Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the dim light of a half-moon, Drake manor's respectable and solid appearance turned staid and squat, a noticeably plainer version of the grandiose and opulent neighbor the house was forever failing to emulate. This close to the return of dawn, its windows were foreboding dark voids, watching in silence and judging, or so it felt to Tim.

Walking down the driveway, Tim contemplated what little he could see of his childhood home in the dim countryside and tried to remember if ever a light had greeted his return to this place. Even Gotham had lights adorning its street in the dark hours when villains and heroes prowled, and Alfred would never allow Wayne Manor greet its wayward inhabitants in darkness when there was, in the old man's opinion, too much pageantry made of it already. For all his gratitude to the old woman, Tim didn't remember Mrs. Mac as the type to waste resources for the whimsical ideal of a light greeting strangers out of the dark and cold. If Tim was obediently in his room and the Drakes away on a trip, why let oneself give in to waste ?

Or to useless nostalgia, Mrs. Mac was long gone from the Drake's service and Tim's parents weren't away on a trip but very much present. Still, the darkness reigned. Jack and Dana subscribed to an "early to bed, early to rise" ideal and held an amused incomprehension of Tim's hours and need for caffeinated incentive to get out of bed before nine. Tim rolled his shoulders forward and back, trying to warm the screaming muscles into a mellower pain. His hips were a bit better, the fingertip bruises on them only hurt if he pressed on them — which he couldn't seem to be able to stop himself from doing. That and squirm on the seat of the early morning bus. He had felt it at every movement on his way back from the Bowery. The burning reminder of what he had done with Jason.

Tim's night had left him tired beyond sore muscles and lack of sleep, just, emotionally drained in a way he hadn't felt since being Robin. The idea of climbing the dark house's wall to his window did not appeal.

What did appeal, though, was a distant curiosity as to Jack and Dana's reaction should they witness him now, heels in hand, dress wrinkled from its stay on the floor. The embers of his earlier anger were still bright enough to make their shock an intriguing prospect. A fitting answer to the wave of conflicting emotions that swept through him and ultimately resulted in his current state. After the struggle of hiding his turmoil in the face of Jack and Dana's simple joy, he had needed something to do and hadn't cared that it was a bad idea to go check intel on his own. That he should warn Oracle, or Batgirl, or anyone. He shouldn’t have grabbed the dress — remains of a mission with Steph that he couldn’t get himself to look at, let alone throw away — and shoes he had bought more as a joke and in the wrong size — his size — and never returned. He probably shouldn't have gone out. He definitely shouldn’t have been there. Not alone, not with that certainty burning inside that he knew who he would find under the red helmet… Not feeling so angry about being re… about the baby, his little brother or sister. Well… half.

And now here he was, whole body thrumming from touch and sex.

And kindness.

More than finding Jason alive, more than the Robin grin on his face, Tim had been completely thrown by that gentle touch on his hand and the acceptance in Jason's eyes. It had never been safe before, to be seen.

Tim climbed slowly on the first step of the front porch. In the dark glass of the main entrance door, Tina did the same, a ghost wearing a dress of dark void outlined by a silver glint of moonlight on silk. In the world of shadows and light, Tina raised a hand toward Tim and their fingers met, sweaty, callused skin against smooth, flawless glass. Would Jack and Janet have stayed for pretty, clever Tina? Would she have held tirelessly onto Robin and given wholeheartedly in to her love for Stephanie? Would she have been worthy enough a partner that Bruce didn't let her go?

Tim didn't know. He knew she would have walked into the house through the front door, though, could almost hear her voice urging him to live as himself, whole and fully seen.

Tim chose the window.

It wasn't strength that got him up the ivy-covered wall of Drake mansion. It wasn't cleverness that kept the secret of Tina as it had the secret of Batman and Robin.

Instead, light had lit up inside Drake manor, slippered feet had appeared on the upper-floor landing. Curiosity had become possibility.

Weakness was what sent Tim hiding away in the shadows.

x-x-x

"You don't write, you don't call."

Tim sighed and stopped pretending the view of the lit gardens through the arched windows held his interest. The problem with trying to evade Dick was that the man had shown Tim most of the hiding places in the manor. While there were hundreds of them, Tim was a guest tonight and thus limited to the three in the ballroom.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

Dick didn't look as cheery as usual. "Only because Alfred and I got out the big guns," he said with a nod toward where Jack and Dana were exchanging pleasantries with another couple. And that finally explained the insistence that he joins them for this soiree.

"You know," Dick added, "that's ten calls and as many invitations to have a drink and chat that you've ignored."

