Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim’s day is going fine, until he sees himself.

He stops, for a moment. Rubs at his eyes. Double checks he’s not hallucinating. But - no. That other him is still there, shivering, eyes wide, skin an eerie green, lips red. Staring at him in askance, in fear. Wearing those green shorts Steph and Jason always used to tease him about.

(Almost like the Joker, the back half of his brain supplies. Tim pushes the thought away.)

He walks over. Crouches. “You good?”

(His parents would call this stupid. But Tim's a Robin, at the end of the day, and he can't just do nothing. He knows what it's like to be lonely, and lost.)

The kid’s lips are twisted up. His eyes are a familiar cold, a familiar confused. His hair falls over his eyes.

(Okay, this is - Tim knows multi-universe travel is possible, even if he’s never seen it himself. He’s seen Batman in his meetings, talking to other people who look like him and sound like him and talk like him. But not this.)

“What’s your name?”

The kid doesn't answer. A laugh bubbles up his throat, falls out of his mouth, but he cringes away from the sound.

“I'm Tim. Tim Drake,” Tim says.

The kid opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away. “You look like me,” the kid says. He’s fiddling with his sleeve, trembling.

“Think I might be you.”

“Oh.”

Tim thinks. This kid is, what - thirteen, fourteen? His parents might still be alive. Even if they weren't the greatest, even if they were hardly around, even if they were cold as ice, he still loved them.) “D’you know where your parents are?”

The kid stares at his shoes. “Dead, probably.”

“And - uh - you know a guy called Bruce?” He's already Robin; he'd have to know Bruce.

“He doesn’t want me anymore.”

Tim swallows. The kid's glaring. He thinks of Dick, of him telling Damian - he took Robin from me, but he was just scared. “Bruce isn’t the best conversationalist, you know, I’m sure -”

“I killed the Joker!” The kid snaps, and Tim glances around. No one’s looking over: he supposes this is ordinary for Gotham. “I killed him. He doesn’t want me, and I can’t fix it. Even after he made me right again. Almost right. He fixed me, and then he discarded me!”

“Okay,” Tim says, raises his hands, palms open. His stomach roils. “Okay. Why don’t I find you someplace to stay, get some food in you?”

The kid’s still scowling, mouth curled into a snarl.

“You can ask me all the questions you want,” Tim says. “I’m you, remember?”

“Here,” Tim reaches into his pocket, grabs one of his pocket knives, hands it over. “Take it. If you’re scared, you can use it. Alright?”

The kid snatches it, stares at it. “Where?”

Tim pauses.

Bruce is - well. On a good day, he’s emotionally constipated. Tim’s not sure what he’d do with the kid in front of him. Give him a bedroom and -2 therapy? Lock him in the Batcave?

Tim doesn’t want to think about it.

Jason would understand, but him and Jason are weird, even now that Tim’s Red Robin and Jason’s Red Hood (copying me, are you, Timmy?). Tim crashes at Jason’s place and gets kicked out; Jason punches him too hard in the shoulders and patches up his wounds; he’s not quite a friend and not quite an enemy.

Dick would be better. He's the closest thing Tim has to a brother, after all. Hell, he helped Damian, and the kid's a menace. But he's temporarily out of Gotham, right now, spending time with Donna and Wally, and Tim won't bother him with this, when Tim can get everything under control. You free next week? he texts, instead.

Cass - Cass could help, but she’s not in the country, right now. (Maybe he should tell her, anyway. She’d have good advice. And she knows how to keep a secret. He sends her a text: Found other-universe child me. Help?)

Stephanie’s an option, but she’s living with her mother, and she's been missing patrols, and Tim knows she’s got enough on her plate, already. She’ll want to know, though, after everything. (He sends her a text: Something weird happened. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Over smoothies?)

He could maybe ask Kon, and he’s got no doubt Ma and Pa Kent would take the kid in, but - well. They’ve got enough with the kids they're raising to be able to take on another, no matter how happy they would be to do so.

And there’s a small, small voice in Tim’s head that wants to keep this other him. That wants to give him a better life. That wants to - fix things for him. And maybe it’s selfish, but Tim doesn’t want to let go. Not when he can fix the him in front of him. Not when he has the chance to change things for the better.

So. Jason it is.

“Jason's place. You know him, right?”

“... The second Robin?” (At least this version of him is still sharp. The second greatest detective in the world, as Dick would say.)

“Yeah.”

“He's not dead?”

“Not anymore.” Little-him is frowning. Tim continues. “It's a long story. You'll be safe, there.”

“How do you know?”

Damn him and his own paranoia.

“You know me. I’m you. Do you really think if I wanted to hurt you, I would do it later? At Jason Todd’s house? When I’ve already given you a pocket knife?”

“No,” Little-him says. “I guess he wouldn’t let you.”

He’d be mad about the blood-stains, Tim thinks, but wisely doesn’t say.

“So your Bruce just…?”

Little-Tim scowls, doesn’t answer.

“Do you know how you got here?”

Little-him shrugs. “Some anomaly. How should I know?”

“What do you remember, then?”

The kid shrugs, again. “I was cold, and it was dark, and I was - I was outside, you know, after he…and then I tripped, and I was falling, and it was loud, and blurry, and I landed here.” He shudders, giggles, but it’s tortured.

“What do I call you, hey? Can’t just keep calling you Little-Tim in my head.”

“I’m fourteen,” Little-him says, like that means he’s older. He doesn’t give a further answer. Tim sighs.

At least he's consistent, from one universe to another.

Tim eases the door open. (Jason knows Tim knows his passcode. He won’t get mad. Probably.)

“Here we are. Jason Todd’s humble abode.”

“It’s nice,” Little-him says, but Tim recognises the voice for what it is: the sort of fake-complimentary tone he used to use when his mother would tell him to compliment people on their watches, their earrings. Polite; distant; entirely untrue.

“It’s a mess,” Tim says, even though it isn't, really. “You don’t need to lie. Come on - I’ll get you some food.”

Tim walks over to the fridge, keeps an eye on himself. “You can sit.” he says, when he sees little-him hovering awkwardly around the table. (Tortured by the Joker, fixed up then abandoned by Bruce - that’d give anyone a complex, much less him, already independent, already half-abandoned by his own parents.)

Tim pokes his way through the fridge, grabbing some sandwiches (he should feed the kid something healthy, at least), then the pantry, landing on a jar of cookies, taking that out, too.

(Whatever. Jason will understand. So will Dick, when he comes over and picks his way through Jason’s pantry and finds his favourite cookies gone. Tim likes them, too; what’s he supposed to do?)

“I’m Tim,” he says, abruptly. “Tim Drake. I’m not JJ anymore.”

Tim’s gut curdles. JJ? He can guess this much. Joker Junior. “Eat up,” Tim says, instead of answering. Little-Tim takes a bite. “It’s nice to meet you, Tim,” he says, more gently.

They eat in silence. It’s almost comfortable, but Tim keeps looking over - that green tinge, those shorts, mud-stained; those eyes, bitter, scared, and his heart keeps squeezing in his chest.

“Jason?”

“Get the fuck off my couch. I know you’re sitting on it. It’s leather.”

Tim keeps sitting. Little-Tim is next to him, half-hidden, sleeping.

“I’ll fucking break your feet, Tim.”

(Jason's bluffing. Probably.)

“You owe me,” Tim says. Jason makes a sound Tim doesn't want to decipher. “Look, I've got a favour to ask.”

“Don't you always,” Jason says, and looks over at Tim, and freezes. “What the fuck. What, are you pulling a Bruce Wayne, Timmy? Kidnapping random children and taking them to other people's homes?”

“I didn't kidnap him,” Tim snaps. “And he's me, not some…”

“You,” Jason echoes. He mouths something that sounds suspiciously like what the fuck. Tim, very graciously, chooses to ignore him.

“He’s taking a nap,” Tim continues. “So don’t talk too loudly.” “A nap,” Jason echoes. “Why’d you bring him here? Why not Steph, or Superboy, or one of your other little friends?” “He was kidnapped by the Joker,” Tim says, voice soft, careful. “He killed the Joker.”

Jason says nothing. Then: “Did a better job than me, at least.” He nods, drops himself next to Tim. “Did his Batman abandon him too, then?”

Tim glances over. “Looks like it.”

“Like ours.”

“Ours didn’t - Jason, that’s not -”

Jason pins him with a look. Tim has the sense to shut up.

“You’ll let him stay with you, then?”

“For a bit.”

“Good.” Tim settles into the chair. “I’ll grab some stuff from the Manor today, come by tomorrow? We’ll have to run some tests.” “You sound like Bruce.”

“I sound like me.”

“You think he’s been - changed? Poisoned?”

“I wouldn’t put it past the Joker. Even if he says he’s been fixed, or whatever, I want to be certain he won’t - do anything he’ll end up regretting” “The Joker’s bad enough on his own, Timmy.”

Tim swallows, curls his toes. “You got any of those cookies left?”

Jason grumbles under his breath - something about damn kids eating all my fucking food - and Tim presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling.

Tim wanders over to Jason’s office, later.

“You working on something?” His office has sticky-notes on the table, writing on the window. (This, at least, Tim has confidence in.)

Jason stares. “Won’t the kid miss you?”

“He’s sleeping. It’s fine. Anyway, he doesn’t trust me yet, I think.” “Is that why you gave him a pocket knife?”

Tim purses his lips together, stares at the floor. “Anyway. You’re working on a case?”

“No,” Jason says. “I’m drawing on my windows for fun. Yes, I’m working on a fucking case.”

“Want help?” Tim walks over to the window.

Jason’s drawn maps of Gotham: one with lines between the university to the water tunnel to the sewers; another between Crime Alley to the cemetery to the cathedral to Wayne Tower and right back up to city square.

“Graph theory,” Tim says, dry. “My favourite. I prefer the ciphers, you know.”

“I’ll let Scarecrow know.” Jason’s voice is flat, not entirely fond. “I reckon he’s gunning for the train station, next.”

Tim thinks of the bodies dug up in the graves, bones strewn along public places, the tension in the air, cold and heavy, even for Gotham. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye out. He’s made some new fear gas, did you hear? And some students have gone missing.”

Jason sighs, presses his fingers to his forehead. “I heard. Go on, then. I don’t want the kid wrecking my couch because he wakes up and you aren’t there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, but walks out, settles next to Little-him on the couch.

“This is Jason,” he says, when Little-him finally wakes up. “Look, I have to head to the Manor - I’ve missed tea-time; Alfred will be - “

“You’ve got an Alfred?” The kid’s eyes are wide. He’s almost bouncing on his feet.

“Sure do,” Jason says. “He’s fucking great.”

Tim glances over - don’t swear in front of the kid! - and Jason rolls his eyes in response.

“I’ll bring you some more things tomorrow, yeah? Don’t worry. Jason’s fine. Annoying, but fine. You’ll be okay.”

He glances at Jason, at the kid.

“You sound like Dick,” Jason says. “Stop fussing.”

“Dick’s here?” Little-him asks, quiet.

“Not - right now, but he’s in the area,” Tim says.

“Oh.” Little-him fidgets. “He was in Bludhaven, when I…”

Tim thinks, for a moment, of himself: thirteen or fourteen, running out as Robin on his own, down cold streets. A shiver runs down his spine.

“You can see them, if you want. Later,” Tim says, and starts leaving.

Later, the kid mouths.

Jason scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Tim calls back, lets the door swing shut behind him. (Jason will manage.)

Tim leaves his window open before sneaking into the cave. Bruce is out (a case); Alfred is prepping for dinner; Damian is in his room, drawing. He needs a phone, but he can get one on the way to meeting Steph. He can probably grab one of those at-home-test-kits from the chemist.

He scans the room. Grabs a few vials, a set of bandages, a hypodermic needle still in its packaging, and shoves them into his pocket. Grabs some painkillers from one of Bruce’s bottles, just in case. (If Bruce asks, he can say Jason made him. Does that make him a bad not-brother? Probably. Does he care?) Bruce has a blood analyzer machine near the Medbay: Tim can use that later.

He slips out, heads back up. Steps into his room.

“Kon,” he says, and closes his door behind him. His shoulders relax; his breaths come more easily. “Hey.”

Conner nods, then frowns, eyes narrowing. “Is something wrong?”

Tim sighs, flops onto his bed, next to Conner. “You could say that. I met another-universe-me today.”

“You met yourself?”

“He looks like me. I mean, he is me, Kon!”

“You from another universe,” Conner says, thoughtful.

