

Stephanie saves him, is the thing. Tim is not dragging himself out of a cave and into a graveyard. It's not lonely trek to the surface- strewing in his own thoughts- Stephanie saves him.

And that's the whole point. That's the whole point of everything, isn't it?

She peels that grate off with a crowbar and yanks him out, and it's the hazy hours of the day just before the morning arrives, which means Tim is probably in trouble- but his dad's ire for sneaking is a concern that's far away because he's alive and that matters more.

She whips her mask off as she looks him over. She looks worried. Tim supposes it's just them, so it doesn't matter that he can see her plain face now.

And her dad is there too, but he's unconscious, and knows who she is anyways. Tim doesn't really care.

Tim is loopy still when he kisses her, desperate for it.

It's not romantic, exactly, not sexual, either. Just a ball of nerves and fear and gratefulness that she had saved his life that compels him foward.

Stephanie makes a sound against him in surprise- going still. Tim freezes, wondering if he's gone too far, their lips awkward against each other in their unassuredness. But then she comes back to him, slowly returning. She's there, and she comes back, and she saves him, and is kissing him with a little too much force, but, admittedly, more finesse.

They break away.

"Didn't know you had it in you, birdie," She says.

They clamber up the hill in the concrete she has apparently, actually jackhammered away. Tim takes in the empty construction site around him, the equipment strewn about, and the car they stole hours ago parked a few feet away from the concrete box in the ground.

There's two more boxes- one is empty and the other had been drilled through.

"I got one of the vans down," Steph says, "but the other two were just driving away, and I couldn't find you-" She sucks in a breath. "I found the car where we left it, eventually, found some of the goons coming back for it, and I made 'em fess up. Figured out what happened as soon as I got here."

Tim looks back at Arthur Brown. The hole on top will be too small for him to climb out, but he'll be able to breathe-

Then he's back on top of Stephanie, lips cradhing against her. Awkward, desperate, his heart pumping with fresh oxygen all of a sudden.

He points to the car, her wide eyes follow the motion, and she nods and-

He starts crying when she starts fiddling with the zipper on the back of her costume. He tries to focus away from it.

It's…

He can't stop it.

He barely knows her. The adrenaline crashes around him like a bunch of symbals hitting the walla and floor.

He shakes his head, pulling away from her, into v the seat.

Stephanie leans back, and turns the lights on. Tim's first thought is the car battery, that it could die if they leave it on top long.

But then there's more important things to be focused on- ones that require the light be on.

"Fuck," Stephanie says, sounding like her dad. Her hands lower back down. "You know, the terrible thing is- this isn't the first time this has happened to me."

Tim sighs. He's beneath her on the back seat of the car, and he can't get out, and he feels trapped there, and it just makes it all worse.

She curses, but her hands come up to his shoulders in a steadying motion.

"Alright, alright, sit up, near-death experience, that makes people act weird, it's fine," she tells him, and yanks him into a sitting position, scuttling off his lap so they're both just sitting in the back seat of the car. "What do I do here?" She asks. "I've had boys cry on me- under me, whatever- but I never wanted to comfort them before."

She continues ranting, somewhat awkwardly, sounding a little pissed off, and seemingly- she's trying to figure out how to comfort him.

The adhesive gives way and lets a few real tears finally slip from underneath the mask- the fluid begins turning the mask tacky.

Embarrassed, Tim wipes at his face, then motions I'm sorry to her. She doesn't understand.

"I know you can't answer that," She says. "Damn."

After a moment she reaches out, her hand lands on his shoulder. "Well, hey," She says. "You can cry on my shoulder if you want? Suit isn't waterproof, but I don't care. It's gotta go in the wash, anyways, you can get snot on me, Rob."

It's-

Tim shouldn't, but Tim does it anyways. He leans forward into the fabric of her suit until his forehead is pressed into her skinny, but muscular shoulder, and he cries there. The fabric is soaked in an instant.

Not enough, and more than enough, Stephanie's hand- her hand, not a glove- buries into his hair and holds him tighter to her.

"We're not dating or something now," She says, firmly, sounding Tim's age. "I'm helping you cry this out platonically."

Tim nods.

"But if you're still down for making out later, way, way later, it's a maybe," She says. Tim snuffles a sort of laugh into the cotton beneath him. "Maybe. A hard maybe. I don't find crying super attractive. Sorry, man."

A pat on the back of his head.

"But, maybe," She says, and then sighs. "I really didn't expect my night to go like this."

And it is imperfect, and it is fine. Good, even.

The night cascades down on him with unbearable weight, and Tim cries into her shoulder until he's out of tears. It takes a long time.

Chapter Text

Cluemaster’s pulse thrums a faint but certain tempo beneath Tim’s fingers, and when Tim communicates this to Stephanie with a nod, her shoulders sag in either relief or disappointment. Possibly both.

There’s something like justice in dragging Cluemaster to some construction equipment and zip-tying him up there. There’s also a sense of pettiness. But, whatever, Tim thinks, he doesn't have to justify it.

Yeah. Whatever- there’s a certain casualness to this thought which is nice.

Tim still leaves one of Cluemaster’s hands free from the handcuffs, and, before they go, Tim wrestles a water bottle out of his backpack and lays it by the man’s feet. Stephanie calls the police, but as overworked as they supposedly are, and as little as they care, Tim does not trust them to show up before Arthur dehydrates.

The two of them drive back to the garage for his bike. It's mercifully intact, which is good because he has to get home about an hour ago.

