Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything is loud and the vivid colors are so different from anything Tim has ever experienced. The crowd jostles against him and he holds on tight to his mother’s hand, glad that the public nature of the outing means she’ll let him cling to her even if it means a scolding later. He’s four years old, big enough to walk on his own, but sometimes he wishes his parents would hold his hand and pat his head, even when no one important is looking.

It’s silly and he knows better, but he can’t help it.

His heart races at the excitement of being out with his parents. They’re back in Gotham for three whole days this time! Father seems to be in a good mood for once and that means no loud arguments or slamming doors later, no harsh words or rough handling when Tim inevitably gets in the way or calls attention to himself somehow. He always seems to, no matter how hard he tries to be quiet and unobtrusive.

Maybe if Tim is very, very good, they’ll even extend their stay for another day or two. It’s a little scary when they’re home, his heart in his throat and racing with worry that he’ll do something wrong and upset them, especially if they’re in bad moods, but like this…

He can almost pretend they’re like the families in the books he reads during the long stretches when they’re traveling. His rapt gaze catches on a family nearby, the mother holding one small child wrapped in her arms while the father boosts a slightly bigger child up onto his shoulders. They’re all smiling even though the kids are being loud, yelling and pointing as they squirm in excitement. No one scolds them or grips their shoulders too tight, and the father’s jaw isn’t clenched. Neither are his fists, not even when the child on his shoulders accidentally pulls his hair.

It’s so strange.

Tim blinks and files that mystery away to puzzle over later. Right now, he’s at the circus for the first time ever and he’s planning on having an amazing night. The crowd thickens as they approach the big red and white tent that stands so tall against the night sky, an illuminated and brilliant contrast to the towering black clouds that don’t quite blot out the moon. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he tried.

Several people dressed in bright, flashy colors move past them, walking at a brisk pace. They’re obviously performers and Tim practically vibrates with excitement when he recognizes them as the Flying Graysons. They’re a family act, the mom and dad both world-class acrobats and their son, Dick, well on his way to matching them in caliber and skill.

Tim’s father glances after the Graysons with a measuring look, then puts on a charming grin and calls after them, “Um, excuse us for interrupting, but this is Tim’s first time at the circus. We were wondering if you’d let us take your photo with him?”

Mary Grayson turns with a genuine-looking smile, her gaze softening when she spots Tim. “Of course, we’d be delighted.” Her voice is warm.

It doesn’t seem like any time at all before Tim’s sitting perched on Dick Grayson’s knee and saying “cheese” as the strongman takes their picture, using the phone Tim’s mother hands him.

Dick tousles his hair and says he’ll do a quadruple flip just for him. It’s so exciting, he can barely keep from wiggling.

Tim stares after the Graysons in awe, hand reaching up to softly touch his own hair. Dick’s parents are smiling and talking to their son as they walk away. They all seem so kind and affectionate. He wonders if that’s part of their performance, too, or if they still act like that away from the crowds.

“That will be a good photo to include in the company newsletter,” his mother says, absently shaking Tim off when he tentatively tries to slip his hand back into hers. Well, it was good while it lasted.

He draws his arm back into his side, fingers curling. He tries to comfort himself with the remembered warmth of her hand and Dick’s arms around him when the older boy held him on his lap for the picture.

It doesn’t help. He still feels cold.

It’s not long before they’re seated watching the show, and Tim forgets all about everything else for a while. He’s never felt anything like the effervescent joy that fills him as he watches the Graysons soar and somersault through the air, like gravity has no hold on them.

He’s never felt anything like the horror that washes through him in the moment events prove that thought so terribly, tragically wrong. Gravity takes the Graysons and pulls them down, down, down, their brightly clad bodies hitting the ground with an awful sound he can’t hear because the crowds are screaming—they’re screaming—

Tim’s mother gathers him in her arms and presses his face to her shoulder, and he can smell her sweet perfume and feel the softness of her wavy, golden hair. He can still see the horror-stricken faces around them, hear the shrill, terrified screams, but his mother’s arms are around him and she’s so soft and warm. Just like he always imagined.

He only realizes he’s screaming, too, when his voice starts to hurt. Or maybe that’s the lump in his throat that’s making him cry. Either way, his mother shushes him and he can feel her breath on his hair, his father’s hand on his back like he’s protecting him, too, like he cares.

Tim can’t seem to rip his stricken gaze away from the shrieking, fleeing crowds even as his heart fills with something warm, something timid and hopeful, basking in the comfort of his parents’ care.

He wishes this moment would last forever.

“This was a waste of time,” his father snarls when they finally make it back to the car. His jaw clenches, as do his fists, and his shoulders are tight in a way that tells Tim tonight’s going to be a night to put his head under his pillow and hum under his breath to drown out the yelling.

He flinches even though his father isn’t talking to him, and then closes his eyes, trying to calm the frantic jump of his heart as his breath goes shaky with nerves. Swallowing with difficulty because his throat is suddenly tight for no reason he can name, Tim slides down in his seat as far as he can without slipping out of the belt so he won’t accidentally catch his father’s eye in the rearview mirror. It’s always best to avoid Jack Drake’s attention when his voice sounds like that, his anger a crackling, formless thing ready to lash out at anyone unlucky enough to draw his eye.

Tim’s mother is silent, her lips pressed in a thin white line, and when she looks at Tim’s father her eyes narrow. Tim winces, but Janet Drake knows exactly what she’s doing and doesn’t seem to care. “This was your idea,” she hisses, long lacquered nails digging into her own skin where her arms are tightly crossed. “None of those photographs will be usable for publicity now—it would be very poor taste, considering what happened to those people.”

“We’ll just have to take more,” Tim’s father says, and Tim’s heart jumps again, this time with foolish hope. Are they going to take him on another outing? Maybe they can go to a park together, or a museum, or… His heart drops back down with his father’s next words. “We’ll just leave for Athens early and have a professional photoshoot there before the excavation begins.” His voice sounds calmer again, his temper clearly soothed at the idea of more travel.

“But Timothy…” his mother starts with a moue of distaste.

“We’ll mention him in the newsletter or something,” his father says in a dismissive tone. “We don’t have time for this. We need to—”

As his parents devolve into discussions that begin with their plans for the family business and quickly segue into the various archaeological projects they intend to spend the next few months working on, Tim curls into himself in the backseat. If he’s very quiet and still, sometimes it feels like he can just disappear.

Sometimes, he wants to.

When his parents leave the next morning, starting their business trip a full two days early, he isn’t surprised.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

Tim shivers when he wakes up in a cold house he knows in his bones is empty but for him. Instead of heading to the kitchen to forage for something he can reach and prepare on his own, he slowly tiptoes down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the landing of the third floor. Like always, he freezes, listening, and only creeps forward when he’s positive he’s alone.

His parents have never caught him on their floor, and the thought of that happening makes his heart pound as his fingers start to tremble. His mother would be so mad, and his father—

He doesn’t want to think about his father’s anger. Jack Drake has never once struck him or his mother, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t scary when he’s mad. He yells, and throws things, and sometimes breaks stuff. Tim just wants to hide under his covers when his father gets like that.

He should feel relieved when they go away, but somehow he never does. He just misses them and wishes they would come home.

Tim bites his lip and then tiptoes down the hall. He pauses at the second door for a moment, then passes it in favor of the next. He’ll go into his father’s office later, to look at the impressive collection of leather-bound books, admire the big mahogany desk, and curl up in the leather chair. The stench of his father’s cigars lingers in the office for months sometimes and if he closes his eyes, he can use it to pretend he’s not alone.

Right now, though, he goes to his favorite room in the house. The door to his mother’s private parlor clicks open beneath his hand, and he’s grateful for the thousandth time that his parents don’t bother to lock their private rooms when they leave. He’s certain they would never even dream he might disobey their edicts and venture up here.

As it is, he slips through the door and is instantly enclosed in a cloud of his mother’s perfume, a light floral scent as sweet and welcoming as she is acerbic. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend she’s here, hugging him again like she did last night.

If he also hears faint echoes of the screams that accompanied that hug, well, it’s all part of the same memory now, for better or worse.

He looks at the little trinkets and figurines in her curio cabinets, his gaze tracing over each one before settling on his favorite. The pretty little pantomime figures on the third shelf of the cabinet by the fireplace are pleasingly arranged, almost as though they’re acting out a scene in a play. Commedia dell'arte, his mother called them, the one time she brought him up here herself and showed him her trinkets. She was in a good mood that day, but he ruined it, annoying her quickly with his artless chatter and questions.

He’s learned better now, but she hasn’t brought him up here again.

Tim stares at the figurines, his attention drawn especially to the one on the end. The little figure is dressed all in white, wearing a loose blouse with wide pantaloons. His little white porcelain face is smiling, but looks sad at the same time.

He’s called Pierrot, Tim remembers, from when his mother listed off the names of her pantomime figures. Pierrot has always been his favorite.

As he stares at the little figure trapped behind the glass, he finds his mind drifting back to last night again. He can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have his parents paying attention to him, holding him like they really cared. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be loved.

He wonders if it’s normal to associate the feeling of being loved with screaming and looks of horror. It probably isn’t.

He wants to feel that way again.

It hurts to remember watching the Graysons fall, but he can’t stop going back to that memory because of the warmth that washes through him when he remembers his mother’s arms around him, her breath in his hair. It reminds him a little bit of the time he had a sore tooth and kept pressing the spot with his tongue, the sensation painful but good in a weird way he can’t explain.

He keeps poking at the feeling, just like he did with the sore tooth. It hurts, but he can’t stop doing it.

Tim closes his eyes, the afterimage of Pierrot’s little white smiling face in his mind’s eye, and breathes in the scent of his mother’s perfume. Screams echo in his ears and the sense memory of his mother’s arms around him is so strong he can almost feel them.

Like this, he can pretend he isn’t alone.

Slipping out of the house a few months later to try to hear those screams again probably isn’t his smartest plan ever, but by now the scent of his mother’s perfume is long gone and he’s getting desperate.

Tim rides his bike, his small legs aching and his breath a ragged gasp by the time he reaches Gotham City proper. His legs shake and his heart slams as he steps off his bike, adrenaline shooting through him as he sees the dark buildings looming overhead and seriously questions whether or not this was a good idea.

Then the screaming starts. It’s distant, accompanied by the sounds of explosions and a loud voice declaring some villain or other as the new ruler of Gotham, but Tim doesn’t care about any of that.

He creeps closer, keeping to the shadows and hugging the side of the nearest building despite the grime which rubs off on his small white hands and the rough brick that catches and tears at his soft clothes. The screaming grows louder.

Tim closes his eyes and remembers. It hurts, but it feels good.

He can’t stop poking at it.

Chapter Text

The sight of Robin somersaulting through the air is incredible, a wondrous experience that always leaves Tim breathless. This time, though, it brings an epiphany so immense he actually stumbles and almost slips right off the side aisle roof of the gothic cathedral he’s perched on. He sweeps out an arm and manages to catch himself on the gargoyle downspout at the last minute, his feet scrambling on the slippery surface.

By the time he regains his footing and scoots back, panting, to huddle under the arched wings of the carved marble gargoyle, Robin is gone. His camera—the one he uses to capture images of the vigilantes and the screaming, terrified faces of the ones they fight to protect—rests unheeded on his lap. The sky spreads out above him in a vast canvas of darkness, dotted here and there by the glow of stars bright enough to pierce the gloom of the thick mists which shroud the city.

None of that matters right now. What’s important is the quadruple backflip Robin just did, identical to the one performed by Dick Grayson on that wonderful, awful night almost five years ago. Even the little flourishes as he performed the move were the same.

Tim nestles against the gargoyle, ignoring the chill seeping in through his windbreaker and jeans from the damp stone. His mind is busy processing the implications of what he just witnessed. Only a handful of people in the entire world are able to perform a quadruple flip, and only one of those people is known to live in Gotham.

Dick Grayson is Robin. And if Dick Grayson is Robin, then the civilian identity of Batman can only be Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy who shocked high society when he adopted the orphan from the circus all those years ago. Tim blinks, remembering his parents’ reaction when they heard about that during their next visit home after the accident.

It wasn’t good. For all their own social-climbing aspirations, his parents were very resentful at the idea of someone else being freely given what they’ve spent their lives working to achieve. He shivers, remembering the argument that followed his mother’s suggestion that he might befriend Bruce Wayne’s new ward. That was another of those nights he had to put his head under his pillow to block out the raised, angry voices.

Deliberately, he turns his thoughts away from his empty house filled with echoes of strife and considers instead what it means that Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Not much, he realizes after a moment’s thought. It’s not like Tim is ever going to be any kind of a hero. Knowing who Batman really is won’t make a difference in being able to follow his patrol route night after night, searching for those jagged moments when someone is screaming and he can feel his mother’s arms around his shoulders, the sense memory wispy and vague after so many years but still all he has.

Tim will never be a hero. Not when the only time he feels anything like alive is when he sees terrified faces, hears the frightened screams that bring him back to that long ago feeling that he thinks might, maybe, be what people mean when they talk about being loved.

Eventually he stands up, careful to stretch his numb legs and allow them to wake up before he begins the laborious process of climbing back down. After all, there’s no one waiting at home, no one to notice he’s missing or hurt if anything happens to him.

That thought would weigh him down, but he’s so used to it he doesn’t even consciously notice the constant tug of sadness at the emptiness of his life.

Instead, he heads toward the Bowery, keeping to the shadows as usual. There’s always someone screaming in the Bowery.

Tim spends the next few years tailing Batman and Robin, lurking in the periphery of whatever action they find, and soaking himself in the faded warmth of his best, worst memory. At some point Robin disappears, and Tim worries until a new hero named Nightwing shows up and immediately starts performing insane acrobatic feats with unnecessary flourishes. Then he feels better. Apparently, Robin just graduated.

There’s a new Robin soon after, one not much older than Tim. He has dark curly hair and bright blue eyes and a mouth like a grizzled dockworker. He’s fiercer than the first Robin, but just as softhearted when it comes to helping hurt, frightened people. Too bad Tim doesn’t follow Batman and Robin because he wants to see them helping people. What he needs from them is much more visceral and dark.

He needs those screams.

During the brief, rare occasions his parents stop over in Gotham, he never stops hoping for a repeat of that fleeting stolen moment of warmth and the semblance of care.