"I've been busy."

Now Dick looked properly wounded. "Tim…"

Clinking at the back of the room interrupted him. A call to attention for the beginning of the speeches. Tim didn't even know what charity everyone was sponsoring tonight. Not that he cared. Looking back to Dick and his sudden — and uncharacteristic — silence, he caught a glimpse of guilt, a panicked glance at the front of the room before Dick concentrated on him again. "I wanted you to hear that from us, but you didn't give me a chance," he said, every word rushed out. Around them voices and music came to a halt, replaced by a susurrus of expensive fabrics as people turned to the center of the room. Dick's voice fell to a whisper, though the urgency didn't diminish any. "I swear even Bruce didn't know until last month. We didn't hide it from you; I tried to tell you as soon as we…" Tim turned, he'd heard the rumors about a new Robin — he might have kept more of an ear to the ground than even Barbara knew about — he had an idea of what he was about to see. The picture was almost the same as the one in his mind. Bruce, vapid smile hiding a menacing edge to his posture, standing protectively next to a child of about ten at the front of the assembly. The child was less of an exact replica than those who had come before him. Black hair — no surprise — but bright green eyes instead of Dick and Jason's blue, an air of haughtiness that might just serve him well amongst tonight's crowd. Also, did he have Bruce's nose?

Dick was still speaking, still trying to explain something that clearly made him feel guilty, while at the head of the assembly Bruce was announcing how glad he was to have his son at his side and wanted to share the good news with his Gothamite family. "And so I hope all of you are going to make Damian feel welcome in Gotham City," said Brucie with his big, vapid smile while one of his big scarred hands gripped the kid's shoulder. Who was the mother anyway? Was the boy even Bruce's? Who in the Wayne Entreprise's PR team had thought that this circus would be a good idea?

"Tim?" Tim looked back and thought Dick looked worried. Tim had been Robin long enough to know Dick only stayed this still when he was really, really worried. "You're not saying anything," Dick said. Tim did feel a bit… separate from himself. What did you say in these circumstances? "Congratulations," or was that for the happy parents? "I know you like having a little brother around." Hum… Dick's frown said this wasn't quite the right answer to this situation. What had Tim missed? What was…

Tough for him, it's not your job to make everyone feel better some part of him said in a sassy alto.

Yeah, no. Tim wasn’t going to have a meltdown in public. Time to find somewhere private.

"Tim? Where are you going?"

"Outside." And then, where? Where in Gotham could someone stay and – lose their mind in peace? — Keep the ground under their feet for more than five seconds?

Dick followed him toward the French doors that opened on the terrace. Hovering, as usual. "Are you okay? You look a bit gray."

"I just need…" To go get fucked senseless. To not exist for some time. "a bit of air." If he went home now and changed, he could be gone before Jack and Dana came back and… "How are things with a kid in the manor?" it was the weekend, so no one would miss him until school attendance was checked on Monday. He could call then, pretend to be Dana… Dick was talking but… three more days, maybe four if he had an excuse to be late at home, a week if he was willing to forge a note from the family doctor… no, wait, more. Jack and Dana had a thing planned for the end of the week… Jason, Red Hood, had probably abandoned that safe house in Otisburg so no one would look there but first…

"Tim!"

Dick.

First, shake the tail.

Hum? That sounded… different.

"Sorry," Tim said, shaking his head like a person waking up – or a dog, Dick had always wanted to have a puppy. "That was a bit of a shock." Uncomfortable laugh, because Dick's Tim was a shy dork, "Wow, how much are the PR people frothing at the mouth to get you all on a family interview with Vale?" but with a bit of a wit, just enough to be interesting.

And there, Dick exhaled with relief and smiled.

Smile back, tilt your head a bit more, yes. Just like that. What a cute boy.

"Tim, there he is!"

Tim's mistake was to check if he could make it out discreetly… You could just run for it; you just don't want everyone to think Janet's son was raised in a barn. Jack was with Dana of course, were you expecting him to, what? Just let her disappear alone for an hour in the crowd? but right next to them were Lucius, Bruce, Bruce's new… son or sidekick probably both, a nice, tidy return to tradition and Vicki Vale well, you did say her name out loud.

Oh shut up!

Are you talking to yourself?

"Tim," Jack said, gesturing Tim over with the hand holding his glass of champagne — his other arm was lovingly wrapped around Dana's side. "You should meet our new neighbor."