Tim walks it down, the tires clang on the metal stairs of the staircase. This is not the only sound, but all the sounds there are those of in-between places. Electricity. A slight breeze. Until Stephanie begins humming. It might be Take Me Home, Country Roads, he's not sure, it’s a poor rendition of something– a little too faint and off key to make out what it is for sure.

She doesn't seem to care for silence much and Tim finds that he likes this about her.

“So…” Stephanie clears her throat. “Where do you wanna go? I mean, I gotta get home. You can... come with me, if you want. If you need a place to stay?”

Tim is surprised for a long minute, he hadn't expected the question. Or her offer.

He briefly considers the proposition like it's possible. Imagines it. It's a little mean joke with himself. Stephanie Brown’s suburban townhouse, with a carpeted staircase and family photos on the wall. They could sleep with a pillow between them, or him on the floor, or the couch, or something. He’d scramble out of her window in the morning like a shitty boyfriend in a teen movie.

It's what he'd done with Ariana. He'd convinced himself she thought it was fun– now he realizes, the secrecy probably worried her.

He can imagine doing it again because Stephanie is easy to be around. She’s got the kind of personality that is obnoxious in a great way. Tim likes it. She’s loud and funny and talks to fill the space for both of them without commandeering it.

It helps that she’s his age and she just sort of gets him in the same way that he gets her. Like how sometimes people just stick together. Like velcro. They make sense together without doing a lot of thinking

But reality weighs on him. Lets itself be known.

He has to get home. He has to re-arm the security system and pretend for his Dad that he hasn’t had anything but a normal night.

Tim will sleep alone, he’ll stumble out of his room at two PM, like he'd stayed up to watch TV. His dad will ask him how he slept. Tim will sign something to communicate good, fine, okay, and Tim won't tell him anything else.

Besides, if Tim spends any more time with Stephanie, stewing in his rebelliousness, he might be tempted to take his mask off in front of her... and he doesn’t even know if Stephanie feels the same way he does. That ease. The velcro…

He considers he doesn't really know what she's thinking at all. He wonders if she pities him. Here he is: looking lost, uncoordinated. His voice gone.

He shakes his head, and she looks disappointed.

"I’m not trying to be weird, It’s just…" She eyes him again, then swallows. "Batman is, like, going crazy right now? And I think he might be your dad? I never got how the whole thing worked between you two but that’s what I thought because he’s a grown-ass man and you’re, like, my age- are you my age? You are, right? Or we should revisit the kissing thing. Anyways, he’s going batty and you suddenly can't talk… so…”

She says everything like it's a question. She's wants an answer that Tim doesn't have the permission or ability to give her, even if he has the desire.

Tim's eyes go wide and he shakes his head again. He looks at her and finds he can't quite come up with the correct expression to respond with.

Her words elicit a bad feeling. Hollow, guilty, sad. His mouth stays in a straight line, his eyes still hidden.

"Okay," She says. "But you're safe?"

Tim nods.

He points to her.

"What?" She asks.

He huffs soundlessly. Makes the words with his hands.

"I never learned ASL."

Tim shakes his head. He's frustrated, but not angry. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. He types a message in the notes app and then shows it to her.

"Oh?" She squints. "Yeah, I'm safe. Why wouldn't I be?"

Dad? He asks, using the same method.

Stephanie snorts. "My Dad's only a threat to himself. He doesn't…" she kicks a piece of loose concrete. "He doesn't exactly visit. He broke out of prison for no one but himself.”

Tim takes a long look at her. He's been looking at her all night- cataloging the things he didn't have time to realize the first time he met her. The way the hair at her roots was a little darker, but not like she lightened it and let it grow out, more like because it hadn't seen as much sun yet. The way her hands kinda fly about as she speaks.

"Yeah," She says. She lets a long stream of air from between pursed lips. "Guess that's it, huh, Robbie?"

He nods.

But then, he thinks of the night in full- sprinting along the rafters and engines roaring like caged beneath. The hours of darkness they'd been traipsing about. The van. Her hand extending from a spot of light above.

The sky is lightening behind Stephanie like the sun is about to rise- and he is suddenly aware that this could be the last time he sees her and that–

He will miss her. Miss the opportunity presented to him now if he doesn't take it.

Cluemaster would probably have a harder time escaping from jail a second time and without her father causing trouble Stephanie would have no reason to go out as a vigilante.

There would be no easy way to fall into her life without the pretense of their costumes. There is no guarantee she'd ever want to hang out with Tim Drake without it, and, he decides, rebellious, rebellious, he wants to see more of her.

The conviction makes a terrible idea come to mind.

It had first occurred to him much earlier that night when they were driving and she'd leaned out the window and everything around them was chaos and disorder. Amidst that, the thought first occurred. His heart leaps when he remembers it.

He raises his phone and asks through it, tonight?

Stephanie stares.

"What's tonight?"

Tim pauses. After a minute, he points at her and then to himself.

"Okay," She says. And she smiles. It stretches into her cheeks. "Whatever the fuck that means. I’m down."

-

Tim sleeps alone. His Dad reacts accordingly when Tim tells him he's stayed up late playing games. His dad says it's good to see him doing things he likes again.

Tim feels bad. He's been feeling that way more often about lying to his father.

He knows his dad is trying. He knows.

Tim parks his bike on the street, and hopes that Stephanie’s neighborhood is domestic enough that no one steals it.

Stephanie’s room is sort of plain, but comfortable. On her walls are a few sports team posters. She’s got a gymnastics trophy above her bed. A lot of clothes on the floor. A cheap Polaroid camera on her desk.