“Yeah. I mean...” Tim sighs, scratches his head. At least Conner is patient - now, and with him, anyway. “He said his name was Tim. He’s me, but - different.”

“He could stay with Ma and Pa,” Connersays.

Tim thinks of those wide eyes, that bitter laugh, that cold snarl, that hesitance. “I don't think - maybe later?”

Conner looks dubious, but shrugs. “Ma gave me that blueberry pie recipe to give to Alfred.”

Tim brightens. “Give. I’ll hand it over.”

Conner chuckles, hands it over. “D’you have any kid pictures of yourself?”

“Why?”

“You could hand it over. It might help the kid work out who he knows, or where he is.”

“He said his parents were dead, though. And his Bruce abandoned him.”

Conner frowns. “Bruce isn’t…he has his issues, but I didn’t think he’d abandon a child.”

Tim fiddles with his sleeve. “That’s what I thought. I guess his Bruce is different.”

“He’s staying with Jason right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that…safe?”

Tim thinks. “Yeah?” He says, and it sounds like a question. “I mean - you know Jason. He’ll look after kids. He doesn’t hurt innocent people. And I think he gets along with the kid.” They have the Joker in common, he doesn’t say. Conner understands, anyway.

“Alright,” he says, smiling that cocky smile Tim's grown so fond of. “Give me a controller. I want to beat you at Super Mario Kart again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim grumbles, but he hands the controller over, lets a smile take over his face.

Alfred knocks on the door. “I’ve made dinner for five, Young Master Timothy.”

Which means - he knows Conner is here. Of course he does.

“It’s - uh - “ he glances at Conner, who’s shrugging his shoulders, pointing at the window. Don’t worry about it; I’ll head back home, he mouths. “It’s alright, Alfred. Conner’s heading home.”

“He’s always welcome.” Alfred’s voice is warm. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour.”

“I’ll see you,” Tim says, when Alfred’s footsteps recede.

“Yeah,” Conner says, draws him into a hug. Conner steps out the window; Tim stands there until the warmth in his room dissipates.

Then he walks out. Dinnertime.

“What’s wrong with you?” Damian hisses, as they put spoons and forks on the table.

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“I heard you talking to Kent. And I know you went to see Todd, and I also know you texted Stephanie.”

Tim stares at him. “What, are you stalking me, now?”

“Just tell me. I can handle it, Drake.”

“It’s not about handling - look. Damian, I swear, everything is fine. Whatever needs to be handled is being handled.”

“So there is something.”

“Damian,” Tim says, again, and the frustration must leak into his voice, because Damian scowls, and grumbles under his breath, but drops the topic.

“Look,” Tim says, after a moment, because Damian’s started to look dejected, and Tim can acknowledge the kid has made strides in qualities such as not being an asshole and not murdering people, and he knows this is just Damian’s strange way of showing he cares, and showing he wants to help, and - fine. He’s starting to feel guilty. “I’ll tell you later.”

Damian looks up. His eyes are sharp, sparkling. “Tonight?”

Tim sighs, then nods. Damn it. He shouldn’t be dragging Damian into this. If Bruce knew - well, Tim doesn’t want to think about that. Hell, if Dick knew, then he would start lecturing Tim about responsibility and letting Damian be a kid and Tim, why didn't you tell me? You know I'll listen. But Dick hasn't had any sort of break in years, and Tim doesn't want to take it from him - not yet. And Tim knows he'd have come rushing back.

“Yeah,” Tim says, and his stomach rolls. (This is such a goddamn bad idea.) “Tonight. Your room.”

The door opens. Bruce.

“Hello, father,” Damian greets, when Bruce walks in. Bruce nods.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Bruce greets him.

Bruce drags the chair at the head of the table out for himself. Damian sits next to him on one side; Alfred hands out the dinner plates, then sits on the other. Tim sits himself down next to Alfred, ignores the heat of Damian’s gaze.

“What have you been up to, today, Young Master Timothy?”

Tim doesn’t freeze at the question, at least. “I visited Jason. Went for a walk. Met up with Kon.” Bruce’s face hasn’t changed; Tim wonders if he disapproves. (Probably.) “Took some photographs of birds in the park. Not a whole lot, honestly.”

Damian’s staring at him. The back of Tim’s neck itches. He eats, ignoring the prickle. Alfred nods, replies, but Tim doesn’t catch all of it, mind buzzing, heart in his head.

“And you, Young Master Damian?”

“I trained,” Damian says. “I drew.”

Tim stares at his food. He’s hardly tasting it, heart thumping in his chest.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s polite as ever, but his question is pointed.

Bruce clears his throat. “Went to Wayne Tower. I visited the city square and the university. The museum.”

Alfred doesn’t sigh, but he seems to know he won’t get anything more out of Bruce, not when he's frowning at his plate, thinking, face still and closed. “I’ve made some white chocolate cookies with cranberries, if you’d like to give some to Jason, Timothy. I’ve made pudding for dessert, as well.”

Tim can see Damian’s face brighten, from the corner of his eyes. He thinks, glancing at Bruce, that maybe his face is softening, too.

Tim’s sitting on Damian’s floor.

He starts: “I was out walking -”

“Walking? Drake, why would you -”

“Just listen. I was out walking; I saw this kid that looked like me; I talked to -”

“Talked! You’re an idiot, Drake. Did your brain turn into a turnip last week? Do you know how dangerous -”

You’re a turnip brain, Tim thinks, but doesn’t say, because he’s matured, unlike Damian. “He told me his name was Tim Drake,” Tim says, and Damain finally falls silent, stroking Alfred’s fur. “He’s - me, but from another universe. And a lot younger. Maybe two years older than you are.”

“That’s not a lot older,” Damian mutters.

Tim ignores him. “We’re dealing with it.” Tim pauses, adds: “Us. The adults. Don’t go sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong.”

“You’re eighteen,” Damian says, like that makes Tim any less of an adult. “Shouldn’t Grayson know? Or father? Or Alfred?”

“Alfred probably already knows,” Tim says. Damian nods, like this makes perfect sense. “I’ll tell Dick later. Bruce isn’t - I’ll brief him once it’s all sorted. He doesn’t need to know just yet.”

Damian frowns, hums, but seems to understand. Tim supposes Damian's got his own secrets, after all. And Bruce would want to run test after test, lock the kid in the Batcave and call him dangerous.

And Tim knows enough to guess Little-him wouldn't be able to handle that, just yet. Probably wouldn't be able to handle even seeing Bruce, even if this one is different to his own.

“Here,” Tim says, reaches into his pocket, hands Damian a few photos. “Took some birds the other day.”

“Sparrows,” Damian says, peering at them. “They’re passable, I suppose.”

Tim bites the inside of his cheek. He’s twelve, Tim reminds himself. He grew up in the League of Assassins. He’s more screwed up than you are. He doesn't know how to respond to favours. It doesn’t really help. (Would a thank-you kill him?)

Damian clears his throat.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Tim says, before he leaves.

Damian pins him with a sharp look. “Obviously.”

Tim pushes the door open. The phone is heavy in his pocket. Steph’s sitting in a corner booth.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite hers.

She stares. “What is it? You had me worried.”

“It’s…well, it’s complicated. I saw this kid, yesterday, and he - he looked like me, right? So I went over - he looked lost; you would’ve done the same thing - and his name’s Tim, and he’s…he’s me.”

“...Okay,” she says, slowly. “So instead of asking more questions you took him to the Manor?”

“Well, I took him to Jason’s -”

“Jason! Tim, you know you could’ve -” “I know, I know. I asked him more questions, though. He said his parents are dead, and his…guardian didn’t want him, anymore, and - I just - when he mentioned the Joker, I figured…”

“Okay,” Steph says, again. “Yeah, alright. Alright. Can I meet him?”

Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. Steph’s lips quirk up. “Later, then?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah.” “I’m getting cookies and cream,” Steph says, abruptly, paging through the menu. “You?”

Tim shrugs. “I’m good.”

Steph orders, then leans back, stares at him. “Have you been alright?”

“Since finding young-me?”

“Since…” she waves her hand. “In general.”

Tim rubs at his eyes. “Do I look bad, or something?”

“You look tired,” she says, gently. “You were working on that case, right?” “It - yeah.” Tim clears his throat, drops his voice. “Scarecrow. He’s made some new fear gas. I think he’s broadening his horizons. Makes you appreciate Ivy, doesn’t it? Anyway, some students have gone missing, and Jason’s mentioned graves being dug up, so I reckon he’s using them.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. How’s Damian?”

“He’s fine. Nosy as always, the brat.” Tim’s voice is - not quite fond, but not as sharp as it would have been a year ago, talking about Damian.

Steph snorts. “Don’t let Dick catch you saying that.”

Tim grins. “I won’t. He's still a a brat, though.”

Steph pulls a face: he’s a kid! “He’s changed. You know how he is with the animals.”

Tim pulls another face, then talks. “I guess. At least he’s not trying to kill me, anymore. And he named the damn cat after Alfred.” He pauses. “You’ve been okay? I haven’t seen you much, recently.”

She shrugs. “I got busy. And it’s different without Cass, you know? We finally started working well as a team, and…”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “I know. She’ll be back soon, though. She misses us, too. Probably.”

“You know she does,” Steph says, and her voice isn’t quite chiding. (She's right. Cass will come back and draw him into a tight hug and he'll feel like everything's okay, for a moment.) “I’ll get back out there soon, don’t worry. You can’t be doing all the work. There’s too much crime for that. And we both know we can’t leave everything to you-know-who. Especially not our next movie night.” She smiles, sharp, sparkling, and he smiles back.

Cass texts: Safe?

Yeah.

Get him home.

I’ll do my best.

He heads back to Jason’s, after.

And finds Dick, of all people.

“You should have told me, Tim! I would’ve helped. I'm not...God, do you know how irresponsible -”

“Look, Jason was near, and I was…he’s me, Dick.” Tim's voice cracks. He clears his throat, gut twisting, speaks low. “He’s me, and he’s screwed up, and I - I couldn’t -”

Dick strides forward. “Hey,” he says, low, soothing. He draws Tim into a tight hug. “It’s alright. I get it, I guess. That isn’t encouragement, by the way - Alfred, at least, should be told.”

“I think Alfred already knows,” Tim mumbles. He closes his eyes, for a moment, lets the warmth of Dick's arms seep past his clothes, lets his shoulders drop, just for a second.

“Of course.” Dick draws back, pauses.

“Stephanie already said I look tired,” Tim says, before Dick opens his mouth. “You don’t have to say it, too.”

Jason, from where Tim is guessing is the bathroom: “You look like shit!”

Dick sighs, rubs at his head. “Just take care of yourself, alright? No one wants you to get stuck into a case and forget about eating and sleeping.”

Damian might. Tim pushes the thought away. Damian's changed, and Tim isn't Robin, anymore. Tim nods. “How’s the kid?”

“Fine,” Jason calls from the hallway, striding towards them. “He’s in the guest room. Keeps to himself. Not really eating, but I reckon that’s paranoia. I can respect that. Sometimes - laughs, bangs on the door, gets a funny look in his eyes, but…well, I was hardly any better, after. He’s about as fine as he could be.”

“Well, he’s me,” Tim finds himself saying. “So he’s probably less fine than he looks.” Dick and Jason stares. Tim looks away. “Don’t - don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. Just…don’t you have jobs to do?”

“No,” Jason says, just as Dick says, “I've taken leave for the day.”

“Should’ve guessed,” Tim mutters. There’s a noise - a door creaking - the almost-silent sound of feet pattering.

His other self comes into view: dressed in one of Jason’s old clothes, hanging off him. (Tim thinks: get him some new clothes. He’s smaller than Damian.)

He looks young, like this. Small.

Holy bananas, Batman, Tim thinks he sees Dick mouth. Dick's forehead creases; his lips purse together.

Jason nods. The kid nods back, almost imperceptibly.

Little-him is shifting from foot to foot, gaze darting around the room, shoulders tense.

The front door creaks. Tim looks back, hand flying to his pocket, angling himself in front of Little-Tim; Dick darts in front of all of them, eyes sharp; Jason steps in front of Tim, fingers curling into fists.

The figure steps into view.

“I have come to see what is happening,” Damian announces.

Jason sighs, mutters under his breath, takes a chocolate cookie from the counter.

Dick relaxes, then stares at Tim, accusatory. You told Damian? He mouths.

He’s persuasive! Tim mouths back.

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose. “Damian, stay here. Tim, take the...kid back to the guest room. Jason, stop eating Alfred’s cookies.”