Tim glanced back at the French doors and caught Dick's frown before it was smoothed out under a bland society smile. It didn't look like he would have stopped Tim, yet, something madness, forget the inner monologue, subjecting yourself to this is the true sign of madness had Tim walking back to Jack's side. Bruce greeted him, which might have been comforting, but Brucie was out in full force.

"Timmy! How do you find our shindig? Damian, I told you about Timothy, didn't I?"

The young boy, Damian, Bruce's son, Batman's partner, looked down his definitely a Wayne’s nose at Tim impressive, as the boy was a foot smaller,, sneered and didn't say a word.
Tim wished Bruce would do the same, but Brucie was still talking.

"Timmy lived with us for a time. I think I mentioned that. Oh, I just had the best idea, Timmy, you should come over and spend time with Damian; you could be a mentor to him, you already know how this circus works."

Tim had no idea what was going through Bruce's mind. Maybe he believed what he'd said. Maybe he'd been caught off foot. Maybe he was just talking shit, playing Brucie up, counting on the people who knew him not to take what came out of his mouth seriously.

Damian didn't know him that well, apparently.

"Father," the little changeling squeaked in indignation, "I do not need mentorship, not from…"

Anything could have come out, Tim supposed, secrets, insults, anyone's name. Damian was young and clearly experiencing strong emotions. Who knew what could come out of the mouth of a child in anger? They really do let anyone be Robin these days. A Robin who, according to Bruce's hints, knew exactly who Tim had been. And a Robin who found Tim… wanting. At least, Tim wouldn't know how much tonight, Dick's hand muffled the words right out of the new Robin's mouth.

Brucie laughed in puzzled discomfort as he turned to the other adults. "Kids, never a dull moment."

Tim was still looking into Damian Wayne's eyes and their green, depthless contempt when the thought coalesced in his mind. Still in that same sassy alto, but undeniably his.

You don't know how right you are.

« I’d love to help, Mr. Wayne, but don’t you think someone closer to his age would make a better friend?" Tim said, looking up at Bruce and mirroring Brucie's guileless smile back at him — showing maybe too many teeth because Vale had the look of a society page journalist who'd just smelled blood. It didn't matter. She was still getting her phone out of her bag and swiping for her recording app when Tim added, "Maybe you and Jack should rather wait and get Damian to befriend the future baby. I'm sure the two of them will have a lot more in common."

There was a trick to disappearing from the scene of a scandal, and it wasn't to drop your bomb and run. No, the trick was to stay and remain impassible, to hide how much you enjoyed the slight tick at the corner of Bruce's eye, the way Jack's eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise and the red flush to Damian's cheeks as he proved himself clever enough to get the jab at his immaturity. You had to bear silently the hurt and confusion in Dana's eyes, plain for all to see because she was new to this and she hadn't learned to hide how she felt, especially the hurt of being betrayed by someone who should have stood in her corner. To wait out Vale's incredulous but delighted little laugh and whatever Dick's face was doing. You had to keep still and appear boringly unaware long enough that everyone's attention shifted. And even then, when the innocent but well-meaning ones, like Lucius, stopped staring at you with pity for your blunder, and all eyes focused instead on the victim, sorry, Dana,, even then, you waited some more.

For the secondary blast.

Of Vicki, taping that "record" button and waving it under Dana and Jack's noses with a "Congratulation!" Of Damian, losing his shit and hissing like a cat while the adults tutted and Dick finally stopped looking torn and chose the teammate in the most need of rescue.

Tim had always made sure it wasn't him. Had always made sure he could stand on his own because Batman hadn't wanted a partner, hadn't wanted another sidekick, another Jason. And so Tim had shaped himself into this crooked Robin, the one that didn't rest any weight on the empty space of the partner, of the father, of the mentor who only stood in his life sometimes, until more important things came along. Evidently, Damian hadn't had to do the same.

Tim waited and he didn't run. Because the trick to scandal, the way to do it right, wasn't to create a big explosion and shift people's attention onto it. No, the real trick was to have been uninteresting all along, so that any bang, no matter its size, was more interesting than you. And Tim was only a shy dork with a bit of a wit, a small crooked island of a Robin in the middle of the sea, forgotten as soon as anything else came along.

Tim waited and he didn't run. He didn't have to. All eyes were on Bruce, on Jack, on Dick, on their attempt to save what was important.

Tim just did what he usually did, shuffled to the side and made some space for other people to fill. Still floating above himself, he reached the edge of the crowd, the outside of the Wayne estate, the empty driveway leading to the dark windows of Drake Manor.

Walking in silence under a half-moon in the ruins of his life.

