Chapter Text
Every mystery has a solution—you just have to be patient and persistent in finding it.
-Encyclopedia Brown
In an atmospheric rarity for the greater Gotham metro area, it’s a beautifully sunny, cloudless late summer day. A slight breeze tugs at the loose edges of Tim’s clothes and sends his hair forward to tease at his face. Despite the bangs hanging over his eyes and the heat haze rising off the tarmac, neither obscures Tim’s vision enough to prevent him from recognizing the figures being led to the steps of a non-descript small jet by federal marshals.
Sunlight glints off the metal circling his parents’ wrists. Neither of them see Tim; they have their gazes turned to watch the air crew navigate the steps up to the door of the plane that will take them to whatever concealed location awaits them until their testimony is needed at trial.
A cool shadow falls over Tim, but he doesn’t look up at Bruce, who has silently approached to stand by his side. This scene, his parents leaving him without a second glance, is a play he should know by heart, but the set and most of the actors are new this time, and he doesn’t quite know yet how it will end.
The breeze shifts, and the hum of a prop plane ascending on takeoff from one of the other nearby runways fades. In the relative silence left behind, in the privacy of the two of them standing together in the wide open space, Tim finds he’s finally ready to know.
“Who killed Rosa?”
“The Emperor,” Bruce answers steadily, voice low and even, non-judgmental. Just the facts, no more or less than what Tim’s asked.
Still watching his parents, flanked by the feds, preparing to climb the steps to the now-open plane hatch, Tim digests this, rolling it around in his brain, seeing if it makes the puzzle pieces inside him fit together any differently. Bruce shifts, just a little, just enough so that his arm rests against Tim’s in a quiet show of support. “It’s not too late. If you want - if there’s anything you need to say to them, we can speak with them before they go.”
He’s Bruce Wayne. If Tim says the word, Bruce will find a way to make it happen for him. There’s no doubt in his mind about that. Tim adds this, too, to the mix, rolling it around in his brain, and discovers it doesn’t make a difference. The jagged edges left behind when the glass image he’d had of his parents shattered won’t ever fit together the way they had before. Trying to hold on, piece them back together, won’t accomplish anything but leave Tim with more bleeding wounds.
His parents will testify. The Emperor will face justice. Rosa’s killer will be put away. Tim’s part in all this is done, and in a few weeks when Tim gets back to Gotham, the media storm will have blown past and moved on to the next story. It’s over.
The summer wind wafts past them, making the shimmer of the heat haze off the tarmac twist and swirl. Slowly, Tim shakes his head. “There’s nothing left to say,” he says with finality, and is surprised to find that along with the abraded, painful ache is a sense of a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying being lifted away.
Bruce puts an arm around Tim’s shoulders. In silent accord, they turn away from his parents, and Bruce gently leads him across the tarmac to where Jason and Dick are bickering next to the Waynes’ Lear jet.
“- fucking media circus,” Jason is growling, wrestling his luggage up the steps. To the side, Tim can just make out Alfred’s silhouette through the window, running pre-flight checks.
“Rude.” Dick has a worn duffel over one shoulder and has a drooling Ace tucked under the other arm, four paws dangling in limp contentment. “Excuse you, that’s offensive to circuses.”
Privately, Tim agrees with Dick’s assessment. Tim hadn’t been required to talk much at the singular interview Bruce had allowed on the subject of Tim’s becoming a permanent resident of Wayne Manor, providing only enough detail to avoid sensationalizing the event as much as possible; but it hadn’t been able to stop the piranha-like frenzy entirely.
It had been a profound relief when Bruce had suggested a family trip - a phrase Tim’s stil mentally stuttering over - to Maine as soon as Tim had recovered enough to travel, to take advantage of the last bits of summer to relax in relative solitude. And for Tim to visit Ives, for the first time since… all this.
Everything else has changed, but Ives’ friendship hasn’t. Getting Ives’ calls, texts, and memes, curious and teasing by turns, has been a much-needed bit of normalcy through Tim’s recovery. Getting to see him in person, even though they’ll have to largely stick to well-ventilated areas and take precautions due to Ives’ immunocompromised state, seems almost too good to be true. Not to mention the added weirdness of Tim’s worlds colliding. Dick and Jason have been jumping headfirst into the idea of playing a Wizards and Warlocks adventure while they’re all in Maine, which is a concept that seems guaranteed to both be hilarious and also end in real life carnage.
Dick has caught sight of Bruce and Tim approaching, and beams in their direction. “Tim! You ready to fly?”
Tim looks at the Waynes, and the cloudless blue sky above. He feels a hesitant smile start to tug at one cheek, despite it all.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
Before Tim knows it, they’re back in Gotham, sunburnt and mosquito bitten, some of the tense knots in Tim’s stomach having unwound during his time away. Alfred’s deft hands have gradually and continually added comforts to Tim’s new room: bookshelves, desk, and framed photos appearing as if by magic. Many of Tim’s favorite snapshots of Bats and Robins can only be hung in the Batcave, but a new candid shot of Tim and the others in their civilian lives seems to appear on Tim’s bedroom wall every other week. Tim moves only one - a picture of all of them smiling on a Maine beach - and then only to bring it closer to his bed, where he spends more time than he’s willing to admit to out loud staring at before he falls asleep.