“I’ll eat the fucking cookies if I want to,” Jason says, but it’s garbled.

“Come on,” Tim says. “Lets go to the guest room.” Little-Tim follows, after a sharp look at Damian, a smile twisting at his lips. “That’s Damian. He’s a few years younger than you. He’s…well, you know.” Tim pulls a face.

Little-him doesn’t answer. He just stands in the middle of the guest room.

“You can sit, if you want,” Tim says, feeling awkward. “Wherever. The floor, the bed, the desk, the chair. I’ll be back later, alright?”

He closes the door behind him. Considers locking it - which would be smart - but doesn’t. Walks back to the kitchen.

Dick’s staring at him, brow set, lips pursed, in that sort of way that tells Tim he’s going to get a very long lecture from one very long-suffering Richard Grayson.

Crap. He should have worn his damn earbuds.

Chapter Text

“We’ll get him home,” Tim starts. “I swear. I just have to work out how, but we will.”

Dick's face softens by a fraction. “I just wish you would have told me the full story, Tim.”

"You were on vacation," Tim says. "I didn't want to bother you with it. Notnow." Dick sighs. Tim turns to Jason - because how else could Dick have found out? Jason would have told Babs, and Babs - busy with a case concerning the Joker and Two-Face, Tim knows - would have told Dick, and Dick would have come racing down here. You told Babs? He mouths.

I needed help! You go to her, too. I don’t have a damn clue what to do with - oh, come on, Tim, you’ve asked her for help plenty of times.

Not about traumatised multiverse versions of my brothers, I haven’t!

“Stop arguing,” Dick says. Tim turns towards him, murmurs an apology; Jason looks away, mullish. “And, yes, Babs told me, like you should have. I'm not - I'm not Bruce. I'll help you. If I ever -”

“We know that,” Tim says, before Dick makes him feel guiltier. “I know that. I just - I don't know. I thought Jason might know what to do. And I didn't want to bother you.”

“That was stupid, Drake,” Damian mutters, and Dick sighs.

(God, Tim thinks, how is Jon friends with this kid?)

“It's not a bother, Tim. You know that,” Dick says. “Alright. I'll talk to Bruce and see about getting him a room at the Manor-”

Jason scoffs. Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“- Or not,” Dick says, then sighs. “He needs - in all likelihood, Tim, he needs help none of us can give.”

“You haven't met him,” Tim says, but his voice sounds childish, even to him.

“I, for one,” Damian says, “Would rather not have another foolish Drake puttering around father's Manor, Grayson.”

“You know Bruce likely already knows, right? He's not the world's greatest detective for no reason.” Dick says.

“I've hidden the truth from him before,” Tim says. And he said he was proud of me.

Dick lets out a long breath.

The sound of laughter, bitter, panicked. “I'll go,” Tim says, before Jason does.

He knows himself. Hopefully.

“He fixed me.” Little-Tim is flopped on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “He fixed me. He fixed me, he fixed me, he fixed me.”

“Hey,” Tim keeps his voice gentle, but -

“I didn't hurt anyone else. I was good. I made JJ go away, most of the time. I stopped laughing in front of him. I stopped screaming where he could hear me. I thought he'd keep me, after he fixed me.”

Tim inches over, sits on the bed. His chest feels tight, his heart pounding in his head. (This is - he hasn't heard himself speak so much, before. Not like this. Not without mask after mask, that thin veneer of trust-me-like-me splayed across his lips.)

The door creaks. Tim shuts his mouth, glances over. “Hello,” Damian says, stepping in.

Little-Tim sits up, stiff.

Damian stares, then tuts. “You should eat, Drake, or soon enough I'll be able to knock you over with one finger.”

This is Damian’s version of care, Tim thinks. He’s being nice - or as nice as Damian can be, at least - to Little-Tim.

Little-Tim nods. His hands are trembling.

“You need to have courage to be a worthy rival,” Damian continues, which - doesn’t really make sense, to Tim, but when has Damian ever? It seems to help, though: Little-Tim nods again, lips quirking up, hands pressed against his thighs.

“Right,” Tim says.

The door creaks open again. Little-Tim stiffens, shoulders rising, hands curling into fists. Damian hesitates, then shifts in front of Little-Tim.

“Alright,” Jason says, stepping in. “Everyone out. Except for you, little Timmy.” He turns back, calls: “And, no, Dick, I’m not coming to dinner this week, or next week, or all the weeks after, so stop asking.”

“I just think,” Dick tells him, on the way home, while Damian stalks in front, checking for threats, “They should communicate. They both miss each other, even if Bruce won’t say it and Jason won’t admit it. You should see the way Bruce looks at Jason. Hell, you should see the way he sometimes looks at Jason’s old Robin’s outfit! If they just talked…”

“Which they’re both known to be great at,” Tim says, and Dick huffs a laugh.

“Then - hell, they should at least punch it out. Be direct about it, you know, instead of dancing around each-other out of misplaced pride.”

(Tim thinks of Dick and Bruce: alike, but never admitting it.)

Dick slings a hand over Tim’s shoulder. “I’m glad we’re not like that. We communicate, right?” He glances at Tim. “Now, at least.”

Tim thinks of drowning in grief, of hiding in his room, of forgetting the world around him, of pushing people away. Now - talking with Steph over milkshakes, dropping by Jason’s, handing photographs to Damian, sitting knee-to-knee with Kon, calling Dick when he’s got questions about a case, when he wants his brother. “Yeah,” he says. “We talk. Anyway, you’re coming to the Manor?”

“I have to leave early tomorrow morning, but yeah.”

Tim pauses. “If I put on a movie, will you talk through the whole thing?”

Dick’s lips tilt up. “I’ll try not to.”

(He won't lie and say he dislikes Dick - how can he, when Dick has done so much for him, when Dick has been so good, pulled Tim back from the brink, when Dick feels like a brother - but maybe he holds a bit of a grudge at Dick for not believing him, even if he knew he hardly had any evidence, even if he knew Dick was grieving, too, even if Dick had tried to understand. About those long nights, those lonely days, those fevered evenings, searching and searching and searching with no support. And sometimes he feels like he’s nine, eleven, thirteen, all over again: hoping and hoping and only getting disappointed.)

“Look, Tim, if you need any help with this Scarecrow case -”

“You’re busy, aren’t you? And Jason’s working on it, too. He’s drawn diagrams, and everything. It’ll be fine.”

Dick doesn’t look convinced, but drops the topic. “Just - you know you can come to me if you need to.”

“I know, I know,” Tim says. (How many times has Dick told him the same thing these past few years, over and over and over, out of some misplaced guilt, some attempt to be better? To make up for Jaosn, and Bruce, and his father?) “Let’s just watch the movie,” he says, and throws a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and presses play, and tries not to smile when he hears Dick start talking and Damian makes a frustrated noise, snapping - just watch the movie, Grayson!

Alfred makes dinner, after, and they sit down to eat.

“Dick,” Bruce says. He looks pleased. Or - well. As pleased as Bruce can look. “You’re staying for dinner.”

“Sure am,” Dick says, leaning back in his chair. Alfred clears his throat; Dick straightens, a grin flashing over his face. “Sorry, Alfie.”

Dick turns his attention to Damian, asks what he’s been up to: Damian mentions sketching Alfred-the-cat, and going on patrol and catching a would-be-gumman - “and turning him over to Commissioner Gordon,” Damian adds, and Bruce says, you’ve done well - and Damian mentions watching “some idiotic movie about a ship sinking with father and Alfred,” and mercifully doesn’t bring up what happened this morning. Dick mentions, offhand, that he’s done a few drawings of Dami

Tim eats, and thinks of Little-him, in Jason’s guest room, refusing food, hands trembling. His stomach churns.

Tim leaves his window open, says a clear, “Kon,” to the air, and half an hour later, Kon’s there, swooping into Tim’s room.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Just - thinking.”

“Don’t you always?” Conner’s grin is sharp. Tim punches him in the shoulder, weak.

Tim sits on his bed. Conner sits next to him.

“It’s just -” Tim starts, then sighs. “I don’t know. I feel bad, leaving him there all alone, I guess. Like my parents. And I didn’t mind, as a kid - I had all this freedom, even if I missed them, even if they weren’t reliable. It made taking on Robin easy, until my…. It was something - good, and brave, and worthy to fill all those empty hours. But I…I mean, he doesn’t have that, anymore. He’s lost Robin, he’s lost his Bruce, he’s - alone.”

“He’s got you,” Conner says. “You’ll be going tomorrow. He probably needs his time to adjust, too.”

Tim leans his head on Conner’s shoulder. “I guess.”

“I’m right, you mean.”

Tim snorts. “You’re right, Kon.”

“As always.”

He punches Conner in the arm again.

“Tim?” It’s Dick.

Tim checks his watch, sighs. “Sorry - patrol.”

Conner crooks a grin. “I get it. I’ll be off. Don’t worry too much, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tim echoes, and heads out.

Bruce nods. “Stay safe. I’ll be on comms.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Dick says. “Think it’ll be a quiet night, though.”

Bruce’s wry smile is a ghost of a thing. “One hopes.”

Dick turns off comms.

Tim frowns. “Dick, what -”

“You know how I feel about this whole…little-you-from-another-universe thing, Tim,” Dick’s voice is quiet, firm. “Just - be careful for me, alright?”

“I will be.”

“And make sure you have a plan. A proper one." Dick pauses. "You can talk to me if you need to, alright? I know this could be - with your parents -”

“I will,” Tim says, because Dick’s face is soft and understanding and it’s making Tim’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t like.

Dick looks away. “And make your passwords harder to hack - you know how B and Oracle are.”

Tim barks out a laugh. “Alright.”

Dick turns comms back on again. “All silent, B,” he says, and Bruce makes a crackling noise of affirmation.

“So,” Dick says, after a moment, spinning his escrima sticks, feet silent, limbs loose. “You and Conner, huh?”

Tim flushes. “Oh, come on. Like you and Wally -”

“Alright, alright,” Dick interrupts, quickly, neck reddening. “I’ll go check out that alleyway.”

Tim hangs behind, keeps watch. His fingers play over his bo-staff, heart slow and even, footsteps slow.

There’s a shriek. A gunshot. Tim stiffens, then runs out, heart pounding in his chest, and -

“Oh, goddamnit, Dick. You asshole.”

Dick’s grinning, standing over an unconscious man, a gun nearby. “You should have seen your face.”

“Shut up.” He walks closer. “Are you okay?” “Yeah,” Dick says. “Just a graze.”

Tim sighs. “Come on. Alfred will patch you up.”

“Nightwing, you’re hurt?” Bruce’s voice crackles over comms.

“I’ll be fine, B,” Dick says. “Just a scratch.”

“- be more careful, Master Dick.” Alfred’s saying. Bruce is lurking in the shadows of Dick’s room.

“Yeah,” Dick says.

Alfred sighs. “No strenuous exercise for the next week, young sir.”

Dick makes a sound of protest, then swallows it. “Yes, Alfred.”

Alfred adjusts Dick’s bandage, then looks over to Tim.

“I’m fine,” Tim says, quickly. “Not hurt.”

Alfred’s lips pinch together, but he nods. “I expect you all to rest. That includes you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce steps out from the shadows. “You said it was just a scratch.”

“I didn’t need that many stitches,” Dick says. Then: “I’ll take it easy, alright? I can take care of myself, Bruce. I’m all grown up.”

Bruce grumbles under his breath. Dick reaches over, squeezes his arm. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Bruce sighs. “Alright. You know, I -”

“I know, Bruce.” Dick smiles. “I know.” He tilts his head towards Tim. “Go check on Tim instead.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, quickly, but his heart warms, anyway, when Dick snorts and Bruce turns to him, frowning.

“Hey, Bruce,” Tim says, stifles a yawn. He’s been up for two hours already, rifling through old possessions. “I’m just - uh - do you have any photos of my parents?” It’s awkward to ask, like this, but -

Bruce’s face softens. “I’ll take a look. We’ll have some around.” Bruce disappears, then comes back, twenty minutes later, holding an envelope.

He hands it to Tim. “Some photos.”

“Thanks,” Tim murmurs. He opens the envelope, peeks inside. It’s strange, seeing his parents like this - smiling, frozen in time, still whole. His eyes prick; his stomach twists. He slips the envelope into his pocket.

He steps through Jason’s front door.

“Fuck off.”

“It’s me.”

Jason’s sitting on the couch. “I know. Leave.”