Tim has never seen her in the state he is seeing her now. Her hair is loose and long and freshly washed, still damp where it falls across her shoulders. It's bunching up the more it dries, and as she runs about, (showing Tim a little box of knick knacks under the bed, a picture of her father and her when she was 6, him holding her up as she blows out some birthday candles,) her hair leaves little curly trails of water on her loose t-shirt. She’s wearing pajama pants with a character he doesn’t recognize printed across the front.

“Early,” She notes, after he clambers through the windowsill. “I didn’t expect you ‘till later.”

He’s in the same clothes as yesterday, not yet washed, but he’d made sure they didn’t smell, and he feels like an intruder in the normalness of her room.

“You good?” She asks as she goes to her closet. Tim doesn’t respond.

She pushes the sliding mirrored doors to one side, then puts one hand on the closet rod and one foot on a shoe rack and lifts herself towards the ceiling. Some clambering later, her hand disappears above the doorframe, and it returns with a rope wrapped around her palm.

She yanks hard and a section of the ceiling comes down, revealing a small space between the ceiling and the roof. She takes out the bundle of purple and blue fabric which is her spoiler costume and she throws it on a pile of clothes already on the ground. It lands with just a soft thump.

Tim stares at it. She closes the ceiling back up and hops back to the ground.

Tim moves to use the restroom, and she asks: “What are you doing?”

He points to the clothes, then to her.

“Uh…” Her eyebrows knit together on her forehead, “Why would you stand in the bathroom while I’m changing?” She asks. A beat. Then: “Oh.” She snorts. Tim feels sort of mocked and stupid. “I’m not- I’ll change in the bathroom. You don’t have to go and stand in there while I’m changing, that’d be stupid.”

She moves to gather all the clothes back up. Tim returns to his spot by the window, and, feeling paranoid, he pulls the blinds down.

She tells him thanks, I always forget, as she closes the bathroom door.

Tim wedges his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor. A cheap mirror hangs on the back of the bathroom door, reflecting back at him—slightly distorted but recognizable. He looks a little out of place in his gear in the mundane setting of Stephanie's bedroom. But she hasn’t said anything about it, so he supposes it’s fine.

When Stephanie steps out, she leans casually against the doorframe. Her Spoiler costume lookss upgraded from the last time he saw it. The gloves, no longer cheap, gardening gloves, are military-grade—still spray-painted aqua, with a few spots missed between the fingers. She’s added a new leg pouch too. Small but noticeable improvements. Her mask is in her hand.

“How do I look?” she asks.

Tim gives her a thumbs up. She comes and stands next to him, checking herself out in the mirror, “Well, we look like vigilantes,” she grins.

Her expression suddenly brightens, but then she winces. She bites her lower lip between her teeth like she’s nervous.

Then she says: “So… Robin… I don’t know how you feel about pictures. I’m not much of a picture person, but my mom- she thought I needed a pick-me-up after my Dad broke out, you know. I know you’re like, paranoid, or whatever but I… have a Polaroid camera? It wouldn’t be digital at all? Just for me.”

Tim nods, so she rushes over to her desk for the camera. They stand in the mirror together. She turns it on and faces the lens towards the mirror, then lowers it, twists it, raises it, and lowers it again.

She huffs, growing more frustrated every time the shot doesn’t look right.

“I’m no good at this,” She huffs.

Tim softly touches her hand on the camera, she stops fiddling. He opens his palm to direct her to hand it over.

She hesitates like she’s not sure that’s what he wants, but then she places the camera in his hand. He flicks the picture setting to indoors, mourning the fact that he doesn’t have his film camera and his fancy ISO settings.

He touches her shoulder to turn her a little to the side, and face the mirror more, then mirrors her pose.

He takes the picture, waits for it to print, then, after directing her to stay still a moment longer, takes a second.

He pockets the second one, zips it safe, and she watches the motion with wide eyes.

“Um,” She points to his pocket. “You’re not going to show Batman right?”

Tim shakes his head. It will only join the collection of things he won’t tell Bruce.

Funny, Tim thinks, he takes a lot fewer pictures these days, and he has very few of himself in the Robin costume. Certainly not as many as he does of Dick and Jason. He never really thinks of taking pictures of himself.

But maybe he should. The light, barely-there presence of the picture in his pocket makes his chest feel warm and large. He realizes, the way someone takes a sharp breath, that he has no pictures of himself as a vigilante. This will be the first one.

Out of curiosity, he looks at Stephanie’s picture over her shoulder. It’s half-developed, just impressions of the two of them. He looks at his face for a long time, watching as the color grows more saturated, and he thinks: there’s something off about it.

It’s that he’s smiling. He hadn’t meant to.

“Okay,” Stephanie says, still looking at the picture with huge eyes. She clears her throat like something is stuck in there, and she says, “I’m going to put this up, then we can- we can go.”

Tim gives her a thumbs up.

"I can’t believe I have a picture,” She says under her breath, as they clamber out of her window a minute later.

With a resolution Tim can only hope for, she smirks, and punches his shoulder, and shouts: “This is gonna be so cool!” And she follows as Tim drops to the green lawn below.

-

Tim shows her how to keep momentum when grappling, but they don’t do this for too long because she’s the only one with a grapple. They grapple together after this, and Tim feels his face get warm when she directs his hand around her waist for support.

It's not that romantic. He still blushes. Human contact is good and grounding. Tim is human and he likes her.