Bruce’s prized complete set of the Grey Ghost mystery novels now rest at home on a shelf next to Tim’s surviving book collection and figurines. His camera and Stuart now sit in pride of place on a bedside table. A knitted Robin costume, fitted to Stuart’s exact measurements, appears one day after Alfred’s come and dusted Tim’s room.
With September around the corner, he and Jason are staring down the barrel of a new school year. Jason drags another armchair next to his extra cushioned and well-loved one in the library, so the two of them can spend rainy mornings sitting and finishing the summer reading Tim’s been procrastinating on.
Although the days are growing shorter, there’s still plenty of afternoon light left for Jason to pour all of his remaining attention into a new project: building Tim the best adventure course the extensive grounds that constitute Tim’s new backyard have ever seen. Tim is given free rein in its design, but given that he still tires easily, most of the heavy lifting and grunt work falls to Jason, who promptly delegates it to Bruce. On these afternoons, Tim is commanded to sit in a lawn chair to ‘supervise,’ which chiefly seems to consist of resting and watching Jason bullying the richest and most powerful man on the eastern seaboard into fetching and carrying and generally being a menial gofer, which Bruce tolerates with equanimity if not outright good humor. Dick’s gone back to work part-time in Bludhaven, but more often than not he stays at the manor. On these frequent occasions, Dick assists the proceedings by sitting near Tim and loudly heckling his father and brother. Even Selina stops by, lazing gracefully on a chaise longue next to Tim with an Alfred-made cosmopolitan in a martini glass in one hand, offering advice to the sweating laborers and casting the occasional predatory gaze over her sunglasses in Bruce’s general direction. Tim pretends not to notice.
When not building Tim a course that would put to shame any Ninja Warrior competition setup, Jay patiently tolerates hours and hours of learning to skateboard, playing video games with Tim, posing for pictures and tour guiding Tim through the manor grounds for photography walks during the golden hour. Jason agrees immediately to any of Tim’s hesitant proposals to spend time together.
The only thing Jason is wholly unwilling to talk about, avoiding the topic like the plague, and shutting down immediately if it does come up despite his best efforts to avoid it entirely, is any talk of Robin or of Tim’s potential participation in the night life whatsoever. When Tim works up the courage to ask about sitting on comms in the Batcave with Alfred while they patrol, Bruce seems to be of a similar mind, dodging the question by firmly insisting Tim needs plenty of sleep and rest for a full recovery.
In hindsight, it should have been obvious to Tim that this uneasy and avoidant detente regarding Tim’s place in the Waynes’ night life had an expiration date. The simmering pot of discontent was doomed to boil over sooner or later. And when it does, it’s at the dinner table.
It all starts unassumingly, with a good-natured debate over the correct way to slice a sandwich. In the middle of it, Dick gives Tim a wink, mentioning Tim joining them on a future mid-patrol rooftop snack. The warm feeling this little aside causes to bubble up in Tim’s belly is unceremoniously popped by Jason angrily and too-loudly snapping, “Not gonna happen, Dickwad.”
There’s a surprised silence from the rest of the table at the abrupt change of mood. Tim looks down at his plate, trying to keep the hurt off his face.
“Hey,” Dick says sharply. When Tim schools his face and looks up, Dick’s face has tightened in warning. “Melodramatic gloom lord is B’s thing,” he informs Jason. “Quit stealing his schtick.”
Somehow, before Tim knows what’s happened, the conversation has twisted and turned in on itself, spiraling like an out of control rollercoaster. Bruce clumsily attempts to intervene, which only succeeds in making both brothers round on him. Sounding completely done, Dick points out Jason’s hypocrisy, and the whole thing suddenly ends with a red-faced Jason standing up from the table with a loud scrape of his chair, throwing his napkin on a half-eaten dinner plate and yelling, “Then maybe there shouldn’t be a Robin at all!”
Fingers twisted almost painfully in his own napkin, Tim sits stupefied, blood pounding in his ears. Presumably summoned by the shouting, Alfred appears in the doorway into the kitchen to admonish this breach of tabletop etiquette with icy firmness. “Master Jason.”
At the same time, Dick, face like a thundercloud, turns to the head of the table and asks Bruce pointedly: “You gonna chime in on this?”
Before Bruce can say anything, Jason, who has turned away from Alfred in furious shame, catches Tim’s eye. Whatever he sees makes him clamp his jaw shut, and he turns and storms out of the room without another word.
In Jason’s wake, Bruce drops his head slightly, and gives a heavy exhale. Looking at Alfred, and then at his oldest son, he murmurs, “Perhaps Jason is right.”
Alfred gives a sudden cough, but when Tim looks up, he can’t read the older man’s carefully blank expression.
Dick now stands abruptly, throwing his napkin on the table as well. “Thanks for dinner, Alf -”
“You are very welcome,” Alfred responds, in the weary tones of a beleaguered trench soldier.