“I’m here to see myself, not you.”

“I liked you better when I was trying to kill you,” Jason mutters. At least Jason’s the same: acerbic, cold, but not truly meaning it. It helps.

“Me, too. I didn't have to see your ugly face quite so often back then.”

“Shut up,” Jason mutters.

“How’s the case going?”

“Fine. It’s - weird. I think Scarecrow’s working with someone else, but…and it’s not the Joker, I’d know, but…”

“It’s similar.” Jason looks away. Tim clears his throat. “How’s the kid?”

Jason sighs. “Alright. He’s started eating, at least, but he’s not doing much else. He’s - reminds me of myself,” Jason says, more quietly. “After the Joker.”

“I’ve brought him some photos,” Tim says. “Think he’d like them?”

Jason stands, peers over. “Your parents.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Yeah, I think he’ll like them, Timmy.”

Tim heads to Little-Tim’s room. Knocks, announces himself, hears a noise, lets himself in.

The kid’s sitting on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Tim says. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” the kid says. “Bored.”

“Here,” Tim says, and hands over the photos.

The kid stares at them for a second. Frowns. “What -?”

“Our parents. Well, my parents, but I reckon we share a few similarities, hey?” Tim cracks a careful grin; the kid smiles back, hesitantly.

His face brightens when he looks at the second photo. “I remember this! It was at that art exhibition. And - here,” he flips through a few more, “When we went to the museum, and Father kept telling me to stop fidgeting; when they took us to see Dick, that first time - one of the Gala’s; my tie was too tight, but Mother didn’t let me adjust it - when they were heading off to Egypt…” he trails off. “They promised they’d be back after a month, but it took them four. And I told myself it was fine, because they were fighting, and if that’s what it took to stop them fighting, then…”

“Then you were fine with it,” Tim finishes, quietly. “And then they died, and you couldn’t fix it. You didn’t have any time to, anymore. You never got much time in the first place. And it was -” Tim cuts himself off. (This is his own guilt; he can’t push that onto a child. He thinks of those long, lonely nights; Robin, failing to fill the hole in his heart, that empty home he returned to; his father breaking the television in a fit of rage; that tightness in his chest, the quietness of his footsteps, like walking on a tightrope with frozen limbs; those final weeks, when things were looking up, finally, finally; that final night, when Tim wasn’t there.) “It was difficult,” he says, finally.

“Yeah,” Little-him echoes, eyes locked on the photo at Haly’s. “It was difficult.”

Tim leaves, after. Little-Tim offers to give back the photos, but Tim shakes his head, no. “I’ll take them back later.” His chest aches, and his eyes prickle, but he feels better. It’s - nice - having someone who understands, even if that someone is an alternate-universe-child version of him who’s been tortured by the Joker and abandoned by his Batman.

“How’d it go?” Jason says, sitting at the kitchen counter, and Tim scratches the back of his neck.

“Good,” he says. “I think. We talked. He talked.”

“Good,” Jason echoes, grin sharp. “Here,” Jason says, throwing a container at him. Tim peeks inside: muffins. “Give ‘em to Alfred.”

“Give them yourself,” Tim says, but he doesn't throw the container back. It’s warm in his hands, when he leaves.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Mom, Dad.” Tim’s voice is rough. “Brought you something.” He places the flowers down. “I’m still Robin - Red Robin. I’m still helping people. I’m still bringing hope. I, uh…” I miss you. I wish we could have become a happy family, finally. I wish things could have become okay.

But he doesn’t know how to say all that. He didn’t know how to say it then, and he doesn’t know now.

He digs his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contacts.

“Hey, Dick,” he says.

“Hey, Tim. What’s up?” Dick sounds busy: there’s the shuffle of papers, a crackling noise, the glide of a pen.

Tim draws in a breath. “I went to see my parents.”

There’s a quiet muffled sound - Tim thinks he can hear a - Wally, I’ll be there later; it’s my brother - before Dick talks into the phone, voice gentle. “How was it?”

“Alright. Gave them some flowers. Talked to them. Or tried to, anyway.” He chuckles, and it scratches at his throat.

Dick makes a sound of acknowledgement. (Dick gets it, at least. That grief that never leaves, those words he never got to say, that guilt that stirs in his gut.)

“I’ll be alright,” Tim continues. Dick huffs. Tim’s not sure he believes him. “I’m heading to the university. I’ll be poking around a little, so…”

“Alright. Be safe, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” Tim says, dry, and Dick laughs.

Tim hangs up, then shoves his phone into his pocket and starts walking to Gotham university.

Tim sees the Batsignal, yellow-black in the sky, and knows something’s wrong.

He ducks into an alleyway, presses his back to the wall, and starts pulling himself into his costume. Babs, at least, will erase the footage, so no one else will know Tim Drake and Red Robin are the same person. (Though, of course - he supposes a lot of people already know. The people who matter, anyway.)

Then he starts running.

–

Tim sees Damian and groans. Then he sees Jason, and - “Where’s the kid?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry,” Jason says. “He’s like you, Tim. He’ll be alright.”

That’s…not promising. Tim knows how vast the difference is between looking alright and being alright.

“He ate breakfast,” Jason adds. “And, shit, Tim. I saw the signal, I was nearby -”

“Alright, alright,” Tim mutters. “Let’s just -”

There’s a pulse through the crowd. Not quite fear, not yet - but something like it. The sound of scattering, of feet on asphalt, the distant shadow of dread.

They press forward, forward. And there’s a flicker of movement, the thick sludge of fear, the low creak of metal.

“It’s Scarecrow,” Tim says. His mouth tastes like blood. (And who else would want to scare, so badly? Who else would feed off the fear in the street?)

A green mist, the sound of cackling. Jason flinches, hands curling around his guns.

Scarecrow steps out.

“All these theatrics - bit much for you. Or are you just scared?” Jason says, voice sharp.

There’s no response. Tim feels a chill run up his spine.

The voice is crackly, static. “Scared already, Robin? We’ve only just started.”

There’s a low groan, in the distance. The street hasn’t been cleared, yet; Jason starts yelling at people to leave.

Tim ties his handkerchief around his nose and mouth. (His suit’s got filters, but even he knows they don’t always stand up against Scarecrow’s gas.)

The air is thick with fog and fear. There’s a low crunch of footsteps, a sharp laugh, and then Scarecrow is upon them.

They brace.

Damian lunges towards him, quick as steel; Jason throwing his pocket explosives, dodging left and right, trying to trap Scarecrow, knife in hand; Tim surges forward, staff in hand, breath caught in his lungs. (Trying to ignore the blood spreading through his clothes he knows isn’t real; the bodies on the street he knows isn’t real. Kon, bleeding, body cold - but this isn’t real. Tim knows it isn’t real. The burning itch on his skin, the damp blood on his clothes, the corpses that litter the streets - this is all Scarecrow, only Scarecrow.)

If only Kon was here. But, no - Conner’s at home; Tim can handle this himself. He pinches the inside of his wrist.

Scarecrow disappears, lost in that thick haze, and Tim’s heart pounds in his chest, the low murmur of death and fear and ruin at the back of his mind.

Tim sees a glimpse - a dark shadow, a burst of green - but then Scarecrow’s back, and there’s a low hiss, and Tim’s stomach swoops despite himself.

A sharp pain bursts at the side of his head. Tim rears back, a wince at his lips, head spinning, world too bright.

“You good?” Jason says, turning.

“Yeah.” Tim’s voice is rough.

“You should dodge better, Drake.”

Tim ignores Damian. His head aches, pulses.

There’s a crackle, a fizz, a low - no explosion? - and then green, a misty haze, a choking, clammy fear, twisting his insides, full of corpses and corpses and corpses -

Tim presses his palms to his mouth, forces the breath out of his lungs. His voice is muffled, strangled. “Babs must have - must have realised. They were going to set off an explosion - she must have disabled it.”

No one’s listening. Jason’s inching back, hands clenched tight, breaths unsteady. Damian’s frozen, glaring, brandishing his katana, flinching at air.

“Okay,” Tim says. “Okay.” He grips his staff. It’s just him, then. Could he hide Jason and Damian somewhere safe, come back and fight? But - no. He’s Red Robin. He has a duty to Gotham, to these people, to himself.

There’s a flash of blue and black, and Tim feels his shoulders drop, relief pulse through him. Nightwing. Dick.

“Tim,” Dick yells. “I’ll handle Scarecrow. Get them all out of here.” He’ll turn the crowd against you, with or without fear gas, Dick doesn’t need to say. Tim ushers away all the people he can, then grabs Jason and Damian and runs. His head aches, a low burn gnawing at the back of his mind. Later, he tells himself. Later.

(Tim thinks, for a second - that cackle, low and sharp; that green mist, like the pallour of Timmy’s skin; that gravelled, booming tone.)

“We don’t need Leslie,” Tim says, but even his voice feels hazy, muffled. “It’s fine. Just a bit of fear gas. We’re getting over it already.”

Bruce draws in a breath, as though he’s telling himself not to yell, but - “That was dangerous! You should have waited for me. You can’t rush into things like this - not when I’m in reach. And even when I’m not, there are procedures! You call in Dick, you call in Gordon, you make sure Barbara’s on the line, and you don’t get almost killed.”

“We were fine, father,” Damian says, mullish. “We didn’t kill anyone, and -”

“You almost died.”

“But we didn’t!”

“B,” Jason says, quietly, and Bruce turns to look at him. “We’re fine. Alright? We didn’t think it’d get out of control like that. We weren’t looking for Scarecrow, we were looking for clues. So don’t - you don’t need to worry. I sure as hell don’t need your worry.”

“Jason, I-”

“Don’t. I know you took me in to make yourself feel better,” Jason’s voice is sharp. “That was all. And you’re doing the same thing now - trying to make yourself feel better and get rid of whatever stupid guilt you have hanging about. Don’t kid yourself. I’m not your fucking son, and you’re not my fucking father.”

He leaves. Bruce stares, face pinched, silent.

Tim grabs Damian’s sleeve when Bruce walks out. Damian turns back, scowls at him, but moves to sit in the chair instead.

“I don’t understand why Todd is being so belligerent.”

“He’s hurting,” Tim says, shrugging, because that much is obvious. “You’re better off asking Alfred - he’ll know. But I guess…hell, the Joker killed him, you know? Brutally. And Bruce just put the Joker back in Arkham.” Tim shifts, winces as pain shoots through his head. “And we get why, but for Jason, it’s…”

Damian clears his throat. “Stop moving. I will bring you the painkillers.”

He finds Steph on a rooftop, elbows on her knees. Swings up, lands next to her, sits, feet dangling off the edge.

“I heard what happened,” she says, leaning forward. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He glances at her gloves, scuffed at the knuckles. “You had some trouble?”

She grins. “Nothing I can’t handle. How’s Little-you? Babs told me she found out.”

“Alright, I think. I gave him some of my - our - parents’ photos. And, yeah, Babs found out, but only because Jason is a traitor.”

Steph laughs. “You know she probably already knew, right? A young Tim-Drake clone falling into Gotham -”

“Yeah,” Tim says, but there’s a chuckle in his voice. “I know.”

“I’ve been talking to Cass,” Steph says. “She’s fine,” she adds, when she sees the furrow in Tim’s brow. “She’s busy, but call her, alright? She misses you.”

“Alright. I will.”

“I’ll be over next week for movie night,” Steph says. “Bridget Jones?”

Tim grins. “Damian will call it stupid.”

“We’ve watched it before, you dolt. You liked it.”

“I know I like it, I just mean -”

Steph laughs. “I can’t believe you have a grudge against a ten-year-old.”

“He’s twelve,” Tim mutters. “And he tried to kill me multiple times!” He sighs. “Anyway. You’re back?”

“Sure am,” Steph says, smiles. “You let me know if you have any trouble with this case of yours, alright?”

“I will,” Tim says, and Steph nods like she doesn’t believe him.

Cass’s hum crackles through his phone. Tim’s heart swells; his eyes prickle.

“It’s me,” he says. “Yeah, I just -” he can’t quite explain it. But Cass understands, even if she isn’t there.

“I miss you,” he says, finally.

“Miss you,” she echoes.

He hangs up. Smiles at his phone. Smiles harder, when he sees the string of emojis Cass sends.

He escapes the next morning to Jason’s. Bruce keeps glancing over at him - half-concerned, half-considering, and Tim can’t tell if it’s because Bruce cares, or because Bruce wants to bench him. So Tim’s not going to give him the chance to. Not yet, anyway.