A grapple is really only meant for one person, and isn't supposed to be used this way, but once they get the hang of it, it's good fun. Their fingers wind around each other's as they grip the handle of the gun. Stephanie whoops and whistles and laughs with her head thrown back against the wind, even as Tim's energy starts to falter.

She shows him that she can do a cartwheel with no hands. Tim tries to do the same and fails. He's embarrassed, but she's not mean about it.

He shows her his favorite spot to sit on patrols, and she doesn’t know that it’s his favorite spot because he can’t tell her, but she tells him she likes it there, and Tim thinks it doesn't so much matter if she knows the details.

Details are important to Tim, but he has to make priorities when it comes to communicating with others. There's only so much he can say.

His favorite spot is this apartment complex in Little Italy. Clotheslines spread out like spiderwebs between neighboring buildings. Balconies spill over with life: lawn chairs, plants, fairy lights on the railing. Tim sometimes spends time here, and tries to test his memory by recalling the different pieces of clothing he can see. A red blouse with a flower embroidered on the collar, a pair of old work jeans, a lone child's sock with dinosaurs printed on it.

Stephanie calls it’s homey.

Tim would’ve said it’s peaceful in the way a lived-in place is. Homey is a much simpler description. Apt in a way his isn't. To the point.

Tim pulls out his police scanner from his backpack and turns it on once they’re fully settled. There's plenty of chatter– Gotham is still a mess without Batman.

As they wait for something that’s important enough for them to head out, Stephanie says, "You know, I love this place. My mom's been talking about moving, but I say 'fuck that'."

Tim agrees immediately. Her words strike a chord. Something wound tightly inside of him.

Tim loves Gotham too. He knows its nice parts. And he knows its many ugly parts. And he still loves it.

She says, "I just can't imagine not living here."

Tim nods in response. points to himself.

"You... uh. You want to move? No? You too?"

He nods again.

It is difficult to a dream. A world where he never lived in Gotham– did not feel its cruelties, or its kindnesses.

So he doesn't dream of it. He's a permanent fixture in this city, and this is as much his decision, as it is just the way it must be.

"Right? Like, fuck it, it's home," she says. "You know?"

Tim makes the list in his head of where he could live. Seattle, London, Athens. But Stephanie is right, these places would never be home.

After a while, the place where someone lives becomes a part of who they are. The backdrop that everything takes place on is part of the image of someone’s life. A story in Seattle and a story in Gotham, even if all the events are the same, are not the same story.

Up so high, the wind is constant and hard, and it blows through them. After a particularly hard gust, Stephanie doesn’t say anything but she moves closer, like she’s chasing his body heat. When Stephanie swings her legs over the edge of the roof and kicks them back and forth, Tim sidles up next to her and does the same. The radio scanner crackles with voices behind them. Car thefts and robberies. White noise for now.

“Can I tell you something, Robbie?” Stephanie asks, and when he doesn’t say no, she continues. “This is fun. This is way better than what I was going to do tonight.”

Tim tilts his head in question.

"I was going to go on a date. He's not my boyfriend or anything. I don't do those. He just asked me out and I said yes. But I shouldn't have, cause I didn't like him. Do you think…” She shook her head, “Never mind.”

Tim pushes his luck and gestures for her to keep going.

"No, it's..." She sighs, looks at her knees. “Do you think that makes me a bad person, Robin?”

Tim shakes his head. He digs his phone out of his pocket. She watches him intently as his thumbs swipe across the keyboard. No. he types. I’m the same..

She laughs and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Sure are, buddy,” She laughs again. When her amusement exhausts itself, she looks pointedly at the place his mask meets his cheek. “And I don't even know your name.”

Tim flushes at the closeness. The whole thing feels nice; teenagery. Calm and intimate. So without expectation, and everything comes with expectation these days.

Behind them, the radio says a lot of things Tim doesn’t pay attention to, but then he hears Batman, and the moment breaks like a crumbly pastry when someone tries to halve it.

He wants so desperately to prolong the moment with Stephanie. Let it stretch as long as feels natural.

Batman, Batman, Batman. It’s always Batman. Tim accepts this like he has every time before, fishes up the police scanner, and tucks it into his belt loop.

Tim aims the grappling gun at the building immediately to their side and offers his arm to Stephanie. She steps forward so he can wrap it tight around her. Maybe, if Tim could speak, he’d say some corny line like do you trust me? But without this ability, he doesn’t need to say it, and she doesn’t need to answer, they just lean off the side of the building, and they fall.

-

It’s mostly officer Bullock speaking, Tim would recognize his voice anywhere. Bullock was one of the officers Tim dealt with the most, and while Tim didn’t particularly like any member of the force- at least Bullock was transparenty an asshole. He didn't bother to hide it.

As they fall, and the grapple propels them into a swing, Tim catalogues what he can hear over the rushing wind. Batman and Scarecrow are fighting– but no one can get close.

They're halfway there, when the ghastly phantom of Scarecrow’s face rises behind the curtain of Stephanie’s hair whipping around in the wind.

An illusion. A ball of gas and light that made it look like a huge version of Scarecrow was hovering above the skyline. Scarecrow did so have his sense for theatrics.

The slit of its mouth opens, pulling at the seams of the burlap face and a green fog spills out from between its lips.

Tim stops at the next building.

Tim pulls two respirators off his belt. In the Robin costume he carried three, sometimes more if he knew he’d be facing someone like Scarecrow, but for now two would have to be enough.

Stephanie can’t fit the device under her mask. Tim offers her his one backup eye mask, too. He brings out a bottle of adhesive, and shows her how to use it. She presses the mask to her face, marveling at it.