“- but I’m gonna need to talk to Bruce alone. Downstairs. Now.” Dick gives Tim a look that has an apology in it, overlaid on the evident and increasing depth of annoyance, which he directs at Bruce unrelentingly until Bruce stands and follows him stiffly from the room.
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
“Don’t tell me you can’t see it’s inevitable.” Dick tries to keep his voice below a yell, fists clenched and leaning over on his knuckles across the evidence table from Bruce. Dick’s temper had frayed further in Bruce’s silence behind him on the way into the dubious privacy of the Batcave, and now it is quickly on its way to unravelling entirely. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how it went with me, when you first took me in. And Tim’s a million times worse.”
Bruce is hiding behind a mask of stoicism, the one he uses when he’s agitated and doesn’t want to show it. While Tim recuperated, Dick had been patient around Bruce’s and Jason’s reticence to discuss the inevitable future, given the circumstances, but he hadn’t anticipated whatever the fuck Bruce thinks he’s playing at now. He’s been avoiding having this conversation for weeks, Dick thinks. Tough shit for him. Enough is enough. He’s adopted Tim, for Christ’s sake, and he can’t keep hiding from All Of What That Means. Tim’s almost back to being fully able to physically cash in the checks for unmitigated chaos he seems to write as regularly and habitually as brushing his teeth before bed.
Bruce is leaning with studied casualness on the side of the evidence table that’s separating him from Dick, but there’s tension in the lines of his body. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Bruce disagrees, tone wry. “Perhaps only a thousand.”
“I’m serious,” Dick says through his teeth, refusing to be distracted by the Twilight Zone feeling of playing the straight man while Bruce is out here cracking jokes.
“So am I,” Bruce says, all traces of levity gone. “He’s safe here, at the Manor. There’s no need for him to be a part of the Mission.” He looks down, shakes his head. “It’s dangerous. This life is too dangerous for a child. Tim has a brilliant mind. He doesn’t need to be out in the field to do casework, if that’s what he wants to do.”
Dick can’t believe the level of deliberate obtuseness Bruce is stubbornly insisting on displaying. “‘If that’s what he wants to do.’ B. He’s been following you around Gotham for a year without getting caught by you or Jason or anyone else. He stole the Batmobile to save you. You’re really gonna claim you think you can keep him caged if he thinks he can help?”
Face shielded and unreadable, Bruce gives Dick a piercing stare. “He’s not you. He’s not Robin.”
Dick straightens, crosses his arms over his chest. “You sure about that? Cause from where I stand, he sure as hell acts like a Robin.” He heaves a humorless laugh. “You two are goddamned hypocrites, both of you. He’s not like us? You’re damn right he isn’t. Tim doesn’t need revenge, or to be saved from going down a dark road. Tim just needs a family. He needs our family.”
Bruce is stubbornly looking anywhere but at him, and it’s royally pissing Dick off. He slaps the metal table between them with an open palm, the sound loud and startling enough to bring Bruce’s eyes back to him. “You want to keep Tim safe, keep him alive?” Dick demands. “Train him how to defend himself, as quickly as possible, before it’s too late. He needs the physical skills, he needs safety gear, he needs at least one person to be with him watching his back, because he’s already proved that he’s stubborn and reckless and brave enough to damn well find a way to get out there himself without having any of that. Tim’s made himself a part of this before any of us even knew he existed. And if you try to stop him, you try to keep him tied up in bubble wrap and trapped here in the Manor?” Dick huffs a mirthless laugh. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen, if you’re too willfully blind to see it coming. You’re going to lose his trust, he’ll end up going it alone the next time he thinks he can help, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets himself killed because he doesn’t have the skills to defend himself or someone he trusts to have his back.”
Bruce has taken on the stillness that he uses to hide a full-body flinch. He leans towards Dick, opens his hands wide, placing his fingertips carefully on the table, like he’s afraid moving any quicker or putting any more pressure on will shatter him like glass. Like the words are painfully ripped from him against his will, Bruce says quietly: “I couldn’t save him. He was shot, trying to protect me, trying to protect Jason. Tim bled out in my arms, Dick.”
The memory of the first time Batman had taken a bad fall in front of Dick-as-Robin, and the roaring panic attack that had left him with tremors the rest of that sleepless night afterward forces its way to the front of his mind. Sympathy and shared heartache softens Dick’s tone, even as it keeps his resolve firm in attempting to force Bruce to be what Tim actually needs him to be. “He saved you,” Dick reminds Bruce, gentler, but unrelenting. “Did you forget that part? Babs and I wouldn’t have gotten there in time if Tim hadn’t done what he did. And you did save him. Isn’t that what Robin and Batman have always done?”
Bruce looks away, into a shadowed corner of the cave, fingers flexing and curling again. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’ve often regretted —” He stops, starts again. “I didn’t want this life for any of you. Maybe Jason’s right, and there shouldn’t be — not if it means —”
Dick stiffens, feeling like he’s being stabbed by the same poisoned dagger Bruce had used before, to inflict the deep wound that had sent him to Bludhaven in the first place. Coldly, Dick bites out, “I don’t remember Robin being your idea or even your decision, Bruce. Robin may be your partner, but Robin was never yours. Although that didn’t stop you from giving it away.”
