Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim isn't there to help Robin II survive the Joker — he's not sure he could have made it all the way to overseas even if he knew Jason had been leaving, which he didn't — and if Jason has ended up like him at all, it surely will have happened where he died, since Tim doesn't see or hear him amongst the other shades and ghosts of Gotham.

That… hurts, honestly.

It’s like he can feel the void Jason Todd has left behind, and it makes him unexpectedly ache. You’d think it wouldn’t, maybe, since Tim is in a rare position of absolutely knowing there at least can be something after death. But no, it doesn’t help at all.

If anything, it almost makes it worse.

At least if he were a fellow Gotham ghost, even a weaker shade, he’d still in some way be here. Where he was born and bred, where he learned to fly, where he belongs.

But from what Tim can tell, he isn’t.

He’s just…gone.

Tim knows, logically, that he's not personally at fault for this; he also has no way of knowing if he can even really leave Gotham these days, himself, so it might even be a moot point, but… still. Even if Jason didn’t realize he’d helped him sometimes, and even if Tim couldn’t have known he needed it, it's still upsetting to know he hadn’t been able to. And it’s even more so, to not have… closure?

Yes, Tim thinks. That’s the thing he’s missing: closure.

Because if Jason had become a ghost or shade in Gotham, Tim would know what happened to him. Might not have been able to help him avoid death, but could have at least helped him after.

But now, he’ll never be able to help him. Not ever again.

No one will.

Tim hopes, at least, that he's found peace; given what the Robin uniform looked like when they put it in the memorial case, Jason’s death was… horrible. Fire was involved, a lot of it; the thing stank of smoke, was covered in scorch marks and soot. Blood was shed, even before that; by Jason, specifically, given the patterns of the stains.

Tim’s mind is a little too good at filling in the possible details, in fact: some sort of truly vicious beating, for sure; enough to make Jason bleed — including from his head, because even the mask had been streaked with it.

Then the fire, or, more likely, an explosion.

The Joker did always like to go for the dramatic, after all.

Tim could have snuck a look at the autopsy report to know for sure, but… chose not to. He could tell from the suit alone that Jason’s death had been horrible; the idea of knowing more, for once, was not enticing. Honestly, he thought it might have been worse than his own death, and that… was kind of saying something.

Maybe it was better that Jason didn’t come back; he'd hate to see the psychic scars something like that would leave.

In the meantime, though, Tim has discovered another problem:

Jason’s family is not taking the loss well at all.

Especially Bruce Wayne. AKA Batman.

Tim has paid objectively unusual levels of attention to him for years, and that fact alone makes the changes in his behavior much more obvious to Tim than perhaps anybody else.

He doesn’t like the changes he’s seeing.

Batman, you see, has previously had a pretty good track record as far as crime-fighting goes: he’s been far less lethal to the average criminal than GCPD themselves have been, historically speaking, and has, Tim knows, a quieter but equally important record of offering second chances to a lot of the criminal elements of Gotham.

Which doesn’t sound on the face of it like a great way to fight crime; it’s certainly not the kind of policy that makes for buzzy political slogans and elected offices. But in a city like Gotham, where a not insignificant chunk of the populace deals with all sorts of issues that may lead them to engage in criminal acts for any number of reasons that have nothing to do with wanting to do crime, and a lot more to do with survival or desperation… well. That’s been helping. Tim has seen it helping. Has seen cases where people seemed to turn their lives around because of that one act of kindness. Of forgiveness.

Of mercy.

Gotham needs that. It rarely gets it from anywhere else — the rest of the world seems to like writing their city off as a lost cause — but it needs that. Batman isn’t as famous for his mercy, but, Tim thinks, he should be.

At this rate, though, he never will be again.

Tim almost second guessed himself; he went through so, so many photos and notes, from the past several years, and meticulously compared the Before and After. But his instinct wasn't wrong; as was often the case, it was terribly, unfortunately, spot on.

The picture painted by his research is a stark one.

A dark one. One where things like mercy and kindness rapidly fall into the distance.

It’s a picture he refuses to let get any darker.

Gotham, he thinks, might not survive it if it did.

The Batman needs… someone. Someone who can pull him back from the brink.

Batgirl is… unable to be in the field, to put it politely. Not until she’s healed, and possibly never again, with the way the doctors have been talking.

(Tim knows he shouldn’t know that, but well… he was worried, okay? And invisibility and a lack of a need to breathe do make for great stealth capabilities)

And so, Tim had tried to get Robin I — Nightwing, now — to come back to Gotham. To be there, at least, because surely if he were there, he could —

Tim hadn’t even gotten the full argument out.

Nightwing had refused.

He had said Bludhaven is his territory now, not Gotham; that he’s beyond done with being Robin, and that Batman could take care of himself, and... he was, Tim gathered, none too pleased at some kid butting his head in to “this business”, as he put it. He’d been firm, and so had the line of his mouth when he’d paused, told Tim to go home, stay home, and stay out of “dangerous things” like this.

Tim was… frustrated, to say the least. And he wanted so badly to be mad at Nightwing for it — because it’s so obvious, to Tim, that Nightwing is greatly underestimating his own importance to Batman, and greatly overestimating Batman’s ability to function right now. It’s so obvious, that Tim just barely refrained from yelling at him. From screaming at him to just come home, he needs you, we need you!

But.