It never comes.

Instead, his breath hitches, coming in short, shaky bursts as he stares at the news screen. The picture of his parents’ confident, smiling faces on the screen is superimposed with stark text that reads “plane lost at sea, all aboard presumed dead.” An old publicity photo of his family at a gala, with a younger version of him peeking out from behind his mother, is shown next, along with the text “a family tragedy.”

It takes a while for him to comprehend that they think he was on the plane, too. It makes sense, he thinks in a strangely numb, detached way. He has overheard his parents complaining more than once about the annoyance of parental liability laws and how to get around them. Apparently, they decided to show him on the passenger manifest for their private jet just in case something ever came up. He doubts they ever considered this as a possible consequence.

Everyone thinks he’s dead now. His parents are dead.

He loses some time after that. When he comes to awareness again, he’s knelt against the curio cabinet in his mother’s parlor, his cheeks wet and every breath filled with the cloying scent of her perfume.

They’re gone, and this time, they’re not coming back.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. It doesn’t matter, really. No one’s coming. Ever. By the time he pulls himself up on trembling legs, it’s dark outside. That’s good. It means he doesn’t have to wait before he heads out.

The Scarecrow escaped from Arkham a few days ago. That’s more than enough time for the villain to implement whatever his latest plan is. Tim takes a shuddering breath and reaches up to wipe his cheeks, ignoring the hot stinging sensation in his eyes that he can’t seem to control.

All he knows is he needs to get away from here, put some distance between himself and the empty house that will never be full again.

When the screaming finally starts, he tilts his head back and grins in relief, ignoring the way his jaw hurts and the tears start pouring down his cheeks in earnest. He can’t feel his mother’s arms around him—didn’t really expect to, after all this—but he can remember the shape of her smile, her warmth, and that’s enough for now.

It has to be.

When the screaming eventually dies down, Tim stares up at the sky with an ache in his cheeks to match the constant yearning void where his heart should be. His face is sore from smiling for so long.

Idly, he watches Robin flutter past overhead, still engaged in the cleanup as he and Batman round up the last of Scarecrow’s goons. His mask looks black, the bright green color leached away by the darkness. It’s always hard to read his expression when all that can be seen of his face is his mouth.

Tim reaches up and rubs his sore cheeks. He wishes he could always feel like smiling. If he could make the screaming last forever, he wonders if that might be enough.

That’s impossible, though, or at least really inadvisable. Maybe there’s something else he can do instead. He turns and heads home, the beginnings of a formless idea taking shape in his mind. If this works…

Well, he might finally have a way to evoke those precious, fading memories without having to wait for Batman and Robin to lead him to an active crime scene. He frowns, trying to figure out what he needs to do. The mask is a given—he wants to be smiling, always smiling with the warm emotions he felt, once upon a time. As for the rest…

He suddenly remembers the commedia dell'arte, the precious little figurines still posed in their pantomime on the shelf in his mother’s curio cabinet. “Pierrot,” he whispers, and he smiles.

It feels right.

A month later, when he debuts his Pierrot costume for the first time, he can’t help but smile for real underneath the porcelain mask. It’s a little shaky and his chest feels tight, but it’s real. It doesn’t matter that his parents never loved him.

It doesn’t matter that Gotham is such a bureaucratic nightmare of incompetence and graft, no one’s bothered to come out to the house since their death. Although that might be because while his parents’ bodies were eventually found, amidst wreckage from their plane, no trace of Tim himself was ever discovered. According to the law in their state, missing persons cannot be presumed dead until seven years have passed.

So, he can probably keep living in his parents’ huge, empty house for quite a while before anyone will come poking their nose in. The utilities and weekly grocery deliveries have continued uninterrupted, and it seems possible they might just keep going for the foreseeable future. Even if they don’t, Tim knows a few off-the-books accounts his parents kept and he’s pretty sure he could manage to get access to that money if needed.

It doesn’t even matter that he just turned twelve years old when the big clock in the tower struck twelve, and he already knows no one will wish him a happy birthday. Not now, and maybe not ever. After all, who would care about him? His own parents didn’t, except in a faded memory he isn’t even sure he can trust. Maybe his mother grabbed onto him because she was scared herself, or out of a natural preservation instinct to protect their heir.

In his darkest moments, he’s wondered if they only held him because they noticed a camera pointed their way.

But none of that matters right now. In this moment, he feels powerful and brave, nothing like Tim Drake and everything like someone he will never be. He opens his mouth and lets out a loud laugh, then stops because it sounds so wrong. His voice is so small and young. Maybe he shouldn’t talk while he’s wearing this mask. At least, not if he can help it.

Pierrot is strong and brave, mischievous and always has a smile on his face. Tim’s voice, small and pathetic as it is, would taint that. Tim closes his mouth and tilts his head instead, looking at the world through his brand new mask and wondering when the screaming will start.

A group of drunk college-age people drifts past the alleyway he’s standing in, and Tim tilts his head even farther to the right, holding himself motionless otherwise. “Holy shit!” one yelps, pointing at him with a shaking hand. “What the fuck is that?” Soon, they’re all screaming and staggering away, and Tim grins so hard beneath his smiling mask that his cheeks hurt.

It doesn’t take long to develop his villain persona after that. He hones his skills and figures out the best ways to replicate the screams which provided a soundtrack to the one moment in his life his parents actually seemed to care about him. It isn’t that hard, as it turns out. Wear a creepy, clown-themed costume in Gotham, drift out of a darkened alley or appear on an unlit rooftop, tilt your head just so, and the screaming just seems to happen.

Only, after a while, a few people screaming with expressions of fear and horror aren’t enough. After all, that night at the circus there were hundreds. The depth of terror and distress experienced by a massed crowd has a very different feeling from a few scattered souls surprised in an alleyway by a tween.

Pierrot needs to be better.

It’s around that time he designs his special balls. Each is equipped with a reservoir for fluid, gas, or other reactive materials, an automated mechanism for optimal dispersal, and of course, a smile. They’re very useful, complementing his natural tendency to hang back and watch the action from afar.

Just the thought of fighting anyone head on in hand to hand combat makes him cringe. He’s not built to fight and dislikes confrontation—a few rough encounters in alleyways over the years have taught him that much.

No, he’s better served by long range tactics, and his grinning balls are perfect for that. They’re easy enough to construct now that he has the process worked out. The ample garages that used to store his parents’ cars for months on end between drives now serve him well as a workshop. His parents’ credit cards still work just fine to buy whatever he needs, from raw materials to the CNC machines he uses to create the custom ball moldings.

Placing online orders for the explosive, caustic, and otherwise questionable materials he loads into the balls is far easier than it should be. No wonder so many people in Gotham take to villainy. Everyone’s always just a few clicks away from becoming yet another wannabe rogue.

Ease of villainy aside, Tim is very pleased with his new gadgets and doesn’t waste any time testing them out. He chooses a seedy club off of Crime Alley as his first major target, selecting it more for Bat-avoidance considerations than anything else. Everyone knows Batman stays away from Crime Alley. The fact that this particular club is almost certainly involved in a particularly repugnant human trafficking ring has nothing to do with his choice.

The moment the grinning balls start bouncing through the crowd, hissing out a harmless but frightening-looking mixture of water and propylene glycol that hangs in the air like fog, the people in the club lose their damn minds. It’s possible their reaction has something to do with the artistic way Tim is posed on the stage, sitting on a giant version of one of his grinning balls and kicking his feet playfully as he pelts the crowd with balls.

Pierrot, about to unleash a barrage of grinning balls. Art by Aldebaran26.

The night is a wild success in terms of sheer volume of terrified screams. For a timeless, precious moment, he’s right back at the circus, his mother’s arms around him and a feeling in his heart like he might be loved.

Unfortunately, it’s also the first time he actually causes enough of a ruckus to attract the attention of one of Gotham’s capes. Robin shows up after only a few minutes, determination and aggression written in every line of his stance as he drops to land on the stage right in front of Pierrot.

“Who the fuck are you, you little brat?” Robin snarls, fists clenched and ready. “A goddamn baby Joker wannabe, looks like. Well, I hate that asshole, so I suggest you take off that damn mask before I forget you’re probably just a kid and smash it through your ugly face!”

Pierrot freezes, throat tight and eyes prickling in a reaction to harsh words as automatic as it is annoying. The realization that Robin has no idea the gas being released by his bouncing balls is harmless sends his heart sinking like a stone. By the way he’s looking at Pierrot, like he’s lower than scum, he has already lumped him in his mind into the same category as the violent murderers he has faced in the past.

It’s terrifying. Pierrot has no real training to speak of, just whatever basics he’s been able to glean from Youtube, and the knowledge that the other teen could overpower him with ease makes him want to curl into a tiny defensive ball. He’s not Tim Drake right now, though, and Pierrot isn’t afraid.

So he winds up and throws one of his special grinning balls right into Robin’s stunned face.

Gagging and choking on the irritant smoke that hisses out of that one—of course Pierrot has contingencies, so some of his balls aren’t entirely benign—Robin staggers and raises his cape to cover his face.

Pierrot knows he probably only has seconds before the vigilante manages to get a rebreather or smoke mask on, so he uses the time to set off another special ball, this one a smokescreen to cover his rapid retreat.

His heart is still racing and there’s a fine tremble in his hands even hours later, the part of him that dreads confrontation and raised voices curled into a tiny, anxious ball in his chest that can’t unwind even now, in the safety of his own home.

Of course, his home is still filled with memories of the angry voices that taught him to feel this way in the first place, so maybe that’s no surprise. Tim lets out a shaky breath and clenches and unclenches his hands, trying to force them to stop trembling.

It’s no good. He has to do something about this fear, or he won’t be able to keep chasing the screams like he plans. Frowning, Tim reaches for his laptop and does a quick search for local martial arts and gymnastics instruction. As he researches and begins to make a plan, the trembling gradually subsides.

He already knows he won’t be any good at direct confrontation, but avoidance, deflection and self defense? That sounds right up his alley. Robin’s punches can’t hurt him if he never lets one land.

With that thought, his heart rate finally starts to even out. This can work. He’s sure of it.

Chapter Text

Pierrot isn’t like the other rogues, all of whom seem to have some overarching goal of power or violence as they blaze their trails of destruction through the city. He doesn’t want to hurt or kill anyone, just make them scream.

None of the vigilantes seem to understand that, though. They all clearly think the worst of him, expecting him to follow through with the murder and villainry that the others engage in. Batman makes it clear he lumps Pierrot in with all the Joker wannabes just because his costume is clown-themed.

“Give it up, Pierrot,” the man growls as he throws a handful of batarangs that glint and catch the light as they fly at him. “You disgust me. Scum like you doesn’t belong in my city.”

Pierrot’s training pays off, his increased flexibility and agility allowing him to bend and sway around the projectiles. He winces as they lodge deep in the wall behind him, imagining what would have happened if he caught those blades with his body. Maybe he should consider body armor under his suit.

Like always, his throat tightens at the harsh words and he doesn’t say anything in response. That’s fine, though—silence is as much a part of his character now as the smiling mask. He tilts his head and shrugs, which only seems to anger Batman further. The man narrows his eyes and tenses, knees bending slightly in preparation to attack.

Pierrot raises his arms, loose sleeves billowing, and unleashes a barrage of balls directly at Batman. 

Pierrot about to release barrage of balls at Batman. Art by Aldebaran26.

Batman falls back, arms flying up to cover his face as the grinning balls continue bouncing off of him, each of them opening to release their payload. He starts coughing almost immediately as he is inundated with irritant smoke, stink bombs, and the occasional puff of extremely fine glitter in an array of bright colors.

Pierrot edges away until his back hits the alley wall, then pivots and starts to run. Just as he reaches up to grab the fire escape so he can take to the rooftops and lose himself in the city, a gloved hand, black with blue stripes, closes over his and his heart skips a beat. Oh no.

“Not so fast,” says a very unwelcome voice. “Whatever you’re planning, we’re not going to let you hurt any—”

He squeaks and panics, pivoting in place and setting off the emergency reservoirs of irritant smoke stored up his own sleeves. They’re only supposed to be a last resort, and he’s reminded why as soon as his own eyes fill with tears and he starts to cough, choking on the effects of his own weapon.

Behind him, Nightwing is coughing too, but it’s not enough to distract him from his quarry. His grip on Pierrot’s hand is like iron, bruising through the gloves. His other hand locks onto Pierrot’s shoulder and clamps down hard.

Pierrot twists, vision blurry and throat on fire as he starts tugging with increasing desperation. No no no, he can’t be caught now—how will he ever hear the screaming again? If they catch him, they’ll lock him away and he’ll never be able to find the modicum of peace that comes to him in his mother’s parlor, staring at the little figurines she loved.

Even if she never really loved him, there’s some comfort to be found in sitting there, just a few inches away from something he knows she actually cared about.

He can’t lose this. His tenuous grip on what’s left of his life is shaky, but it’s his. It’s all he has and all he’ll ever get, so he can’t let it go so easily.

“No,” he chokes out, and Nightwing pauses.

“Kid…?” he says, sounding stunned. His grip loosens as he presumably reacts to Pierrot’s very young-sounding voice. He’s never let slip any clues as to how old he is, and as far as he can tell from previous interactions with the Bats, they seem to have assumed up until now that he’s just an unusually short adult.

He’s only twelve, though, and he sounds like it.

That moment of surprise is all Pierrot needs to wrench himself free, a pained cry slipping out as he escapes Nightwing’s grip. He rushes headlong down the alleyway, blindly running out to the street and around a corner where he releases the last of his smoke bombs to cover his retreat through a broken window into the basement of an abandoned building. He winces as the jagged edges of glass still clinging to the frame scrape against the skin over his ribs. He must have grown some since he scouted out this route a few months back.

He won’t be able to use this escape route again—the Bats are sure to find it and close it off now that he’s used it in front of them—but it serves its purpose. He crawls across the filthy floor, trying not to think about the rough surfaces and unidentifiable items he feels but can’t see in the dark through tear-blurred vision.

By the time he manages to make it home via circuitous routes, he’s hurting all over from squeezing through too-small spaces, scratched and scraped where rough wood or worse tore his costume, and it’s still hard to breathe because of his stupid irritant smoke.

Tonight did not go well.

