Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim had lost a lot of people to blood loss. It was just one of the realities of running around the streets without any sort of proper set-up, as well equipped as his field kits were these days. He hadn’t had the ability to haul around blood bags and IVs by himself.

Now, at 16, he might be able to physically carry around a small cooler, but he didn’t have to. By this point, he used a run down van, bought off Joey with a wad of cash that had been more than the asking price, and that could hold a cooler for him.

He didn’t run from street to street as often since Nightwing had looped him on where the official patrol route was that night, so Tim could make stops along it with the rest of his schedule. He took his van, and he answered calls and messages. If he stumbled on any kids that needed it, he sent them to the run down apartments that he and Jason had turned into free housing. If those kids had been kidnapped, he took down the names or descriptions of their captors and sent them to Jason.

Notifying the Raven really was a convenient way to get rid of any human trafficking ring, and Tim came across them less and less. But back to the point. He used to lose too many to blood loss, and he knew about how much blood he could use in a night, always just enough to keep them alive even if they’d passed out. He had bags in a cooler in his van that he kept stocked, sometimes (more often than he should really) with his own blood. Being O negative had to have some uses after all.

Tim knew roughly how many bags he usually needed, and appropriated them from the hospital next to Bristol accordingly to supplement what he physically couldn’t bleed from himself. The hospital could afford to fly in more bags. Tim could too, probably, but the red tape it would require would be too telling. It didn’t matter the reasons, anyway. He needed that blood, Gotham needed that blood. 

He was running out of it much faster than usual. 

It hadn’t been a particularly subtle shift when more and more people came to him (him to them?) with deep cuts, whispering with shifty eyes about the flash of a blade, a proper sword, and the little terror who wielded it. Too fast to be human, the more superstitious would mumble to him. “In a downed Robin’s colors,” they’d shudder. The ghost of the dead Robin from a few years back, a taste for blood and vengeance the same as the Bat. 

Jason vacillated between fury and morbid amusement at the irony in the murmurs.

Some nights Nightwing would have to keep Jason in a hold as he howled, eyes greener than emeralds, so, so sickly green and Tim would debate on whether or not to sedate him.

How dare someone wear the colors he died for, died in, he’d curse and spit. Sometimes Jason would laugh and laugh and laugh and it wasn’t the Joker but it wasn’t Jason either. The laughter always broke into sobbing if it hadn’t already led to Dick frantically knocking the younger boy out. Tim was very glad that Dick was there, even if those nights left all three of them trembling.

Jason always came back though, a little more weary, a little more anxious, but, in Tim’s opinion, recklessly brave in the face of it. It couldn’t be easy to face your own murder over and over again, even if it wasn’t happening in reality. It was in those fragile moments that Tim would whisper what comfort he could, reminding Jason that he was the Raven, a bird with unclipped wings once again, that the Joker was gone.

Dick never had any words to give, but he was there and holding on despite his own tears and that was important. It was three months after the newest Robin had appeared that Jason had an episode bad enough that Dick got hurt. An elbow to the face in the flailing. In his fury, Jason was vowing to “get rid of that smiling bastard” and Dick was down and Tim had to tackle their brother and use his knockout pen. When everyone had come to, Jason had been very, very quiet. Tim was giving what he could.

Jason had his face tucked into his knees, arms squeezing them closer in a tight fetal position. Despite that, his voice, already hoarse from screaming, rang out in the apartment. 

“I don’t even remember it, you know? Killing the Joker. It was all too green. I’d had a plan, to force Bruce to choose to kill the freak. Even if he hadn’t, I’d rig the warehouse to blow and he’d be put down either way. He’d be gone and I’d finally be free.”

Tim closed his eyes. He’d always suspected, was always fairly certain, but hearing it out loud?

Jason took a shuddering breath, voice bitter. “Instead, I woke up with one less bullet and a new set of ghosts.” 

Dick choked on a sob beside him. They’d all been grateful when the Joker died. Dead, burned, his metaphorical grave spat on a million times over. But there wasn’t an escape from the memories or scars in the mirror. Tim has cleaned enough blood off of shaking hands, sometimes not his own, to know that, once you knew what that tasted like, the desperation of the damned, there wasn’t any healing from it. There was only living in spite of it or dying because of it.

The Joker was dead, and Jason would never have to fear an attack from him again, but it wasn’t closure because it would never really end. 

(“Dead. Dead dead dead or alive or something in between,” Jason would sometimes mutter on his worst nights. Dick was still mourning the mirages of opportunities lost every time Jason took a breath. Tim thought he might be something in between.)

Simply put, it would be a disaster to try and pin down the newest Robin, because it would undoubtedly end with Jason having to confront both the boy and Bruce.

Dick maybe could’ve told them about the newest addition to Gotham’s nocturnal wildlife, but that would’ve required talking to Batman. Tim wouldn’t ask him to do that, and Jason wouldn’t even consider it. Since siding with the Raven, Nightwing hadn’t been in the same room as Batman or Bruce Wayne. It seemed to be a mutual situation. Tim did his best to stay out of the way while still being supportive in the background.

Every day, the odds of one of them having to actually speak to Bruce again grew. Tim hated the idea of it. He liked the idea of trying to isolate or poach the newest bird from the Bat even less. There were too many variables, and what if the newest bird wanted nothing to do with his brothers? It wasn’t like he’d reached out either. Tim really was at a loss, but he also couldn’t keep letting people bleed out from sword slices.

Something had to happen. Tim didn’t know what, and each day added to his spinning frustration, his wheels caught on ice. Sometimes, if he had the time, he’d try to explain the problem to his dad, going for far too long just talking in circles. He could not let his brothers deal with Bruce. He also couldn’t force the young Robin to stop cutting people by his own power. He was missing a piece to the puzzle. It was only an offhand comment from Dick that clicked it into place. He’d been sipping the hot chocolate they’d made after a relatively short ‘green episode.’

“This powdered stuff is kind of shitty compared to Alfred’s. Still works though.”

Tim didn’t remember what he or Jason said in response. It didn’t really matter. 

Alfred Pennyworth. Now there was a thought.

His plan was relatively straightforward: Get Dick to talk to Alfred and then get Dick to make Jason talk to Alfred. Simple, elegant, and entirely not his problem once it starts.

He hates it.