Yelling at him won’t change his mind, Tim knows. Especially coming from what would, to him, be a stranger.

And he also knows the most important piece of context: knows that Nightwing, formerly Robin I, is really Dick Grayson.

Dick Grayson, who knows who Barbara Gordon used to moonlight as, who is close to her, who knows full well what the Joker did to her, and is probably not dealing well with that knowledge.

Dick Grayson, who was only a few years older than Jason Todd; who was raised by the same adoptive father, and whom logic suggested probably considered Jason a little brother.

Dick Grayson, who hadn’t been home to help his little brother; hadn’t, Tim knows, even been anywhere on Earth as Nightwing at the time — because Tim would have known, if he had been; he wasn’t. He couldn’t be there for him. Might even be blaming himself, irrationally, for not being there to help him.

Dick Grayson, who missed the funeral for his little brother, because it happened while he wasn’t home. Dick Grayson, who probably wasn’t too happy with Bruce Wayne for holding a funeral for his dead little brother, without him, who might not have even known said brother was dead until he got home, and who is equally probably still in the midst of grieving, himself.

And… that was the rub, wasn’t it? Grieving.

Grief seems… messy, Tim’s noticed. Painful and confusing and difficult, and at its worst…

Jason had been a bright, vibrant presence in the world; his quips had been funny, his fights had been scrappy, his brains had been more impressive than Tim thinks most people ever have given him credit for, and… his whole existence, both as Robin and as the Cinderella story of street-orphan-turned-wealthy-adoptee Jason Todd, gave people hope.

Tim hadn’t even known him, not really; had never directly interacted with him, despite the occasional bit of help he provided in secret from time to time… they had never even spoken. They weren’t friends. But Tim already missed him. Kept feeling the space in the world where he used to be, and ached at the loss.

If it was this… sad, for Tim, then how bad must it be for Jason’s brother?

Jason’s brother, who hadn’t even been able to be there when he died. Who shouldn’t be blaming himself for it, but Tim knows if it were him, he would be, so he might be, too.

And he had missed. The funeral.

That was even worse, Tim knew. Funerals weren’t for the dead; people said they were, but Tim knew better: they were for the survivors. For the living. For the grieving. To process things, or whatever. To feel like they’d at least said goodbye, especially if, as was often the case, they hadn’t actually gotten to. To start the process of moving on, with a rote set of largely scripted rituals to make it easier, and to stand or sit there with others who knew the deceased, in solidarity. Together, so they didn’t have to feel alone in their loss.

Dick Grayson had come back home to losing his little brother, and hadn’t even gotten the cold, cold comfort of that much.

No, Tim knew just enough to hold some of the choicer words he could have said; because it wouldn’t have helped anybody at all. Grief wasn’t always something you could logic your way past.

Grief sucked, that way.

It did, at least, remind him to be thankful he had managed to spare his parents the experience. 

But none of that changes the fact now, that Bruce Wayne — Batman — isn’t dealing with his grief… healthily.

It doesn’t change the harsher tactics he’s been using. The unnecessary injuries he’s been inflicting, in higher numbers, in greater severity.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s been losing touch with his mercy.

It doesn’t change the fact that, clearly, he needs someone there, to remind him of who he really wants to be. Of who he should be. Who he needs to be.

But if Jason Todd is gone, and Barbara Gordon forcibly retired, and Dick Grayson refuses to return to Gotham… who else is gonna keep him from the Abyss?

Dramatic phrasing, perhaps, but that’s how Tim’s been thinking of it. The Abyss. Dramatic, but apt. Because it should be dramatic. Because the consequences, Tim knows, are greater, more dire, than anybody close to this situation is really able to appreciate.

After all, Tim’s all too aware of what kind of spectral monster could result if Batman loses his shit on some petty criminal in a way that can't be taken back; ghosts as strong as Tim are rare, for whatever reason, thankfully… but even weaker ones, if angry enough, can be a nasty thing. Batman doesn't necessarily know that his no-killing code has been of benefit that way — in fact, Tim would almost bet money he hasn’t thought of it in those highly specific terms — but it's a truth nonetheless that it serves that secondary purpose.

And that’s just other people. That’s just the criminals.

Frankly, with how reckless he's been getting, Tim worries Bruce will get himself killed in one of those fights.

Which… in and of itself, would be bad, of course; Tim for one, would be deeply upset if that happened, and he’s pretty sure that if Bruce Wayne dies, so does a lot of Gotham’s support, even ignoring Batman’s vigilantism. Bruce Wayne, after all, has funded whole hospitals, schools, public rec areas; he’s considerably bolstered the public library system, the police departments, the educational system. Contributed to the arts, supported the sciences, even increased employment, including among populations who’d normally be particularly vulnerable to lacking it, such as former felons.

Sure, it’s possible, even probable, that Dick Grayson would continue a lot of the philanthropic work, but… that is kind of a lot. Even more so considering he’d be doing it after his dad died, which. Ouch.

No, the idea of Gotham doing without Bruce Wayne supporting her, was… well. At best, kind of depressing. Already a tragic loss, with or without counting the Batman angle.

But then there’s that spectral angle, again.

Because, look: Tim is not 100% sure of the reason, or reasons, why some ghosts gain strength like he did, while others don't; but the fact of the matter is, some do. And if anybody else could, it'd probably be Batman.