He punches in the code, swings the door open - Jason sighs, mutters, waves Tim in from the kitchen, where he’s making fried rice - and Tim knocks on Little-Tim’s door.

“It’s me,” he calls.

There’s a rustle, then a: come in, and Tim eases the door open, slips inside, closes the door behind him.

He sits on the chair. Little-him stares - that familiar, calculated steely-eyed gaze that has Tim’s skin prickling - then scowls. “Jason said you got hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, silently cursing Jason. He knows himself.

“No, you’re not.” Little-Tim’s voice is mullish, his gaze dark, frustrated.

“You’re me. Does it look like I’m lying?”

“How should I know?” There’s a snap in his voice. “I’m not you, you weren’t…you’re not…”

“You’re still me,” Tim says, more gently. “Even if we aren’t the same. I’m not lying. I’m fine, I promise.”

The kid picks at his fingers.

Tim sighs. How’s he supposed to change that? That belief that no one wants you, that belief that everything is temporary, that everyone always leaves? Hell, sometimes he still feels like he’s intruding when he goes to Dick’s, or calls Steph for help, or asks Jason how the case is going.

Tim pivots. “You can talk to Dr. Thompkins, you know. Leslie.”

“I already did. It didn’t work.”

“Clearly it worked some,” Tim says. “You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?”

“It didn’t work enough. I’m still - I’m not - I still hear his voice in my head, still wake up dreaming of blood on my hands, still -” He breaks off.

“This is a different world,” Tim says, finally. A kinder one. A one you won’t get abandoned in.

The kid doesn’t answer. Tim sighs. (He feels like he’s been doing a lot of that, lately.)

“Do you want a computer?”

The kid looks up. “Can you get me one?”

“Did you get anything?”

Tim barrels into the room.

Babs raises an eyebrow at him, wheels herself closer. “No, how are you, Babs, thank you for saving my life?”

“Sorry. I’ve been spending too much time around B - you know how it is. How are you?”

“Good.” Babs’ smile is sharp. “There’s nothing useful, though. It’s all static. I can keep disabling some of their weapons remotely, and I'll keep digging for the footage, but unless you were able to get a good look we don't have anything just yet.”

“Not really.” Tim swallows. “Just - a sound. A cackle. It wasn’t the Joker’s, though it was…”

“Was it like that kid of yours? The not-you?”

Tim presses his lips together. “A bit.”

Babs sighs. “I saw something, a few days before that kid of yours landed here, but the footage still isn’t clear.”

She loads up the video, clicks play. Tim stares at the screen: a figure, large, imposing, then a crackle of static, and silence. (If one version of him can get here, then why not another?)

“It’s not giving us much, but…” but it could be our answer.

And it’s an answer Tim doesn't want to think about. It’s an answer he knows Bruce has thought about.

“But, hell,” Babs’ voice turns playful. “Sometimes that boyfriend of yours -”

“Babs -”

“- shows up as an anomaly, pings as unusual. But this looks like we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands, munchkin.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. He’s made contingencies for evil-him, of course, and he knows Bruce has made contingencies for evil-Bruce, but he hadn’t…well. Not for a young, hurt him, who’ll probably want to get involved, who’ll probably be worried, who’ll probably mess around with things because he thinks he needs to. “You’ll…?”

“I’ll do what I always do, alright? Don’t worry.”

Tim chuckles. “I’ll try not to.”

“We all know how that works out.” Babs’ voice is light, dry.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I just want to be sure,” Tim says. “I just think I should dig more. I don’t want Bruce to get into one of his moods for nothing.”

“And you think he will?” Conner’s lying on Tim’s bed, fiddling with his Rubik’s cube. Tim tries not to stare too hard at his fingers, at the way his hair flops over his forehead.

He clears his throat. “I mean, yeah, if there’s a murderous version of me that laughs like the Joker out there, he will. He’d go all, this is too dangerous, and I have to handle this on my own, and get all broody. You know what he’s like. Even if I know myself best.”

“So you want to fix this yourself.” Conner says it like it’s a bad idea. His voice turns dry. “That sure is real different from what Bruce would do.”

“Shut up,” Tim grumbles, but it’s lighthearted. Kon shoots him a sharp smile, and Tim finds himself smiling back, cheeks warm.

(Fine. So maybe some of Tim’s previous I’m going to fix things myself ideas haven’t always gone to plan. Maybe he's made them while grieving, and upset, and reeling. Maybe Dick would be disappointed. But Tim meddles. It’s what he’s always done. It’s what brought him here in the first place.)

“Okay,” Tim leans back in his chair. (If his mother saw him, she would tell him to sit straight. The thought twists through his stomach.) “If people are going missing, then they're being held somewhere, even if it’s for a little while. And we know Scarecrow’s kidnapped people before, and that he likes to experiment. So, they’re staying somewhere soundproof, large, hard to notice, right? And we’ve got an evil-Timothy Drake, if we’re unlucky. What do they want? Fear, carnage, chaos - probably Bruce. We’ll have a fundraiser in a few weeks, once Bruce founds out and Little-Tim becomes my orphaned cousin from somewhere, so -”

“You think they’ll attack at the fundraiser.” Conner’s frowning.

“Yeah. And I think I can follow them back and work out where their lair is.”

“Are you gonna tell anyone? Dick? Cassie? Bart?”

Tim pauses. “They’re busy.”

Conner raises an eyebrow. “They’d still come and help you, Tim, you know -”

“I know, I know,” Tim says. “I just…” I don’t want to lose anyone else. I don't want to feel that terrible hurt all over again. Like when I lost you.

"You're right," Tim sighs. "I should. I will. It's - I should reach out."

“Like I said. I'm always right, you know,” Conner says, grinning. He reaches over, squeezes Tim’s shoulder.

Tim says the words before he has the good sense to stop them. “You can come with me, if you like.”

“Alright,” Conner says, again, voice softer, fonder, eyes sparkling. “I will.”

Tim’s at Jason’s, again, staring at his wall: a pin where the university is, a question mark next to the train station, another next to Wayne Tower.

The words fall out before Tim can stop them. “Bruce misses you, you know.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the wall. “Scarecrow’s trying to surprise us, right? We thought he’d hit the train station, but he hit the university instead - struck the same place twice. Makes sense. It’s scarier, when it’s unexpected. But Scarecrow’s the planning type.”

He’s working with someone, Tim doesn’t say, but the words burn in his throat. “You think he’ll attack the sewers or the tunnels, next?”

“Maybe, but -” The door creaks open. Jason closes his mouth.

Little-Tim peers inside, then steps in, hands clasped together.

“You’re working on a case?” It’s weird, hearing those words from someone else’s mouth, that pace, that same fall and rise, that same curiosity.

Jason looks at Tim, then Little-Tim. “I can’t handle both of you.” His voice is flat, dry.

Tim goes to protest, but the kid barks a laugh. A real one, this time - short and golden, chiming.

“He’s joking,” the kid says.

And it’s - weird. It’s weird, having a version of himself that’s so close to Jason right from the start, when his first encounter with Jason was fists and sharp words and the dull pound of his heart. It’s weird, having a him that understands Jason (but of course he does, haven’t they both had a similar sort of life-changing, earth-shattering encounter?) It’s weird, seeing that upward twist of Jason’s lips, the spark in his eyes.

He kind of wants to call Steph, just so she can smooth things over, just so things can make sense, but that wouldn’t be fair.

“Yeah, we’re working on a case,” Jason says.

“That one you’ve been muttering about?” Little-Tim says.

“I haven’t been - “ Jason starts, and Tim shoots him a look; Jason scowls. Tim feels his lips quirk up. “Anyway. We’re trying to work out where Scarecrow will strike next. Well, that, and I’m working on - there’s some shit being peddled, so I’m trying to work out what it is.” He pauses. “Steph and I reckon it’s related to Scarecrow, not the drug trafficking she’s looking into, but…”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Yeah,” Jason lets out a breath. “There’s nothing that says it’s obviously Scarecrow, but there could be some sort of trigger down the track, you know?”

Tim’s stomach squeezes. (Jason, freezing at the sound of laughter. Tim’s vision going tinny, ears thundering, that scent of blood, his father’s body cold. Little-Tim, flinching at purple. It’s stupid, right? It’s just a colour. But it reminds me of -)

“We’ll work it out,” Tim says, finally. Jason makes a noise that isn’t quite agreement.

Tim fishes the camera out of his bag. “Here,” he says, handing it to the kid. “Got you a camera. I’ll get the computer in a couple of days.”

“Thanks,” the kid murmurs, carefully holding it.

“Go on, then,” Jason says, but there’s a shadow of a smile on his face.

“Why don’t you take that cardinal?”

“I don’t want to take birds.” The kid is crouching next to a rock, taking photos of - as best Tim can guess - a worm. Jason is sitting on the park bench nearby, eyes sharp.

“Well, I will,” Tim says.

“You take them for Damian, right?”

Tim glances over.

“He told me,” the kid continues, snapping another photo.

“Sometimes. He likes to draw them.”

“He gave me a notebook and pen.” The kid pauses. “Then told me not to use it stupidly. Is he always like that?”

Tim tilts his head. “More or less. He used to be worse.”

“So did I,” Little-Tim mutters. “You really think Bruce knows?”

“Well, if we’re all popping in, then maybe. But this Bruce is different. Our Bruce is different. Hell, he’s still trying to have a relationship with Jason, and Jason’s killed, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

The kid snaps another photo, but his fingers are white. “You’re certain?”

“Completely. Go talk to Jason, if you don’t believe me. He’ll talk your ear off, I swear.”

The kid’s lips quirk up. “Sometimes I hear him complaining.”

“I can get you more evidence, if you’d like.”

His eyes are firm, when they land on Tim’s. “No, it’s alright. I believe you.”

There’s a rap at Tim’s door. Tim sighs, closes his computer - Damian will notice, and snoop, he knows - then tells Damian to come in.

“Timothy,” Damian says, in greeting. He’s holding a basket with clothes. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, lowers his voice. “I have brought clothes for the…other-you.”

(Damn it, but Damian makes it hard for him to hate him. Sure, the kid’s a little off, and sure, he’s tried to kill Tim multiple times, and sure, out of all of them, he’s probably still the most likely to go rogue and become a villain, but - )

“Thanks, Damian.”

Damian clears his throat. “He can’t keep wearing Jason’s clothes. Or yours, even if you do know how to pull a suit together.”

Tim sighs, again, then takes the basket from Damian, places it on his bed. “Jason’s gotten him some clothes, but these are good, too. You can’t take the clothes yourself?”

Damian scrunches his nose. “Father would notice. I’m busy, too, you know. And I’m patrolling with father most evenings this week. You’re a…more appropriate choice.”

Tim isn’t sure if that’s a compliment or not (he’s more appropriate because he’s apparently less busy? He’s more appropriate because Bruce wouldn’t notice him?) so he chooses to ignore it. (Be the bigger person, as Dick would say.)

“Well, I can take it with him.”

Damian nods, but still hovers.

“Do you want to know how he is?”

“I talked to him last week.”

“Right.”

“He’s better company than you are.”

Well, yeah, you didn’t try to kill him, Tim doesn’t say. “You're around the same age.”

“I suppose.” Damian clears his throat, but doesn’t move to leave.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “What else?”

Damian scowls. “There’s nothing else.”

Tim sighs. “Do you want to sit?”

Damian sits, still scowling, back straight. “There’s a mouse in the rafters,” he says, finally.

“Okay,” Tim says, slowly, but he can guess where this is going.

“I have brought it to my room.”

“To your -” Tim breaks off. “Does Alfred know?”

Damian shakes his head, no.

“He’ll find out soon, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s a house mouse, Damian, not a domesticated mouse. You know you’re probably better off letting it free -”

“Where he could be hit by a car?” Damian snaps. “No. He’s an animal. He needs my help - he’s starving!”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take a look at the pet store for you. Alright? And tell Alfred and Bruce - it’s better you tell them then they find out.”

“I will.”

Tim leans over, pats Damian’s shoulder. Damian glares at him.

“It’ll be alright,” he says.

Damian huffs, stands, and walks out of Tim’s room, muttering an I know.

Tim eases Jason’s door open, slips inside, and hears Steph’s laugh, first.

“- off, Todd.”

“What? I’m just saying -” Jason cuts himself off as Tim enters, a grin playing on his lips. “Hey, Timmy.”

Tim ignores him, waves at Steph, instead, who turns, eyes sparkling, smiling. “Come, sit,” she says, patting the seat next to her. “Jason’s being stupid.”