Bruce shifts uncomfortably, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his forehead. “That was a mistake. One I deeply regret. But I - Dick, I can’t.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” Dick asks, frigidly.
Bruce breathes in and out, heavily, then drops his hand, looking Dick full in the face, something very like anguish and a silent plea for understanding in his expression. “I can’t lose one of you. It would - it would destroy me, chum. I wouldn’t survive it.”
Dick is brought up short by this unprecedented turn into open vulnerability. It doesn’t snuff out the flames of his anger entirely, but after a long moment’s pause Dick trusts the embers to be banked enough for his voice to remain even when he responds. “There’s more than one way to lose a son,” he tells his father, and has to turn away, pressing his lips shut tightly and exhaling through his nose before continuing: “Don’t do that to Tim. Don’t push him away by smothering him. All you’ll end up doing is pushing him out of the nest to fall or fly on his own, telling yourself you’re protecting him.”
“Dick —”
“Tim deserves better than that. And I want to believe you’re better than that. That you learn from your mistakes. But Bruce?” Dick warns, turning halfway to look over his shoulder at his father. “I’m only gonna tell you once. If you don’t get your head out of your ass and teach him how to defend himself enough to let him survive being part of this family, if you don’t do right by him — I’ll do it myself.”
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
Tim knocks hesitantly on Jason’s door with two knuckles. There’s no answer, but it must not have been fully latched; it opens a crack to reveal a teenage form lying on top of the red and black pinstripe bedspread, under the posters and playbills that decorate the walls. When there’s no further sound of either welcome or of angry swearing, Tim shuffles inside.
Jason can’t have failed to notice his entrance, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge Tim, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and rhythmically tossing an empty, well-worn cigarette carton end over end.
If Jason wanted him out, he’d have no problem telling Tim so, loudly and with plenty of curses, Tim reasons. He nudges a creased trade paperback copy of East of Eden over until there’s enough room for him to perch on the edge of the bed near Jason’s feet. Something pokes Tim as he sits, and he pulls out a battered old bottle cap from under his hip. Nervously toying with it between his fingers, Tim quietly offers, “I’m sorry.”
Jason stops flipping the carton, heaving an enormous sigh and flopping an arm over his face. “What are you sorry for, kid?”
For being a square peg in a round hole. A cuckoo in the nest. For somehow managing to screw things up so much that you maybe don’t want to be Robin anymore, Tim thinks, this last being a horror previously unimaginable. Tim’s still holding out hope it was just Jason blowing off steam, that once Jason’s had some time to calm down he’ll be able to see there’s no reason for something so drastic and just - just dumb. Just because he doesn’t think Tim should be, or is capable of, being part of the night life - which, for the record, Tim also considers to be an extremely flawed and illogical analysis of the situation, not to mention deeply hurtful - doesn’t mean that Jason shouldn’t be.
There just can’t not be a Robin. Where would Batman even be then?
Afraid that speaking any of these thoughts aloud might fan Jason’s smoldering temper, Tim hedges, “It’s my fault everyone is upset.” He rubs a finger down the ridged edge of the cap, for lack of anything better to do with his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” Jason says, sounding like he’s caught somewhere in the middle area of a triangle made of resignation, frustration, and placation.
Tim is unconvinced. “I think maybe it is, though. Like, my fault that you think you have to stop being Robin. Which you absolutely don’t, by the way,” Tim adds hastily. “You can’t.”
Jason removes his arm from his face, and rolls over onto his side, resting on an elbow. “Hate to burst your bubble, Timbelina, but you’re not the boss of me.”
Tim rolls his eyes, but his knee is still bobbing with nerves.
“And anyway,” Jason continues, then seems to re-think whatever he was about to say. “I shouldn’a lost my temper.” He huffs ruefully. “Again.”
Chewing his lower lip, Tim does not fail to notice Jason isn’t falling over himself to specifically say he didn’t mean what he said. Tim turns, pulling up one knee on the comforter, searching Jason’s face for signs that he’s going to immediately disown this terrible idea as a joke. “But Jay. You love being Robin.”
Jason doesn’t deny this, which Tim considers a good sign. He sighs again, shoving himself upright and hooking an arm around Tim’s neck. Yanked into an aggressive hug, Tim can no longer see Jason’s face. Gruffly, Jason informs him: “Not more than you.”
Tim is pretty sure the actual Robin probably loves Robinning more than Tim loves it from afar, even if it’s pretty darn close, and he’s about to say as much when he realizes what Jason actually means.
Both thrown for a loop and warmed, Tim hugs Jason back, needing several moments to process this. He tries to subtly disguise a sniffle into the shoulder of Jason’s t-shirt.
“Please don’t give up Robin,” Tim whispers.
Jason groans something indistinct that, from what Tim can make out, sounds like it mentions both death and white hairs.
“What?”
“Look,” Jason says, sounding extremely put-upon, “I’ll think about it, alright?”
Thank god, Tim thinks, relieved. He nods into Jason’s shoulder.
Jason heaves yet another irritated sigh, and pulls back, rolling off the bed and shuffling over to some beat-up sneakers.