Break? asked an overlapping choir of discordant intent that made the word shift between a genuine concern and a dispassionate suggestion. One Tim found himself unable to answer.

Tina's dress and heels still waited at the back of the closet. Tina's mannerism and flirty quips locked tightly away in the same place where Tim had banned Robin. Unlike him, though, Tina didn't wait for Tim to put on her mask, coming out unexpectedly before Tim had time to start applying make-up. She didn't push Tim to the back of himself either, rather, her escape felt more like the embrace of sleep.

Tim welcomed the rest.

Chapter Text

Dick was juggling plates. Amongst all the league training Damian was forever boasting to have mastered, there must have been a class about sucking the wonder and the joy out of everything, because the boy had his nose in a book and was not even looking up to see if Dick would drop Alfred’s china on the ground. He didn't appreciate either Dick's daring in borrowing from the butler's precious kitchen — the everyday set, Dick wasn't brave enough to go for Wayne’s heirlooms or the slightly better ones Alfred used when members of the Bat-family visited.

"I am sure father does not allow such ridiculous use of his possession," said the boy to his pages of crammed typefaces – because Damian could not read a normal book; it had to be some dusty tome about some highbrow philosophy or whatever the league of assassins considered worthy entertainment.

Dick raised his eyes to the ceiling as he caught the plates and piled the back on the right shelf. After everything that had happened at the gala, Dick had wanted to check that Damian was not upset with the welcoming he'd received from the previous Robin. Dick was trying not to think too hard about Tim's inexplicable behavior. It had been uncharacteristically cruel. Especially for Tim.

That, though, was a problem for later, a later that would include Alfred in the intervention. Right now, the man deserved a break after all the work he had put in to oversee the organization of last night's party. The rest of the household was supposed to provide their own meals until the old butler emerged from his room. By which everyone understood that food had been stocked in the fridge that could either be reheated or consumed without needing to risk a fire. For someone who could survive in the wilds equipped with only a knife, Bruce was weirdly inept when dropped in a kitchen. Dick himself wasn't in a mood to concentrate on not burning water and opened the cabinet in which Alfred kept his favorite cereals then went on the hunt for milk.

"This is a subpar choice in sustenance," Damian remarked, still engrossed in his book — or maybe pretending to, Dick was starting to suspect.

"I like cereals."

"This is not cereals, this is sugar and food coloring." Damian shifted his focus from his reading to the grinning characters on the box and starred as though he planned to cow them into submission.

"It tastes good." Dick was a grownup — and a superhero — he didn't need to justify himself to a ten years old.

"Taste does not supersede nutritional value when choosing a meal." Damian was still looking at the box with rapt attention, and Dick was tempted to move it, just to see if the boys's eyes would follow.

"You know," Dick said, suddenly inspired, "Food doesn't always have to be fuel," he reached into the cupboard for another bowl, which he set in front of Damian. "Sometimes food can be selected for other attributes, like comfort." Dick placed the box of cereal next to the bowl.

"What part of the content of this… cereal… could be considered comforting?" Damian asked with genuine curiosity before his pod-persona took over and forced him to add, "I am not in need of comfort."

"Yeah," Dick allowed the word to stretch while he battled with the impulse to tell Damian that thinking like that probably meant that he needed it more than most. "Comfort food is not in itself comforting; it's the fact that it is eaten in times of comfort that makes it comforting when later you need comfort; well, and sugary things are treats. Everyone deserves a treat once in a while."

Damian took the box and frowned at it. "Your argument is unsound. How would consuming this grain-based fraud now bring the feeling of comfort rather than discomfort?"

Dick imagined himself sporting a mustache and a butler uniform and looking to the heavens asking for strength. Turning Damian into a real little boy would be the work of a lifetime. Luckily for Damian, Dick wasn't going to leave him to Bruce's idea of what a childhood should be. Also, they had Alfred on their side, and he was the Waynes’s secret weapon.

As he thought that, an unfamiliar chime rang throughout the manor, more melodious than that of the phone. Or any of the alarms from the Batcave.

"Well?" Damian asked, "Are you going to answer?"

Dick was sure his face showed only perplexity.

Damian pointed toward the entrance to the Manor. "Someone is ringing at the door."

"No one ever rings the door!" Dick protested. "I don't even know what the doorbell sounds like."

Damian sighed like a great burden had been thrust upon him. "Obviously," he said, jumping from his seat and leaving the kitchen. Dick hurried after him to the foyer and peered through one of the windows that framed the massive door of the manor. Damian did the same.

Jack Drake was on the front porch.