“Thanks, wow, I look like a member of the team,” Stephanie says and snaps the strap of the respirator behind her neck, but doesn’t bring it over her mouth. “I’m gonna put it on when we get close,” she explains, “Don’t need my breathing fucked up until then.”

Tim shakes his head, and points to the dissapating cloud of gas that used to be Scarecrow’s face. All his features were starting to curl and mangle.

She puts it on at his urging. Tim breathes a sigh of relief. Stephanie's syncopated breathing through the respirator at least calms his nerves a little.

They follow the radio and the wisps of the scattering cloud that used to be Scarecrow to downtown. They'd already been able to hear the screaming for miles.

The world looks different here. Fear gas has this look to it, turns the air sweet smelling and yellow. Like a filter over a photograph.

The world below has descended into chaos.

On just the street where they’ve stopped, Tim takes in the damage. One car sits smoking and idling on the curb, its hood popped open to show its crushed engine to the world.

Tim is relieved to watch the owner open the door and stumble blindly onto the sidewalk.

Nearby, a woman leans out of her apartment window and yells about how God she is sorry, so sorry,. For a moment, he's scared she's going to jump, but she ends up collapsing inwards to the floor of her apartment in a fit.

Tim can't think about it. Next.

What was good about fear gas was that the panic it caused was usually not active, at the very least.

Personal reactions varied, as did the strains Crane cooked up, but generally people panicked quietly, personally. Their visions trapped them into a lonely world of horror, not any less traumatic for the individual, but it meant it caused less external trauma and destruction.

Usually the hallucinations caused by the fear gas did not extend into real world actions beyond screaming. A few car crashes. Things caused by the failure of the mind.

Usually.

This time it seemed, Crane didn’t just want fear, he wanted panic. Anger. It rolls through the streets.

Two women smash into each other– tearing at each other's faces, aimlessly trying to hurt and kill.

Tim clambers down the side of the building as he watches a young man, probably less than twenty-five, pull a gun out of his pants and tries to ready a shot towards nothing.

With no antidote, or any lab to cook one up, Tim has no way to stop the man except to wrestle the gun away.

The man fights back, he's big, but his movements are sloppy, and it’s obvious he can’t quite see Tim. Tim unloads the bullets and tosses the gun in a trash can to get rid of it. He shoves it underneath the top layer of trash and hopes that's enough to hide it.

The man roars and charges towards him. Tim elbows him in the neck, and he falls to the floor gasping.

Stephanie is there a moment later, and Tim motions for her to follow him to the pileup in the road. A silver sedan first. Tim checks the pulse of a driver collapsed into a deployed air bag and finds her alive.

Stephanie quickly figures out what he’s doing and heads to another car.

Tim undoes the woman’s seatbelt and pulls her out from the mass of airbag currently trying to smother her to death. He swings his arm around her shoulder to lift her, and at the contact she struggles wildly. She gnashes be teeth at him. Tim keeps the hold on even as she attempts to bite off his ear.

He lays her down into the back seat of the car.

Don’t move, he thinks. Please don’t move.

Stephanie seems to have gotten the worse straw. The front of the van is folded inwards. Stephsnie is gingerly lifting a baby seat from the car– when it suddenly wakes and begins to cry.

The baby wails fiercely, little body seizing, face red like a tomato. It's mouth opens impossibly wide, and the noise it let's out scratches at its young throat. It sounds like something in a movie. Small feet kick at Stephanie's hands– he sees her pause, shocked and horrified.

Tim rushes over. She breathes out a thanks as he takes the carrier. Sorry, says, I'm not good with kids, and Tim just jerks his head towards the car where another kid is beating his feet over and over into the driver’s seat. The man who is probably the father, slumped over the steering wheel, doesn’t move.

Tim checks the infant for injuries. Wishes he can do something more . He has to just– leave it.

Stephanie has dragged the other kid screaming out of the car, and while she seems frustrated as the tyke tries to bite her arm, she doesn’t seem as overwhelmed as she had been with the baby. Tim leaves her to it. Tim checks the pulse of the father, and finds it thready, but present. Tim decides it might be better not to move him– in case he rattles something loose.

There's all too much happening. A million problems that need fixing. It's easy when he focuses on one thing. But when he steps back– The windows of the shops each have become their own diorama of chaos. Like each is a play full of angry, unwilling actors. Shadows manically run across shuttered curtains in the apartments.

Tim feels so small, against this.

As he takes in the scale of the chaos, something new suddenly flashes from the corner of his eye.

A person. A costume he does not immediately recognize. They move along the shadows.

It isn’t Azrael, and it isn’t Scarecrow- but it is someone, and they're moving fast.

Tim decides to follow on the street. He grabs Stephanie by the wrist as he passes her, and lets go only once she has fallen in line behind him.

The figure moves around another corner, and Tim chases, not stopping to answer Stephanie’s questions. He can't really hear them too well, anyway, not over the sound of people and sirens and the hissing of her respirator.

Another corner. Tim and Stephanie manuever their way around a mass of panicking thirty year old men in suits- looking like they'd just stumbled out of a business meeting. Tim feels his respirator straining to keep up with his breathing. The police scanner crackles- Bullock says something. The next turn-

Tim stops.

At the top of a high rise, Tim can just barely see him, but he’s there: The small, but somehow still imposing outline of Azrael grips Scarecrow by the throat and then tosses the villain across the roof.

Behind Azrael, another figure, the one he'd followed here.

Anarky. Tim realizes, a second later.