”Where are you going?” Tim asks, rubbing a hand under his nose.
“I need some space, Timmy.” Jason stuffs his feet in halfheartedly, bending the backs of the shoes under his heels, then turns back, grabbing the bottle cap and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He leans over slightly, narrowing his eyes as Tim pretends to take interest in the Pride & Prejudice poster on the opposite wall instead of making eye contact. “I’m not mad at you, and I’m gonna come back, all right? It’s just, I don’t wanna say things I’m gonna regret. And if I stick around other people right now I think I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”
Looking at his hands now that Jason’s between him and the old timey silhouettes and cursive, Tim nods.
Jason doesn’t move, still awkwardly half-crouched in Tim’s personal space. “I’m gonna be back,” he repeats.
Tim nods again.
This is apparently not good enough for Jason, who crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna need you to say it. Out loud.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna be back.”
“Yup,” Jason confirms, popping the p. “Now say, ‘I’m a huge nerd.’”
Tim does look up at this order, splitting the difference between dry and innocent to obediently parrot: “You’re a huge nerd.”
Jason punches Tim in the shoulder before turning to leave, grabbing a light jacket off a chair as he goes. “Close enough.”
Waiting until Jason’s footsteps fade away down the hall, Tim rubs his shoulder and quietly mumbles, “Ow,” before wandering in the direction of the Batcave, still feeling vaguely unsettled.
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
Dick finds Tim standing, lost in thought, one hand raised and resting on one of the display cases. Dick’s childhood aerialist costume is stored upstairs in the manor, and the hodge podge outfit and mask he’d made of whatever clothes he could get his hands on, newly orphaned and hell bent on trawling Gotham in search of revenge, was disposed of long ago. The outfit that Tim’s staring at so intently through the glass, though, is the first one that meant something more, something greater than the sum of its parts. It’s the first Robin costume, the one he had designed with Bruce, to honor the roots of his first family, made by Alfred’s hands out of the finest quality fabric Wayne Enterprises’ R&D division could produce.
Dick vividly remembers the fights with Bruce over the design: Bruce practically having kittens at the safety risks presented by not covering every square inch of his new ward’s skin with bulletproof armor the envy of any bomb disposal unit, and Dick staunchly insistent on the flexibility and maneuverability of the leotard he’d spent the majority of his waking life in before setting foot in Gotham. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, Dick reflects wryly, as Etienne, Haly’s fire-breathing juggler, had been so fond of saying.
Dick meanders closer, nudging Tim’s arm companionably with his own. Tim nudges back, dropping his hand from the glass. Noticing the print left, the younger boy uses the hem of his t-shirt to conscientiously wipe it clean.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Dick says, after a moment.
Tim dips his chin slightly, shakes his head. “Sometimes I think - I dunno. Maybe I don’t really belong here.”
Dick stamps down on the rising fury at Jason and Bruce’s epic mishandling of the situation. “Blatantly false, baby bird,” he says lightly, slinging an arm around Tim’s thin shoulders and squeezing him tight to Dick’s side.
Tim’s wound too stiff for Dick’s liking, but he does heave a sigh and thunk the side of his head into Dick’s rib cage. “You heard what they said, though. What Jay said. And it’ll be my fault if he gives up Robin.”
Dick had heard, alright, and he’ll deal with his other sibling’s bullshit later. For now, he says dryly: “You may have picked up from the subtle hints Jay’s been leaving, that he’d prefer it if you never got so much as needed a bandaid, or saw the other side of sunset from anywhere but a cozy bed for the rest of your natural life.”
Tim scoffs. “Stupid. He worries too much.”
Dick has the fleeting mental image of pre-Tim Jason, tough as nails survivor of life on the streets, being told he’d one day be accused of handwringing, pearl clutching worrywartism, and briefly wishes he could convince Wally to take Dick back in time just so he could revel in the look on Jason’s face.
“He’s always been the nervous grandma type,” Dick lies shamelessly. More seriously, he adds, “It really shook him when you got hurt, you know. All of us were. But especially him. Especially because of how it happened.”
“I’d do it again,” Tim declares mutinously.
Dick closes his eyes briefly. “I know. We all know. All too well.” Dick slides his arm off Tim’s shoulders, gently turns him until he’s fully facing Dick. More optimistically and charitably than he feels, he explains: “Bruce and Jason… they’re going to be insufferable about this for awhile, but they’ll get over it.”
Tim cocks his head doubtfully. “Bruce doesn’t seem like he gets over this kind of thing.”
Dick concedes the point. “No, he’s always insufferable. You get used to it.” He shrugs. “Or just learn to ignore it.”
Tim scrunches up one side of his mouth, then looks up at Dick through his eyelashes. “What about you? Don’t you…” Tim trails off, seeming unsure.
Luckily, Dick has spent enough time getting to know the ways of the Tim over the last several weeks to make an educated guess at what he’s trying to get at. “I love you, Tim,” Dick says, cutting to what he suspects is the heart of the issue. “You’re my littlest baby brother.”
Tim stares at him with shiny eyes.