Alfred is a variable that he has no reference for beyond what his brothers have said in passing. He does not know what motivates the butler, or what might be the desired outcome of having the boys meet with him. But it would be something. It would give them insight on what’s happening within the Wayne household without forcing Dick or Jason to face anything they couldn’t. It was a gamble at best. What if Alfred’s loyalty was to Bruce and Bruce alone? What if he, like Dick had initially, wouldn’t believe Jason was alive anyway? What if he didn’t care?

But what if he did? 

If he helped, what would that mean for the two of them? What would it mean for Tim? He didn’t know, not even a speculation of what it would do to their little family of three, and he hated not knowing. More than anything, he hated how little he could do to change things. He would ask for the help, he would reach out when he fell short, but how could he here, with this? Who would he turn to, when the only people who he could consult were the very problem he was trying to solve?

Questions haunted Tim like powdered snowfall, swirling in his wake. The only way to get answers was to ask more questions. The more Tim asked Dick about Alfred, the more contemplative the man seemed, and Tim worried over the fact that his plan was working. Even Jason would chime in every now and then, talking about how the butler helped him with homework or how he made a certain dish. But then the moment would pass, and Dick would try to teach Tim a new acrobatic move and Jason would make fun of them before teaching Tim how to break out of something new, zip-ties or a hold or a car trunk.

Once a month they would round up any of the kids that wanted to try in their housing units and teach them different things, cooking and cleaning and little life skills that showed maybe there could be something beyond this, that they wouldn't just end up in a gutter one day. It was hard, especially with the little ones who were already addicted to things their parents had given them and Tim had to hold little kids as they shook through withdrawals he couldn't mitigate well enough. The ones he could, he weaned off, but it just wasn't feasible for them all. The risks were too great on both sides of the equation.

Others had been grateful to him, hanging off his legs and arms or generally being his shadow as he worked. These kids, he taught in the moment, little ways to keep them alive like disinfecting their friends cuts or stopping nosebleeds or treating shock. Some of the older ones started following him into the nights, too, learning to put pressure on wounds and gauging when someone needed stitches. Tim wasn't really sure how to feel about that. The first time one of his shadows, a twelve year old named Ivy, came with him to Joey's, the man had groaned about his troubles multiplying. Then gave them both soda and told them that their van was out back.

Tim thought maybe Joey didn't know what to feel about it either. Would it be better for the kids to be at school and not following him out straight into danger? Sure, but Tim was already doing his best to give them a stable place to live instead of the streets. He figured the danger was already there for them, but this way they wouldn't be doing anything destructive. Already, a couple of the kids he'd taught the fundamentals, fifteen year olds just looking for somewhere to land, had taken that knowledge and become what amounted to field medics in their squads when they started working for Jason.

Tim was happy for them if it meant there were less deaths to deal with, and they helped out by adding their own patients to his files. It had taken time, but Tim didn't feel as stretched thin. And that meant that he had more time to spend harassing his new brothers and getting bullied in the name of "training" in return.

When he visited his dad in the hospital, he'd whisper about how lucky he felt to find somewhere that felt like his place. So, when Dick started talking to Alfred again, small phone calls when he thought Tim was asleep, he thought that maybe it'd be okay, to have another person watching out for them.

Chapter Text

Tim helped with his first emergency baby delivery in the bathroom of a burger stand. It was cramped and messy, like most things were these days, and the mother had been high, shaking through the whole labor process. He’d been so glad that he’d had one of his shadows, Ivy, tagging along so they’d been able to cut the cord with a switchblade he’d hastily sterilized with a lighter while their guard had held the woman still. 

She’d taken one long, vacant look at the wailing infant, tears leaking down her cheeks, and turned to the other side to vomit. Then her uncoordinated hands had reached out to grab, to hurt, something hard in her eyes as she whispered to Tim that the baby would be better off dead, anyway. 

He gently gave the child to Ivy and told them to go back to the apartments. He had no idea how they would take care of it, but he wasn’t going to be able to assess them in front of the mother, especially with the way she snarled at Ivy’s retreat. It was only the tense hold and threats of the guard, Bridget, that kept her calm enough to get through the rest of the delivery. Then she’d cursed at them both and stubbornly limped away. Tim sighed. He only had so many resources, he didn’t know who she was, and she clearly didn’t want the help anyway.

He let her go. He’d already done what he could.

Tim carefully peeled off and trashed his gloves. Even if it was pretty early, he was done being out for the night. He’d need to go check on that baby and talk to Jason about their options. Maybe he knew someone who was nursing that could handle another mouth to feed. If not, Tim would just have to direct Drake Industries to start synthesizing some formula that wasn’t actively detrimental to development.

Actually, maybe he’d make them do that anyway. And make them ensure free access to it, too. They could afford to take the hit to their profit margins.

He grimaced at the state of his scrubs and the bathroom. Behind him, the owner of the burger stand just sighed and pulled out a bottle of bleach to clean. Most of the customers just stared.

Yeah, Tim was done for the night.

He found Ivy still with the baby, sitting in one of the more crowded apartments on the ground floor of the building that had been semi-affectionately nicknamed ‘the Nest’ by the teenagers in Jason’s crew. Ivy, getting so close to thirteen now, had carefully wiped the baby off and held them while other, younger eyes watched. By the time Tim had made it there, the kids had settled into two reactions: curious and brainstorming names or moody and warily calculating the costs of diapers and lost sleep if the baby stayed. 

Both were pretty relatable, in Tim’s opinion. But he wasn’t going to bother with either until he could make sure the baby would live long enough for it to matter.

(Part of him loathed his own pragmatism, sometimes. Life was supposed to matter.)

Tim had finished weighing the baby on the single rickety kitchen scale that he could find in the building–Jason had done a class on baking for the younger kids so he’d gotten one from somewhere–and frantically searched the internet for a reference of how much was healthy. What if it had been premature? It’s not like he could ask the mom.

Tim took deep breaths. He couldn’t really afford to get overwhelmed now. He’d seen plenty of death. He could handle a tiny baby life that was incredibly fragile and–

Deep breaths. He wasn’t equipped. That could be fixed if he got help. 

He considered his options while he glanced at the kids that were crowding around the counter and up against him, trying to see the baby while it was still asleep. Ivy shuffled through them and handed Tim a small pair of underpants with a pad stuck inside, covering most of the fabric. It definitely wasn’t a newborn-sized diaper, but it would be absorbent. He ruffled Ivy’s only slightly greasy hair in thanks. At least the newborn wouldn’t pee everywhere until they could buy some diapers. 