One more person stands at the very edge of the roof. He's wearing a polo shirt and khakis stained with sweat and vomit. He stares off blankly towards the city– pale and sweating. He looked like a civilian.

Stephanie begins to climb before he even makes it all the way there.

“What are you waiting for?” She asks.

But Tim suddenly can’t move.

He checks his respirator, but finds it perfectly intact. He just can’t-

I don’t need you- Tim hears the words reverberate against his skull, I never needed you. I will be Batman without some pathetic excuse for a sidekick.

In desperation, Tim checks the respirator a second time.

I’m not going to kill you, Azrael says, and the latches come undone, and they will fear me like they never feared him. His hand squeezes in warning around Tim’s throat. Tim can’t see, darkness fills his vision. In the present, Scarecrow flies across the roof. In the past, Tim hits the gas pedal, and he is flying again, weightless, and he can’t breathe and-

He’s there again, and he can’t breathe, and

“Robin!”

Someone shakes his shoulders. He can’t see Stephanie’s face from behind her mask, but he hears the concern in her face as she yells.

“R-O-B-I-N,” She spells out, “Robin. Hey, man. Did something happen to your mask?”

Tim shakes his head, his thoughts flying all around him, and gives her a shaky thumbs up.

“You sure?” She asks.

He nods, more firmly this time.

This small amount of clarity comes just in time. The man, the civilian tetering on the edge of the roof launches himself forward to his death.

Anarky jumps off the building after him.

Tim’s heart leaps into his throat as he watches the teenager plunge. He reaches for his belt– a line of cable shoots off and hooks onto something up above..

The boy isn’t as trained as either Tim, or even Stephanie, but he’s obviously become a bit more physically competent from his time at Juvie.

Anarky catches the man just before they hit the ground. Colliding with him hard enough the man shouts in pain.

He goes limp sometime between Anarky catching him, and Anarky safely walking the both of them down the building, to the safety of the flat pavement.

The teen rolls the man he'd saved off his stomach, and the man doesn't make a sound– unconscious.

Tim watches as Lonnie Machin, mask knocked off, stands before him. His long, reddish hair, flows loose behind him. Despite the stylish, flat respirator the teenager wears that covers some of his face, and all the growing up he's done, Tim still recognizes him easily.

The last time Tim hac faced off with Lonnie, and sent him to juvie, they had been the same height. But now, Lonnie stands a couple of inches taller. Tim clicks his tongue in frustration at the realization, an odd, inappropriate detail to notice given the situation. Tim just wishes it was his chance to get taller than his peers.

Anarky turns towards them both. He looks at Stephanie briefly, and then at Tim for a much longer time.

“You-” Anarky begins.

Tim shakes his head. There isn’t time. Azrael hooks his line to the edge of the rooftop and leaps off, but Anarky isn't paying attention.

“You’re Robin,” Anarky says, and Tim wants to punch his stupid face in, but finds himself unable to move again as Azrael’s armor, gleaming in the moonlight, continues its quick descent.

Lonnie’s slanted eyes turn towards Stephanie. “And who might you be? The newest addition? I should warn you, you should get out before you too become an accessory to their crimes against society-”

Azrael lands with a heavy thud just a few feet behind Anarky, his cape billowing as he releases the line and it reels in. A predator closing in on its prey.

His presence is undeniable, like a storm about to break. Anarky spins to face him, but there’s no time.

Inhumanly quick, Azrael steps forward, his gauntlet-covered hand grabbing the front of Anarky’s shirt.

"You want to interfere?" Azrael asks. His tone is lethal. "You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into."

Anarky struggles, indignant, "You were going to let that man die!"

Azrael doesn’t even flinch. “Scarecrow’s mine,” Azrael says. “I don’t have patience for children playing at justice."

Anarky’s respirator hisses as he gasps for breath, the weight of Azrael's hand making it difficult for him to respond. Tim knows how this feels.

"Maybe I’m not the one playing," Lonnie spits.

A gauntlet rears back, claws extending.

But Azrael gets distracted. Something catches his eye.

-

It’s Tim.

The red line of his visor cuts a line to Tim from across the street. The demon, and his raised claws, stall. His hand loosens just enough that Anarky sucks in a raspy breath.

Azrael huffs a laugh, but there's no mirth in it, and drops Anarky. The boy coughs and huffs.

“Tim,” Azrael says aloud. Tim winces at the use of his name. “I should’ve known he’d be your friend. And,” His visor turns to Stephanie. “Is that Spoiler? Really?”

Tim reaches out to pull Stephanie behind him.

His mind fizzles. Careful engineering breaks and collapses. Tim tightens his grip on Stephanie.

Azrael takes a step forward, then another. Tim feels the weight of Azrael's stare. It is the only thing he can feel.

Tim steps back in turn.

Latches come undone. Jean-Paul’s face twists with an alien expression, blonde hair tickling his nose, the leather seats of the batmobile.

The car hits the wall.

“Hey, asshole,” Stephanie says from behind him. “I don’t know who you are, but you're not Batman. And I have never seen that guy,” She points to Anarky, where he is beginning to stumble to his feet. “In my life. So don’t go blaming us for whatever stupid shit he did.”

Azrael makes an unimpressed noise. “I don’t like liars,” he says.

Tim turns towards Stephanie and he pushes at her shoulder.

“What?” She asks.

Tim pushes again, and he motions with his head back the way they came.

She looks almost offended. “Oh, I am not leaving you here! Are you serious?”

Tim just keeps looking at her.