Dick feels a lopsided smile tugging at his cheek. “If it makes it easier for you to believe, I could be insufferably overprotective too. But… I have a feeling that it wouldn’t be all that helpful to you.”
Tim shakes his head slightly. “No.”
Dick gives an exaggeratedly casual shrug. “I mean, I could try, if you want? I bet I could out mother hen even Bruce. Duct tape so many pillows to you you couldn’t see, stick you in one of those big plastic zorbs and lock you in a containment cell til you’re ninety.”
Tim is smiling now, too. “No, thank you.”
Dick taps a faux-thoughtful finger to his lips. “We could go low tech. I could just - sit on you -” He demonstrates, eliciting a shriek from Tim. “- forever. Here in the cave. Have Alfred bring us all our meals.”
Tim is laughing, wriggling like a hooked fish and deploying surprisingly lethal bony elbows in the attempt to get free. “You’d have to get up to pee sometime,” he points out, between snorts.
“Curses! Foiled. You’ve found a hole in my flawless strategy,” Dick laments, fingers diving for the ticklish spot behind Tim’s knee.
Some time later finds the two of them spread eagled face-up on the practice mats, Dick having run out of made-up stalactite constellations to show Tim.
Idly, Dick muses, “You know, before I ever came to Gotham, Robin was my parents’ special name for me.”
Tim turns his head to the side. The wide eyes and raised eyebrows make it clear that Dick’s found a bit of information that had escaped even the most fervent of Tim’s stalker investigations.
“That sounds really nice,” Tim says, sincere and a bit wistful. “Your parents having a special name for you, I mean. They must have loved you very much.”
There’s a brief spark of rage at the realization that Tim’s obviously never been given a nickname from his parents. Dick returns his gaze to the stalactites, finding the constellation he’d dubbed Bulbasaur, until he’s sure the anger won’t show on his face. At least Jason’s gotten that part right, with Tim, Dick thinks.
“They did,” Dick says, feeling nostalgic. “Robin was their love for me, and then - I made it into something more, with Bruce.”
Tim seems to be thinking deeply about this, waiting for Dick to continue.
Dick flops over, rolling until he’s on his stomach, chin resting on folded arms. “I outgrew Robin, when I was ready to fly as an equal to Bruce. I needed a new name, one I chose for myself, for who I am now.”
Tim nods thoughtfully. “And then Jason became Robin.”
Dick can’t help the slight edge in his voice when he corrects, “Bruce made him Robin. And he’s been an excellent one. I’m proud of him. But - it was never really Bruce’s to give.”
Tim rolls over, too, until he’s mirroring Dick, on his belly, chin on hands. “What does that mean?”
Dick considers his answer. “It means,” he says slowly, “that when Jason is truly ready to move on from being Robin, whether it’s now or someday, I’m going to decide who takes it up next.”
Tim rolls with this, nodding. “Oh. That sounds fair.” His eyebrows wrinkle a bit as he seems to turn this over again in his mind. “Kind of messed up that Bruce did that without even asking you about it, though,” Tim eventually says, sounding gratifyingly annoyed on Dick’s behalf.
Tone carefully light and even, Dick agrees, “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it.”
I’m Bruce’s equal, now. Dick considers it. Guess that means he’s not the only one who can make decisions about the family business without consulting the OG partner.
“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says, popping to his feet, a mischievous smile starting to spread on his face as he heads to the cave controls below the Bat-computer. “There’s a bunch of candles and a lighter in there.” Dick gestures to the closest ‘in case of power failure’ utility closet. “Mind grabbing them for me?”
Confused but agreeable, Tim also gets to his feet. “Sure, Dick.”
A quick check of the cameras confirms they’re likely to be undisturbed for some time longer; Jason is on the grounds near Alfred’s rose bushes, walking Ace, and Bruce is in the kitchen, head bowed over a mug of tea, while Alfred appears to be talking, giving B a stern look over his own steaming porcelain cup. Even so, after dimming the lights, Dick keys in the command code back door that quietly disables the automatic alarm from warning the others that the Batcave is being temporarily locked from the inside to ensure some peace and quiet for the solemn ritual that’s about to take place.
“Did you want a flashlight, too?” Tim asks, having returned, now juggling one in addition to the several candles and matchbox he’s scavenged from the closet.
“Not the right ambiance for what we’re going for,” Dick tells him, taking the flashlight and playfully wiggling his eyebrows while flicking it on underneath his chin, scary stories around the campfire style, before turning it off and setting it aside.
The playfulness subsides as he leads Tim to the secluded part of the cave that still, after all this time, holds the weight of memory clear as day in Dick’s mind. There’s a sense of rightness to it, setting up the candle in the exact spot Bruce had positioned it a decade ago; kneeling opposite Tim, this time, welcoming him into the fold of the warm and flickering candlelight keeping the darkness at bay.
The flame lit oath that he swore to Bruce, the one that made them not just family, but partners, should have seemed in retrospect almost silly, a relic of childhood, but somehow Dick finds there’s still a real sense of magic to it. The words come as easily and earnestly to him from the distance of a decade past as they had the first time, repeating the vow after Bruce’s deep and serious voice, talking about honor and danger.