It doesn’t seem to have happened with Jason — at least, not in a way that let him come home to Gotham — but that in no way means it wouldn’t happen with Batman.

And an angry, grieving Batman? An angry, grieving Bruce Wayne, who can't even be reunited with his dead son, no less? Who would surely realize, as Tim does, that there's no telling what happened to Jason’s soul or whatever…? Well.

Tim's pretty damn sure that is the last version of Batman that Gotham needs.

No, he thinks. He can’t be left alone to fall into that Abyss. He just… can’t be. It won’t end well, not for anybody.

And Tim Drake refuses to let the train go that far off the tracks. He refuses to let the picture get any darker than it already has.

Batman, he decides, needs A Robin.

And if nobody else is going to do it, he’ll just have to do it his own damn self.

Chapter Text

Ghost powers make it relatively easy to break into the Batcave, Tim has found. Sure, it's a slight risk to use things like his invisibility, but hey, he knows where the cameras all are; he can avoid being caught shifting between visible and invisible, which will give him some plausible deniability later.

Which granted, might be overkill, but this whole plan is, functionally, going to act as his vigilante resume. So he might as well impress Batman with his stealth/espionage capabilities.

(It's not cheating on a job interview, if it's exactly the same abilities he'd probably use in the field, right? Tim decides it's probably not— )

Anyway, that said, Tim’s glad he was super cautious in prepping and scoping things out, though; in the process of a couple days' worth of poking around he discovered (to his mixed delight and frustration — since it set him back a little to plan around it) that Batman has recently installed a new security device that — get this — detects ectoplasm.

Not even EMF disruption, which is most amateur ghost hunters' go-to for ghost detection. No, this detects the faint, unique radioactive signature of ectoplasm itself. Meaning it is, in fact, an Actual Ghost Detection Device.

Tim was admittedly impressed; Batman truly does try to prepare for everything, doesn't he? He's not, to Tim’s knowledge, fond of magic or the supernatural/paranormal, so if Tim had to guess, someone from the magical end of the Justice League helped set that up.

Or... wait, maybe not. Maybe they're the reason he knows to make one, but he has a feeling none of the competent ones were consulted very deeply on it after all. Because Tim gave it as close an inspection as he dared (pretty sure he set it off that time, actually; hopefully Batman wrote it off as a false alarm, which in an ectoplasm-rich location like Gotham, is not too unlikely, even if less so in this neighborhood). And he was amused to realize that the detector had a glaring flaw:

It can be shorted out.

And it seemingly won't communicate with the Batcomputer if it does.

Which is hilarious in Tim's opinion, because ghosts famously give off Electromagnetic Fields, and look, yeah, so does the Earth itself and every living thing on it, but ghosts in particular are infamous for disrupting other EMFs. Including, and perhaps especially,  electronics.

The deepest irony of all though, is that if you had asked Tim to design this thing, he'd have pointed out it should immediately be obvious if and when the detector goes down or gets damaged, and that the easiest way to do that would have been to implement some sort of dead man switch, that would itself set off an alarm about the ghost detection alarm being compromised. 

A dead man switch. 

The irony is top tier, if you ask Tim. 

Anyway, Tim's good with electronics; he has very good control of his unusually potent EMF field, thank you very much, and he's long since found a certain satisfaction in being able to tinker with electronics, with or without manipulating it.

He didn't even need to get close enough to set it off to burn it out; boom, taken care of.

(He does make a mental note to figure out a replacement though; one which won't react to his particular energy signature, and preferably soon, without Batman noticing. It'll be a fun challenge, he thinks)

Anyway, so. He's snuck into the Batcave.

That brings us to this particular moment: in which Tim, having carefully avoided being seen on the cameras previous to this moment using his invisibility, is back on the visible spectrum, but, due to the angles and his own short stature, is still not visible on the actual cameras.

This is a crucial detail, because otherwise, there is no way this particular plan would work. And he'd really like it to work, because —

He stills, even more than he was already, as he hears the sound of the elevator in motion.

It's rather hard to stay still, actually, because he's just about bubbling with nervous anticipation now, but he forces himself to tamp that down; both because he has a very important, very serious mission to fulfill here, and because he has only one chance to make a first impression. 

He listens, estimating the distance as the sound of footsteps comes closer; when the footsteps are within approximately 6 feet or so, he at last enacts the first stage of The Plan.

"Hello, Mr Wayne," he says, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

The footsteps stop; he hears their owner go very still behind him.

Tim allows himself a second to enjoy a small, smug little smile, before schooling his expression.

He swivels the chair around to face his target, and adds: "Or do you prefer 'Batman' down here?"

Bruce Wayne — in his bathrobe, for some reason, which okay, Tim can't resist a bit of a smirk at that — stares openly at him for a good, long moment.

It's such a long moment that Tim raises an eyebrow at him, wondering if he's okay.

He observes Mr Wayne's own eyebrows twitching into a slight furrow, as he processes the admittedly no doubt surprising sight of a young adolescent, sitting in Batman's own big fancy office chair, at Batman's own big fancy desk, in front of his own big fancy Batcomputer. With a three-ring binder and a Rubix cube in his lap.

Eventually, Bruce Wayne folds his arms, squints suspiciously at him (which, okay: fair! Tim did just trespass into his basement), and asks a simple question:

"And you are...?"