“As always,” Tim says, and Jason shoots him a glare.

“How’re you going with your cases?”

“Jason’s telling me about the bones,” Steph says. “And where he thinks Scarecrow will strike next.” She pauses. “I knew about the bones already, though. They’re being used by some of the people I’m tracking.”

For what? Jason mouths.

“So the bones aren’t Scarecrow?” Tim says.

“I think Scarecrow’s just taking advantage, honestly. Muddying the waters up.” She sighs. “I think they’re using the bones to make drugs, but I haven’t got anything concrete yet. Though they’re probably kidnapping people just like Scarecrow is, let’s be honest. I stopped a kidnapping last week.”

“That’s…” He pauses. “You know, if you'd like, I can -”

“It’s fine, Tim, you don’t need to break any national laws. Or international laws. I’ll be alright. Once I find their warehouse they’re storing the drugs - there’s always a warehouse, you know - I’ll call for backup if I need to. Just need to cut off the head and make sure a couple dozen others don’t sprout up after.”

“Easy,” Tim says, dry.

“Yeah.” Steph reaches over, pats his shoulder. “Easy.”

“Like the hydra,” Jason murmurs. “You two had any brand-new bright ideas for dealing with Scarecrow and whoever else he’s working with?”

Tim pauses. (He doesn’t want Jason to know about the possible-evil-Batman running around, not yet. Not when he knows it’ll bring up a whole lot of shit for Jason. Not when the Joker’s finally stuck in Arkham; not when Batman has finally ensured he won’t be able to get out again.)

Tim rings Dick’s doorbell. “It’s me,” he says, and there’s the sound of a latch unlocking, and then Dick’s ushering him into the kitchen, smiling. He’s got something cooking on the stove; Tim spots a pair of shoes he guesses are Donna’s, a plaid shirt he thinks is Wally’s. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“Of course not.” Dick’s gaze is firm, a touch surprised. He ruffles Tim’s hair. “Come, sit. I’m making fried rice.”

Tim peers at the rice. “It looks good.” He grabs a plate and a spoon from one of the drawers.

“Of course it does. Don’t clump me in with Bruce,” Dick says, lightly. “I might not be as good as Alfred, but I’m alright.”

“Yeah,” Tim breathes.

“What’s wrong?” Dick’s frowning.

“Nothing,” Tim says, but there’s a swirl in his stomach. “I just - I had a couple of questions.”

“Tim, I…” Dick trails off, sighs. He stares at Tim for a few long, long seconds. “I want you to be able to be honest with me. ”

Tim swallows, lets Dick keep talking.

“I know these past few months - years - have been hard on you, and you havven't always been able to come to me for everything, but I'll listen, Tim. I--" Dick cuts himself off. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me. You said you had questions?”

This feels - well, remarkably like a Tim thing to do, not a Dick-tell-me-your-feelings type thing to do, but Tim sighs and accepts the topic change. “You saw two people when you were fighting Scarecrow, right?”

Dick frowns. “I wasn’t sure.”

“I think it’s me from another universe. But an evil-me. A version of me who laughs like the Joker. Even if...even if I don't want it to be true, I know I can turn... I know there are versions of me out there that hurt people.”

Dick nods, but Tim can see the worry in his eyes.

“Babs knows, and Kon, and I know Bruce has - contingency plans, for things like this - but…”

“You haven’t told Jason,” Dick says, quietly.

“Not yet.”

“Do you want me to?”

Tim shakes his head, no. “I was hoping I - we - could sort it out, first.”

Dick sighs. It’s a familiar sort of sigh; an older brother sort of sigh, an I-can't-stop-you-but-I-want-to sort of sigh. “Alright. But you know it’s better he finds out earlier, right?”

“I know. I know. I’ll tell him - I’ll tell him if we aren’t able to.”

Dick nods, then brings the pot over, serves Tim some rice.

“You know you can always ask me for help, right?”

Tim smiles. “Yeah. I know.”

They’re on patrol when Tim hears it. He glances at Bruce, ahead of Damian and him, and resists the urge to look back.

Pat-pat-pat, whenever they walk. Familiar. That low exhale whenever Tim breathes. That scatter of rocks.

Tim’s heart freezes in his chest.

He knows that shadow. He knows that soft pat-pat-pat, in-time with the rest of them. He knows it because it used to be him, all those years ago.

“We’re being followed,” Bruce says, and his voice is firm and sharp and hard.

“I’ll go check it out,” Tim starts, but Bruce shakes his head.

“I’ll go,” he says. “You stay here.”

“Is it him?” Damian whispers, next to him, once Bruce has disappeared.

Tim nods, then starts moving forward.

(It’s better he’s there. Bruce won’t hurt the kid - he’ll want to help; Tim knows that - but it’d be tough, seeing another version of the man who abandoned him.)

“- okay?” Bruce is saying, crouching near Little-Tim.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath. The kid is pressed against the alleyway, shivering.

Bruce glances over at them, sighs. Tim walks forward; Damian follows, close behind, and stands next to Little-Tim.

Damian starts talking, low and soft - you’re not in trouble, don’t worry; I’ll make sure everything’s fine with father - and Tim turns, stares at Bruce.

“Alfred was wondering where Damian’s old clothes went,” Bruce says, and his voice is mild, but his eyes are sharp, knowing.

“He’s me from another universe,” Tim says, and then finds himself not sure what to say next. “I - ”

Bruce nods. “I understand. We’ll take him back to the manor.” His lips press tight. “You should have told me.”

“I know.”

His lips tilt up, ever-so-slightly. “Damian’s doing a good job with the other-you.”

Tim glances back. Little-him is starting to smile, fingers uncurling; Damian’s talking quietly about Alfred-the-cat. Tim's heart warms, despite himself.

Bruce clears his throat. “We’ll go home. Oracle, clear the cameras.”

“Already done,” Babs’ voice crackles over comms. “Stay safe.”

Damian walks towards Bruce, but Little-Tim hovers behind them. Damian glances back, brow furrowed.

“It’s alright,” Bruce’s voice is quiet. “We’ll look after you. Tim lives in the Manor, you know. You can room next to him, if you’d like.”

“Or next to me,” Damian adds.

The kid hesitates, for a moment, then steps forward - slowly, slowly - and follows them back to the manor, shadow-like.

Alfred’s waiting outside, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “I see you have brought someone new with you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce nods. Tim watches as his shoulders drop. “I have.”

Alfred ushers them inside, then pauses in the hallway. “I’ve made extra, so it’s no trouble. Now,” he moves in front of Little-Tim. His eyes are warm. “It’s good to meet you - “

“It’s Tim,” he says, voice small. “Well, Jason calls me Little-Timmy, sometimes, but - “ he flushes. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Would you like supper?” Alfred says, kind, and the kid nods.

Chapter Text

The kid pokes at his spaghetti. It’s a little awkward, like this - Timmy between Damian and Tim on one side; Bruce and Alfred on the other, Damian glancing over every couple of seconds, sharp and stuff, Alfred’s watchful stare, Bruce’s hesitant gaze. The kid’s shoulders are curled over, his eyes firmly on the spaghetti in front of him.

Bruce clears his throat. “Eat as much as you like.”

The kid’s eyes dart up, then back down. He nods, stiff. Twirls a piece of spaghetti around his fork, puts it into his mouth, chews.

“We’ve got a spare bedroom next to Damian,” Tim says. (And next to Jason’s old room, he doesn’t say. The room Jason never uses, now.) “Do you want to stay there? There are a couple of guest bedrooms on the other side, too, if you’d like.”

“I’m…that’s good,” he says. “I’m happy with that.” He glances at Damian, who nods.

“It will be good to have a proper neighbour,” Damian says. Timmy cracks a small, careful smile.

Tim presses his lips together to stop from smiling. At least Damian is being civil, for once - to this other version of him, anyway.

“Could I - get some tests run?” the kis says.

“Tests?” Tim echoes. “I mean, you probably need a blood test - we can work out if–”

“I mean - to see if there’s still something…left.”

Tim falls silent. Glances at Bruce. Damian’s quiet, brow furrowed.

“Alright,” Bruce says, mild. “We can do that, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Timmy mumbles, wraps another strand of spaghetti around his fork.

Tim sips at his soda, moves through the files he’s got. If he can find out who else is getting profit from selling the drugs - and knowing Gotham, there’s probably a few corrupt politicians or police officers - maybe he’ll get a little closer to working out where Scarecrow is? Maybe he can see if any of them have warehouses they aren’t using, or abandoned holiday homes they’re lending out? He draws in a breath, takes another sip of his soda, and starts typing. He just needs to find who’s bought what, and which ones are suspicious in the right way, that’s all.

His phone buzzes - Babs. Call me, she types, and he gives her a call.

“It’s late,” she says, when he picks up.

“You’re up,” he says.

She laughs. “Yeah, well - when am I not? Anyway, I’ve got some news for you. Penguin’s put a lot of money in a new offshore account - I just got an alert - and according to some of his staff there’s some new drug floating around. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks,” Tim says. “Steph–”

“I’ve let her know, too,” Babs says. “And our favourite boy wonder. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Tim says, again, starts searching for Penguin’s account in the logs. Or, hell, maybe he can hack in and take a look at the transfer statement–

“Stay safe out there,” Babs says.

“I will,” Tim says. “You, too, Babs,”

“And say hi to the little kid for me,” Babs continues, voice light.

Tim’s lips quirk up. “I will. Thanks.”

She hangs up. Tim stares at his computer, the light illuminating the darkness of his room.

Tim figures it’s easier to just drop in. Sure, Dick might not like it, but there’s a reason Babs told him Dick was seeing Penguin today, and Tim wants answers, too. (Isn’t that what Bruce encourages, anyway? To find the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable? Even when it hurts?)

He sneaks into the garage, spots Dick twirling the keys in his hand, looking at the cars.

“Hey,” he says, behind Dick.

Dick sighs. “You don’t need to come with, you know.”

“I want to,” Tim says.

“I guess there’s no persuading you otherwise, huh?”

“Well -” Tim starts, and Dick shakes his head, but Tim thinks he catches a smile.

“Come on, then. We’re taking one of the cars.”

“The Lamborghini?”

“The Mercedes, maybe.”

Tim hops over to the Mercedes. “Aren’t you glad Jason isn’t here? He’d be wanting to drive.”

Dick chuckles. “I wouldn’t let him. You know that. I won’t let you, either.”

“But, Dick–”

“Nope,” Dick says. “Go sit in the car.”

Tim opens the backseat. Then stares. Stares some more.

“Like I was going to let you fools go alone,” Damian says, scowling, lying between the floor and the seats.

“You look a little stuck,” Tim says, dry.

“I am fine, Drake. Hurry up. We need to go quickly.”

Dick sighs, sits inside. “Don’t say anything stupid,” he says, then turns, stares at them both, expression firm. “Penguin is dangerous.”

“I’ve handled-” Damian starts.

“Penguin is dangerous,” Dick says, again. “I mean it. You need to listen to me.”

“I will,” Tim says, settling into his seat.

Damian makes a frustrated noise of agreement.

“And you need to follow what I say,” Dick continues. “I don’t want you two getting hurt.”

Damian huffs, but agrees. Tim echoes his agreement. (He’s a little like Bruce, Tim thinks. Taking responsibility for every mistake, even if it isn’t really his own.)

–

Damian extracts himself, after a little while, then buckles himself in. He scowls at the smile on Tim’s face (can you blame him? It’s funny - he’s Damian, after all), then brings out his notepad and starts sketching.

“Stop staring, Drake,” Damian bites out.

Tim bites back his grin, looks out the window.

“Don’t fight,” Dick says, from the front seat, making a left turn.

“We’re not,” Tim says, glancing over. Damian’s sketching a bird of some kind. He turns his head, looks out the window, even though he knows these roads well, the asphalt under his feet, the grey sky above, the chilling wind, even in the middle of summer.

–

“He usually takes a smoke break in that alleyway behind the lounge, right about now,” Tim says, when they’re close to the Iceberg Lounge.

Dick glances over, frowns.

“You know I like to keep an eye on things,” Tim says. It sounds more like a protest than he likes.

Dick sighs, but his voice is fond, when he speaks. “Yeah. I know.”

Damian clears his throat. “Are you two just going to keep up this useless chatter the whole time?”

Dick chuckles. “Just watch.”

Dick steps to the side, melting into the long shadows of the alleyway. Tim and Damian slip behind him, hidden.