Tim was primary shareholder of Drake Industries now that he was 16. He’d set up a grant program specifically so that he could maintain the Nest and the two other buildings like it he’d set up in other parts of Gotham. He could afford some goddamn diapers.

He managed to successfully swaddle the baby.

A six-year-old cooed at his elbow, trying to poke the baby’s nose.

He hadn’t been 16 for very long, he reminded himself, and it would take at least a little time for his new HR to restructure the company so that it stopped bleeding money into the embezzling administration. If his CFO didn’t like it, he’d hire a new one.

Maybe he should just build a hospital that he could use in Crime Alley. He’d worry less about how far he has to take people to drop them off, and he’d control the funding so he wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not they had resources available. Jason would probably agree to it in his territory, as long as it helped Dr. Leslie’s clinic, too.

Plans churned in his brain as he took the (crying) bundle to the closest real doctor.

The doctor told him that the baby was going through withdrawals. 

Tim was glad he hadn’t let the other kids choose a name. 

He sat on the curb outside and ignored the sensation that eyes were on him. One of the kids had probably told Jason where he’d gone, and Tim wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s bouts of paranoia. If Jason wanted to come out and be comforting instead of being in over-protective mode, then Tim would talk to him.

Sometimes Tim wondered if he’d see less death if he gave in to Dick's attempts to train him and became a vigilante. Somehow, he doubted it.

He was giving a 20 year old stitches before they bled too much (would he need to grab a bag?). One of his little shadows, a nine-year-old named Tina, had been checking another man for a concussion. Above them, they heard a heavy landing and a muffled curse. Tim silently shooed Tina back to the safety of the van and carefully tied off the thread. The Bat never would have made so much noise and he knew where his brothers were. So who was on the roof?

A head popped over the edge of the roof, but it was too dark to see any features. Still, a feminine voice called down, “Hey, kid! Did ya see Batman come through here? I’ve lost his trail.”

Tim blinked. He looked at the stitches he just finished. He turned back up towards the voice, shouting back, “I haven’t seen them, but the little terror has definitely been here!”

Another curse, then shuffling as they left.

Tim tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his problem, but really… he was curious. So he called Dick and asked him if there was another vigilante hanging around that he should know about. There had been a very long pause and then an equally long sigh on the other end. “I’ll ask Oracle,” he’d said.

That probably meant he’d get a full dossier by the end of the night.

Until then, he checked his phone for the next job. Bridget had texted that her crew had a bat encounter and needed a broken arm set. Joey had some potential concussions from his. Jason had a kid who'd taken a bullet to the kneecap and a set of kidnapping victims that needed to be checked over. An unknown number said they were from Riddler's goons and had some people bleeding out from Robin's blade. 

Unfortunately, Robin injuries got top priority.

It had become a real problem, and not just because of Tim's declining stock of transfusable blood. No, unfortunately for everyone, Tim was having to carefully track who got sliced in which order. Just so that he could keep an eye on the spread of blood-borne illnesses. The new Robin was kind of a piece of shit for that alone and if Tim had any less than three energy drinks in his bloodstream, he'd probably start crying out of frustration at that point. 

The criminal underground was not really the cleanest place. And since his debut, the likelihood of one of his patients being HIV positive had a noticeable uptick. If he hadn't already been vaccinating every kid who even looked in the Nest's general direction, he'd have started just to stay ahead of that deadly curve.

His CFO had resigned when Tim had tripled DI's drug synthesis budget using the man's salary. Tim was sure the three mansions and extensive investment portfolio he always bragged about would be enough to dry his tears.

He'd hired a freshly graduated communications major in his place, recruited straight from GU, and they'd been doing a better job by a mile. His finance department had never been more efficient, and it had demoralized the more egotistic employees enough that he hired a permanent recruiter to work at GU. His PR department had been so mad at the massive walkout of his administration, but his technicians had never been happier. Head of Research had said something about bureaucrats and 'asking for quick fixes that were scientifically impossible' that had apparently been a... reoccurring issue.

Tim was just glad that they synthesized vaccines for him quickly and would ignore patent laws if he asked them to.

By the time he made it to the (typical) abandoned warehouse, three of the seven goons were passed out. No one was dead yet, so he'd call it a win.

Maybe Tim was being a little unfair. It’s not like Robin usually cut super deep or hit any major arteries. But those little slices added up after a while, and so anyone who encountered him would make it to a Grade 2 before they actually called Tim in, because they “hadn’t realized how bad it was.” As if the long slash down their back had been less concerning than their dislocated shoulders. Sometimes, Tim wondered why he even bothered.

(He pointedly ignored the little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Jason that said It's the mommy-issues, isn't it? Besides, he had plenty of daddy-issues too. He had equal-opportunity-issues. Maybe he could just say parent-issues, that'd probably cover both.)

The goon boss who’d called him had said that Riddler and the Bats were long gone. 

He tried not to sigh in exasperation when he heard a distinct thump landing next to where he was busy wrapping up some broken ribs. The vigilante that crouched next to him wasn’t a Bat, though. She was wearing a purple hood and a black mask across her face and a matching costume that looked like it’d been made out of stolen police armor. Honestly, it wasn’t bad, and had more protection than he did on a given day, so. 

“Why are you helping them?” she demanded. 

Tim ignored her and told the man he’d helped that he should pick up some ibuprofen and try not to jostle anything. Then he gave him a card for Leslie’s clinic and asked if Riddler offered good worker’s compensation. The others snorted in derision, and purple girl looked at him like he’d lost it. 

He told them that he’d heard a rumor that some of the other rogues were now, just enough to cover rent these days. They didn’t need to know that the only one who was doing it was Jason, as the Raven, but hey, if he could give them some leverage to peer-pressure their bosses, he’d do it. 

And then he’d left, on to the next call. Purple girl kept following him. Every time he stopped, to hand out water to the working girls, to sew a few more stitches, to call in the body of someone who’d overdosed, he’d felt eyes on him. And he’d already texted his brothers about it between errands. Their responses were wildly different, as per usual, with Jason asking on his location and whether or not he needed to bring a heavier caliber and Dick telling him to not engage. 