And see, here's a thing that needs to be understood: Tim? He knows Batman is a good detective. More to the point, he's a good detective, who is a vigilante. Which, by literal definition, means he outright works to at least some extent outside of The Law.

In Batman's case, Tim is extremely aware that Batman can, and will, find all sorts of information on record in all sorts of places, regardless of whether or not he's supposed to have access to said information. 

He's also a pretty paranoid man. Like, infamously. As honestly borne out by the fact that, you know,  he attempted to install even Ghost Detection sensors in his secret base.

Now, granted, Tim can probably hide a lot more from Batman than most, but —he has also already accepted that there is plenty of stuff that there's no benefit in trying to hide.

This is especially true since the whole point of this Plan would be severely undermined if Batman decides Tim is completely untrustworthy.

Proving Tim is competent at doing stuff Batman himself does every night (e.g., investigation, analysis, and of course, getting into places he definitely shouldn't be able to) is one thing; but there's some things he's already decided aren't worth hiding.  

So, he doesn't. 

"Timothy Jackson Drake," he says cheerfully. "Though you can just call me Tim — most people do."

He sees the moment the name registers — the flicker of recognition, of the mental gears turning, starting to reassess — and so Tim saves him the time by confirming:

"Yup! Son of Jack and Janet Drake, the owners of Drake Industries; also technically your next door neighbors — as much as anybody is, out here on Bristol, anyway." He shrugs, picks up the Rubix cube, and casually starts twisting.

He doesn't bother looking at it; he already knows the pattern it's in, as well as the exact few twists left that it would take to solve it. It's honestly just a fidget right now.

(And, okay, maybe a bit of a highly visible flex. He really wants to make an impression, okay? Sue him, it's Batman —)

"No driver's license yet," he continues, punctuating that and each further statement with the subtle, soft slide-click of the Cube. "Student at Gotham Academy —" slide-click,"—straight A's for the most part —" slide-click, "—and I do photography for the Yearbook." Slide-click, slide-click; solved. "Which takes up enough time that I don't tend to bother with other clubs, honestly."

Bruce Wayne... blinks at him.

"What?" Tim scoffs. "You're Batman. I know you'll look up all that and probably then some, as soon as you can. I got into your secret base without you noticing until I wanted you to; I'd expect nothing less. So no point in hiding any of that, is there?"

"Why are you here, Timothy?"

He makes sure he meets his eyes, as he sets down the Cube. He reminds himself of his Mission, of its importance. 

Stops smiling; because the subject isn't one to smile about.

"I'm here to confront you," Tim says.

"Regarding what?"

"Regarding this," Tim says; and lifts the simple, black, three-ring binder sitting in his lap. Bruce's eyes track it, as Tim gives it a vague wave, then tosses it onto the desk.

It makes a very heavy, very audible thunk when it lands.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne —Tim finds it difficult to think of him as "Batman" when he's in his bathrobe— watches the binder sail the small distance to his own desk. Tim, watching his face,  sees the faintest almost-twitch as the binder lands, its thunk echoing in the cave and setting off a brief scurry-flutter-squeak among the bothered bats from above. 

Tim spares a moment to mentally apologize to them. Sorry little guys; didn't mean to interrupt your sleep.

But his attention is still centered on the tired-looking vigilante in front of him, who is currently gazing at the binder with the kind of wariness normally reserved for one of Poison Ivy's plants.

Tim rolls his eyes. "It's a binder from Office Pro, Bruce, not a Poison Dart Frog. But if you really need to be that paranoid, then here—gimme a minute, and I'll grab you some gloves," he adds, rummaging in the top drawer until he locates his prize.

He tosses the box of Nitrile Gloves (Size Large), and to Bruce's credit, despite looking like he is up to 50% dead on his feet, he does in fact catch it before it can make unpleasant contact with his face.

"Nice reflexes," Tim says, grinning.

Bruce Wayne, it appears, does not share his amusement.

He puts on a pair of gloves without verbal comment, but with eyes that scream suspicious. Even with the gloves on, he proceeds to take hold of the binder like a simple office supply is going to spontaneously attack him, holding it a generous distance from his face and opening it with the kind of slow, careful movements one might use while disarming a bomb.

(Tim is half tempted to poke fun at him for this, but he supposes that Gotham's rogues do tend to be the kind of creatively homicidal that might actually warrant such caution, so he refrains.)

After only a few seconds of flipping through Tim’s carefully curated documents —complete with copious annotations and a table of contents— Bruce's frown deepens.

"You've been following me," he says, and oh, that is definitely his Batman Voice. "For over two weeks?"

Tim snorts. "No," he says. "I've been following you for over four years."

The target of said following goes, for the barest of moments, very still. Then lifts his narrowed gaze to look Tim in the eye.

Tim smirks at him, and helpfully adds: "Since Dick Grayson was wearing the scale maille panties."

At the mention of his prior ward, Bruce's eyes manage to narrow even further.

Tim chooses to be unbothered by this, further adding: "Let me know if you'd like some copies sometime; overall, they're not at the quality of my current work, as I've obviously improved a lot since then, and have a much better camera for low light shoots now—but there's still a few gems. Personally, I'm particularly fond of the ones where Dick jumped down from fire escapes and second floor roofs to land on various criminal individuals, up to and including Two-Face and Penguin. A bit blurry at times, but you should see the looks on their faces when he lands on them without any warning, they're absolutely priceless."