“Found you,” Dick murmurs, smiling, hawk-like, jumping in front of Penguin, tripping him before he flees. Damian lurches forward, pulls Penguin up by his collar.

“You’ve been up to something,” Damian says, voice low, sharp. Tim moves so he’s next to Damian, clears his throat. Damian doesn't loosen his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We know about the drugs.”

“It’s not me. All I know is the guy has a lot of money, and he bought some items from me, that’s all. Hell, if he’s using it to sell drugs, then–”

“No,” Damian says. “You are. He’s doing something else.”

“Look, he just said he was buying some property down at Park Row or the Bowery–”

“What kind of property?” Tim says. This isn’t Scarecrow, then - it sounds more like something he’d do. But why Park Row? Because they can operate not-quite unseen? Because they’re closer to the people they want to target? And what? There are certainly warehouses in Park Row, and abandoned buildings, and buildings people will give up with enough money - Tim should take a look at that, he thinks; what new deals have been done in the last few weeks?

“How should I know?”

“We’re watching,” Damian bites out. “Always.”

“I know, I know. Just - let me get back to work.”

“Answer our questions, then,” Damian says, digs his fingers into Penguin’s neck.

“Something big, that’s all. He mentioned Logerquist - the founder, you know - it’s…Christ, I don’t have damn perfect memory, do I? I’m not like you.”

“What did he look like?” Tim says.

Penguin laughs. Damian’s hand tightens. “A little like you. Charming. Black-haired, blue-eyed. Said he’s got a partner; didn’t mention who. I didn’t ask, either.”

“Fine,” Tim says. (And can’t Tim be charming? He knows he is. He knows how to trick people. He knows he can say the right things at the right time and have all the dominoes fall into place. He’s fighting himself, not someone else. He’s protecting himself from himself - from his own jaded anguish, his own unhappiness, his own drive for perfection.)

Damian lets go of Penguin’s collar. “Don’t try anything,” he says, flat, cold, and Penguin nods, runs back inside, muttering under his breath.

“Good work,” Dick says.

Damian scowls. “He barely told us anything.”

“He told us enough,” Tim says.

“Alright, come on,” Dick says, as Damian starts to respond. “Race you back to the car,” he says, and takes off.

–

There’s a cat nuzzling the car tyres, small and black, mewling.

Damian inches forward, crouches next to the cat. “Hello,” he whispers, takes out an unopened tuna can from his pocket, peels the lid off and places it in front of the cat.

“I guess bringing home a kitten,” Tim says.

Dick stares, then snorts, but his eyes are softening. “Bruce will like that, I’m sure.”

“It’s a stray kitten,” Damian says, with emphasis.

“I guess Bruce should be happy Damian hasn’t brought home a bat yet,” Tim says, dry. “And, anyway, we’ve already got one cat, haven’t we? It’s not like another is too much more trouble.”

Damian stares at Tim for a few long moments. “For once, you’re making sense, Timothy.” He sounds a little surprised, a little appreciative.

Tim bites back his snort. “I’m getting into the car,” he says, instead.

Dick nods. “Come on, Damian,” he says, and Tim watches as Damian scoops up the tuna, then the cat, murmuring apologies as it hisses and claws at him, and rushes inside the car.

“Drive quickly, Richard,” he says, and Dick nods.

He hears himself screaming, first. Jolts awake, hand to his throat -

But it’s not him.

He pushes himself to his feet, blanket tumbling to the floor, rushes to the bedroom, closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says, stepping in. “Hey, kid, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Timmy lets out a choked noise.

“You’re okay.” Tim steps closer. “Can I–?”

The kid lurches forward, forehead hitting Tim’s chest, sobs tearing from his throat. Tim brings his arms up, hugs the kid - small, and wirey, and cold - then hugs him tighter.

“My Alfred’s dead,” the kid says, after a few long minutes, pulling back. "My parents both died before I became Robin. I didn't really...I miss them."

Tim sits on his bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not,” he says. “I don’t - I don’t feel real, sometimes. I just…I think back to - then - and I feel so - so -” he breaks off, stares at the wall. “Why’d you become Robin?” his voice is soft.

Tim lets out a breath. “Same reason as you, I guess. Batman needed a Robin, and Gotham needed Batman.”

Back then, when he’d first started - it was what was right that was driving him. No grief, no ache for vengeance or justice. Just a plain, simple: something was wrong with his heroes, and he had to fix it, because no one else was going to. (And then Mom died, and Dad was hurt, and things changed, but Tim was - still Tim, at the end of the day.)

Things have changed, now. His parents are dead. Bruce has Damian, ill-tempered and snippy and insecure. Jason’s no longer a ghost, bright and peppy and a bit too quick with his punches, but he’s rebuilding - with Roy, with Alfred, with Babs. Dick’s expanded around his grief in a way Tim is still trying to. And Tim is trying to find his new normal.

Things are different, now. Robin has gotten his Dad killed, but it’s also kept him alive, kept him moving. Robin has hurt him, and helped him, and formed him, and changed him, in a way he can’t quite put words to. And when he'd lost Robin, when Dad had made him - he'd done the same things, anyway, hadn't he? Robin just gave him protection, and connections, and feeling like he belonged somewhere. Robin had felt like a calling since all those years ago, that fateful day at Haly's, when everything shattered before his eyes.

Timmy presses closer towards him. “Do you regret it?”

Tim chews the inside of his lip. “No,” he says, finally. “No, I can’t. It brought me friends, you know? It brought me purpose.” Steph, Conner, Cassie, Bart, Cass, Babs, Dick, Bruce - if he hadn’t been Robin, he never would have met them.

“But it cost you a lot, too,” Timmy says. He’s watching Tim in that unnerving, sharp way. (Of course. He’s himself. He would know, even if Tim doesn’t want to admit it, even if Tim spent months shoving his emotions down - about his Dad, about Kon, about Steph, about Bruce.)

“Yeah,” he breathes, and he thinks of soaring through the air, wearing the colours his heroes wore, breathless, standing on the edge of a building, watching his shadow stretch beneath him, thinking of that simple fall. Thinks of Conner’s smile, his warmth - I believe you. Bruce is alive - thinks of Dick, hugging him to his chest - It’s okay, now. I knew you'd make the right choice. - thinks of Bruce, and his low, I’m sorry, I've got you, thinks of Cass’ understanding silence, of Steph punching his shoulder, grinning, of Bart stealing his car, of Cassie flicking his forehead. “But, hell. I have friends. Robin brought me a family. I needed it, even when I didn’t have it. And things are - were - sometimes shit, but…you grow around it, like Dick would say.”

“You’re not really Robin anymore, though.”

Tim swallows, bitter. That wasn’t by choice, he thinks, and doesn’t voice. Dick had to take care of Gotham, and I was punishing myself he doesn't say. He's grown past that nows, he thinks. He hopes. “I’m still me,” he says, and if it rings a little hollow, neither of them mention it. “You’ll be okay, buddy. We all get nightmares - even Bruce,” he says, instead, patting the kid’s arm. His lips tilt up in a ghost of a smile. “You’re not there anymore. You’re stuck with us. So, you know, if you want to talk…well, just let us know. I’ll get you some water, alright?” The kid nods. Tim leaves, tries to hide the ache in his chest.

–

When he comes back, he hears Damian speaking.

“- like to hold Alfred? Or Ace?”

A small meow, a rustling noise and Timmy must nod, because Damian clears his throat. “Animals are…they help,” he says, finally, awkwardly. “They understand in a way people can’t.” Tim places the glass of water by the door. “Mother told me a story, once,” Damian starts. He sounds young, like this.

“What kind of story?” Timmy says.

They both do, Tim thinks.

He feels the pass of a shadow - looks over, sees Bruce, running a hand through his hair, head tilted.

Tim takes a step back, nods. Bruce walks over, listens, for a moment - “...and so the prince had to stay inside…” - then walks away, shoulders relaxed, eyes soft.

Tim slips back into his room. They’ll be okay. (Damian’s changed, he reminds himself. Maybe for the better.)

“Hey, Kon,” he says, burying his head in Kon’s shoulder. Krypto barks, noses at Tim’s leg.

Kon’s arms are warm, around him. “Rough night?”

“Kinda.” He stifles a yawn.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Tim pulls back, runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe later?”

Kon squeezes his shoulder. “You wanna see Cassie and Bart? They’ve been asking about you.” He pulls a face. “It’s gotten annoying.”

“I saw them last month," Tim says, gives a little laugh. "You told them about the case? About...?”

“‘Course.” Kon pauses. "It's about time you stopped punishing yourself, don't you think?"

Tim's lips quirk up, a touch sad. “Yeah.”

“I ever tell you I can read minds?” Kon’s grinning.

Tim kicks at his shins, but his face still flushes. (He hopes Kon can’t hear the thud of his heart, even though it’s stupid.) “Shut up. I know you’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” Kon says, and Tim rolls his eyes. “Honest, it comes with the superhearing–”

Tim elbows him in the gut. Kon groans, pretends to pout, and Tim looks away, lips quirking up.

–

“Anyway,” Cassie says, kicking back. “Tell me about this other-you.”

“Well, he’s me–” (Cassie rolls her eyes. Wow. So informative. Bart laughs, and Kon snorts, and Tim sticks his tongue out at all of them. He’s missed this, he realises. He’s missed his friends. Missed Bart, who brings them all together with his levity, his humour; Cassie, with her heart, her strength.)

“I don't know. He gets along with Jason.”

“With Jason?” Cassie echoes. Bart makes a sound of surprise, blurts a seriously?

“He’s - he’s a good kid,” Tim says, finally. “It’s - I mean, he’s me, you know? Me if…if things had been worse in different ways. If I hadn’t beat the Joker. If Bruce was…less kind.” The words are awkward - Bruce isn't exactly known for being kind, he knows, but what else can he call it, when this other Bruce kicked this other version of himself out? When this other Bruce has been so unforgiving?

There’s a brief silence. Cassie’s eyes are warm - she’d seen more than anyone what losing almost everything had done to Tim, of course. She’d felt that gaping hole when Tim had run off, searching and searching for Bruce.

“Anyway,” Tim says, leaning forward, a sharp grin forming on his face. “You met up with Cissie-?”

"Yeah. It was good," Cassie says, flushing. Bart laughs. Kon slings an arm over Tim’s shoulders.

And things are okay.

Tim shifts as the computer chimes. The kid sits in the chair, still, eyes closed. It’s smart, he supposes - and like him to think of this - but there’s a part of him that can’t help but feel this is wrong. The kid isn’t asking for these tests to be run out of wanting to understand, to learn, Tim knows - he’s asking out of fear, out of loneliness, out of rejection. Out of hope he’ll be accepted again.

“It’s normal,” Bruce says.

“Really?” Little Tim’s voice cracks. “You’re - you’re sure?”

“Look,” Bruce turns the screen to them.

Tim thinks of clinging to his parents, of that half-mad rage, of that mind-splitting grief. Of Jason, clinging to his anger, flinching at laughter, shoulders rising in small rooms.

“Huh,” Tim echoes. “It is.”

Damian peers closer. “So he’s fine, Father?”

Bruce nods.

Timmy lets out a sound that sounds like a sob. “There’s nothing - there’s nothing still left in me?”

Bruce shifts. “You went through something traumatic,” he starts, and the kid shakes his head.

“There’s no toxins? No - none of what he gave me?”

Bruce nods.

He lets out a breath, shoulders dropping. “I can’t believe it,” he whispers, throat raw. “I can’t believe it. Why - why don’t I feel fixed?”

“You went through something difficult,” Bruce says. His words sound practised, knowing. “It takes time to heal.”

“Yeah, but…” his voice cracks. “If I already went through something hard, why doesn’t it…why does it take so long to get better?”

Bruce sighs. His eyes, though, are soft, compassionate.

“Perhaps we’d like some crumpets,” Alfred says, stepping into view, holding a plate.

Timmy’s eyes go misty, affectionate, wistful. “Yes, please, Alfred.”

They’re on patrol, just him and Bruce. The night is dark, the dawn unrisen. It’s been a quiet night, so far, but Tim knows not to try his luck by saying the words out loud.

“I know you're looking at warehouses for your case, Tim,” Bruce says. “Some of the people you're looking at will be guests at the Gala."

"I know. I’ll talk to them."

“Has Damian brought home a new cat?”

Tim catches himself before he stumbles, moves his trip into a skip.

“I heard meowing from his room,” Bruce continues. “It didn’t sound like Alfred. If it is a stray, it needs to be chipped.”