Sniffling and flushing his eyes with blessedly soothing, cool water at the bathroom sink, he wonders for a moment if all of this is worth it. Then again, what else is there for him? This is the only way he knows to kindle that warmth in his heart, even if it’s only a mockery of the kind of love real families have.

Sometimes, he wonders what went wrong with his family. Was it something with his parents, some property inherent in their personalities that stopped them from being able to love him? Or… was it something wrong with him? He tries not to think about it too much.

He’s afraid he already knows the answer.

A week later, Pierrot debuts his newest design—automated balls that roll themselves to preset destinations and then start to bounce, releasing their payload of gas in waves across the city. It’s a big gesture, but harmless, meant to show Batman and his associates once and for all that Pierrot is just in it for the screams.

Once he pulls this off, they’ll be able to see that he could have put anything in those balls but chose not to use something dangerous. Hopefully they’ll realize he doesn’t intend any real harm. Knowing Batman, though, he’ll probably assume the worst and double down on his efforts to bring Pierrot in.

Oh well.

At least he’ll have tonight, an entire city’s worth of screams to send him back to that priceless moment when he didn’t feel alone.

He knows something is off the moment the test run starts. There’s just one grinning ball spewing gas in front of him, enough to reach the handful of loiterers outside a rough bar by the docks but no farther. Pierrot selected this bar both for its location and its distance from the vigilantes’ usual patrol routes.

The men aren’t reacting right. Instead of screaming, they are clutching at their throats and falling to their knees. What?

Pierrot frowns behind his mask, shaking his head slowly as he stares at the results of his hard work. This isn’t what he wanted. “Oh no,” he whispers, backing away. “No!” He quickly collects an air sample before dialing 911 on one of the men’s phones, leaving the phone on his chest for the emergency responders to find as he hurries away.

Somehow, the gas is hurting them. It shouldn’t. He designed the compound to be irritating, sure, but there’s no reason for it to cause a severe reaction like this. Maybe it’s an allergic response? In all of them? Or…

He slams through the door of his field lab, an old storage warehouse by the docks. Another reason he chose to perform the field test here was because it’s so close to his lab, just in case something went wrong. Well, clearly something has. He rushes to the equipment and prepares the sample for analysis, then sends it through the spectrometer to see what else is in there.

After all, his compound was harmless on its own. But… He only tested it in controlled, clean room conditions. He never thought to examine its potential interactions with the complex chemical cocktail that’s present in Gotham’s atmosphere.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck rise as he stares at the screen, recognizing the pattern immediately. There’s Joker toxin in the air. It’s just a low level, probably left over from a recent attack, but he didn’t take this into consideration when he was testing his own gas. The two compounds are reacting. Worse, it seems his compound is making it easier for the Joker toxin to slip through the blood-air barrier in people’s lungs.

He accidentally created a catalyst for Joker toxin.

“Oh no,” Pierrot whispers miserably, then jerks as his eyes widen in realization, his heart slamming. His automated bouncing balls, which must be distributed throughout the city by now. He didn’t cancel the initiation sequence to release the gas.

He spins to face the computer, rapidfire typing as he keys up the command sequence and tries to stop it.

He’s too late. The payload already deployed while he was still interpreting the results of the sample analysis. Feeling frozen, Pierrot stares at the screen for a long moment, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he’s done.

Then he begins to move again, purpose sending life into his limbs. He has to fix this. Joker toxin can be deadly at high blood concentrations, and if people don’t receive treatment within a few hours of exposure, it can have permanent effects. He needs to at least tell someone who can help address what is happening, or Batman and his people will probably waste precious hours on figuring out exactly what the new compound is and how to stop it before anyone gets treatment to the people who need it.

He copies all of his research notes and findings onto a thumb drive and shoves it in one of the inner pockets of his loose sleeve, then sets out to find a hero.

When he spots Robin, bent over in an alley assisting a young woman who is coughing and crying softly, her face already twisting into a rictus mask as the Joker toxin takes effect, he cringes in guilt but steps forward anyway. He opens his mouth to try to talk, but Robin turns and spots him before he can work up his nerve.

“You!” The vigilante rises to his feet and advances on him, eyes glittering through the mask and the promise of violence in every movement. “I recognize your dumb grinning balls, you little shit. This time you’ve finally gone too far!”

Pierrot quails but stands his ground as Robin closes the distance between them. Every survival instinct he has left is screaming for him to run, to throw one of his escape balls in Robin’s face and get the heck out of there, but he can’t. Not if he wants to fix the mistake he made.

All too soon, Robin is standing right in front of him, looming over him and pressing him back against the rusty chain link fence that blocks this end of the alley off from the street. “I’m gonna enjoy this,” the vigilante says, starting to raise his hand.

Pierrot flinches and lets out a soft, scared whine. He can’t help it.

Robin freezes.

They both stand there staring at each other through their masks, Pierrot’s breath coming in increasingly audible gasps the longer he waits. Some frantic, scared part of him just wishes Robin would get it over with already and hit him.

“You really are a kid, aren’t you?” Robin breathes, sounding stunned. “Nightwing said, but I thought he was just being a dumbass as usual.”

Pierrot doesn’t respond, attention still focused on Robin’s hand where it’s suspended in the air between them.

Robin follows his gaze and frowns. “I was gonna try to take off your mask,” he says in a soft voice. “Not hit you. Although you’re an annoying little brat, I don’t hit kids.” Slowly, never breaking eye contact with him, Robin lowers his hand.

Pierrot relaxes slightly.

“What the fuck are you trying to do with all this?” Robin’s mouth twists. “If it’s a cry for attention, I gotta say, you’re about to bring down a shitload of attention on your head, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

Pierrot’s throat is tight and he feels frozen, but he manages to shake his head. That’s not what he wants.

“No?” Robin eyes him, frowning. “What, then?”

Pierrot lifts his hand, allowing the sleeve to fall back so he can show Robin the thumb drive he has pinched between his fingers. The vigilante stares at it with a mistrustful expression. Pierrot’s throat is still so tight, but he has to explain. He has to. “I’m s-sorry,” he manages after way too long. “I didn’t mean to. Here’s what I know about the gas.”

Robin looks at him, his lips tilted down in a thoughtful frown. After a moment, he shrugs and takes the thumb drive. “If this is a trick and this shit blows up in my face somehow, I’m comin’ after you myself, and next time I won’t hold back,” he growls. “Fuck, I might just do it anyway after all the trouble you caused. Get outta here!”

What? Pierrot tilts his head, confused. He wasn’t expecting to get out of this so easily. He was prepared to face the consequences of his actions if that meant being able to stop people from being seriously hurt because of him.

“You heard me,” Robin says, half-turning and looking the other way. “You handed me the drive, I tried to catch you, and you gave me the slip. Got it?” he snarls.

Oh. That’s… Wow. Pierrot edges away, almost stumbling over his own feet but recovering at the last minute by turning it into what he hopes is a graceful tumble. By the snort he hears behind him as he hurries away, he was only marginally successful.

He doesn’t even care about the damage to his reputation. Robin let him go. He practically floats home, winding his way along one of his secret routes through the city by muscle memory. In passing, he notes medical workers attending to people and police releasing huge canisters of what must be a neutralizer for Joker toxin, probably provided courtesy Batman once Robin had a chance to get a look at the data on the drive.

Pierrot finds himself in his mother’s parlor, where he carefully dusts the glass front of the curio cabinet with hands that shake. The screaming wasn’t right tonight, the hideous forced laughter marring the sound so it didn’t properly evoke the memories he’s trying so hard to cling to, but if he closes his eyes he can still imagine he smells his mother’s perfume.

He can recall the sense-memories of ghostly fingers, closing around his shoulders just a little too tight, and maybe it’s not love. Maybe it never was.

It’s all he ever had, so he clings to it with all he has left.

Chapter Text

Robin’s different after that. At first Pierrot doesn’t notice, too busy trying to avoid all of the vigilantes after his embarrassing and potentially dangerous mistake. He doesn’t want to be yelled at again or give them another chance to try to catch him.

So, it takes a while before he notices Robin is acting strangely. He doesn’t catch on until the night he hears boots hit the side aisle roof where he’s perched, huddled against his favorite gargoyle. He’s been hesitant to start any mayhem of his own after how poorly his last attempt went, so he’s trying to make do with the screams he can hear in the streets below. A mob of Penguin’s gang members seems to be clashing with a similarly-sized mob of Two Face’s gang members.

It isn’t going very well. The sounds of the fight are nothing like the screams he remembers from that night at the circus. Pierrot is just about to give up and go home when he’s startled by the sound of someone landing right behind him. He turns, tensing, and slides a couple of grinning balls into his hands beneath the concealing sleeves of his costume.

It’s Robin. “Hey, how’s it going?” the older boy asks, leaning on another gargoyle and looking down at him with a grin.

Pierrot squeaks and tries to leap backwards, only succeeding in slamming into the outer wall of the nave and then awkwardly sliding a few feet down the side aisle roof before he catches himself on the gargoyle again.

Maybe this shouldn’t be one of his favorite spots. It’s way too easy to slide off.

“Sorry,” Robin murmurs, sounding remorseful. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, kid.”

When Pierrot turns to look at him again, he’s startled to see the other boy lowering his hand, almost as though he was planning to catch him if he fell. A little tingle of pleasure at the thought quickly fades when he remembers Robin trying to catch him isn’t a good thing. The end result would probably be him in Arkham, which is not something he ever wants.

He eyes Robin and tilts his head, trying to figure out what he’s doing here. There are much more important things he should be paying attention to right now, after all. Pointedly, he turns from Robin and looks toward the ongoing gang fight in the street, then back at him.

“Huh?” Robin says as he turns to follow his gaze. “Oh, that.” He scuffs a boot on the roof and shrugs, making a face. “B thinks the fight is just a distraction for something else going down tonight. He wants me to observe but not engage while he does his detective work somewhere else.” He sounds put out, perhaps annoyed at the prospect of a boring night while the real action plays out elsewhere.

Maybe that explains why he’s talking to Pierrot. If he’s bored enough, even a minor villain like him might provide a diversion. Pierrot adjusts the position of his arms so he’s ready to throw the grinning balls at a moment’s notice, and watches Robin’s feet. He usually shifts slightly before moving to attack.

Instead of trying to grab him, Robin heaves a big sigh and throws an arm around the gargoyle, relaxing and apparently settling in for the time being. “Anyway, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. After the shit you pulled last month, I got more questions than ever. Wanna tell me what your deal is? ‘Cause I got no idea now. I thought you were just like all the other selfish, greedy assholes who think it’s good times to blow up innocent people, but you’re not. Most villains don’t hand over the keys to their evil plans before anything bad can really happen.”

Pierrot suppresses a twitch, heart racing at the sudden personal line of questioning. He hunches his shoulders and considers his options. He could throw a ball at Robin’s face and run away. That’s probably what he should do, but…

He doesn’t really want to. This is the first time anyone has spoken kindly to him in longer than he can remember, and he’d rather not end it so fast. His throat is too tight to answer, though.

All he can do is shrug and look down. Robin’s wrong, anyway. Pierrot is just as selfish and greedy as all the others—his goals might be small potatoes compared to theirs, but he’s still in this for himself.

It doesn’t matter that he has to do things for himself because no one else ever will. He knows his reasons won’t excuse his behavior, not in the simplistic world of bright light and dark shadows the vigilantes seem to inhabit. None of them even seem to see the murky shades of in-between that feel most comfortable to him.

Robin sighs. “Don’t talk much, huh? I’d think you were mute if you hadn’t managed to squeeze out a few words for me that night.” He eyes Pierrot in a speculative manner, then shrugs. “Fine, whatever. Anyway, I’m gonna hang out here for a while. It’s the best view of the street and I’m supposed to observe or some crap.”

Pierrot shifts his weight and wonders if that’s a hint that he should get lost. He was going to leave earlier, but somehow he can’t bring himself to go now that the other boy is here and talking to him like a person instead of an annoyance.

A rustling sound draws his attention back to Robin, who is pulling a slightly squashed paper bag out of… somewhere. Maybe it was tied to his belt? “Want a snack? I didn’t know I’d be running into you tonight or I woulda bought more.” He extends a gauntleted hand holding a wrapped package that smells like food.

Pierrot takes it on autopilot as Robin pulls another out and unwraps it to reveal what looks like a very messy hotdog covered in beans, sandwiched in a bun. It smells delicious, rich and mouthwatering, and Pierrot’s stomach gives an embarrassing rumble.

Robin chuckles. “Guess that’s a yes. Huh, you’re surprisingly expressive for a mime.”

Pierrot is not a mime! He scowls under his mask, wishing he could bring himself to speak and deny it, and then realizes he has a problem. There’s no way he can eat this thing without at least partially removing his mask. He stares down at the wrapped package in his hand, pouting as his stomach starts twisting in earnest at the promise of food.

“C’mon,” Robin says, pausing in the demolishment of his own messy hotdog. “Just take off your mask. I promise I won’t hurt you or whatever you’re so afraid of. Might even be able to help you out, if you’ll just tell me what the fuck is screwed up enough about your life that you ended up doing all this.”

Pierrot shakes his head, sorry to deny what sounds like an earnest, kindly-meant request, but unable to give away so much. He has so very little left. He can’t risk losing any more.

Robin makes a rude noise and chomps down on his hotdog. “Fine,” he says in a grumpy-sounding voice, and turns his back. “Eat your damn chilidog, kid—you’re too skinny.”

Swallowing, Pierrot eyes his sturdy back for a long moment before deciding to give it a shot. He turns the other way and fumbles with the wrapper before he manages to peel it back. Tilting the mask up just enough, he takes a bite. Searing, spicy juices spill across his tongue and a soft noise of appreciation slips out.

“Right?” Robin says behind him with a rustle of wrappers that probably means he’s dipped into the bag again to pull out another one. Just how many of these things does he usually eat in one sitting? “These things are the best damn food I ever had. I bet they’re better than whatever the hell you’re getting outta terrorizing people. Hey, maybe you could eat a chilidog whenever you feel the urge to terrorize rising—that would make my life a hell of a lot easier—damn it!” Robin breaks off and starts coughing on his bite of chilidog when Pierrot tosses a grinning ball back over his shoulder and nails him in the head with it.