"What is the relative of Father's boorish operative doing on mmph!"

Dick opened the door still holding on to Damian. "Mr. Drake? Can I help you? Did you forget something?"

Jack looked frazzled and Dick's words seemed to upset him more than he was.

"Is Tim here?"

Damian managed to get away from Dick. "Why would that churl be-"

"Damian! Don't be rude." Dick didn't care if the boy was raised in a cave by assassins; Jack was already stressed enough. "Go find Bruce." Bruce was following up on a Batman case, so he was probably watching this conversation from a security camera, but it would keep Damian busy. Dick gave the boy a shove in the direction of the library and made sure he left before turning to Jack. "Sorry about that, Tim is not here." In fact, after the way Tim had verbally napalmed the assembly the previous night, Dick was expecting to have to hunt the ex-Robin down, possibly tie him up too, before they could have a talk. The manor was the last place he would look for Tim right now. Until Jack's arrival, Dick's money would have been for Tim to lock himself in his room. It dawned on Dick that he'd maybe been an idiot. Tim had thrown Dana under the bus; he wouldn't want to be home either. "Have you tried Bernard and Ives?"

Jack shook his head, "Those were my first calls; they haven't seen him in a while." Tim's years as a vigilante hadn't allowed him to make many civilian friends. If he hadn't sought any of these two… Barbara, maybe? "I also called Stephanie, but no one is answering."

It took a second for Dick to go over Jack's words and realize that he'd heard correctly.

"Mr. Drake… Stephanie is Dead. Did Tim not tell you?"

Now this, this sounded bad. Jack knew it if the way his face paled even more was any indication. "He didn't. He said… I thought she'd moved out of town after the gang violence."

Dick shook his head. "She got caught up in it." He explained. "Tim was at her funeral." And hadn't talked to any of them from then on. Not that he'd been talking much even before. To be exact, they hadn't had a real conversation since Tim had lost control and beaten Johnny Warlock. The gang war had followed right after and had shined a harsh light on Batman and his habit of keeping everyone in the dark. Dick had hoped a little time and space would do Tim some good. Apparently not.

"I… I didn't know," Jack said.

It would have been unfair, Dick reminded himself, to be annoyed with Jack for everything he didn't know, for failing to be the kind of safety net Tim needed. After all, they had all lied to him. The poor man had no idea what Tim's life had looked like those last… however many years – Tim was a little cagey about when he'd started following Batman and Robin over rooftops. Even if Jack's own choices had made the lying easy, he was not entirely responsible for how little he knew his son. And while his blind spots made him clumsy at showing it, he obviously loved Tim. It didn't put Dick in a better position to comfort him, since what Dick held to be hard truths, that Tim could take care of himself, that almost nothing in Gotham could actually hurt him, were not truths he could share with Jack.

"Mr. Drake, when was the last time you saw him?"

"At the party, when… right before he… That was weird, wasn't it? Even for Tim…"

Yes. On that they both agreed, though Dick believed it with more certainty than Jack.

"When did you realize he didn't go home?" Dick asked, knowing if Tim had been planning to run away, the lashing out would have been an extraction strategy. The callousness and sheer disregard for people's feelings had been unusual for Tim, but the effectiveness of the distraction would be on point. Jack's unease at Dick's question cinched it for Dick. Still, he listened to the man explain how he hadn't tried to talk to Tim last night and that his bedroom door had been shut tight. Jack had gone along with the reassuring fiction that Tim had locked himself inside in anger or shame — the way it echoed Dick's earlier thoughts made Dick's gut twist uncomfortably. Obviously, none of them had had the right intel to predict Tim's behavior. When Jack had gotten into the room, he’d found out that Tim wasn't there.

"The bed hadn't been slept in," Jack finished his explanation, shoulders dropping, "I called his friends; they haven't seen him, so I thought maybe he'd be here." Jack paused, looking up with distress clear on his face. "Do you think… should I call the police?"

Unlikely to do any good. Tim's knowledge of Gotham's streets and rooftops meant that no civilian would find him before the boy was ready to be found. Of course, Dick could count on Batman and Oracle. Between the three of them, they would make short work of dragging Tim's ass back home. Dick couldn't exactly tell Jack that either.

He didn't have to say anything; Bruce walked into the foyer, a disgruntled Damian at his side.

"Jack," asked a too serious version of Brucie Wayne, "Is everything okay?"

Dick took the opportunity presented to him and left Bruce in charge of the civilian side of things. He had a little brother who needed the idiocy shook out of him, a hug and maybe more shaking afterward.