Tim grins at Bruce. Bruce stares at Tim, clearly at a momentary loss for words.

After a long moment —in which Tim continues calmly smiling at him, and Bruce continues silently staring back at him in what Tim presumes is a game of psychological Chicken that Batman is quite used to winning— Bruce's jaw subtly sets, and he asks, tersely:

"If you've been following us for that long, why only reveal yourself now?"

Tim gives him a dry look. "Have you considered that you'd perhaps know the answer to that, if you actually read the thing I chose to carefully curate and directly present to you?"

"Hnn," he so eloquently responds.

Tim proceeds to casually lean back in the chair, and reset his Rubix Cube. 

I can do this all day, Mr Wayne, his body language says, and apparently Bruce takes the hint, because his eyes finally flick back to the binder's contents, and at long last, Tim can finally see the mental gears turning.

"How, exactly, did you obtain some of this information, Timothy?"

Tim hmms in feigned pensiveness. "You mean what happened to them after your use of excessive force?" he says, tone cheerfully pointed. "Or the other details?"

Details such as: Benny McGann of Park Row only turned to a life of crime quite recently, because his wife's cancer battle has been draining their life's savings; your putting him in the hospital hasn't helped the situation at all. 

Details such as: Charlie "Chip" Perkins from the Bowery became indebted to the Maroni crime family five years ago, in order to save his failing small business; owing the Maronis too many favors is the only reason he was there the night you broke his arm. And both legs.

Details such as: Kenny and Carl Jones of the Narrows do crime these days only because their friends dragged them into it as teenagers, and Harvey Dent has a Thing for hiring twin goons; nobody else save maybe Cobblepot will hire either of them with a criminal record, and they're too scared to leave for a competitor when their current boss has a literal 50/50 chance of offing them if they do; Kenny is still sporting two black eyes, three broken bones, and a sprained ankle as he waits to see how Carl will recover from the surgery he only needed because of your actions on the 22nd.

"Medical records aren't nearly as secure as one would hope," Bruce says, slowly. "Which explains how you could find their names, addresses, and conditions, but how —"

Oh for — heck with that. 

He is not letting him change the subject so easily.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Tim says, his tone the same kind of icy, acidic saccharine his mother uses, when dealing with a particularly galling socialite who mistakenly thinks they're better than her. "Did you not detect anything about the people committing these acts? I'd say 'sounds like a skill issue', but in all honesty, I think we both know that's not the case. You just didn't bother, beyond knowing how punchable they were. After all, being reminded of their humanity would be so inconvenient, when you're going out of your way to hurt them, hm?"

Bruce's grip on the binder tightens.

Oho! Seems that one finally hit home. 

Not that Bruce lets it outwardly phase him for long, of course. 

"Why are you doing this?" he says, looking back up. Looking at Tim’s face. Looking for answers, despite all the answers being right in front of him.

(Literally. The last pages in the binder include a summary of the Bat Statistics, as Tim calls them. Specifically: how effective Batman and both Robins were at helping people vs the casualties that could be directly attributed to them. Including the very recent increase in severity and rate of the latter, and the sudden, sharp decline in the former.)

(A small, helpful P.S. at the bottom of the last page, underneath his Concluding Statement, also points out that Batman's solo solve rate for crimes has gone down a statistically significant amount, well outside the margin of error, especially when excluding random street crimes like garden variety muggings)

(Tim gets the feeling Bruce at best skimmed those pages.)

He huffs. 

Man, is this guy stubborn. He supposes he'll just have to be blunt.

"Why? I'll tell you why. Because this?" Tim says,  waving a hand at the binder. "This is recent. This is a change. You used to be way more responsible than this! Both with others' lives, and with your own —because don't you try to tell me you don't still have bruised ribs from that suckerpunch the other day that you definitely should have seen coming. Because you definitely do; I can see you subconsciously guarding that side."

"So you broke in here to critique my more recent vigilantism?" Bruce says, and Tim is pretty sure it was meant to be dry, but mostly comes across as confused. Confused, and perhaps a little... frustrated?  "Because you think I'm slipping?"

Yup, frustrated. Frustrated and stubborn. 

Holy thick skulls, Batman!

"No," Tim says, keeping his voice as calm and neutral and firm as he can. "I know you are slipping. In very preventable ways. Remember: I've been following you and your... associates, for literal years, Bruce."

And then, because he's maybe feeling a touch petty and more than a little peeved that Bruce clearly didn't bother to read his whole thesis, he adds:

"Turn to the last couple pages, Mr Wayne. The statistics are all laid out there, and they are too clear to deny. The difference is like night and day; before, even at your worst, it was clear you all were genuinely trying to do good. Lately, though?  You've been throwing all that out the window to, what? Lash out? At pretty much everybody, including yourself."

He lets his Rubix Cube (freshly re-solved) drop to the desk with a loud thunk, and stares him in the eye.

"It's not just dangerous for you," he says. "It's dangerous for Gotham. And it's untenable; you cannot keep doing this. Not unless you want a whole laundry list of fully preventable tragedies, to follow in your wake. Not unless you want to turn your back on everything you've done right. On all the actual good you've done. That you could still be doing, if you just stopped shoving people away for a single. hot. minute."

There is a moment of silence in the cave at that. Broken only by the hustle and chitter of bats above them.