Pierrot takes another bite of his own chilidog and grins, listening to Robin’s angry sputtering. This isn’t what he had planned for the evening, but he’s surprised to find himself enjoying it.

The rest of the vigilantes still treat Pierrot like any other criminal, one they all seem to consider particularly creepy, but Robin’s kindness more than balances things out. The tight feeling of sadness and inadequacy that knots up Tim’s stomach whenever he has an encounter with Batman or one of the other vigilantes always unravels within moments of seeing Robin’s caring face and spending time in his friendly presence.

It’s even more fun when Batman shows up unexpectedly and Pierrot reflexively pelts him in the face with a barrage of balls before running off, a confused but playful Robin at his side.

Pierrot and Robin. Art by Aldebaran26 (tumblr).

Every time they see each other, Robin requests that he remove his mask. Pierrot never gives in to his request or lets him close enough to take it off himself, but it feels good anyway. Almost like he cares. It gets harder and harder to turn away and shake his head when all he finds himself wanting as time passes is to peek out from behind the mask and see if Robin will still smile when he sees his true face.

He never does, of course. Pierrot has almost nothing to lose, which makes what little he does have too precious to risk.

His growing—friendship? Is this what friends are like?—with Robin slowly becomes one of the most precious things in his life, right below the core experience that shaped him into what he is today.

That makes it worse when Robin disappears. It’s a few nights before he really notices something’s wrong. After all, Robin doesn’t patrol every night, and he certainly doesn’t have time to swing by and find Pierrot for a midnight snack or juggling lesson or whatever every single time he goes out.

But then, weeks pass and nothing. There’s just Batman, grown increasingly grim and violent in a way that makes Pierrot shrink from drawing his notice. Part of him wants to ask if Robin’s okay, but the thought of approaching Batman when he’s like this sends a thrill of existential terror through him. He’s seen what Batman has been doing to the minor thugs he’s taken down lately, and he has no desire to feel the impact of those weighted gauntlets on himself.

He’d be lucky to just end up in the hospital.

The story comes out in stilted fragments, offered piecemeal over the news and then via the Gotham criminal gossip Pierrot overhears because he’s small and silent and always good at hiding.

Jason Todd died. He was killed in an explosion, a senseless death that sends murmurs of horror through Gotham until the next day’s headlines push it aside, buried beneath the constant churn of tragedies produced by the criminal capital of America.

The criminal rumor mill is more informative than the actual news. Robin’s death was even worse than the civilian cover story let on. It was the Joker, Pierrot hears one night while he’s crouched behind a dumpster listening to people screaming as the Scarecrow stalks the streets.

“The Joker clipped Robin’s wings,” one of Scarecrow’s minions whispers, sounding uneasy beneath the bluster. “That guy ain’t right. I heard he’s holed up over in Amusement Mile again, got offers out to recruit. No way in hell I’d ever work for him—he’s as likely to shoot his own guys as pay ‘em.” 

“That’s not all,” another minion says, an older man with a lined face and stained teeth. His mouth twists and he spits before continuing. “He fuckin’ tortured that kid first. I heard they had to use dental records to ID the body. I don’t care who it is, no one should ever do that to a goddamn kid.”

Tortured. Jason.

Pierrot loses himself then. He’s aware of his body moving, leaving his hiding place and slipping away, but where he goes and what he does is beyond his conscious control. He doesn’t know how long it is before the screaming in his head finally dies down enough for him to hear himself think.

When he comes to himself again, there’s blood on his hands and he knows. The Joker isn’t coming back. Pierrot knows what he did, and he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

Not then, and not ever. Not when he starts working the streets as Pierrot again, his own previous failure driving him to strive harder to win those screams without actually hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Not when Batman catches him and he finds out exactly how much those weighted gauntlets hurt once Pierrot shows he’s willing to cross the line Batman won’t.

Not even when Jason impossibly, miraculously returns. He’s a lot harder, a lot meaner, and still just as wonderful and kind underneath the gleaming red helmet he wears now. Not that Pierrot recognizes him at first, obviously.

He’s also just as determined as ever to see beneath Pierrot’s mask.

It’s an accident the first time the Red Hood manages to see behind Pierrot’s mask. Pierrot has no idea who the Red Hood is and thus has no reason to expect the big, frightening villain quickly taking over Gotham’s underworld to have any interest in him.

After all, despite his many successful forays into villainy over the past few years, he’s still small potatoes compared to the major rogues. So he is taken entirely by surprise the night he takes an unlucky punch to the face from a random thug and feels his mask crack.

Wincing, he retreats to his favorite old haunt by the gargoyle to slip his mask off and inspect the damage. He sighs as he looks at it, judging the crack to be irreparable. Oh well. He has spares. He reaches behind the gargoyle to grab the thermos of coffee he stashed there earlier tonight, and he’s just slurped half of it down when a loud voice says, “Aha! I knew I’d catch you with your mask down one of these days. Holy shit, you’re cute as fuck.”

Pierrot almost falls off the roof. He does drop what was left of his coffee in his surprise, which makes him so mad he throws some of his worst grinning balls at the interloper. The man dodges easily, laughing under his breath, and steps close enough for Pierrot to see the smooth red helmet he wears.

Pierrot freezes, only now realizing how out of his depth he is if this comes to a fight. The Red Hood has a reputation despite being a relative newcomer to the Gotham scene. Pierrot might be able to hold his own long enough to escape, but there’s an entire duffel bag full of heads that says this guy is very bad news.

So Pierrot throws another grinning ball right at his head, where it bounces harmlessly off the helmet. Damn it. Usually people at least flinch back when something comes flying at their face.

“Oh, shit, you got no idea who I am right now, do you?” The Red Hood reaches up and fiddles with the back of his helmet, then pulls it off, and—

It’s Jason. He’s wearing a domino mask underneath and he looks older for sure, but that face, those lips, the line of his jaw and cheeks—it’s Jason Todd.

“How…?” he whispers, finding his voice somehow in his surprise.

Red Hood lights up. “Fuck, you do talk! My memories are jacked from how I came back—don’t ask, it’s a shitty story—and I half-convinced myself I imagined you talking that first time. Huh, guess your voice changed at some point. You don’t sound like a scared little brat anymore.”

Pierrot rolls his eyes, then goes cold when he remembers he still isn’t wearing his mask. Fumbling at the roof at his side, he finds it and fits it back on. Broken or not, at least it’s some protection.

“Aw, I was hoping you’d leave it off,” Red Hood says, easing down to sit beside him with a tired-sounding sigh. “You’re cuter without it.”

Pierrot just blushes and doesn’t say anything. Red Hood buys him another coffee to make up for the scare, then hangs out with him for hours, asking about how he’s been and telling him stories about his travels all over the world.

After that, they start meeting on rooftops again like they never stopped for more than three long, painful years. Red Hood always asks him to take his mask off, seeming more interested in the implied trust behind the gesture than actually seeing his face again.

Pierrot finally does it, one night when they’re sitting side by side next to the gargoyle on the side aisle roof that’s become they’re favorite meetup spot again. They’ve just finished the takeout dinner Red Hood brought and Pierrot’s feeling comfortable, happy, and safe enough to do something a little reckless.

He reaches up and tentatively lowers the mask, then peeks out from behind it. It’s very gratifying to see Red Hood’s face, covered only by his domino, suffusing in a very pretty blush as he stares at him.

Pierrot and his Robin. Art by Aldebaran26 (tumblr).

Red Hood looks at him, then leans forward with a hesitant, yearning expression, like he’s going to say something important. Pierrot looks back, the expectant silence drawing out between them for a moment, and—

Of course, of course that’s the moment the bottom drops out of his world. Or maybe that’s the wrong way to phrase it, since after the bright lights and thunderous sounds of the portal that just opened up practically on top of him fall away and Pierrot is left blinking into the darkness of an unfamiliar place, he’s pretty sure he’s actually the one who dropped out of his world.

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Wherever the portal dumped him, it doesn’t seem immediately threatening. Pierrot has seen plenty of portals over the years—he lives in Gotham, after all—and normally, they tend to lead to either lethal hellscapes or supervillain lairs.

This is definitely a supervillain lair. His first thought is that whoever grabbed him must have been targeting Red Hood, and aimed badly enough to miss. There’s really no one with a major grudge against Pierrot. At least, he doesn’t think there is.

So, if he wasn’t the actual target, it shouldn’t take much to convince them to send him back. Usually just standing there is his costume and staring at someone is enough to creep people out and encourage them to leave him alone.

The room he’s in is spacious, with the obligatory advanced tech and equipment one would expect any self-respecting villain to own. There are also maps of Gotham, heavily annotated and marked with sketches that bear a striking resemblance to Pierrot’s own strategies for mayhem. It’s simple for him to pick out which structures are targets and which are noted as potential infiltration or storage points. Odd. Whoever the villain is who took him, it seems they use the same shorthand and color coding system on their maps.

There’s even a machining area, with some of the same equipment he uses to create his unique grinning balls. A few of the half-finished pieces scattered around resemble oversized chess pawns. He can see reservoirs inside the unassembled ones that he would bet are intended to be loaded with the same kinds of materials he uses to arm his balls. He notices a few other chess-themed decorative touches, including what looks like a game set arranged on a nearby desk. Instead of standard chess pieces, it appears to be laid out with tiny models of Gotham’s heroes and villains.

Nice. Maybe he can have some porcelain figures commissioned when he gets back. If he gets back. He wouldn’t mind having a few little figurines of the villains and vigilantes of Gotham to keep his little Pierrot figurine company.

“Ah, interested in my workshop? I can give you a tour if you’d like,” a smooth, familiar voice says from somewhere behind and to the right.

Pierrot pivots, tilting his head in inquiry. That voice sends all his theories about what’s happening here spinning and resettling in a completely different configuration. When he catches sight of the tall, slim man in a well-tailored dark suit standing calmly a few feet away, a mild expression of interest on his face, those theories dissipate into oblivion.

That’s Tim’s face. Maybe a handful of years older, but still recognizably him.

Well, this changes everything. Clearly he was the intended target after all. Ugh, hopefully this guy doesn’t need an organ transplant or something. It would be just his luck to get snagged by an even more villainous version of himself who thinks it’s a great idea to use the multiverse as a free organ bank.

A quick glance around and then at the bank of computer monitors behind his double confirms the multiverse idea and leads him to tentatively discount the organ bank theory on the grounds that there’s no medical information shown and the base doesn’t seem to be equipped with more than the usual first aid.

Displayed on the monitors are a number of costumed individuals, some with inspirations he recognizes and others he doesn’t. There’s one in a leafy green costume and another with cat ears, and even one that seems to be carrying a freeze ray, laughing and playing while engaging in a rooftop chase with Robin.

Pierrot regards the screens for a long moment, then turns to his host expectantly.

“You want to know who I am and why I brought you here, I imagine,” the other version of him replies, still in that smooth, confident voice.

There’s no malice or greed in those bright blue eyes. Whatever he’s here for, Pierrot doesn’t think the other man intends him any harm. That’s what emboldens him to speak, the usual tight knot of anxiety in his throat loosening. “Yes,” he says. “Is this important? I was in the middle of an interesting conversation when you grabbed me.”

The other Tim looks apologetic. “I know. I wanted to bring you in first so I could talk to you and give you time to adjust before bringing over anyone else, and I timed it poorly.” His lips thin slightly and a shadow crosses his handsome face. “I’ve been watching for a while, to make sure I chose the right ones. You’ve had a harder time than most of us and I wanted to be sure of your reactions before exposing you to the others.”

Pierrot looks at the screens again, seeing the bold, purposeful figures there with new eyes. Now that he’s really looking, he thinks he sees it. A familiar gesture, a head tilt, the loose dark hair…

“They’re all us, aren’t they? You’re playing around with the multiverse.” He tilts his head, his heart fluttering at the thought of so many other universes. Anything and everything is true somewhere. Is there a universe out there where Jack and Janet Drake loved him and held him often? One where the sounds of screaming aren’t indelibly written over the part of his heart that yearns to know love?

A tiny part of him trembles in happiness at being chosen for something, even though he has no idea what.

“I am,” the other says, sounding anything but apologetic. “It’s for a good cause, I promise.”

Pierrot nods, satisfied with that. After all he’s done, he’s not really in a position to judge other Tims for their choices.

“I’m Chessmaster, by the way,” the other Tim says, reaching for the controls on some kind of complicated device by the computer. “So, do you want to stay? I won’t make you if you’re afraid or too uncomfortable.”

Pierrot allows his gaze to drift over to the machining equipment in the workshop.

“You can use those if you like,” Chessmaster says with a careless wave. “I need to recalibrate the device to grab the next Tim. I think we’ll bring Jack Frost over next—he’s the softest of the bunch, and I suspect you could use some of that in your life.” 

Pierrot shrugs, then nods. It doesn’t matter which one of the various other hims Chessmaster chooses to pull into this universe next. He feels calm and comfortable in his alternate self’s presence in a way he usually doesn’t with strangers, and it seems likely he’ll feel the same way with any of the others. After all, they’re him, even if they’ve obviously made a few wildly disparate choices somewhere along the way.

If there’s anyone in any universe who might be able to understand and not judge him, it’s probably them.

Pierrot eyes the workshop again, considering. He has the plans for his grinning balls saved in his wrist computer, and it looks like Chessmaster uses some of the same raw materials for his chess piece constructions. He doesn’t mind staying in this universe and is actually kind of looking forward to meeting other alternate versions of himself, but he would feel a lot better if he had access to some of his more useful equipment.

After all, Chessmaster is gathering them for something, and it’s unlikely to be entirely benign. They might need to fight. 

Fortunately, Chessmaster’s workshop really is equipped with many of the same items he uses himself, right down to the canisters of irritant gas and other unpleasant but ultimately harmless materials to load into the reservoirs inside the dozens of grinning balls he makes. Pierrot helps himself to what he needs in order to assemble a decent arsenal, then arrange them in his sleeves.

While he’s waiting on the giant grinning ball—those always take twice as long as the smaller ones—he eyes the computers again. Chessmaster is still busy, probably checking and rechecking his calculations to make sure he grabs the right Tim at exactly the right moment. Portals are tricky and the multiverse isn’t very forgiving of errors. Actually, that might be why so many of the portals Pierrot has seen in the past opened onto terrifying hellscapes. User error.