Tim ignored both of them and waited for the new vigilante to drop down on him from the semi-lit alley he knew had a side door into Joey’s chopshop, sorry, garage, so he’d at least have some backup. 

Purple didn’t disappoint, and she was pretty quiet about it, too. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t very aware of what a vigilante’s movements sounded like after tailing Batman for so long, then being around his brothers. Still, before she could try anything, he finally answered her, “I do it because Batman can’t kill.”

He heard her breath hitch, surprised. 

“And that means Robin can’t kill either. But since the last Robin… they’re not as careful,” he stopped and looked her dead in the eyes, even with her face still hooded in the dim lighting, “Will you be? Or will you think that they all deserve it? That they made their bed and this is them lying in it?” 

He shook his head and turned, not bothering to wait for an answer. He knew his brothers, and they’d be there soon.

Before he left, he heard her say, voice muffled by the mask and the distance, “That’s cryptic as shit. Like, I’d call you a drama queen, but, like, I’m the one in a costume so I can’t judge,” then she laughed, “But I get you, kid. I’ll keep it clean. And if you need me, I’m going by Spoiler!”

Tim smiled. He and Spoiler might get along after all.

Chapter Text

Batman was not the calamity he used to be to Tim’s nights. He and Robin were always on his radar, yes, but even with all their combined fire, they tended to come in waves that Tim could plan around and weather. In the face of that inevitable storm, Spoiler was like a particularly bright bolt of lightning, and her thunder was just a part of the usual chorus. 

Still, she kept her word, and Tim found most people that encountered her knocked out quickly before they saw her or were avoided completely. Based on her attitude when they ran into each other every now and then, he thought it was ironic that such a loud personality obviously preferred stealth and infiltration over any sort of confrontation. 

It was almost refreshing, compared to every other vigilante he regularly interacted with. 

Nightwing ran her background and tried to give Tim her file, but… he just put it with all his other patient records and left it be, for once. She’s not hostile and he’s busy. If it became urgent, he’s got the info.

On the other hand, the Raven heard her accent over Tim’s phone one time and decided he wanted to recruit her. He laughed and said something about cultivating local talent and Tim decided to stay far, far away from whatever potential training regiment he’s obviously drawing up in his brain. When she started becoming a regular presence around the Nest, dropping off kids that had been in one bad situation or another, he assumed that Jason succeeded. 

Robin ignored the other masks in Gotham like Tim used to see investors avoid cheap wines. Tim wasn’t a mask, so he didn’t expect to get even that level of consideration. 

Then when Damian Wayne asked for a meeting with the CEO and sole shareholder of Drake Industries, he thought it was fair that he was suspicious. More than suspicious, probably. 

He didn’t tell Dick or Jason. That would just end up ricocheting. 

The secretary who’d arranged it put them in a conference room, since Tim didn’t bother having an office. 

It was not that difficult to superimpose the image of the scowling boy in front of him with the cut of Robin, either. 

Silence. 

Tim had no idea what this child wanted with him, couldn’t imagine it had anything to do with actual business, but also couldn’t think of why he’d meet him here, like this, and not out there, in costume and with a blade to his jugular. 

The expression, all scrunched haughtiness, was kind of adorable.

Janet Drake would have laughed and poked at his cheeks between giggles until it was molded into a proper socialite smile to match her own. Her son ignored the old bells in his chest and tried to summon some of the familiar rage he’d felt at the idea of Batman telling him to stop helping people instead. The best he got in the moment was a vindictive sort of satisfaction at the way Robin seemed to grow more tense as the clock ticked without accompaniment. But Tim wouldn’t be the one to break the stalemate first.

Robin made an angry clicking noise and reached into the messenger bag he’d brought with him. 

The tupperware was a surprise. 

“Pennyworth has sent me as his errand boy for today after he could not verify the whereabouts of the cretins that have previously leeched off of my father,” he sniffed disdainfully, “You are consistently mentioned by them and were elected as middle man to complete a transfer of goods.”

Before Tim could process any of that, he stood up stiffly and walked out, leaving behind the container. Oddly, the first thought that came to him was I’ve had more polite people aiming guns at my face. The second was Alfred Pennyworth is a goddamn liar. But why?

Dick and Jason were equally baffled when he recounted it later, but brushed off the exchange easily enough in favor of tearing into the offered food. Tim didn’t know what it was, some kind of pasta dish, but he thought it was good. He really didn’t have any idea what home cooked meals were supposed to taste like, but he figured it was better than the boxed macaroni and cheese he favored back in Drake Manor. 

When he’d said so to Dick’s very eager expression, his eldest brother gave a cry of dismay that he ‘didn’t know how to taste love.’ Personally, Tim thought it sounded rather iron-heavy. 

Jason took the dish as some sort of challenge, too, and he filled it with one of his batches of soup and told Tim to give it back with an attached card that was fastidiously gracious in a way that even Tim could never manage to make seem natural. He called Wayne Manor and left a message, then put the container and its card in the box next to the gate of the estate. 

Seeing Jason look so pleased with himself was almost worth the pain of passing by Drake Manor. 

He was less surprised when Damian showed up at the office without an appointment after that. This time, he gave the boy a polite greeting before a different container was thrust towards him. He got a nod when he took it, and that was the end of the exchange. It became a pattern, which annoyed Tim as much as it amused him. If they weren’t careful, outsiders would assume that the Wayne and Drake companies were working on some sort of business deal. Which, now that he thought about it, could really only benefit him. 

After a few weeks, he told Damian to come by the next day so they could exchange without him having to make the drive to Bristol. The boy clicked his tongue and asked if it wouldn’t be easier to meet there since they ‘had estates with near proximities.’ Tim said he didn’t live at the estate, so no. 

And that was how he ended up with the kid’s number in his phone to coordinate meal exchanges. How did this become his life?

At least Dick seemed healthier for it, since he didn’t eat as much junk food. 

Jack Drake woke up close to two years after he’d fallen into a coma. Tim tried not to think about how inconvenient it is for him. Instead, he hired a cleaner to air out the mansion and sat in the silence that Jack let hang between them. Tim tried not to ask himself when he’d switched to calling his dad ‘Jack’ in his mind. 

Probably somewhere between the first and fortieth time Jason ranted about the criteria for criminal neglect. 