Bruce blinks slowly at him, incredulous, before he seems to remember how to use words.

"Is—is this an intervention?" Bruce sputters. 

Tim snorts at the phrasing, but.

"I mean... basically? Yeah?"

Bruce blinks at him again. "I see..." he says, in a tone that suggests he only halfway does.

Tim wonders briefly how much sleep Bruce Wayne has been getting, because this conversation has been like pulling teeth. Without pliers.

But at least they're over the first hurdle; so, he decides to have mercy on Bruce... and leap right over the second one.

"It's clear to me," he says carefully. "That in your current mental state, you should not be patrolling alone."

"Okay..." Bruce says, frowning. And clearly still not picking up what Tim is putting down. 

"Batgirl's obviously not an option," Tim says, crossing his arms. "And I already spoke to Nightwing, who is still quite angry with you and in no state to regularly patrol with you, until you... sort out, all that mess. So..." he shrugs, sighing. "Here I am. Tadaaaa."

He gives brief, half-hearted 'jazz hands'. 

This seems to confuse Bruce further; it's a concerningly long moment before what Tim is saying fully seems to register.

Tim knows when it does though, because Bruce Wayne's expression goes from slightly confused and faintly disturbed and quite exasperated, to closing off like a slammed shutter.

"Absolutely not," he says.

"Absolutely, yes," Tim says, his tone just as firm as before. "You need someone there, Bruce. Someone to hold you back, to remind you—"

"I repeat: Absolutely not," Bruce snaps. "I work alone, Tim."

Tim scoffs. "Oh? So what's the Justice League, then? Your imaginary friends?"

"They are adults, and outside of larger scale threats, have their own cities to—"

"Yeah," Tim retorts. "That's kinda the problem. You need a partner, in Gotham. You clearly do, in fact, not work well all on your own, especially right now, but —leaving aside the fact that you're ignoring the Titans, and a few others who started as teens— yeah, they have other territories they take care of. Usually during the day, too. So they can't patrol with you, let alone nightly, and you clearly need someone there, nightly.

"And you're a child, still in school—"

"So were both Robins when they started," Tim says, and seeing the look on Bruce's face Tim knows exactly how that could derail the conversation, so he yanks it right back on track with: "And aren't you forgetting something?"

He leans forward, staring Bruce directly in the eye as he smiles, and adds:

"I'm already frequently out in Gotham, at night. Even school nights. And," he leans back, gaze unbroken, daring him.

"I'm still pulling straight A's. So, that argument? Not gonna fly, Bats." 

"Leaving aside you absolutely shouldn't be," Bruce grits out, through clenched teeth. "There is a significant difference between... surveillance, and the kind of combat I regularly have to engage in."

Tim shrugs. "So? Train me. I'm a fast learner."

Bruce stares at him, somewhere between aghast and appalled. "No!" 

Tim squints at him.

So. It's gonna be like that, huh?

"You do realize," he says slowly. "That I have enough proof to completely out you to the public, and to authorities who are less... amenable than the Commissioner, right?"

Bruce gives him a dry smirk —one that doesnt quite make it to his eyes, which are now narrowed at him in calculation.  "And if you think I don't have contingencies and resources in place for just such a possibility, then you are sadly mistaken, Tim. It will be an inconvenience, but it won't—"

Tim sighs. "Yeah, thought you might say something like that."

Which he had. He had hoped Plan A (for "Actually talk to the guy") would work, but he hadn't had much faith in Plan B (Blackmail) to begin with.

So, on to Plan C.

"Oh well," he says, shrugging. "Guess I'll just have to check out these leads on my own, then!" Hook...

He hops out of the chair, and starts walking out, right past the bedraggled billionaire —

—who grabs his arm, stopping him in place.

...Line.

Bruce's slightly widened eyes meet his own  perfectly calm ones. 

"Leads," Bruce says tersely. "What 'leads'?"

Aaand sinker.

Chapter Text

The C in "Plan C" stands for "Catch-22".

Not that Tim has ever bothered nor been forced yet to read the 1961 novel of the same name, but he's aware of the term referring to an inescapable paradox where all roads lead to the same inevitable conclusion. 

Granted, apparently the book went more along the lines of a character trying to get himself declared insane to get out of a war (and being unable to because not wanting to die in a war was considered a perfectly sane response to the situation, and therefore he's not crazy enough to discharge). 

The current situation, ironically, is somewhat the reverse:

Batman is getting a new partner in crime-fighting... whether he likes it or not. 

As to how? Well. Tim — being both the curious type and a literal restless spirit, with a habit of nighttime gallivanting around Gotham, no less — tends to gain intel on various shall we say...  sketchy things. For example, through intentional investigation and accidental discovery combined, he's gained several leads just for this week at the docks alone, including three separate smuggling operations.

Normally, he just passes these on in some way to the police, or finds a way to have a Bat conveniently stumble upon it, depending on what it is. 

Now, however... well. Circumstances have obviously changed.

Now, he's weaponizing that knowledge.

Which is to say, his response to the question of "What leads?", is a very smug:

"Bring me with you tonight, and you'll find out."

Bruce Wayne does not seem pleased with this reply. Tim can tell, because he frowns even harder, and his eye twitches.

"Tim," he starts.

"Bruce," Tim replies levelly.

Mr Wayne stares into Tim’s eyes for a long moment, during which Tim remains calmly, cheerfully defiant.