The giant grinning ball is ready just a few minutes later, right in time as it turns out. Pierrot takes a seat on it and watches as Chessmaster lets out a pleased exclamation. A moment later, a whirling, flashing portal of blue and white light opens in the air between them.

Pierrot stares at the portal and sees something coming out of it a moment before Chessmaster’s eyes widen. The man jerks backward, not quite fast enough to escape the avalanche of snow that pours out of the portal, followed by a slim figure in a blue and white costume that looks warm and fluffy.

Pierrot blinks. It seems unlikely that was what Chessmaster meant to do. Hopefully he’s okay. Pierrot does not want to have to try to figure out the portal tech himself, or try to explain to this new Tim that there’s no need to fight if he decides to get aggressive. Bouncing balls probably wouldn’t do much against whatever made an avalanche like that.

“Well, I suppose I should have anticipated this,” Chessmaster says, sounding amused, from somewhere behind the small mountain of snow. “Perhaps I should have chosen a more auspicious moment to bring you through, but I never can resist the most dramatic moves.”

Pierrot raises his hand to muffle his snicker, then freezes when the newcomer stiffens and turns, apparently having heard him. Oops. He rises to his feet and steps forward, interested in meeting another alternate self. But…

The ice guy is just staring at him, big blue eyes wide behind his frosted goggles. He flinches back at Pierrot’s movement, muscles tense and face frozen in an expression of fear. “Eep,” he says in an adorable little squeak.

Pierrot blinks, then smiles behind his mask. That was a stupidly cute noise that shouldn’t have come out of a self-respecting villain. His own nerves settle slightly at the sound. This Tim doesn’t seem very intimidating.

Chessmaster finishes dragging himself out of the snowdrift and dusts himself off in the background, then starts to snicker. Icy Tim spins in surprise at the sound and flinches when he catches sight of Chessmaster. The poor guy clearly forgot all about the other person here, he was so mesmerized by Pierrot.

“Aw, that’s adorable. Are you actually frozen in fear right now? That reaction is quite fitting, I suppose, considering your general theme. Pierrot does tend to make an impression.” Chessmaster sounds amused.

Fortunately, the new guy—Jack Frost, apparently—is more curious than upset, so it doesn’t take long to get through introductions. Pierrot tunes them out as Chessmaster begins to explain who he is to the newcomer, only focusing back in on the conversation when he hears Jack Frost asking about him.

“So… who’s that guy? Is he your lacke—”

Excuse him, Pierrot is no one’s lackey. He throws a grinning ball at his face before he manages to finish his insulting sentence.

“Hey!” Jack Frost flails and catches it after it bounces off his forehead, then sends what he probably thinks is a very fierce glare at Pierrot, who shrugs. He’s not sorry.

Chessmaster chuckles. “You’re lucky he didn’t throw a knife at you for that. I suppose it’s best to allow Pierrot to explain.”

Pierrot wonders how he knows about the emergency knives he has stored up his sleeves. Exactly how long has this guy been watching all of them, anyway? He should probably feel resentful about that, but somehow it’s actually kind of comforting. Like all this time he thought he was alone, he wasn’t. Not only were there other Tims out there in the multiverse, living their own versions of his life, one of them actually cared enough for some reason to keep an eye on the rest of them.

Jack Frost looks at him, expression hesitant but curious. “So… Who are you?”

Pierrot bites his lip, wondering if he’ll be able to find his voice for this Tim. There’s no lump in his throat, so he recklessly decides to go all in. These guys are him. If there’s anyone it’s safe to be himself around, it’s them.

He reaches up and slips his mask aside, showing them his face and the tentative smile he knows is there. As soon as he does, he knows it was the right choice. All the hesitation and trepidation on Jack Frost’s face slips away, melting into warmth and what might even be gentle concern.

Chessmaster, Jack Frost, and Pierrot (uncolored version). Art by Aldebaran26.

Chessmaster, Jack Frost, and Pierrot (colored version). Art by Aldebaran26.

“Oh,” Jack Frost whispers. “Another me. So, how did you become…?”

Pierrot looks away. He’s not sure what his face looks like right now, but he’s afraid any attempt to hide how he feels will be peeled away by the too-familiar, too-intelligent gazes of his alternate selves. He’s amazed by how easy it is to speak. This is something he’s never put into words before, after all. No one else has ever really asked, except for Robin. And he could never bring himself to speak his awful truths to someone as bright and vibrant as Robin.

Jack Frost has some of the same qualities that make it impossible for him to dull Robin with his corrosive past, but he’s a Tim. Somehow, that makes it possible to say the words he hasn’t wanted to admit, even to himself. “Trauma, neglect—I guess, the need to relive the feeling of joy and having a loving family like I felt it then, that night at the circus. And then I hear the screams and see the distraught looks on people’s faces in the crowd…”

He smiles, shivering with the sense memory of arms around him as the screams echo in his ears. “That was the only night my parents actually seemed to be concerned for me, you see. So I keep trying to recreate it, the only way I know how. The screaming always brings it back.”

Pierrot blinks, focusing on his audience again. Poor Jack Frost looks like he’s about to cry, and Chessmaster has a blank expression he doesn’t quite like. He wonders why. Maybe he’s boring them? Oops. “Listen to me, rambling on about my past.” He chuckles, patching over the awkward moment with the bright, empty laugh his mother taught him. “So, how about you?” He lowers his mask into place again. It’s easier to hide. “Do you have people who love you?” He really, really wants to know what a Tim who is loved looks like. He has a feeling this is the right Tim to ask.

Jack Frost nods, his expression softening. “Yes. Mr. Fries is the best family I could want. The Bats look out for me, too.”

Mr. Freeze. That’s interesting. Pierrot never considered seeking out alliances with any of the other villains. He wouldn’t trust any of them not to double cross him, and honestly, most of their goals are much more violent and destructive than the simple harvesting of screams he practices. At least he tries to make the process as humane as possible, something none of the other rogues seem to care much about.

Chessmaster smirks, apparently picking up on something Pierrot missed. “Any bat in particular catch your attention, snowflake? Or maybe a robin?” Jack Frost flushes, his cheeks tinting a soft rose, and Chessmaster looks positively delighted. “I thought so,” he says, sounding satisfied. “I couldn’t be certain, of course—you’re both so awkward and clueless, it was difficult to gauge your actual interest level, but I was fairly confident I was right. It’s why I brought you here, after all.”

Pierrot blinks and tilts his head, interested. So a shared interest in Robin is part of why he chose them?

“Uh,” Jack Frost says, sounding confused. “What? I assumed you just brought us here for the joy of science, and maybe to hang out with alternate selves because it’s interesting. By the way, how long are you planning to keep us here?”

“Why not both?” Chessmaster tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “We can revel in the joys of science while also serving my underlying purpose. I should be able to send everyone home tomorrow morning, once we’ve performed our combination move and successfully protected the queen.”

Seeming to think he’s told them enough for now, Chessmaster beckons Jack Frost over and shows him the displays where the other versions of them are still going about their lives, blissfully unaware they’re going to be drawn into this universe at some point in the near future.

Pierrot lets his mind drift, watching the other hims and wondering what was so different about each of them that makes them so deserving of love and care when he isn’t. He can see it, right there on the screen—Catwoman’s affectionate tweaking of cat Tim’s ears, Poison Ivy tugging her Tim over to her with a tangle of vines and checking him for injuries before giving him a tight hug. Even the mysterious Tim in a costume Pierrot doesn’t recognize seems to be associated with the Riddler. Pierrot watches, fascinated and melancholy, as the Riddler hands his Tim a takeout bag and leans forward, brushing his forehead with his hand as though to check his temperature.

Seriously, why is he the only Tim who doesn’t have anyone?

Or, well… He glances at Chessmaster, who is explaining something about why it wouldn’t be a great idea to bring the do-gooder Robin version of them over. Chessmaster doesn’t seem to have a mentor. He’s clearly doing just fine for himself anyway, without any of the obvious issues Pierrot barely manages to hide behind his mask and his silence.

Maybe it’s just Pierrot who’s broken. 

Jack Frost turns just then to narrow his eyes at Chessmaster. “So what is this big plan you keep alluding to, anyway? You mentioned protecting the queen?”

Clearly not prepared for that question, Chessmaster blinks as a faint pink tinge colors his pale cheeks. “I require your assistance. You see, I’ve been courting my queen, and a particularly difficult anniversary of his is approaching. I believe you will provide a welcome distraction as well as making an… indelible impression on him.”

“What?” Jack Frost says flatly. “So let me get this straight. You’re interested in someone, and your idea of a romantic gesture is assembling a harem of villain-selves?”

Pierrot tilts his head, interested. Not that he wants to be part of a harem for some unknown person, but it does sound like an impressive gesture.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Chessmaster’s blush intensifies and he fidgets, looking nervous. Pierrot wishes him well. If another Tim manages to find happiness, that’s the next best thing to having it for himself.

Jack Frost shrugs. “I mean, it’s bound to make an impression all right.”

“Excellent,” Chessmaster says, beaming. “I will explain the full details once the others arrive. Meanwhile, care to take a quick tour of my Gotham?”

Of course they want to go. The best thing about visiting someone else’s universe is being able to make mischief without having to deal with the fallout.

By the time they’re fleeing towards an ice bridge which spans the gap between rooftops—seriously, Jack Frost is useful and mildly terrifying in his power, for all he’s so sweet and seemingly harmless—Pierrot’s grinning so hard under his mask he thinks his cheeks are going to be sore for days. Batman’s angry sputtering falls off in the distance behind them, Pierrot’s barrage of balls and Jack Frost’s ice slicks having taken their toll on the poor guy’s ability to maintain pursuit.

He really shouldn’t have challenged them. They weren’t hurting anything, just innocently exploring this new version of Gotham. He definitely brought this on himself. Humming quietly, Pierrot tumbles into a series of cartwheels, enjoying the thrill and exhilaration of the ice beneath his gloves and the dropoffs on either side.

He hears Chessmaster’s voice up ahead. “Looks like the device is done recalibrating. Ready to go back and meet the others?” Anything else he says is lost in the wind.

“Sure,” Jack Frost says from where he’s bringing up the rear. “Why not?”

Pierrot rolls to his feet as they step off the ice bridge, a little flutter of excitement and fear in his chest at the thought of meeting other versions of himself. So many hims, all of them seemingly happy.

It feels good to know he can be happy. It also aches, something twisting deep inside where he resigned himself a long time ago to never having more than he does.

This experience is making him wonder if that’s really all there is for him. Maybe he can do better, too.

Maybe he can’t.

Part of him wants to know. Most of him is afraid to find out.

Later, Pierrot sits on his ball, watching the antics of his various alternate selves as they wander around and familiarize themselves with Chessmaster’s base. Jack Frost is perched on the small snow mountain he created upon his arrival, clearly feeling most comfortable there. He seems to associate cold and snow with a feeling of safety, which probably makes sense if Mr. Freeze is the one who raised him. Ice is his curio cabinet. Seems legit.

A couple of the others are playing chess with Chessmaster’s unique Gotham-themed chess set. The one with cat ears keeps flirting with the other, the plant-themed one, to distract him whenever he makes a move. It’s working, which is hilarious.

The last one is skulking around the computer, probably trying to glean information that might be useful later. The only reason he’s getting away with it is Chessmaster is too distracted trying to stop Pierrot from playing with the other Tims. All he wants to do is throw his ball at them! They’re probably good enough to catch it before it hits them in the face.

Well, Jack Frost wasn’t. But the others might be!

He sighs in frustration as Chessmaster catches yet another of the balls he tries to throw. He’s not even using the nasty ones—these are actually just balls. None of them are even loaded with glitter.

Chessmaster snorts. “I know you just want to play catch, but these guys just met you! They might find it threatening,” he says as he intercepts yet another grinning ball, this one aimed at the back of cat Tim’s head right as he leans forward and strokes his foot along the inside of a blushing plant Tim’s ankle.

Pierrot hangs his head, drooping inside his loose costume. He just wants to play.

Everyone looks over and plant Tim raises an eyebrow. “So, is this all of us? I think it’s about time you start explaining what’s going on. We need more than you just telling us it’s for a good cause.”

The other Tims nod and approach, clearly ready to hear what’s going on.

“Right,” Chessmaster says, sweeping his gaze over all of them. “Everyone’s all here, so let’s get started with introductions.” Starting to his right, he begins to list off names, gesturing toward each of them as he speaks. “This is Jack Frost—ice themed, obviously. Over there is Stray, who styles himself after catwoman. Nightshade, specializes in plant-based toxins. Puzzle, in the theme of the riddler but more playful and a lot smarter. And of course, Pierrot, whose theme is self explanatory. Oh yes, and you may call me Chessmaster.” He finishes with a slight bow, then flashes a disarming smile. Pierrot wonders if his parents would have loved him if he were as smooth and confident as this Tim. Mother approved of charm and confidence.

Chessmaster rolls onward. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I brought you here tonight. You see, tomorrow is a very special anniversary for someone quite dear to me, and I believe together you can help…”  As he opens his mouth to continue, the door swings open and a loud, jovial voice interrupts.

“Hey boss, you got the files for the—” The handsome blond man who just stepped through the door stares, his blue eyes widening as his gaze flicks from one to the other of them before settling on Chessmaster. “Boss, please tell me you didn’t bring multiple versions of you…”

“Okay,” Chessmaster says, sounding amused. “I won’t.”

Rook meeting Chessmaster, Nightshade, Jack Frost, and Pierrot. Art by Aldebaran26 (tumblr).

“Hey there,” Stray says in a voice like a purr that doesn’t sound like it should come out of a Tim. He eyes the newcomer up and down. “Grant Wilson, is that you?” He turns to Chessmaster, looking curious. “You’re working with Ravager? Or…?”

“He’s called Rook, here, and he works for me,” Chessmaster says in that glib voice.

Jack Frost frowns, probably making the same connection Pierrot is. Grant Wilson is Deathstroke’s son in his universe. He wonders if it’s the same here. “Wait, so what about Deathstro—” Jack Frost breaks off as Chessmaster meets his eyes and gives a quick headshake.

“He doesn’t know,” Chessmaster mouths. Huh?

“Deathstroke?” Rook brightens. “Good guy, great mentor. Not like my deadbeat old man,” he scowls.