Jack did not like the state of things. That was made very clear to Tim, very quickly.

Tim had the company and despite their increase in both production and sales, they had pretty slim profit margins. Jack hadn’t asked where the shareholders and the board went, didn’t even seem interested in the spreadsheets Tim had meticulously drafted to showcase what his father had missed.

For a moment, he wanted to see Batman’s volatile and fiery grief explode in his face. It would be better than the abyss that had once been Tim’s dad. It would be substantial, and somehow fixable. Or coped with. 

Tim couldn’t do anything against a gravity well. 

Once he got the other man settled, he avoided the mansion for days at a time, and Jack didn’t ask. Tim didn’t even know what he’d say if he did, anyway. On the nights where Tim wished his dad had gone quickly like his mother instead of fading like this, he snatched back his breath while sitting on Joey’s old couch and letting the noise of work wash over him. He told himself that it wasn’t too difficult to fill something as empty as silence. Then he’d go back and walk in on Jack passed out again, where every noise felt like bloodshed, heavy and jarring and soaking through him. 

The people of Gotham took his even more somber mood in stride, almost greedy as they kept reaching out to him in hopes that he’d keep coming back, keep helping. For Tim, as a nameless Doc, it felt like being swallowed whole after being squeezed through a straw.

Jack Drake would buy another drink and his son would wonder if his dad would ever really wake up, then go out and help people who never would. 

So really, his dad’s recovery changed very little. 

Chapter Text

The first text from Damian had said, “It has been brought to my attention that our continued exchanges are garnering unwanted attention. Choose one of the following secondary locations that would suffice for our regular appointment:

1. Gotham Public Library, Bowery Satellite
2. Hot Water, a local beverage dispenser
3. Bristol Exxon-Mobil gasoline refueling station

I await your reply.”

Tim had briefly imagined exchanging casserole dishes with Damian Wayne like some of the shadier drug deals he’d witnessed at a local gas station and chuckled. Then he’d chosen the library.

It wasn’t long before it was their standard point of contact. 

And if Tim liked the built-in excuse to visit the place for longer and longer chunks of time to avoid his brothers, then that was between him and the books. 

He loved them, but they were worried about him and he didn’t know how to fix it. Every time his back was turned, Dick’s eyes felt heavy across his shoulders, like a thick quilt that rustled with every movement. Jason had tried not to be oppressive, but he’d nudged Tim three days before and asked him why he’d been so quiet lately. Tim didn’t think he’d been acting differently, but the question felt like a brand on his skin. He became hyper aware of his every expression, trying to correct whatever they’d noticed. The last thing he wanted to do was to worry his brothers.

He couldn’t tell if it was working, and he was exhausted from trying anyway. 

Damian set the large dish on the library table with a deliberate thunk as Tim raised his head. “Drake.”

Tim rubbed his eyes, “Hi Damian. Any messages?”

“Pennyworth recommends garnishing the dish with the zest of a lemon.”

He pushed the pan he was returning closer to the boy, “Jason mentioned that this one was vegetarian, so you can eat it too.”

Damian sniffed haughtily, “I do not require accommodation from the likes of Todd.”

Tim rolled his eyes and stood. Damian followed him out, dish secured into his messenger bag, “Pennyworth would also like to inquire regarding a potential in-person affair.”

He sighed, “Can’t he arrange that over phone calls with them?”

Damian shook his head, “I was not referring to a meeting between the others of your household. He has expressed interest in meeting you, specifically, though I cannot imagine what compelled him to do so.”

Internally, Tim groaned. He figured that one day he’d have to meet Alfred, but he was hoping that it wouldn’t be for another few months, at least after the current financial cycle. He didn’t want to spend his little free time between the company and patients on socializing. Even if it was someone important to his brothers. Outwardly, he just shrugged. 

Damian tutted and said, “You may convey your schedule in written form prior to our next exchange.”

He nodded tiredly, turning to move towards the bus stop. “Bye Damian,”

“Farewell, Drake.”

Tim texted the kid his schedule, conveniently booked out for the next two months, and tiredly dodged every attempt to pin it down for a lunch, a tea, a meeting. Dishes still came and went, but Tim had begun to tune the exchanges out of his focus, just another part of his routine. 

Every week, checking in on the kids, doing his rounds of the poorer neighborhoods that couldn’t make it to Leslie’s, avoiding looking his dad in the eyes, and strictly ignoring the attempts by Dick, Jason, and now Damian Wayne of all people, to commit to any plans that weren’t Drake Industries related. 

Jason in particular glowered at him over the stove and asked him what his goddamn hobbies were. Tim blinked at him and wondered what part of all that wasn’t considered a hobby. Drake Industries paid him, so that didn’t count, but the rest? Wasn’t a hobby what you did in your free time? When he asked as much, Jason said that a hobby was meant to be relaxing. That annoyed Tim because relaxation wasn’t part of the definition at all. That was a separate category entirely. Jason had looked like he’d wanted to hit him a little bit, biting at his inner cheek before firmly telling Tim that he needed to take a day off. 

And since Jason wasn’t the boss of Tim, thank you very much, he was just as stubbornly ignored. By some unspoken signal, this was when Dick ambushed him, holding him down while Jason prised the laptop out of Tim’s hands. 

Just because he managed to sleep ten hours after that meant nothing. 

When he woke up, Jason was in the kitchen, stirring a different pot of soup as if he’d always been there. Noticing Tim was awake, he quietly put the lid on and shuffled through a bag that had appeared on the table as Tim slept.

The younger boy tried not to jump when the ball of yarn landed in his lap.

“A hobby,” Jason said, “is something that makes you want to stay alive.”

Tim asked how becoming a grandma would help with that. Jason said that the Nest could always use a new blanket. The younger teen glared, but then he imagined Ivy’s face if they got new socks. He looked back down at the yarn.

Making blankets still counted as being productive, right?

The fact that it made him sink further into the couch cushions, mind empty except for trying to keep count for the pattern, had nothing to do with it.

And so it was Jason, carefully showing him how to crochet until their eyes were straining in the low light, smiling into whatever he was cooking to a background of curses at knotted yarn, trying and living in moments that weren’t all anger and betrayal, who showed Tim the difference between surviving and living again.

When had he forgotten?