Mr Wayne then sighs, in clear exasperation. 

"You can't come with me, Tim."

"Incorrect," Tim says. "I know there's a passenger seat in the Batmobile."

"I can't be bringing a civilian —"

Tim scoffs. "First off: you're neither military nor police, so you're technically a civilian, Mr Vigilante. Second..."

He reaches into his pocket, and holds up a domino mask of appropriate size for his face.

"Between this and my very generic hoodie, hiding my identity shouldn't be an issue."

"It's not about just hiding your identity, it's about safety —"

"So, to recap: you don't think I'll be safer in the literally bulletproof Batmobile, with the literal Batman at my side, then I will be on my own? While pursuing a lead on criminal activity? Interesting take, Bruce."

All of which would actually be irrelevant, seeing as Tim’s already dead, and therefore only inconvenienced by such things as bullets and knives.

But of course, Batman doesn't know that.

By this point, Tim is very good at hiding his posthuman nature. He is solid to the touch, and fully opaque — a tad pale, granted, but rosy-cheeked. He even bothers with proper (albeit simulated) musculature, bones, the whole shebang — he even "breathes". He would seem to have a pulse if you checked, and has active, human-normal pupillary responses. 

He knows darn well that, to all appearances and in all evidence, he is very much a living, breathing, human boy.

And therefore, to all appearances, extremely vulnerable to such things as bullets and blades.

And he may not have spoken to the man in more than passing before tonight, but given his history in recent years? The not one but two young wards, incuding one recently deceased from criminal violence because (clearly) Bruce wasn't able to make it in time to save him?

Suffice to say, Tim has full confidence that Bruce Wayne, despite all his projected stoicism as the Batman, will have too many uncomfortable Feelings about letting a small, black-haired, blue-eyed boy put himself in danger without backup.

It's a low blow, Tim knows. Manipulative of his grief even, to some extent. It's not a tactic he wanted to resort to. 

But then, that's why it was Plan C.

Bruce, for his part, looks mostly somewhere between annoyed and angry, but Tim sees the particular way his brow furrows, and is pretty sure he sees a hint of worry, there.

Bruce is also still holding on to Tim’s wrist, and with that last dig about being safer in the Batmobile than on his own "pursuing a lead on criminal activity", the grip ever so subtly tightened.

A polite, somehow very British sounding, "Ahem," issues from behind them on the walkway.

They both turn to look, and find Mr Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, standing behind them, primly holding a tray with a tea setting on it. 

"Shall I prepare some additional snacks for our young guest? Perhaps 'to-go'?"

"Yes, please," Tim says eagerly. "Do you have any cookies or scones we could take with us? I have a somewhat weird metabolism," he adds. "I function best with carb-loading."

Which is true; he does still eat, if only to keep up appearances, but these days, proteins are much harder and more energy-intensive to break down than sugars. The latter can even provide a slight boost to him, whereas the former work out annoyingly even with the chemical efforts of breaking them down, if not actually draining. 

"I shall see what I can do," Mr Pennyworth says, calmly walking past them to set the tray down on the desk. "In the meantime, do feel free to enjoy some tea, young sir."

"Alfred —" Bruce starts, his tone stern. 

A single glance back over the shoulder with one raised brow seems to shut him up. 

"As I said, Master Bruce," he continues. "I shall see what I can arrange for our young guest. And I shall return shortly."

Tim isn't sure how Mr Pennyworth managed to make that calm, entirely neutral statement sound like a threat, but he did. 

Tim decides then and there that he really likes Alfred Pennyworth. 

Chapter Text

Bruce takes the opportunity provided by Mr Pennyworth's brief absence to try and learn more about the... situation.

He seems, in particular, to be very concerned with the fact that Tim has been going out into Gotham at night, by himself, since he was in single digit ages. Which, okay — fair enough, Tim supposes. If it were any other kid, it would have been insanely risky.

(Admittedly, it had once been insanely risky for him, too — as evidenced by his current post-mortal nature; but seeing as his consciousness has survived so stubbornly well in the aftermath of the... Incident, and considering how well he's adapted his little hobby around his spectral needs and abilities? He considers himself an exception, thank you.)

(In fact, his nighttime wandering has provided a nice consistent slew of Unfinished Business, so it's entirely possible  he's surviving better by keeping up the habit!)

(Not that Batman needs to know any of that, of course.)

(But still.)

"You are running the risk," Bruce—no, Batman; despite not having the cowl on yet, this is very definitely Batman—says. "Of being assaulted, mugged, kidnapped—"

Oh, he is really getting going now, huh?

Tim snorts.

"Oh, some have tried," he says, smugly.

Despite his confident delivery, Batman does not seem reassured by this statement, funnily enough.

In fact, he frowns, gaze sharpening and eyes narrowing, and judging by his parting lips is clearly planning to press the issue, so Tim—with a sigh and a roll of the eyes—quickly interjects:

"Key word: tried. I know I look all 'vulnerable' to you, but let's just say none of them came out on top of those encounters, and pretty much all of them are currently behind bars."

Which is true!

Heck, arguably, Tim got an accidental yet promising head-start on the whole Vigilante thing! For example: Wily Escapes, Gathering Evidence To Deliver To The Appropriate Authorities/Allies, and, in at least three extremely amusing cases of muggers who definitely never tried that again, Scaring Them Straight.