“Uh,” Jack Frost says, sounding baffled.

Apparently this version of Grant Wilson somehow has no idea his dad and Deathstroke are the same person. That’s… well, kind of sad, actually.

All of them stare at him, then look at Chessmaster. “I can’t bring myself to tell him,” he mouths with a helpless shrug.

Well, Pierrot isn’t in any place to judge. He doesn’t even have minions, so he’s not about to start telling Chessmaster how to treat his.

Rook shakes his head. “Anyway, that’s seriously not the most important thing right now.” He swallows, his gaze trailing over all of them again. He stares at Pierrot for a long moment and then looks away, shuddering, as Pierrot snickers softly behind his hand. Sometimes it’s fun to be creepy. “Do I even want to know why, boss?” he asks, voice muffled and longsuffering.

Chessmaster huffs. “I was about to explain everything to them when you walked in.” He turns back to the assembled group. “Now, as I was saying, tomorrow is a very important day for my queen. The Red Hood has a tendency to be very unhappy on this particular day, and I think you can help me cheer him up—”

“Wait, isn’t tomorrow the anniversary of when he…?” Rook trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“When he what?” Jack Frost asks.

“You know,” Rook says. “When the Joker took Robin and killed him. Before he came back and became the Red Hood.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Pierrot freezes and shrinks back, trying desperately to remember if the same is true in his own universe. The problem is, he doesn’t actually know exactly what day his Jason was killed on. All he has is a general sense of the timing based on when he first noticed he was gone and started hearing the rumors.

It might be. If that’s the case… Suddenly, he really wants to get back to his own Gotham and check on the Red Hood. The man shouldn’t be alone on that day.

Chessmaster sighs. “I’ll make sure to get you all back home in time to be there for your Jasons. I just need you here tonight… Now, actually,” he says as he glances at the time. “It’s almost midnight.” He sighs and looks away, his mouth tightening. “And I know exactly where my queen will be.” He turns and walks toward the exit, a sleek steel door that definitely doesn’t exist in Pierrot’s version of Drake Manor. Maybe he should add some upgrades now that he’s seen how much better his base could be. “You coming?”

Chessmaster and Rook exchange a few more words before the Tims troop out of the base, walking along a gravel path through the darkened grounds. It’s a clear night, the distant stars sparkling in a show of beauty that belies the fact that a lot of them are probably dead, their light only just reaching the earth centuries after they burned themselves out, cold and alone in the dark.

Pierrot shivers, only recognizing where they’re going when they reach the turnoff past the orchard. They’re heading to the gate in the rock wall where the Drake estate adjoins the grounds of Wayne Manor. Interesting.

The others are talking softly amongst themselves, comparing stories about how they each romanced their own Jasons. Pierrot isn’t sure he can really consider whatever’s between him and his Jason as romance, but he doesn’t want to bring down the mood by saying so. When it’s his turn, he stops walking and tugs his mask down, not even pausing this time to wonder at how easy it is to do so in front of his other selves.

He peeks out from behind the mask with a tired little smile. “Ever since the first time he saw me without a mask, he’s always trying to get me to take it off.” He shrugs, sliding the mask back on. “He’s the only one who ever really tried to see behind it.”

No matter how hard he tries to hold it back, melancholy seeps into his voice. He just isn’t used to talking enough to have the kind of control the others seem to. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he finds himself wrapped in warm arms that hold him close, so gentle and careful, as though he might break.

What…?

“I’m sorry,” he hears someone whisper in his ear, and it’s only when he feels the soft fluff pressed against his cheek and sees the blue costume that he realizes it’s Jack Frost holding him, that this isn’t an attack—it’s a hug.

When Jack Frost hugs him, his world stops.

It’s like that night, only… no one is screaming. He’s being held close, wrapped in someone’s arms like he matters, like he’s loved, and the backdrop is a quiet country path, not a tragedy.

Something inside him twists painfully. Or maybe untwisting is a better description. It hurts, but what comes afterwards feels like relief. He shakes, shuddering as his tense body gradually relaxes. Turning his face to hide it in Jack Frost’s fluffy coat, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries desperately to write this moment on his soul.

Only, before he even has a chance to start, he feels another pair of arms wrapping around him from the other side. He doesn’t even look up to see who it is. The tender care is just the same as Jack Frost, tentative at first and then more sure as he leans into the offered comfort.

“He’s had it the roughest of us, hasn’t he?” a voice murmurs, sounding sympathetic, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Stray brushing a cheek lightly against him.

They hold him, and hold him, and he waits for the screaming to start. It never does. He’s not sure what to think about that. Instead, they just cradle him in their arms, expressions of genuine care on their too-familiar faces. It figures no one could ever care about him but himself.

Pierrot doesn’t care. He’ll take it.

He’s glad for the mask as he finally sniffs and tugs away from them. It hides his wet cheeks and protects him from well-meaning interest as he turns and blindly starts walking up the trail again. Mercifully, they all follow without speaking.

As they walk, he wonders if this changes anything. Then he realizes that’s stupid—of course it does. The tenderness and care he felt in that hug eclipses the ephemeral, wistful memory of that night at the circus to the point that he wonders how he ever imagined it to be love.

He remembers his mother’s grip, just a little too tight, and the way she never met his eyes, even when she held him. It doesn’t even compare to the way his alternates just cradled him together, as though to protect him from all the ills of the world.

He sniffs again, wishing he knew how to stop his stupid eyes from crying before one of the others notices and asks about it. It’s not that he’s worried they’ll be unkind to him—he’s afraid of the opposite, actually.

After all, they’re all leaving here soon, after they finish whatever task Chessmaster brought them over to achieve. He’ll never see any of them again. The last thing he needs is to open his fractured heart only to have it shattered again. He can’t care about them any more than he already does.

Heck, it’s probably already too late as it is. Losing Jack Frost, especially, will be nearly unbearable.

Before he’s ready, they come to a high rock wall, barely visible through the clinging vines and shadows. Chessmaster reaches into the vines and opens the gate. “Through here,” he whispers, the confidence in his voice finally faltering for the first time since Pierrot arrived in this universe.

He must be worried about his Jason. Pierrot bites his lip, wondering what they’re about to see.

They step through the gate and into a graveyard.

A handful of stones gleam white in the moonlight, neatly lined up in a grassy clearing surrounded by weeping willows, bent and twisted with age.

Jason is there. He’s kneeling over his own headstone, clad in the jeans and leather jacket of his Red Hood uniform with the helmet on. There’s a pile of cigarette butts on the ground on one side and a half-full dark bottle on the other.

His shoulders are shaking and he looks so alone it hurts. Jason Todd should never look like that. He has a family, people who love him. He shouldn’t look like Pierrot.

Chessmaster hisses under his breath. “We should have gotten here sooner,” he mutters, sounding guilty. “I…”

“Who’s there?” Red Hood says, spinning in place and raising the bottle like he’s going to hit someone with it. Knowing him, he probably could fend off an attacker using nothing more than a liquor bottle and his own brute strength.

When he spots them, he doesn’t lower the bottle. Pierrot tenses, wondering what that means about his relationship with the Tim in this universe. Maybe it’s more acrimonious than they were led to believe. “Chessmaster?” he says, sounding surprised. “And…” He shakes his head, reaching up to pull off the helmet and blink at them like he doesn’t quite believe his eyes. “What the fuck?”

Which, fair. There are six different versions of Tim Drake standing around the clearing right now. It would be a little much for anyone to absorb.

“Hi,” Chessmaster says with a cheery little wave. “I was worried about you.”

Red Hood scowls. “Did they send you here? Tell ‘em I’m not gonna do anything dumb. I don’t need any of you assholes checking up on me—”

Pierrot winces. He still doesn’t know exactly what went down between Red Hood, Batman, and the Joker in his universe, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t good. If things were at all similar here, he can understand why Red Hood looks like that at the thought of the Bats checking up on him.

“No one sent me,” Chessmaster says, taking a small step closer. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, and I thought meeting these guys might cheer you up a little.”

Red Hood blinks and then looks past him, focusing on the assembled group. “Yeah, about that… Are all of these guys, like, alternate versions of you?” They nod, and a crease forms in his brow. “Is this a cloning thing, or a multiverse thing, or what?”

“Multiverse,” Stray says, smiling with a flirtatious edge Pierrot didn’t know his face could pull off until just now.

Red Hood scrubs his face and sighs, shaking his head. He finally lowers the bottle to the ground and looks back at Chessmaster. “Y’know, normally I’d be all over fighting six different versions of you at the same time—hell, I’d also pay good money to see all of you troll the hell outta B—but tonight…” He trails off, shaking his head again, and sends a pained glance back at the tombstone. His shoulders droop and he looks at the ground. “I think it’s best if I just stay on my own tonight.”

Chessmaster takes another step toward him. “We’re not here to fight, and we already trolled Bruce.”

“Wait, I missed out on trolling Bruce?” Nightshade whispers, sounding upset. “That’s not fair!”

Pierrot smirks behind his mask. Trolling Bruce is always fun. Apparently that’s another thing all Tims have in common.

Chessmaster just rolls his eyes and continues. “I brought them here because I want to show you how much I care, how much all of us care about you. How much losing you hurt us, and how grateful we are to have you back.” He clears his throat. “I just thought it might help.”

Red Hood stares at them, waiting.

Pierrot stares back, throat tight and frozen. He couldn’t begin to speak if he tried. He’s never even told his Jason what he did after he found out what happened to him.

He’s not sure how Jason would react. He’s never been brave enough to find out.

After a minute of silence, Stray’s the one who starts talking. “My Jason was… Well. He was always my best friend, even times when we found ourselves on opposite sides of the law. Losing him was…” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, there’s a depth of grief and anger there Pierrot knows, and knows to fear. “I didn’t know he was ever coming back. I thought he was gone forever, and—” He breaks off and looks away, throat working. His voice wavers when he continues and Pierrot’s throat aches in sympathy. “It may have been an accident, but I have never once regretted killing the Joker. My only regret is, I wasn’t fast enough to save Jason.”

Pierrot stands there frozen, trapped in memories of the time after he found out what happened to Jason. It wasn’t the same, not exactly, but it hurts to remember.

It also feels freeing, like understanding, like absolution. He doesn’t feel alone.

Nightshade clears his throat and then takes a deep breath before telling his story. “Jason never died in my universe. He came really close, but Batman got there in time because Jason used some of the plant toxins I gave him to slow the Joker down. Part of me wanted to make Joker into fertilizer for my plants after that—” He scowls and his hands clench before he visibly relaxes. “But he’s too toxic, even for me. I wouldn’t expose my plants to him.” He shrugs. “So instead, I designed some spores that sent him into a permanent coma. This way, Jason never needs to be afraid of him again.”

Red Hood just stares at them, a minute tremble visible in his gloved hands.

“The Joker in my universe disappeared,” Puzzle says brightly after a long pause during which Pierrot blinks hard to hold back the stinging in his eyes. “No one’s ever managed to find any of the clues I left, not even Batman, so I doubt he’ll ever be found.” He smiles then, a glittering, knife-sharp thing that looks way too happy for the threat that it is. “I killed him, and I’d do it again a hundred times for Jason.”

They’re all just like him. It’s… These guys aren’t monsters, they aren’t. So maybe… Pierrot isn’t either.

He steels himself to speak past the tightness in his throat, and manages to whisper, “Me too.” He hopes they can understand everything he feels and tries to push into those meager words. He swallows and tilts his mask toward Jack Frost to show that he’s done with his turn.

“I saved my Jason,” Jack Frost says, closing his eyes as his face twists like he’s the one in pain.

Pierrot blinks. Oh. So that’s why Jack Frost is so soft and kind, so seemingly innocent compared to the rest of them. He wasn’t shaped by the same loss and fury that burned away their softness.

“Wait, so your Joker’s still alive?” Stray asks, sounding like he has a problem with that. Which, fair. Joker’s an asshole and would definitely go on to kill others, whether or not Jason managed to escape his grasp.

Jack Frost opens his eyes at that. “Oh, no—Mr. Fries definitely killed him, even if no one’s able to prove it,” he says. “I’m pretty sure he was worried the Joker would come after me or Jason again, so he decided to take care of things.”

The others nod their approval and look back at Red Hood, who stares at him for a long moment before turning to Chessmaster and shaking his head slowly. “I mean, this is great and all, that all these other versions of you kicked the Joker’s ass for their Jasons, but it’s not—” His voice breaks off and he looks away, mouth twisting like he’s swallowed something bitter. He drops his gaze to the ground and his voice to a whisper. “No one ever did any of that for me, here.”

Pierrot stares, because this… It almost sounds like…

Chessmaster sucks in a breath, body tensing as though he’s been punched in the gut. Reaching up, he removes his mask and allows it to fall to the ground. “Jason,” he whispers, sounding pained. “I thought… I honestly thought you realized.”

Red Hood lifts his head and looks at him, a frown gathering on his handsome brow. “Realized what?”

Chessmaster steps forward and reaches out, his gloved hand settling on Red Hood’s chest, right over his heart. “My queen, did you truly believe I would do nothing to avenge you? Of course I punished the one who took you away—I swept him off the board and he’s never coming back. I—”

A wounded noise from the Red Hood cuts him off and he looks at the taller man in alarm. “My queen,” he says, eyes wide with visible distress. “I thought you knew. I’m sorry. I meant for tonight to be a gift, a demonstration of how loved you are, not to upset you more—”

“Shut up,” Red Hood says roughly, finally raising his hand to close it over the one resting on his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you offed the goddamn Joker? I been having nightmares for years about that shithead comin’ back for me.”

Oh, no. Pierrot’s heart twists and he wonders how many nights his own Jason, his Robin, has lain awake and in pain, haunted by the specter of his murderer coming for him again.

No one knows Pierrot killed that monster. He’s quickly realizing that it’s past time for that to change.

“I truly believed you were aware of what I had done. I didn’t tell you outright because I am used to working in secret, and I did not wish to put you in the position of having to choose between me and Batman’s ideals. But I thought…” Chessmaster lowers his gaze and shakes his head slowly. Pierrot recognizes the look in his eyes as regret and self-recrimination. “I thought you knew he was dead.”