“Damian knows,” Tim says. “He was talking about taking the kitten to the vet.”

Bruce sighs. “It’s a kitten,” he says.

“Alfred’s warmed up to it. Not - Alfred-the-Cat, I mean.”

“I see.”

“Maybe Alfred, too? He’s been giving Damian a glass of milk in the mornings.”

“I saw,” Bruce says, then sighs. “Well, the Manor’s big, at least.”

“It’s…yeah,” Tim says. He thinks, for a moment, of his own Dad - would he have been fine with Tim bringing back a cat? He doesn’t know. Hell, he tried, once, back when he was seven or eight, but the cat ran off on its own after dinnertime. He’d spent weeks combing through the streets to find the cat, but she couldn’t be found. And then his parents had sent another email - sorry, Tim, we’ll be away another few weeks - and he’d started following Robin around, instead.

Bruce clears his throat. “I’m aware it’s difficult on patrol, but you know, you can–” He doesn’t get to finish. (You can tell me anything? You can talk to me?) But Bruce isn’t his Dad; Tim already has one. Had one. And Bruce and him - well, hell, Tim knows they don't always talk, even if Bruce has been trying more since Steph disappeared and came back, since he disappeared and Tim found him, grasping out in his grief.

There’s a quiet sound of sobbing. Tim slips towards it, quietly, quietly. (It sounds like a child, he thinks with a twist in his gut.)

It is. He crouches. “Hey, kid,” he says. “Are you lost?”

“My mommies went away an’ I can’t see them no more.” The kid starts crying even harder.

Bruce crouches next to Tim. His gaze is soft. "We'll find your parents for you. Don't worry."

"Really, Batchman?"

"Really," Bruce says, still crouching. “Do you remember their names?”

“Mama’s Valerie and Mommy’s, um, Gina, an’ I got a cat called Mittens.”

“That sounds like a very lucky cat,” Bruce says. “And their address?” Tim searches for a Valerie and Gina in Gotham.

“Um…it’s next to a big tree? And I go to preschool with the daisies.”

Preschool with the daisies - “North Street Daycare?” He mouths to Bruce; it has a daisy next to the name.

“Do you have a lot of neighbours?”

“Not really. Mama saids we should get more, but–”

Valerie and Gina Chang, 132 Sprang Boulevard. They’re in Gotham Heights. (Near Ives and Ariana, Tim thinks, then pushes the thought away.)

“Found them,” Tim says, quietly. “We’ll get you home, okay?”

“Really?” The kid rubs at his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Bruce offers the kid his hand. The boy takes it, squeezing tight. Bruce nods in thanks to Tim, and then they start walking.

“You’re really tall, Batchman,” he says. “How come you gots so tall?”

Bruce chuckles. “Genetics, I suppose.”

And isn't this why Batman is so cherished? Why he's such a hero to everyone? Why Tim used to follow him around, hands curled around his camera? Why Tim still follows him, even now? Because of his compassion; because, despite everything, he cares? Because there's a right way to do things, a right way to be Batman, to help?

“I can do it myself,” Damian says. “I’m not a child. And I don’t see why I need to attend this vapid–”

“We’re announcing the better Tim to the world, as you’d say,” Tim says, cinching Damian’s tie. He scowls, but doesn’t protest, or move away, which is probably progress, Tim reckons. “And I’m gathering information about where Scarecrow could be.”

“You think these idiotic–”

“I think if they know anything, they might give something away. And, anyway - how many of them are corrupt? I might as well gather information about that, too.”

Damian shrugs on his blazer tilts his head. “You’ll steal their funds?”

Tim grins. “Maybe. Once Scarecrow’s dealt with, anyway. I don’t really trust the judicial system to take care of them - do you?”

“No,” Damian says.

Tim sighs, does his own tie. “Guess Bruce was right - it is important to know how the system works, so we can exploit it.”

“You’re going to exploit it?”

Tim smiles, doesn’t answer. “We’ll see.” He turns to Damian. “That kid in your class disappeared last week, didn’t he?”

Damian stiffens. “Jon and I–” “I know, I know. You don’t need my help. But keep an eye out, ask the right questions–”

“Yes, yes, I will, Drake. I’m not an imbecile.”

Sometimes you sound like one, Tim doesn’t say. Bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling, instead.

“I’m done,” Timmy steps inside the room. His tie is straight, his hair brushed, but his eyes are shadowed.

Tim walks over, squeezes his shoulders. “You’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ll be with you,” Damian says. “And Jon. And we know where all the vents are, so we can leave if we need to. Which we likely will, because I know everyone else there will be absolutely senseless.”

Timmy gives a small smile. “Thanks, Damian.”

“Come on,” Tim says, as Damian grumbles, behind him. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“I think I’d like to go to school again,” Timmy says, as people start filtering into the hall. Tim’s already set everything up - sensors and air filters that connect to the vents. “I mean, I went, back - back home. It was nice, being…normal, for a little bit. It helped. I was Robin sometimes, and then I was me, and…I mean, I’m getting kind of bored, too.” He gives a tight little laugh.

“Perhaps,” Damian says. “But it’s frustrating.”

“I know how school works,” Timmy says. “I don’t mind. I was a straight-A student before...everything, you know. Then it started feeling a little useless, and then I...”

“Well…the rules are a little idiotic - you have to ask for permission to use the bathroom facilities, of all things - and the homework is dull, but some of the activities aren’t so bad. Like the drawing club. If you’d like, you can join. Though I hear they have a journalism club, which might be more appealing for you.”

Timmy gives a little laugh, small and careful, like he’s scared himself out of laughing, but warm.

Tim lets out a long breath. School. He'd found it annoying, those last few years, when he was Robin, then Red Robin - stuck in a classroom, learning theory, knowing he could be outside, fixing the world. He’s gotten his diploma, now, but what has he been doing? Throwing himself into Red Robin, into fighting, into forgetting. Occasionally taking photos for Damian, or visiting cafes with Steph, or hanging out with his friends - his Robin friends, Cassie and Bart and Kon. Like before, but with a little more friendship and a little less running headfirst into trouble. Maybe he should go back, too. Start a degree, go to college. Start talking to Ives and Zo and Callie again. Hell, it’s not like that wasn’t the plan, all those years ago, before Robin. But things changed, and his parents died, and his friends died, and somewhere along the way, Tim got fed up with the theory, the homework, the classes, the impracticality of it all. His mind became the mission - dropping out of senior year, finding Bruce, finding himself.

Steph elbows him. “That was a long sigh.”

“Yeah, I know. Just…thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “Nothing important.”

Steph raises an eyebrow at him. Tim sighs, again. (God, but he'd missed her, when she'd gone.) Lowers his voice. “Do you think…I should go back to school, too?”

“Like college?” If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it.

“Yeah.”

She bumps his shoulder with her own. “If you want to, you should. Hell, come join me at Gotham - it’ll be fun. We can get brunch at this place on campus. I’ll be able to catch you more often.” Her voice is dry. Tim gives a short laugh. "Just make sure it's what you want."

Make sure it's what you want. What Tim wants is to make change, and help people, and shut the stupid voice up in his head that's scared of losing everyone again.

"You could go into industry," Steph offers. "I'm sure Bruce would be happy if you decided to intern at Wayne Tech for a couple of months. Work out what you want to do, you know?"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Thanks, Steph." That's the question, isn't it? He'd never loved school, especially after Robin. He's not sure if he'd even like it now. But it feels something like normal - even if Tim hasn't been normal since he was three, since that day in the circus - and maybe that's what Tim needs, right now, after everything. It still doesn't sit right, though.

"Anytime."

“Jon will be here soon. Thankfully. He’s…of an acceptable disposition, like you are,” Damian tells Timmy. “You’ll like him.”

Conner will be there too, but Tim doesn’t say it. And maybe Jason, too, but he’ll try and keep out of sight. And Tim will try and get answers.

–

Tim ignores the skip of his heart when he spots Conner, all dressed up in suit and tie (can he tell? Can he hear?) Ignored the heat creeping up the back of his neck, the words lodging in his throat. “You look smart,” he says, finally.

“Thanks,” Kon grins. “You don’t look half bad yourself, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Tim catches Bruce walking up to the podium.

“I’d like to make a quick announcement,” Bruce says into the microphone. “I’d like to introduce my newest son, Jack Alvin Drake. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne’s cousin - some of you here may have met Timothy before.” Bruce pauses. “We’re all very glad to have a new addition to the family,” he says, and steps away.

Bruce is swarmed by reporters a moment later, and Timmy winces. “Do you think they’ll–”

“No,” Tim says. “Don’t worry about that. They won’t bother you, not if you stick with Damian.” His voice turns teasing, a little sharp. “They’re all scared of him.”

Damian shoots Tim a glare. “As they should be,” he says, flat. “They’re not scared of you.”

“No, they’re charmed by me, because I’m polite to them. Which means I can get answers to the questions I need answers for.”

The sound of footsteps, and then Jon appears. “Hey,” he says, adjusting his collar. “I’m here.”

Damian nods. “This is Ti–Jack.”

Timmy pulls a face. “Timmy is…is fine.”

Jon’s eyes go wide. “This is…?” He whispers.

Timmy flushes. Damian nods.

“Good to meet you, man,” Jon says, offers his hand to shake, and Timmy shakes it.

Jon glances at Damian, for moment. “Well, you look fancy.”

“You look…not completely stupid,” Damian says, and Jon grins.

“Yeah, my Dad helped me with the tie.”

“Hey, boys,” Lois Lane walks over, shoes clacking. “Are you all doing well?” She tilts her head, smiles, sharp. “Any stories to tell me?”

"Mo-om," Jon mutters, cheeks flushing, and Lois laughs.

"Alright, alright. I’ve got to get back to work - " she breaks off, eyes catching someone in the crowd. She makes a beeline for a billionaire - Maxwell Lord - who Tim knows has been laundering money. He smiles, just a little bit.

“Guess your Mom’s dealing with him,” Tim says.

“Yeah. She’s found her angle,” Jon says.

Damian frowns at Bruce, surrounded by people: that fake smile, that hint of calculation in his eyes, the charming lightness of his voice.

“Why must father act like this?" Damian says.

"It's a good cover," Tim says.

"Er - you're researching vesper…?" Bruce says, voice carrying.

"But it's shameful," Damian says.

"My Dad does the same thing," Jon says.

"Yes, but your father is... different. This is embarrassing."

“....asking, of course, my sons are all doing well -”

"It's a good cover," Tim repeats. "He's gathering information, too, without people realising. Look at Dick. Look at me." Dick’s in the crowd, too, chatting with a few reporters, body language open.

"You aren't humiliating yourself quite so badly," Damian says, dismissive, and Tim's lips rise. "I should have left. Now it's too late."

"You can still leave."

"And humiliate Father further? Obviously not."

"Just think of it like a mission," Tim says. "Evade the reporters. Eavesdrop. Learn something new."

Damian sighs. "I'm going to find Richard."

Tim trails behind. He catches Conner's gaze - sharp, amused, fond - and knocks his shoulder with his own.

Tim glances at Timmy, trailing behind Jon and Damian. He’s holding a lighter in his hand, Tim sees, flicking it open and closed. (Jason’s, maybe?)

“He’ll be alright,” Conner says, next to him.

“Yeah,” Tim says, sighs. “I know. I’ll go see what I can find out.”

“Yeah, yeah, you go do your detective work. I’ll be here.” Conner grins. Tim looks away, hides the blush stealing across his cheeks.

–

He’s aware of Kon the whole time - which is a little embarrassing, because he needs to focus, he needs to work this out - but Kon’s circling the periphery of his thoughts, his vision.

“Have you been well?” He says, about ten times, wading through conversation after conversation - I hear you recently acquired some property; I hear you’ve had a stroke of good luck; how’s your business been going; do buy a couple of things - we’re fundraising for the school, over and over, with a practised smile.

And then it clicks.

Logerquist - a warehouse - his own mind - Crime Alley - a bunker, an old farm - Well, it’s old property; you know what they’re like -

Oh.

There’s a low crackle, a low fizz, the air slowly changing, a dull murmur through the crowd, the scent of fear. (Scarecrow, then. And maybe himself. Now, while they’re distracted, while they’re held up - Tim can finally find them, can’t he?)

“What’re you–Tim, wait a sec–” Kon starts, but Tim’s running off already.

“I’ll tell you later,” he says. “I worked out where the base is. Stay here and help, alright?”

Found you, he thinks, and runs out.