“…that we two will fight together against crime and corruption and never swerve from the path of righteousness,” Tim echoes, sure and steadfast. The same wonder and excitement that Dick remembers feeling when he had been in Tim’s place shine in Tim’s eyes like the reflection of the candle flame. Although he’s doing a much better job of containing it under a veneer of calm studiousness than Dick had, at his age.
Dick wonders if Bruce had felt the same weight of responsibility for the child across from him, the warm anticipation of teaching him to protect and defend, and the giddy connection of having family to fly with.
“Welcome aboard, partner,” Dick says softly, and can’t help but match the wide, glowing grin that spreads across Tim’s face.
Feeling the need to act mature and responsible, Dick gravely lays down some ground rules, chief among them that in exchange for the clandestine mentorship in the defensive arts (until Bruce gets over himself and surrenders to the inevitable) Tim is not allowed to be more than man in the chair and forensic investigator except on Dick’s say-so, and is absolutely not allowed out on his own at night until Dick has trained him enough to keep himself safe. Tim, for his part, still basking in awe and delight, almost falls over himself to agree to these terms. Given the givens, Dick is ready to treat this with a healthy dose of suspicion, except for the expression that Tim gets at the prospect of flying Gotham’s skies with a brother at his side, which is so wholly vulnerable and raw that it silences any doubts that Dick would otherwise have had on the subject. It leaves him utterly convinced he’s made the right call, regardless of what Bruce and Jason will inevitably have to say about it.
Getting to the really fun parts, now that Dick’s satisfied he’s covered the mature and conscientious bits, he asks, “So what do you want your name to be, when we eventually get you out on the town?”
Tim gets an unexpectedly shifty look on his face. “Um. I dunno.”
“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you,” Dick realizes aloud. “I bet you already have a name picked out for yourself.”
Caught, Tim stammers, “I mean. I sort of was calling myself something. In my head. But it definitely wouldn’t work for that.”
Now positive that this is going to be a gold mine, Dick asks, grinning: “What was it?”
“You know what? It doesn’t really matter -“
“Oh, it absolutely does,” Dick insists. “I want to know. No, I need to know.”
“Um. It was - actually it sounds kind of dumb now that I think about it.”
“Tim.”
Tim looks like he’d rather be shot again than admit to it.
“Tim,” Dick wheedles. “Timmy. Baby bird.”
Not making eye contact, Tim mutters, all in a rush: “Detective Drake.”
Dick feels his eyes growing huge and hears himself making a high pitched noise reminiscent of a teapot just reaching a boil. He strongly suspects he might actually die of cuteness.
Tim’s cheeks are growing increasingly red.
Slowly, Dick reaches out both hands to either side of Tim’s face. Unlike Jason, who would have immediately removed both Dick’s limbs at the wrist for this offense, Tim looks up in embarrassed confusion. Encountering no further resistance, Dick indulges the impulse he’s been fighting off since being jumpscared in an alleyway by a tiny kid with a huge camera, and squishes Tim’s cheeks.
Nose adorably wrinkled and eyes crossing slightly, the resulting fish lips make it slightly garbled when Tim asks, “Dick? …Why’re you smushing my face?”
“Because you’re the most adorable littlest brother in the whole entire world,” Dick responds reasonably.
Tim does pull away at this, clearly trying to play it cool while blushing so hard his ears are now fiery red under the mop of dark hair.
Taking pity on him, Dick says firmly, “I love Detective Drake. Love it. 10,000/10, no notes. Critics are raving: best thing ever. But you’re right, it’s not going to work for the night life. I think the main issue there is that it’s considered bad form to include your real name in your vigilante identity.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, rubbing a knuckle on the side of his nose. “I mean. Obviously. Who would do that.”
“What do you think about Night Owl?” Dick asks, leadingly.
Tim makes a face. “Um.”
“You can be honest,” Dick promises.
“It kind of makes me sound like an insomniac?” Tim points out. “And to be honest, I enjoy sleep. Like, a lot.”
Dick smoothly moves on to the next names on his mental list. “What about Owlet? Or Chickadee? Hummingbird?”
“No offense? But those are all way worse.”
“Work with me here, Timmy. Hm. Okay, wait, wait - I can’t remember. What are baby bats called?”
Tim answers factually, “Pups,” at the exact same time Dick hazards, “Bittens?”
Tim looks horrified. “Dick, no.”
Dick shrugs. “Eh, we’ll workshop it.”
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
The fairy lights, strung in swoops and arcs above where Tim lays between Dick and Jason, aren’t strictly necessary yet. The sheets and blankets they’ve affixed to all the furniture in the sitting room near the kitchen are keeping the inside of their fortress pleasantly dark and close, like a giant cocoon, but they aren’t thick enough to keep out the afternoon light that floods through the great bay window overlooking the ocean at this time of day.
The view and the ever-present soft sounds of life in the house, Alfred performing mysteries of culinary science, and Bruce’s quiet footsteps wandering by, probably in search of a coffee refill or a snack, has made the room one of Tim’s favorites to spend time in, even before Dick and Jason descended on it with overflowing hampers of fabric, ties, and tacks. Ace adds to the domestic symphony with soft smacks and grunts as he gnaws on a chew stick from atop his throne of nested pillows in a blanket alcove nearby.