Red Hood draws in a shuddering breath, their linked hands on his chest rising together with his inhalation. “Nope,” he says, then grins and lifts Chessmaster’s hand to his lips. “Best fuckin’ deathday present I ever had.”

Chessmaster’s face lights up and the lines of tension melt from his body. “Oh,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”

The two of them lean in, closer and closer until—

Right before it looks like they’re about to kiss, Chessmaster gently pushes Red Hood back. “Wait, how much did you have to drink before we got here, anyway? I’m not kissing you unless I’m sure you actually want it.”

Red Hood looks at him with a baffled expression, which clears after a moment as he begins to laugh. “What, this?” He nudges the amber bottle on the ground with his toe, tipping it. “It’s not liquor—I hate alcohol, reminds me too much of Willis. Naw,” he grins, “this is just tea. Alfred gives me a thermos of it every year when I come out here.”

And he puts it in a liquor bottle before coming out here. Wow, that’s peak trolling. Pierrot approves.

Nightshade raises an eyebrow. “So, why the amber bottle?” After a moment, he smirks. “Bruce?” he guesses, then starts to laugh. “Geez, you’re such a jerk.” He sounds like that’s a good thing.

It really is.

Nodding, Red Hood grins like the bastard he is and always will be. “Fuck yeah. I swap it into the liquor bottle because I know Bruce watches over me when I’m out here and I can’t miss an opportunity to give the creepy ol’ bastard hell.”

Pierrot smiles at that, and finds his voice again. “That’s mean,” he says, tugging his mask down, and doesn’t shrink back when everyone turns to look at him. He peeks out at Red Hood from behind his mask. “I like it.”

Red Hood blinks at him as his cheeks go faintly pink. After a minute, he clears his throat and blinks again. “Wow,” he says, sounding stunned. “I fucking hate clowns, but I’ll make an exception for you. You actually make the whole scary clown shit work somehow. Apparently I find every goddamn version of you hot.” He blushes harder. “Shit, I said that out loud.”

Pierrot pulls his mask back on to hide his grinning face and hot cheeks. If his own Jason feels anything like this, well… Maybe he has one thing to look forward to back home, after all.

“Yep,” Stray says with a snicker. “It’s okay—we’re all friends here.” He winks, then gives a little shimmy as he purrs, “Maybe more than friends.” Seriously, how did he learn to move and sound like that? Pierrot really didn’t know his own body was capable of those things.

Red Hood stares at him in a daze, then turns to Chessmaster. “I’m not even sure I’m dating you yet—I don’t think I’m ready for a moresome with you and your alternate selves, no matter how badass and hot they all are.”

Holy shit. Yeah, Pierrot’s definitely not ready for a moresome either. He has exactly no experience in terms of physical intimacy. Two hugs is probably not a normal tally of affection over the course of almost sixteen years of life. Most teens his age have probably already held hands or played footsie or whatever the heck it is people do.

Although it would be pretty funny to see how it all worked out, especially if he insisted he likes it with the mask on. The others would probably recognize that as the trolling it is, though.

Chessmaster’s breath catches and he tips his face up with a breathtaking smile Pierrot has never seen on his own face. He looks so happy. “My queen, does this mean you accept my courting gesture?”

Pierrot blinks at his alternate self’s choice of language. Every Tim is weird, it seems, although they each have their own particular flavor of weirdness.

“What the…?” Red Hood sighs and bends down to brush his cheek against Chessmaster’s, a goofy-looking grin stealing over his face. “You’re such a weirdo. Fuck, yes, of course. I absolutely accept your goddamn over the top courting gesture.”

When they finally kiss, Red Hood’s trembling hands cupping Chessmaster’s cheeks like he’s fragile and precious and not fully capable of murdering a dude and hiding the body where no one will ever find it, Pierrot hears at least three soft sighs from around him.

It’s possible his own sigh joins the others. They’re just so cute and happy together.

His own future feels so much emptier now that he knows what he’s missing. A glimpse into the lives of some of his alternate selves doesn’t feel like nearly enough, not now that he’s felt a real hug and seen a version of himself find what might just be love.

Oh well.

He heaves a deep breath and slumps, trying to convince himself he can go back to what he has and not take any regrets with him.

Screw it. His entire life is made of regrets—what’s a few more to add to the pile?

There’s always the screaming, after all. Only, he wonders if that will be enough, now that he knows what a hug is really meant to feel like.

He tries not to wonder if he’ll ever feel one again.

Chapter Text

When the portal in Chessmaster’s base closes with Jack Frost on the other side, there’s a lump in Pierrot’s throat and he doesn’t know why.

Of course it made sense for them to come back here and work on sending themselves home, once Chessmaster was distracted with Red Hood. Idly, he wonders if the Bruce from this universe really does keep watch over his son’s graveside vigil during the anniversary of his death. If so, he’s going to get quite the eyeful this year.

It wasn’t even that surprising that Chessmaster apparently planned for all of his alternate selves to keep in touch. He clearly put a lot of work into setting up this multiverse meeting and it makes sense he’d want to keep the lines of communication open, just in case he ever needs their help again for something.

But Mr. Freeze forcing open a portal from the other side and physically coming to rescue Jack Frost was so unexpected Pierrot still can’t quite believe it happened. His faded memories of that long ago night at the circus seem so empty by comparison. His mother sure never looked at him the way Mr. Freeze looked at Jack Frost. Something about the way Mr. Freeze held the other him, seemed to care about and wanted to protect him—enough to follow him to another universe, and how crazy is that?

He can’t imagine his own parents coming to another world just on the off chance he needed help. They couldn’t even bring themselves to come back to Gotham for him.

Puzzle clears his throat, breaking the silence after the final ripples of the portal to Jack Frost’s universe fade. “So, who’s next?”

Pierrot raises his head and looks at the others, only now noticing Stray’s and Nightshade’s comforting arms draped over his own shoulders. He imagines standing here as the group dwindles, winnowing away one by one until he’s all alone again, and his throat tightens up so much it hurts.

Without conscious volition, his body takes a step forward.

“Ah,” Stray says, hand squeezing his shoulder before slipping away. “Yeah, okay.”

“Take care of yourself, all right?” Nightshade pats him on the back.

Pierrot nods, face hot behind the mask. He usually doesn’t mind being the center of attention, but that’s when he’s in the middle of one of his performances. This is unscripted and real in a way that makes him feel achingly vulnerable, far too much of his pathetic heart there for his alternate selves to see even with the mask.

He swallows and takes another step toward the portal generator. What else can he do? He’s always taken care of himself. At this point, he wouldn’t know how to do otherwise.

“Okay then,” Puzzle says with a soft sigh, tapping a sequence into the device that results in another portal opening with a loud whoosh. “I’m dropping you off right where he picked you up. Looks like about eight hours have passed since he grabbed you, so it’s four in the morning. Good luck!”

Pierrot doesn’t wait any longer, afraid that if he does his vision will blur too much to see his way back. He just nods once more, keeping his head down as he hurries through the portal. The loud rushing of the portal reminds him a little bit of screaming—only, for once, the sound doesn’t make him feel even a cold facsimile of warmth. He can’t pretend he knows what it is to feel love, not when he’s seen the real thing and it’s nothing like he imagined.

He shouldn’t be so upset about this. Being alone is all he’s ever known, after all, even if he’s spent a long time pretending.

He tosses a few balls back through the portal as a final farewell. He snickers wetly as he steps onto the rooftop he left what feels like forever ago. The thought of Chessmaster coming back later only to find his base has been glitter bombed makes him smile.

Pierrot is still smiling and blinking away tears when a heavy weight crashes into his side, sending him flying painfully into the rooftop where he slides across the bumpy tiles.

The person who tackled him pins him down with a loud growl, hands gripping his shoulders and heavy body pressing him into the roof. “Who the fuck are you and what did you do with—oh shit, it’s you!” Red Hood—because of course it’s him—breaks off and immediately lets go of him, easing back to straddle his hips. “Shit. I’m sorry, I couldn’t see so good in the dark. I’ve been canvassing the area for clues since you disappeared, and when I heard that damn thing open again I came rushing back. I thought whatever dumbass snatched you right out from under my nose came back to the scene, so I was gonna beat the truth outta ‘em and get you back.”

There’s a soft, warm feeling in Pierrot’s chest as Red Hood reaches forward and gently brushes the loose hair back from his forehead. Big fingers hook on the edge of his mask and tug gently, a request and not a demand. He nods, and Red Hood carefully lifts away Tim’s mask. “Oh, shit,” he breathes, leaning forward. “You’re crying. Did I hurt you?” He sounds panicked.

Tim shakes his head, blinking away more tears. It’s not his fault they just keep welling up. Something about the way Red Hood was looking for him, actually cared enough to come back and attack what he thought was the person who took him away—it’s making an impossible hope well up in his chest. Suddenly, he needs to see. Reaching up, he cups his palm around the jawline of the red helmet, tugging.

Red Hood immediately reaches up to fumble the helmet off, dropping it to the side where it goes rolling down the pitch of the roof and off the building. Neither of them look, not even when a loud crashing sound and startled shout rise up from the street below. Jason’s not wearing the domino anymore. The skin around his eyes looks swollen, like he’s been crying.

Tim just stares, unable to comprehend the tender expression focused on him. He hadn’t thought it was possible for anyone to look at him like that, except maybe his own alternate selves. A warm tingling sensation suffuses his body, his heart racing like when he’s scared except this feeling is too exciting to be fear. “My name is Tim,” he says, and Jason’s eyes widen, then soften as he gazes down at him like he matters, like he’s precious.

“Tim,” he whispers, and the name sounds so good on his lips. “Glad to finally meet you.”

He hadn’t let himself think about this possibility, not like Chessmaster and the others who all seem to have so much more than he does. He’s not sure he could handle the rejection if he tried to reach out and Jason didn’t reach back. And while Jason has always been curious and shown him kindness over the years, there’s no way he would ever want someone as broken as Pierrot, as Tim.

Even his mask can’t hide the cracks, and without it…

He’s a shattered mess, empty, the jagged pieces glued together with faded dreams and determination that loses a little more of its staying power every year.

Only…

Jason is looking at him, without his mask, and the expression on his handsome face is so tender and loving it aches with a sweet pain like nothing Tim has ever felt.

“Hi,” Tim breathes, happiness welling up until it overflows as a smile. Jason really does care about him. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he managed to become important enough for him to care. It feels like a revelation, a weight of sadness and guilt that pulls free of his chest and leaves him floating. If someone who isn’t him can care about him…

Then maybe it really wasn’t his fault all along. His parents were just dicks.

“I thought I lost you,” Jason murmurs, then sniffs loudly. “You little shit, I really thought some dumbass decided to kidnap and off you on the night before my goddamn deathday. Like my fucking horrible luck looked at the anniversary of the most horrible day of my life, and decided to make it even worse by taking you away from me.” He bends down and rests his forehead against Tim’s. This close, he can feel the bigger man trembling. “Don’t do that again,” Jason says in a voice that isn’t very far from begging.

Tim blinks back the hot sting in his eyes—seriously, how can he still be crying? He’s probably going to get dehydrated at this rate—and cautiously, carefully reaches up to wrap his arms around Jason’s shoulders. This whole hugging thing is really new to him, but he’s pretty sure he has the basics down. He realizes he’s holding himself way too stiffly after a moment and consciously relaxes, allowing himself to enjoy the way Jason feels in his arms.

“Okay,” he whispers, heart fluttering as he experiences his third hug. “It’s not like I planned the whole falling into another universe thing to have my entire worldview shifted and help my alternate self woo his Jason, though.” He only realizes after he’s finished talking how awkward that is. “Uh, wait, forget I said that—”

Jason raises his head, eyeing him, then smirks. “Nope. This sounds like a story I wanna hear in full.” Sitting up, he eases away from Tim and then helps him sit up as well. “Maybe somewhere more comfortable, though. Wanna come see one of my bases?”

Tim nods and allows Jason to take his hand.

Jason uses it to reel him into another hug. So many hugs in one day! This doesn’t feel real. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re the only one I trust not to judge the shit outta me for what I do, what I am now, and I almost lost you. Jesus, I probably woulda lost my shit and gone on a rampage if you were still missing when the sun rose.”

Oh yeah, deathday anniversary. Tim brightens, remembering something he’s been meaning to tell his Jason since he saw the other Red Hood’s reaction to finding out. “I killed the Joker!”

Jason damn near takes them both out right then and there, jolting in surprise and barely managing to catch his footing before they stagger right off the rooftop. “What the fuck,” he says, gaping. “You can’t just say shit like that outta the blue, you’ll get me all excited.” He looks down, face going serious. “I know, though. I mean, I figured it out when I came back and broke into the Batcomputer, saw the evidence B found at the scene of Joker’s death. A few fragments of polymer survived the explosion, and the Batcomputer matched it to your damn grinning balls of horror.”

Huh. That actually makes sense. Batman started treating Pierrot more harshly right around then. He thought it was just part of the man’s violent grieving over the loss of his son, but maybe it was a little more personal.

He puzzles over the timeline for a moment. “So that’s why you came to find me?”

“Yeah, pretty much. That, and you’re the only one who really seemed to give a damn about me before. Made me feel like I could trust you, even before you finally took off the fucking terror-mask and showed me those pretty blue eyes.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight, then makes eye contact with an expression that looks almost hesitant. “I didn’t say anything before ‘cause I didn’t wanna scare you off, but I’ve been hoping we could maybe team up and work together.”

“I’m not blowing up Batman for you,” Tim says. For all he’s willing to punish those who really deserve it, he’s pretty sure Batman will never make it onto that list. He tilts his head in consideration, trying to think of other ways he could help. “I could probably carry a duffel bag or two,” he says with a bright smile.

Jason just stares at him, eyes wide. “Are you seriously offering to commit murders together?”

Tim just nods, giving him a bright smile. As long as it’s just people who truly deserve it—child abusing murderers, unrepentant serial killers, and so on, the kinds of people who seem to slip under the radar for both the police and the vigilantes—he has no problem with that plan.

Pierrot smiling brightly. Art by Aldebaran26.

“Holy shit,” Jason says faintly. “I always thought it was just the mask, but it’s actually you. You really do smile when you say that creepy shit.”

Does he not like it? Is he unhappy? Tim looks down, smile fading, and Jason sucks in a gasp.