(Granted, this is largely thanks to his abilities to go intangible and/or invisible to the naked human eye, and in a few cases, the fact that his "body" is mostly a simulacrum that actually lacks a lot of those pesky human vulnerabilities around, say, internal organs or blood loss. Which aided a few escapes, and proved entertainingly unnerving to a few would-be assailants.)

(But again: Batman doesn't need to know that.)

Bruce's frown somehow deepens, and he once again opens his mouth, presumably to continue the Lecture.

Nope! Not doing this, Tim promptly decides.

"I understand your concern," Tim says firmly. "I do. However — the fact I'm in front of you right now, and not, like, on the back of a milk carton?  Should be proof enough that I know how to get out of those kinds of situations, on the rare occasions that they pop up, okay?"

Not that the milk carton campaigns are still a thing these days, but still. He's not wrong.

(Tim is, of course, resolutely ignoring the fact that only his sheer stubborness, luck, and the ectoplasm-rich nature of Gotham, kept him off the Amber Alerts list, at the tender age of nine.)

(After all, he made damn sure his... inconvenient decorporealization, was never actually noticed. And the important part of him is still here! So obviously, it doesn't count.)

Batman is still frowning at him.

Tim sighs.

"Okay, look: I'll compile you a list of  currently-jailed idiots that you can look up. Later. Okay?"

It won't be a full list, of course; only the ones he didn't get especially spooky on should make it, after all.

But he can think of at least one now-former human trafficker whom he slipped the grasp of extremely easily yet with plenty of Plausible Deniability, and then anonymously tipped off Batman himself about, for one

And... let's see, off the top of his head: a couple of drug dealers he gave the slip to here and there, after running across their meetings, then tricked them into running right into the Bats' or cops' patrol routes (always a fun tactic, that one). One or two muggers whom he didn't have to use any noticeable inhuman powers to get away from, and happily gave very useful anonymous tips about to police. That should suffice, right?

Right.

"In the meantime, though — do you suppose Mr Pennyworth could provide some hot cocoa in a thermos for us?"

Bruce shoots him a slightly weird expression, that Tim is about 90% sure is a dryly sarcastic way of covering up some sort of bafflement.

"What?" he says, crossing his arms. "I'm sure the Batmobile has cup holders, right? And depending on how soon we get out there, we might have to stake one of the spots out for a good half hour or so. It would just be nice, is all."

"And 'there' is...?"

Ha! As if Tim would fall for that.

"I'll give you directions once we're on the road," he says primly.

"Hn."

Yeah, Batman's not much of a conversationalist, turns out.

Alfred—who insists on being called by his first name—does, in fact, provide them with a thermos full of hot cocoa. In fact, he provides them with two, alongside an honest to goodness picnic basket full of cookies, scones, and bite-size sandwiches, immediately becoming Tim’s current favorite member of The Rest of Team Batman.

Granted, Nightwing seems to have settled into Bludhaven and might technically be his own Team at this point, so it's not a stiff competition. But still. Alfred is the best, and Tim makes sure to tell him such.

"You are quite welcome, Master Tim," he says warmly, and—

Bruce literally pauses in the middle of putting on his cowl, to look at him.

Alfred arches a brow, in a way that seems weirdly challenging.

Bruce... has a very tricky expression to read, right now. His brow is furrowed, and his face seems to subtly shift back and forth between Stormy and... something. Confused? Lost? Tim’s not sure. It's too fleeting, and too complicated for Tim to parse in the mere second or so that he glimpses it.

Bruce opens his mouth, as if to speak, and Alfred—arching both brows now—cuts him off with a simple:

"Three times is a pattern, Master Bruce."

Bruce—despite being most of the way into his costume, this definitely seems more Bruce than Batman—looks... strangely shaken by that. Just for a moment. Blink and you missed it.

Tim doesn't need to blink much, though.

Bruce frowns again, then pulls on the cowl without another word. He looks distinctly grumpy, though. Kind of like he was forced to take an unexpected bite of grapefruit, but also to be polite about it to whatever sadist handed it to him.

Tim... feels like he may lack some Context here. He makes a mental note to figure out what exactly he may have missed.

Later, of course.

Right now, Alfred Pennyworth—whom Tim is 100% sure now must be the "Agent A" the Bats sometimes refer to when out in public— is currently holding the passenger side door of the real-life, actual, freaking Batmobile, open.

For him.

Because it worked.

As he approaches the door, Alfred hands him a tiny tin—and a domino mask.

A proper one, that looks like it'll fit to the contours of his face perfectly, as opposed to the stiff dollar store masquerade mask he came in with (what? He couldn't let a mask purchase be traceable in Gotham!).

As he examines the tin, Alfred helpfully notes:

"Mask adhesive; my own formulation. Similar to spirit gum, but somewhat gentler on the skin."

He beams. "Thank you, Alfred!"

"Of course, Master Tim."

Huh, Tim thinks in passing. Do Butlers refer to everyone as Master? Weird.

(He wouldn't know; his family's never bothered with one, just housekeepers and cleaning staff, and the occasional chef.)

Oh well, not important, he thinks to himself. Not right now, at any rate.

After all, right now, he's about to go on his first bonafide mission... with Batman. Not behind, ahead of, or off to the side of, but with him.

He presses the mask to his face, and grins.