Behind them, Anarky groans, pushing himself up from the concrete wall where Azrael threw him. "You’re all the same," Lonnie mutters, tone deaf as ever, staggering to his feet. "Fighting for control of a system that’s already broken."

Azrael’s attention shifts towards Anarky, just slightly, and Tim seizes the moment. Tim pushes Stephanie back and lunges, whipping his bo-staff off his belt. It extends and clicks into place, and he rushes forward. He swings the staff in a wide arc, aiming for the vulnerable joint in Azrael's armored knee-

The strike connects with a sharp crack, Azrael barely flinches- Tim had expected as much. The man’s hand snaps out with inhuman speed, grabbing Tim by the wrist before he can retreat.

"Is it that you want to be like him? So disfigured you can no longer fight?"

Azrael squeezes, and Tim’s mouth opens in noiseless pain.

“What’s the matter, Tim? Something got your tongue?”

Tim yanks at his wrist, but all this does is earn him another squeeze. Tim’s face flushed in humiliation at how close Azrael’s words were to the truth.

Azrael waits for his reply. Tim gives none.

“You really can’t talk, can you?” Azrael says. The visor raises to his neck, and Tim hears a shocked "Did I... ?"

But the moment of awareness doesn't last. Azrael clutches at his head in sudden pain and there Tim goes.

The air, thick with fear gas, whips around him as he flies.

Tim bounces across the pavement. He slams into something. His bones rattle. His brain knocks against his skull.

-

When Tim open his eyes again, he finds he can’t move. The world around him spins and spins. The pavement is rough beneath him, and his clothing has torn away in a few places the makeshift kevlar plating didn't protect, leaving his skin raw against the asphalt.

Why had he brought Stephanie?

He watches through dazed eyes as Azrael approaches her, she moves with the desperation of a cornered animal.

Lonnie says something, Azrael turns abruptly and approaches him instead. Then– Stephanie says something, a small chunk of pavement bounces off Azrael's visor. Azrael turns to her, and her arm is outstetched–

Lonnie shouts. Azrael grabs at his head, frustrated.

They're playing cat and mouse, Tim realizes.

Clever. But not enough.

Azrael loses patience, and rushes Anarky.

Stephanie comes in behind him, she's gathering Tim’s bo-staff off the ground, but she doesn’t know how to use it, and Azrael easily smacks her down into the pavement without even turning to see her.

Tim needs to move, he knows that. He needs to help./p> Azrael was supposed to be Tim’s problem. His to keep in check, and his to solve.

Tim glances behind him, to see what he's leaning up against, and recognition sparks in his mind. The sleek black surface of the batmobile gleams under the streetlights. He runs a hand along the surface to find the door handle– There. He peels away his glove so he can press his thumb against the built in scanner. A hiss of air as it unlocks, and he weakly pulls the door open. -

Just like before, Tim tells himself. Immovable object. Unstoppable force.

Immovable object, he thinks.

Unstoppable force.

Tim grits his teeth, hard. His fingers are so tight around the steering wheel his entire hand looks bone-white. He slams his foot onto the pedal, and the Batmobile roars forward.

The sound that is made as the Batmobile slams into Azrael’s body is like no other.

Azrael goes skidding across the pavement and Tim feels nothing but satisfaction.

Tim revs the engine. Stephanie’s eyes widen and she scrambles toward the car, dragging a confused Anarky along behind her.

Anarky says something whiny in protest, but Stephanie yells something at him and points to the prone Azrael on the ground. They both clamber into the back seats, breathing hard. Stephanie has a

“Robin, that was fucking—” Stephanie starts, but the words die in her throat when they hear the sound of metal scraping against the pavement. Azrael.

Azrael’s massive frame rises from the ground, his visor cracked but still glowing.

Tim’s hand trembles on the wheel, but there’s no time to think, and nothing to think about. He remembers the last time he was in this car- remembers, remembers everything

He slams his foot on the gas again, but Azrael is faster.

As Tim tries to drive into him once more, Azrael dodges to the side. A gauntlet shatters through the driver’s side window.

Stronger than the bulletproof glass. As the hand retreats, it brings Tim with it.

Tim casts a glance at the car. It spins wildly without a driver– but one of the others must grab the wheel because the car stops and manages to stay upright.

Tim doesn’t have time to celebrate that the other two are okay.

His respirator is yanked free from his face.

Tim tries holding his breath, but he can’t help the sound of pain that escapes as Azrael tears his mask from his face, too. The adhesive is designed to stick under almost any conditions- but under enough force, a lot of force, it will come undone as to protect the skin of the wearer. It still hurts. Leaves his face pink and raw.

Tim finds himself falling. He curls up on the pavement. Closes his eyes.

"Pathetic," Azrael sneers, visor flickering with malfunctioning light. "Did you think that would stop me?"

There’s a loud, sudden hiss. A hot ball of orange light slams into Azrael’s visor.

A flare.

Tim knows the batmobile well, knows that sound, and he shuts his eyes just in time.

But the explosion of light from the flare blinds Azrael.

The monster stumbles backward, clawing at his visor wildly.

“Robin! We have to go now!” Stephanie shouts, leaping out of the car and rushing to his side. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him towards the open door.

Tim lets her help him, her words already starting to sound swirly and wrong.

A world away he hears Anarky, Lonnie, say "I can drive," from the passenger seat, his voice oddly calm despite everything. Tim can still hear that shakiness to it, though, and oh God, he’s lying, Tim thinks, he’s going to kill us all. "Let me."