“No, shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I like creepy shit. Damn it, that sounds kinky and all kinds of wrong. What I meant was, I like you.” Jason’s big, warm hand cups Tim’s face, holding him until he tips his chin up again to look.

Jason’s staring at him with that warm, achingly tender expression again, and Tim…

He wants, in a way he’s never really let himself before. Alone, hurting, and forgotten, he hasn’t ever truly considered the possibility of being cared for, let alone more. Especially not with Jason, his first and only friend, the one relationship he would never dare to risk on the slim chance of having it all.

Maybe it isn’t a risk at all. Pressing up on his tiptoes, he lifts his face, bare for once of any masks or shields.

Jason stares at him, teal eyes widening. “Oh, damn,” he breathes, then gives him a lopsided grin. “I’m never gonna get used to how gorgeous you are under there, am I? If you let me, though, I’m damn well going to give it my best shot.” He leans down and closes the last few inches of distance between them, his hands pressing them closer as his warm lips cover Tim’s in an achingly gentle kiss that fills him with such warmth and sense of safety, he melts into the embrace.

Pierrot kissing his Robin. Art by Aldebaran26. (Yes, I know Jason’s wearing the Robin costume in the art and Red Hood in the story. I know. Shh. Just go with it.)

Later, they’ll head back to Red Hood’s base and he’ll tell him about what happened in the other universe, all about the people he met there and their stories like a distorted reflection of his own. Much later, he’ll tell him more, about Tim Drake and his lonely house, and the night he went to the circus and changed the course of his own life forever.

Maybe they’ll even go together to pay their respects at the white tombstone where Jason’s first story ended.

Or maybe they won’t. It’s up to Jason, really. If he’s comfortable just spending time with Tim instead of grieving his old tragedies, then Tim is more than happy to help distract him.

For right now, though, all he wants to do is exist in this moment. There are no screams, just Jason’s warmth and those big, strong arms wrapped around him, cradling him like he’s fragile and so, so precious. Jason’s lips, pressing softly against his cheek and temple in an exploration all their own. Jason’s steady heartbeat that he can feel thrumming through his own chest where they’re pressed together so tight.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to. This is a memory he’ll keep, and come back to again and again.

Maybe, this is a memory he won’t have to live on, to ration until almost all the warmth fades from it and leaves him with nothing but the gray dregs. After all, unbelievable as it is, Jason seems inclined to keep him.

Maybe there will be more memories to build on.

Chapter Text

Something feels different this time as Tim steps into his mother’s parlor and looks around, eyes drawn to the dust which has built up on the flat surfaces and the handful of trinkets that aren’t closed away, protected inside the curio cabinets. He thinks about taking the time to painstakingly clean everything himself.

“Got everything you need?” Jason’s voice calls out to him from down the hall, where he’s waiting at the stair landing. “Want any help?”

Tim thinks about his new apartment, so warm and full of life, his own things spread out and more of Jason’s creeping into the spare room every day. He thinks about all the work Jason helped him do to give him that, once he found out exactly who Tim really is. “At least one of us needs to be legally alive,” he’d reasoned. “Never know when having a solid ID will come in handy. And like fuck am I gonna open the can of worms to bring back Jason goddamn Wayne. It makes more sense to have it be you. I mean, you never actually died in the first place! And you’re not even legally dead yet, just missing.”

So, Tim let him help figure out a good-ish cover story—“Really, Jason? You think people are going to believe I just lived on a desert island for four years after the crash and just happened to get picked up by a passing boat?” “Fuck, it happened in Castaway! If it’s good enough for Tom Hanks, it’s good enough for you!” “Fair.”

Once that story was out, it wasn’t actually that hard to reclaim his life, and his parents’ official bank accounts and property. It helped that he’s old enough now at sixteen to be declared an emancipated minor instead of being put into the system.

He never realized how nice it would feel to live somewhere else, without the memories of his lonely childhood pressing in on him. And the hugs. For a vicious crime lord, Jason is surprisingly protective and tender when they’re together. There are so many precious details Tim knows about him now, like the way he hums and dances while he cooks, and the fact that his hair may look black at night, but it’s full of dark red highlights in the sunlight.

Tim’s lips curve in a smile and he feels steadier than he has in a long time. He stands in front of the curio cabinet and looks at the delicate little figurines of the commedia dell'arte, standing frozen in the same tableau they’ve been trapped in for as long as he can remember.

Fingers trembling, he reaches out and grasps the edge of the door, then pulls. Part of him is surprised when it opens with a single soft click. He reaches out and his fingers close carefully over the little Pierrot figurine. It feels strange in his hand, heavier and more solid than he expected. He stares at it on his palm for a long moment before he tucks it gently into his pocket with a shuddering sigh.

Then he turns around and walks away. He has things to do and someone waiting for him now, after all.

Angry sputtering follows them as Pierrot cartwheels and tumbles gracefully across the rooftop, Red Hood laughing as he thunders along just a step behind and to the left. “Holy shit,” Red Hood manages as they finally slow down and come to a halt. “Holy shit. I can’t believe you just did that.”

Pierrot shrugs. It wasn’t really anything spectacular. Although now that he’s thinking about it, he probably invented the triple repeater glitter balls after Jason’s death, so it makes sense he’s never seen Batman take one to the face before.

It’s always quite a sight, and this time, poor Batman had his mouth open when it went off. Pierrot doesn’t really feel too bad about it though, because he was almost certainly going to say something mean and awful about Red Hood’s life choices. Pierrot himself being the main life choice Batman objects to these days.

He comes to a halt once signs of pursuit taper off and sighs, ruefully remembering his own hero worship for Batman, back when he was a child. He would have been so horrified to know that one day his hero would consider him the worst possible influence on his son.

Red Hood nudges up against his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

Pierrot nods. It’s still a lot easier to communicate without words when he’s wearing this mask.

A familiar loud whooshing sound has him whipping his head around with an expectant grin. It’s early, and they were supposed to come to his workshop, but this should be fine. Hopefully he can herd them away before Batman catches up. In the mood he’s in right now, he’s not going to be very welcoming to their guests.

A portal forms in the center of the rooftop, vivid swirls of bluish light radiating out from a blinding center. He stares at it expectantly, then grins when Jack Frost bounces out, a brilliant smile on his kind face. “Hi! Hope you don’t mind, we decided to drop in a little early. Batman’s been tinkering with our portal generator and he rigged up something that lets us see a preview of what’s happening in the other universe. You guys looked like you were having fun.”

Mr. Freeze steps out of the portal at a more sedate pace and regards them with a fond expression in his icy eyes. When Pierrot tilts his head to peek at the man who seems to have such a deep well of affection for his alternate self, Mr. Freeze’s face softens into something that looks almost like the same protective, caring expression he wears when he looks at Jack Frost.

“I don’t mind,” Pierrot says softly, knowing that now is a moment that needs the clarity of words. He wonders if he might get to see Jack Frost receiving another one of those amazing-looking hugs again.

Red Hood’s hugs are wonderful, but about as far from parental as it’s possible to get.

Sometimes, Pierrot still secretly wishes for more. It’s silly, and it seems so greedy to want more when he already has more than he ever dared hope, but that doesn’t change how he feels.

He’s standing there daydreaming about hugs when a faint noise and blur of movement on the edge of the roof reminds him that they were running from someone. Oops.

He turns, shifting so as to release a couple of defensive balls into his hands, and plans a series of evasive tumbles. Batman’s already too close, and he’s angry. Even as upset as he is, he doesn’t target his son. The spread of batarangs which fly from his hands are all aimed in Pierrot’s direction, too many and too fast for him to dodge them all without exposing Jack Frost behind him. Wincing, Pierrot braces himself, hunches his shoulders in defensively, and prepares to get hurt.

It won’t be so bad. It’s only physical pain, after all, and he knows Batman’s batarangs intimately. They’re so sharp, you can’t even feel the cuts at first. He’ll have time to create a distraction to help the others escape, and then he should be able to limp away before he really starts to feel it—

There’s a broad surface right in front of his face. Pierrot blinks, confused. It’s… someone’s back?

It takes him a moment to recognize the icy grays and blues of Mr. Freeze’s cryogenic suit. He just stares at it, fascinated by the gleaming reflections as he listens to the soft clanging of the batarangs bouncing off the other side. It doesn’t even register that Mr. Freeze protected him until he hears a low, furious-sounding growl and sees Red Hood barreling past them to dive and tackle Batman into the rooftop as Jack Frost helpfully uses his freeze ray to ice it over for a slick slide of a landing.

“What the fuck, old man? You coulda really hurt him!” Red Hood grips Batman’s shoulders, pinning him down with his own weight.

Batman stares back at him. “I saw that portal, and I know Mr. Freeze is in Arkham right now. You are clearly working with either an imposter, or possibly a villain from another universe. Either way, I will not allow it.” He turns to glare at Pierrot. “He is a bad influence on you! Whatever you’re planning, I am not going to let you get away with it,” Batman says in a voice that makes Pierrot wince.

He knows what Bruce Wayne’s voice is supposed to sound like, and it’s not that. Not for the first time, he’s grateful his anxiety led to him developing a silent villain persona. At least he doesn’t have to gargle gravel to get in character.

“What we’re planning?” Jack Frost says, poking his head out from behind Pierrot and Mr. Freeze. He blinks, looking and sounding adorably puzzled. “You… don’t want us to get hot cocoa and freeze the reservoir in Robinson Park to make an ice skating rink so we can teach Red Hood and Pierrot to skate?”

Batman goes still the way he does when he’s very angry or very, very confused. Pierrot has a feeling he knows which one it is. “Red Hood knows how to skate,” he says after a moment, the corners of his mouth tilting down. “He learned when he was thirteen.”

Red Hood snorts. “Yeah right, you old bastard, like you or Dickhead even let me touch the ice after the first time I fell and busted my lip. I spent the whole time on your goddamn shoulders after that.”

Batman doesn’t move, but somehow he manages to look guilty. “You were so small. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Whatever.” Red Hood crosses his arms and huffs.

“Not to intrude,” Mr. Freeze says carefully controlled tones, “but I must confess, I’m quite curious. Is this your usual uniform in this universe? The Batman I have come to know is considerably more subdued in his sartorial choices.” His lips twitch and a noise not unlike a snort slips out.

Batman scowls, hands twitching. “The glitter was not my choice.” Turning, he glares at Pierrot again.

It’s always terrifying to be the recipient of that glare. Pierrot knows better than to show it, though, so he tilts his head slowly to the right and waves.

“Jesus, you’re so fuckin’ creepy. That’s hot,” Red Hood whispers. Batman cringes.

Mr. Freeze eyes them, then shakes his head with a faint smile. “Ah, I see how it is. You are not yet adjusted to the notion that your boy hasn’t even waited until his brain was finished developing before choosing to court someone. I felt much the same when I realized my boy wasn’t going to be married to science.” He places a hand on Jack Frost’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze. “Still, we must allow them their choices. We cannot learn their lessons for them, merely be there to assist in whatever way we can along the way.”

Batman just stares at him.

“Come along, boys,” Mr. Freeze says, surprising Pierrot by reaching out and tucking him under his other arm. “I believe we have a skating rink to create, and hot chocolate to enjoy.”

Pierrot gives Batman one last curious look before allowing Mr. Freeze to gently guide them away. The man looks stunned. “You’re really… just going to go skating?” he says in a quiet voice, sounding almost subdued.

“Yeah,” Red Hood replies in a guarded voice. “You gonna mess with us some more? ‘Cause I don’t care about you targeting me, but when you throw your fuckin’ batarangs at my boyfriend I just—”

“You’re serious about him, aren’t you? This isn’t just some sick fascination because he’s the one who killed the Jok—”

“You don’t say that name!” Red Hood says fiercely. Mr. Freeze pauses, hands stiff where he’s holding Jack Frost and Pierrot. “And no. Fuck, no. Pierrot and me, we were friends before. I never told you because you were a dumbass who thought he was a really bad guy, but I knew better. I don’t love him because he killed the fuckin’ Joker for me, Pierrot killed that asshole because he loved me and it hurt too goddamn much to know that waste of breath was walkin’ around when I wasn’t. He’s not a bad influence. Sometimes, I think we’re both the only damn thing holding the other together.”

Pierrot swallows, throat tight and eyes stinging at the hoarse pain in Red Hood’s voice. He turns to look and feels like he’s intruding on something intimate when he sees Red Hood’s hands loose on Batman’s shoulders, Batman’s hand coming up to rest on the helmet in a slow, careful gesture.

“Jaylad,” Batman whispers, and if the slip from code names weren’t enough to show how much he’s feeling right now, the fact that he sounds more like Bruce than the Bat would do the trick. “I couldn’t… I just couldn’t, not without losing what little hold I had left on sanity after I lost you. I’m sorry, son.”

Red Hood is silent for a long time. Mr. Freeze takes the opportunity to gather both Jack Frost and Pierrot up under his arms, pulling them close in what Pierrot is shocked and delighted to realize is a comforting, paternal hug.

So this is what it feels like.

He soaks it in, tilting his head and closing his eyes to relish the sensation.

Eventually, Red Hood clears his throat and lets go of Batman, easing back to stand up. Batman just stares at him until Red Hood snorts and reaches down to haul him to his feet. “We’re going ice skating, old man—wanna come along?”

Batman’s breath hitches as he nods. His gaze travels from Red Hood to where Mr. Freeze is still standing, arms wrapped around Jack Frost and Pierrot. “Pierrot,” he says slowly, as though testing the word out. “It seems you have come to mean a great deal to my son. In consideration of that, I am willing to reconsider my position regarding you.”

Pierrot’s hands twitch. It takes all his self-control not to throw another glitter ball in Batman’s face, just for the heck of it. Instead, he nods his head, then deliberately tilts it as far as he can to the left.

“Creepy little fucker,” Red Hood says fondly, walking over to bump their shoulders together as Batman hesitantly follows. Jack Frost instantly begins babbling about how his new freeze ray should be able to ice over the entire reservoir in half the usual time, and Mr. Freeze asks Batman which pastry and hot chocolate vendors would be best to invite out to Robinson Park for an impromptu evening of skating.

Pierrot smiles under his mask, feeling warm and content as he writes another memory to his heart, with not a scream to be heard. He doesn’t even miss the screaming, not one bit.

Well, maybe a little.