Tim’s first granny square was so misshapen that he ended up unraveling the whole thing. The second wasn’t much better, but he kept going until it was big enough to be its own small blanket. It looked a little grotesque. Tim hadn’t been prouder of anything in his life. It was draped over the couch like it was a place of honor.

The next time, he tried a different pattern.

He starts skateboarding again. Not for any emergency, but just for fun. There’s an adjustment period for his longer limbs, but soon he’s breaking into the ramp park like he’d never stopped. There’s wind in his hair and sometimes he pretends that he’s flying.

It doesn’t stop the despair when he loses a patient, or magically make his dad look him in the eyes. But it does put some kind of buffer between those moments, and that’s enough.

It’s enough to make him finally accept Alfred’s invitation.

What no one seemed to remember, when it came to boarding school, were the eyes. Tim had spent most of his childhood supervised. Absent parents were literally a requirement of the institution, but that didn’t mean the kids weren’t watched. 

It was one of the things Tim had liked best when he transferred into Gotham, that there were less eyes on him. 

Going to Wayne Manor felt a lot like going back to boarding school, and, given that the goddamn Batman lived there, Tim didn’t think it was paranoia talking either.  If the place was full of secrets, it made sure none of them were your own, so, e ven standing at the door, he'd felt on edge.

Still, the tea was nice.

He sat with Alfred on the veranda and they made small talk about yarn because Jason came to him about what would be best for a beginner and that beginner had ended up being Tim. Alfred had never knit but offered to let Tim look in the library for any books with patterns in them.

There was nothing critical or life changing about the conversation, but Tim suddenly understood why Jason and Dick both cling to Alfred in their own ways.

The man makes them feel human again.

Alfred offers to play chess with him next time he comes over, and was more than pleased when Tim said he’d find the time.

Chapter Text

Tim had grown up in the shadow of the Bat, but he honestly forgot about Bruce Wayne. Forgot they were the same person, even. Figured that was probably the point.

The same couldn’t be said of Damian Wayne.

Damian liked to hover in the shadows anytime Tim came over, like he didn’t even consider stepping into something as disdainful as a light source but wanted to be nosy anyway. And since Tim started bringing Jason’s dishes and cards directly, he and Damian hadn’t really interacted much. Besides the hovering.

He should probably be unnerved, but mostly it’s annoying.

That’s also probably why it didn’t even startle him when he turned to see Robin crouched next to him in an alley where he’s treating his latest patient. Between the familiarity and the other vigilantes he spends too much time with, it barely even registers.

Robin watched Tim work silently as he disinfected and bandaged the worst of it, glad the person was unconscious as he reset a bone and put it in a splint. He pulled out a notebook to cross-reference the last Robin encounters that night to see if he needed to worry about anything blood-bourne. Thinks about whether he should break the silence.

He decides to treat Robin like he would any other shadow he had at night. 

With a sigh and a clap to his legs, “Come on,” Tim said, ignoring how Robin’s head whipped up to look at his face, “Help me get him on the stretcher.”

Robin’s hands hesitate, watching how Tim’s confident ones move, then follows.

“This man is not deserving of your care,” Robin states, like it’s obvious.

“Probably not,” Tim agrees easily.

“You do not conceal your identity,” he adds after a beat, almost accusingly.

“Nope.”

They move the man to the van, Tim hopping in for the drive to the nearest clinic. When he looked back, Robin was gone again, and Tim just rolled his eyes.

He’d been ambushed days later right outside the Nest.

Robin stepped up with a gentle hold on a pigeon. “This is a more deserving patient,” he said.

The bird’s clearly got a broken wing, and Tim’s never handled a non-human patient before, but he wasn’t about to tell the kid that. Instead he reached out, feeling carefully along the injury for anything open or compounded. Nothing serious found, he told Robin, “A vet might be better equipped for that.”

There’s a long silence before Robin said, “I am forbidden from burdening my household with the care of an animal.” He sounded sullen about it.

Tim looked at the pigeon. It stared back.

He heard one of the younger kids try to coo at it.

“Fine,” he sighed, “bring it inside.”

Robin arched an eyebrow but followed him back to what the kid’s called ‘the nurse’s office,’ since it was where Tim kept most of his equipment. And gave them their vaccines. And candy when they were good patients.

Sure, fine, it was Tim’s nurse’s office for the Nest.

But then he wasn’t above looking for a tutorial on how to set a bird wing right in front of the kid, either. Given everything about his life, Tim was literally the definition of ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ when it came to healthcare.

After the wing was set and wrapped, he shooed the curious kids in his doorway out with an order to go see if they had any sunflower seeds or something.

“Pigeons are omnivores,” Robin supplied, “and now treated, he will be more than capable of capturing insects for sustenance.”

Tim eyed the wing. “Maybe,” he said to avoid arguing.

“Oh, Timbit!” Jason crowed from down the hall, “I’ve got a new patient for you!”

He glanced at Robin, who had stiffened at the voice, “Window’s open if you’re not interested in seeing the Raven tonight.”

That got him a glare, “I am not afraid of such an inferior avian.”

He shrugged and looked to where Jason, the Raven, had frozen in the doorway. Robin stared back, pigeon fluttering in his hold.

“Didn’t realize the little off-brand was here,” the elder sneered and Tim watched as Robin’s hackles rose in response.

“I avoid getting sullied by cast-offs,” the younger bit back.

The child Raven was holding seemed to shrink, tears welling up quickly with the anger in the room.

“Be civil, or get out,” Tim glared at them both, taking the kid and setting them on the table.

He softened his voice and asked easy questions and pointedly ignored how Robin scurried out the window.

Later, Tim is trying and failing to crochet stuffed animals to give out around the Nest and Jason is chopping something vigorously in the background. 

“He’s just a kid,” Tim opens.

“So was I,” Jason snaps.

“It’s hard enough,” Tim counters.

They both decide to ignore that Dick has been around even less since the new bird arrived.

Either way, Damian starts to hover in their periphery a little more, and Jason sleeps a little less.

It’s the first time the new Robin is kidnapped that Nightwing shoved a comm in his ear and gave Tim a helpless, “Please.”

They both already knew what Tim would have to prioritize.

A voice sounded in Tim’s ear, “So you must be the good doctor.”

“That’s me,” he nodded at Nightwing and the other man took off, “I guess that means you must be Oracle.”

“At your service.”