Stephanie’s hands are shaking on the wheel, and she nods, quickly scrambling over the console to let Lonnie take control. The engine revs. Tim hears screaming.

Tim's breath is ragged with panic. Fear gnaws at the edges of his mind.

This is not his first time with fear gas. But he still hopes it will be his last. He becomes suddenly aware he doesn’t even know what happened to Scarecrow- Azrael had come down, and Scarecrow was nowhere to be seen.

He killed him, Tim thinks, Azrael killed Scarecrow, and it’s all my fault. And, shouldn’t I feel worse that he’s dead?

He finds it in himself to flop a limp hand onto Stephanie’s shoulder to get her attention.

“Rob?” She asks, her mask is gone, her eyes are big as moons.

She’s going to hate me after this, Tim thinks. Everyone already hates me. This is all my fault.

“L-Leslie’s,” The word is coarse and dry, and, can they even hear him at all? He can't tell if he's loud enough to be heard, my God, maybe he will never speak again? “Clinic.”

Lonnie leans away from him. He'd gotten close to hear- which meant, well, something came out of Tim's mouth.

But Lonnie shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as he swerves through an alleyway. “I don't know where that is, but rest assured, I've got a plan. My hideout. We’ll be safe there.”

Oh.

Tim is going to die.

Tim’s head lolls back against the seat, the world spinning around him. He tries to fight it, but it’s too late. The fear gas claws its way into his mind, dragging him under. Darkness swallows him whole, like a snake swallows a squirrel. The muscles of ots throat contact around him, and he goes deeper.

And then, nothing.

Nothing he wants to remember, at least. Nothing he wants to recount. Not yet.

-

Lonnie’s bunker turns out to be a warehouse, partitioned with shelves and curtains. Graffiti covers big swaths of the walls. Tim has been set up on a futon and sleeping bag.

Tim awakens to the sound of bickering.

The bickering stops when Tim slowly turns his head towards it.

“Robin!” Stephanie cries. She bounds forward, and into his makeshift bed. He feels the air rush out of him as she crushes him with her weight, and the various aches in his body protest, but he lifts his arms to embrace her.

Lonnie Machin approaches with an expression of curiosity thinly veiled with contempt. “I told you, Stephanie,” Lonnie huffs. “His name is Tim Drake.”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Lonnie frowns. “I know who you are, Tim, we had Channel Four news in juvie.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “I thought you said it was because you, and I quote, ‘kept tabs on all the buregeoise of Gotham’?” She jerked her thumb backwards over her shoulder at Lonnie, as if to tell Tim: get a load of this guy. "And here all he did was keep tabs on a one really big news story."

Tim pats her on the back, and she releases him. He sits up.

Lonnie makes a face Tim has never seen before, and, unprompted, he adds, “I am sorry for your loss, of course.”

At Tim’s evident confusion, he adds, “It would be hard to lose a parent, and especially to have it turned into a public spectacle by our joke of a journalistic enterprise in this city. The gazette wouldn't understand integrity if it hit them with an armored van. They'd be too busy worrying if there was money inside."

Tim doesn’t really appreciate the mention of his mother, especially not right now. But– Anarky isn't exactly a social creature, doesn't know any better.

This is Lonnie’s attempt at making him feel better, probably, so Tim decides it makes him like the other teenager a little better, even if it doesn't make Tim actually feel better.

Tim snorts at Lonnie's stupid joke a second later. Amused with the circumstances more than what he'd said.

“Not you too,” Stephanie moans. “Do you know how hard it is to have a conversation with this guy? Do you know what I sat through waiting for you to wake up?”

“I was enlightening her,” Lonnie says, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. “I speak about the truth and you don't want to hear it.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie shoots him a dirty look. But it's obvious enough time has passed that they've reached a point of being able to make jokes, and the corner of her lips pull up with amusement. “Emphasis on the not wanting to hear it part.”

Lonnie sighs, and turns to leave. “I’m going to make tea.”

“Are you going to make us some?” Stephanie asks.

“Obviously,” Lonnie sounds offended. He straightens the lapels of the bomber jacket he’s wearing with a sass more befitting… anyone else. (Anyone else, if Tim had not just witnessed it.)

They’ve actually both dressed down into civvies, Tim notes. Stephanie’s in what might be Lonnie’s clothes- a pair of jeans and a sweater that are just a bit too big for her. Tim looks down at himself and finds he's wearing a pair of unfamiliar sweatpants and shirt. Panic shoots through his mind, wondering how long it has been, wondering if anyone (else) has seen his face, but-

Then he feels nothing. Fear gas antidote could do that, he remembered, act like a sedative. Combined, often, with the neurological effects of adrenaline comedown, it left a sense of emptiness.

Stephanie sits on the side of the bed and he reaches for her hand. She reaches back, and once their fingers are joined together, this time neither of them with any pretense of being anyone else, he squeezes tight.

He makes sure it's real. Fear gas did this, too. Sometimes it made you feel like everything was okay again, only to take it away.

She squeezes back. Tim decides it feels real enough.

All his secrets stripped away from him... When Stephanie's eyes meet his, the concern there is genuine. Tim can see her with his plain eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Stephanie asks.

Tim shrugs.

He squeezes Stephanie's hand again. Feels skin on skin. A room away, whatever makeshift kitchen that lay beyond the shelves and cloth partitions Lonnie has used in place of walls, a kettle begins to whistle.

Lonnie shouts, asking if Tim would like something with caffeine, and Tim nods urgently. Stephanie relays this message for him. Me too, she says, God I need it.