It was easy to take care of the injured in Batman’s wake when Tim knew exactly where they’d be instead of having to guess or follow the trail blind. And it was nice getting to be on the same channel as his older brothers.

Raven found Robin first.

It was obvious that something was wrong when Jason turned his comm off, and that sent Dick into overdrive, swinging to his brother’s last known location in a silent fury. Tim heard Oracle say that she’d ping Batman, then he’d changed his own trajectory to follow his two older brothers’.

When he got there, Raven had painted ‘No more dead Robins’ in the kidnappers’ blood. The vacant look in Jason’s eyes was familiar enough that Tim pulled a sedative. Dick restrained him, then held him as it took effect.

Robin watched silently.

There was a light crunch of boots on the rooftop above them. Tim gave Nightwing a pointed look and slung Raven’s dead weight over his shoulder.

Batman appeared in front of Robin while Nightwing was undoing the bindings around the boy’s wrist. Tim paused in the doorway, his van just in sight, and held his breath. Even if he made a break for it, with Jason’s extra weight they wouldn’t make it if Nightwing didn’t intervene.

The Bat’s shoulders slumped as he stared at the words on the wall, then he crouched down and checked Robin’s wrists, quietly but gruffly asking after injuries.

Tim tried to take another step while they were distracted, but his feet scuffled in the debris of the garage. Whited out eyes whipped to him and he froze again.

Nightwing put a hand on Batman’s shoulder and mouthed at Tim, ‘Go.’

He turned, hauling Jason as fast as he could, shoulder straining slightly under the weight. Behind him, he heard the accusation, “You’re letting the perpetrator go?”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Oracle’s voice crackled in his ear, “Thank you, Tim. Keep the comm.”

He opened the door on the third set of knocks and looked down at the scowl that greeted him, “Hi, Damian. What brings you over?”

“I did not know that we were to keep Father unaware.”

Tim glanced back at his dad staring hollowly at the TV in the den. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, stepping out the door and closing it behind him. They made their way around to the east garden that hadn’t been properly maintained in years. It was obvious how stiff the other boy was, but his feet were silent on the path.

Once Tim was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he turned back to Damian, who wouldn’t quite look him in the eyes, “What happened?”

Behind gritted teeth and heavy defensiveness, Tim listened as he was painted a picture of what happened after Robin was kidnapped. The yelling that echoed in the cave between Nightwing and Batman about letting killers run loose. About what justice and obstruction of it meant.

And Damian, wondering if his past as an assassin meant that Batman saw him in the same light as he saw the Raven.

The revelation that Oracle had been hiding the Raven from Bruce’s files.

Dick, refusing to say anything about the Raven.

Damian, full of malice and petty insults, explaining with a strange combination of vitriol and gratitude that the Raven had saved him then gone mad.

“Grayson physically intervened before I mentioned Todd’s true identity, but Father has not ceased his investigations. I should not be forced into this… disloyalty. Either Todd must reveal himself, or I will tell Father.”

Tim smiled sadly, “If you tell him, he won’t believe you. He has to figure it out for himself.”

“Tt,” he clicked his teeth and gave Tim a haughty look. “Perhaps he would not believe you, but I am his son.”

“Has he ever mentioned Jason to you before?”

That made the boy pause and give a single shake of his head.

After a breath, Tim tilted his head consideringly. “If you can ask your dad about Jason without him getting upset, then he might listen to you.”

The next time Tim came over for tea, all he got from Damian was a pinched face and averted eyes.

Damian wasn’t the only one that hovered in the shadows while Tim and Alfred played chess anymore. He chewed over his words while waiting for his turn.

“I was never afraid of Batman,” he finally admitted, “I was afraid he’d try to stop me.”

Bruce slowly lowered himself into an armchair nearby while Alfred took a bishop.

“It’s dangerous, helping criminals. I’m surprised that you haven’t been targeted.”

It was the first time that Tim had ever heard Bruce Wayne’s voice, not the growl of Batman or the breathy pitch of the public persona. This was more natural, normal, and strangely, it was nice. And maybe it was hard to hate a person with a nice voice, but Tim was nothing if not petty.

“I have been targeted,” Tim kept his eyes on the chess board. “They usually end up dead.”

“Not by you, though,” Bruce said, certain. There was a different question still behind it.

Tim took a knight and thought through the possibilities of the next few plays. Settled on another feint. “Even the Penguin thinks that free healthcare is a good investment. Not many gangs across Gotham who disagree, either, pecking order what it is.”

A pause, then a poke in a different direction, “They don’t know your identity, then.”

“I wasn’t that important when I was twelve. They stopped caring to check after a while.” And that was true. He’d been around so long, people didn’t really wonder his name, just assumed he was another street kid who’d worked his way up enough. Most of that assumption wasn’t even wrong.

“Hidden in plain sight won’t work forever. Once they know that Drake Industries is the money behind you, they’ll try to leverage it from you,” Bruce warned.

‘They already know Drake Industries is all dirty money,’ Tim didn’t say. ‘They think that DI is under the Raven, now. And they’re right.’

“I’ll be alright,” was what he actually said.

Alfred left an opening in his play, a silent offer to leave the interrogation.

“Checkmate,” Tim said and then stood. He smiled at his opponent, “I’ll see you in a couple weeks, Alf,” and nodded towards the other man, “Mr. Wayne.”

Chapter Text

Jack Drake fell in love with Dana Winters, his physiotherapist. She was nice, and it helped Jack pull himself from his depression.

Tim was happy for them. 

She was the only adult who had asked where he lived in a long time, and she seemed genuine in trying to reconcile him and his dad. Tim tried not to feel bitter that he hadn’t been the one worth changing for, and Jack tried to pretend that his son wasn’t a stranger.

They spoke, and it was better than the crushing silence of before.

Tim still made himself scarce when he could.

A criminal tried to kidnap Tim after he’d finished flushing the wound, before he’d finished really dressing it. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. The regular bodyguards that liked to rotate had a betting ring on how long it would be before the next attempt. It was routine.

The guy pulled an extra knife, tried to grab Tim, then got knocked out for their trouble, and Tim went back to wrapping the gash before it was let to bleed too freely.

Before he got much farther, Raven melted out of the shadows and told Tim to close his eyes. He was a little too late to cover his ears too, and the shot rang in his eardrums enough to hurt. At the feel of bloodspray, he threw the vigilante a deadpan look, “You couldn’t wait for me to be clear?” His guard, it was Issy’s turn, grimaced in agreement but stayed silent.

The Raven was breathing heavily, still all fire, “One of Freeze’s. Liked ‘em when they were cold.”

Tim made a face, “Gross. And now you got his blood all over me, and who knows what he had. Thanks for that.”

At that, Raven managed a sheepish shrug.

Then Robin dropped down on them, took in the scene, and got immediately irritated. “I had hoped that we could extract further intel from this one,” he huffed.

“Tough,” Raven crossed his arms.

His tone got acidic, “Any delay in the apprehension of Mr. Freeze increases the casualties, something I had assumed you were adverse to, but clearly you care only for yourself in your crusade.”

Jason tensed all over, “That’s rich, coming from someone wearing a dead kid’s colors.”

Tim sighed and ignored them as he turned to Issy, “If he was getting up close and personal with corpses, let’s just go ahead and assume that he was infected with something. We’ll have to swing by the Nest to decontaminate, you got a change of clothes?”

To his credit, the man didn’t even blink before also ignoring the indignant shouting around them to respond. Tim liked Issy, he’d been around for some of the worst of it all, even though he couldn’t have been older than in his early 20’s and got the shakes anytime he got too close to anything neon green. Tim privately thought maybe the reason Joey put him on bodyguard duty so often was to get Issy out of the garage when the other guys were giving him a hard time.

Turning back to the birds, Tim glared. “Don’t forget to call this one in,” he pointed at the Raven, “You know that the coroner gets extra pissy when it’s one of yours and a surprise. And I gotta know what this one had, so I don’t want her half-assing the report to spite us.”

Even behind the mask, it was clear he rolled his eyes, “Yes, your majesty.”

Robin looked interested in the exchange and remarked dryly, “Knowing what this man was ailed with will not improve his condition.”

Tim blinked at him while Jason barked a laugh, “You got a sense of humor, kid. Yeah, nothin’s gonna ‘improve his condition’ anytime soon.”

“And I’m not gonna sit here covered in blood and explain infection mapping to you,” Tim added while he stood, pulling off the medical facemask and nitrile gloves to shove in his kit’s biohazard bag. Issy wasn’t lucky enough to have the PPE and a shower was calling their names.

Robin switched to using a bo staff after that. Tim didn’t mention it, but he was glad that he stopped having to keep so much blood on hand.

Tim stared at the chess board, ignoring Damian in the shadows and Dick draped over the nearest sofa and focusing on his opponent. Distracted as he was by Dick’s chatter as he talked about the gymnastics class he was teaching, Alfred had been able to back him into a corner, strategically speaking, and it looked like this week would be a firm defeat.

He conceded, thanking Alfred for the game.

The butler thanked him back and made mild remarks about getting some tea before he slipped away to get it and Tim let Dick’s words wash over him again, relaxing in the comfortable atmosphere. Damian had even slunk around and perched in an armchair, sketching something.

A phone buzzed and Dick groaned when he checked it, “Alright Timmy, time to get out of here. You wanna be dropped off at the Nest or the apartment?”

Tim stretched as he stood, “Probably the apartment, I could use the sleep.”

Damian’s pencil stilled. “You are both avoiding Father,” he observed, as if it just occurred to him.

The older two exchanged glances, and at Tim’s shrug Dick took the lead, “Yeah, bud, he’s hard to be around sometimes. But after I drop off Tim I’ll come back and we can work on that flip you wanted to incorporate into one of your overhead strikes, sound good?”

“I am not a child to be placated, Grayson. Nor am I in favor of the continued deception within our ranks.”

‘Our ranks?’ Tim mouthed with a baffled expression. Did Tim count as part of that? 

“Furthermore,” and geez, couldn’t he talk like a normal 12 year old? “If this so-called Raven did not wish to draw attention then he should not have established himself in Gotham at all. A confrontation is an inevitability.”

“That’s not really our call to make, Little D.”

“That is not my name, you–”

“Listen, Damian,” Tim interrupted, “Cornering either of them before they’re ready is only going to result in it blowing up in our faces. Maybe even literally, with those two.”

“It has been weeks,” he hissed, impatient, “and Father has already ‘benched’ me for not revealing the Raven’s identity to him.”

They all ignored that Robin had been going out anyway. That was just a given.

Dick and Tim exchanged another look when Damian then muttered sullenly, “His obsession is unbecoming.”

“Perhaps,” they all started at Alfred suddenly standing in the doorway with a tea tray, “it's time we plan a family dinner.”

Tim loved Jason. But sometimes he was still the same idiot who had dropped through Tim’s window and immediately put his foot in his mouth.

There Damian stood, worry dripping down stiff shoulders and in his civilian clothes, holding a box of kittens that he had found, as he demanded Tim give them care. 

Jason was already there, following up with an old graze under his arm. He goaded Damian, asking why he couldn’t use his dad’s money to get them to a vet instead of hanging around where he wasn’t wanted.

Tim smacked the man over the head and told Damian he could put the kittens on the table. 

In the time that they’d known each other, Tim had thought of Damian as cold, but not in the way that his parents had always been. If Tim’s mom and dad had once been a cool hand against a forehead and pressing your face into glass and air conditioning after being outside, then Damian was the shock of a pool when you dive in or someone putting an ice cube down your back. He was sudden, abrasive, and hard, but once you adapted it was bearable. Understandable, even.

That image didn’t hold up against the awe in the kid’s eyes when he looked at that beat up cardboard box of kittens.

Tim had seen subtler yearning in the windows of a toy shop.

Jason peered into the box over Tim’s shoulder.

A little tuxedo one stood in front of the others and hissed as ferociously as a kitten could manage. 

They were covered in fleas and it was easy to see that at least two had upper respiratory infections. Tim tried to see if the runt in the back of the pile was still breathing. 

Jason had already started researching treatment on the laptop when Tim turned back around, Damian reading along with him in silence. Then it was a team effort to get them all washed and dried and warm. Food and medicine and monitoring between other patients. And while not all of the kittens made it, Tim looked up at one point to see the tuxedo one crawling up Damian’s chest as the boy praised it by calling it ‘a fearsome warrior.’

There were worse things.

The Raven and Robin stopped antagonizing each other, at least, after that.