“Tim,” Jason intones, and shifts among his couch cushions, in the manner of someone preparing to announce something of momentous import. “It’s time for us to teach you how to play… the most dangerous game.”
Tim stiffens with excitement, feeling a thrill of hope go through him that Jason’s finally changed his mind. “Vigilantism?”
Jason flaps a hand like he’s swatting away a gnat. “You’re not allowed to be a vigilante until you’re collecting social security.”
Tim crosses his arms over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, out of Jason’s view on his other side, Dick gives Tim a sly wink.
“The other most dangerous game, Tim-Tim Teroo,” Jason continues.
Tim considers him doubtfully. “…Russian roulette?”
Dick chokes on a laugh.
Jason shoves a palm in Tim’s face. Tim slaps it away. “Of course not! Your dad’s Batman, doofus. No, it’s worse.”
Recovering, Dick agrees solemnly: “The relationship destroyer. The ultimate test of the bonds of brotherhood.”
Jason raises both hands towards the ceiling, spreading them as though unveiling the name on a lighted placard. “Mario Party.”
“No,” Bruce’s deep voice flatly intones. The blanket flap serving as the fort’s front door lifts abruptly, and his head pokes in, narrowed gaze on his elder sons. “You’re both still banned.” To Tim, he explains, “Alfred’s favorite vase was a casualty of war the last time they played.”
Dick ruefully admits, “Alfred does not forget. And he has not forgiven.”
Jason flaps a dismissive hand. “Fiiiine.”
Cheerfulness unimpeded, Dick declares, “One Night Ultimate Werewolf it is, then!”
“You can’t play that with only three people, dumbass.”
Eyes twinkling with mischief and victory, Dick sits up, hair brushing the lowest dip of a strand of fairy lights. “Well, in that case, it’s a good thing I begged, borrowed, and pleaded to get permission for you youngins to have a slumber party, then.”
Forehead crinkling, Jason props himself on his elbows. “B’s not usually that much of a hardass about friends at the Manor. Who’s coming over?”
“You two are.” Dick fishes around in his jeans pocket, and comes up with a black piece of fabric, which he hands to Tim. Smoothing it into gently molded curves in his hands, Tim discovers it’s a domino mask. “We’re going to Titans Tower.”
Mulishness warring on his face with poorly hidden awe at the idea of being invited to hang with Dick’s Titans, Jason’s rendered silent, looking to Bruce for confirmation.
“One night only,” Bruce clarifies. “No missions, no heroics. No leaving the Tower. Masks stay on. Protect your identities.”
Dick turns sardonic eyes heavenward during these strictures.
Wide-eyed, holding the mask like it’s made of blown glass, Tim asks Jason with cautious optimism, “…You’re going to be Robin tonight?”
Jason looks down for a moment, seeming to be give it serious consideration before coming to a decision. “For tonight.”
“…and after?” Tim prods hopefully.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Timbit.”
Tim brings the domino closer to his face, looking through it at Dick’s wide grin and Bruce, who has the faintest lines crinkling up at the sides of his eyes and mouth. “What am I supposed to call myself?”
“Your codename for the night is Bantam,” Bruce informs him.
Tim says nothing, a warm feeling bubbling up in his chest. It’s maybe not as badass as like, Raptor or Falcon, sure. But he’s just been given his very own codename by Batman.
Dick volunteers, “I voted for Fledgling, for the record.”
Jason scoffs. “Course you did.”
“Cause he’s our baby biiiiird!” Dick sing-songs, throwing an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “We coulda called him Fledge!”
Jason bumps a shoulder into Tim’s ribs, sending him a commiserating glance. “Coulda been worse. You coulda been Egg. Or Egghead. Or Bushtit.”
“No way. That’s a themed villain name if I ever heard one,” Dick denies, shaking his head emphatically.
Tim is still speechless.
Bruce gives Tim a tiny smile that belies the sternness of the order: “Stay in the Tower.” Turning to Dick, he demands, “No injuries more major than bruises.” He gives Jason a stern glance. “No permanent marker, piercings, tattoos, or anything else of that nature not specifically mentioned.” Jason pouts; Bruce continues to the room at large, “Keep your brother out of trouble.”
“I know the ways of the Tim,” Jason says darkly, adding with a pointed stare in Tim’s direction: “I’ll be watching. And I’m bringing the zip ties.”
Bruce sighs deeply, giving Tim a moment of anxiety that he’s reconsidering things altogether. To Dick, he instructs, “Keep an eye on your brothers. Both eyes.”
Dick salutes crisply.
Bruce points to Jason and Dick. “Don’t get into any situation, either of you, worrisome enough that your brother will feel the urge to intervene.”
Rude, Tim thinks indignantly, but this thought seems to sober the others, leaving both older boys grimacing.
Bruce bends over carefully, leaning closer to Tim in a way that tests the structural soundness of the blanket fort despite Bruce’s attempts at delicately navigating the smaller space. “I want you to call at any time, for any reason. If you’re uncomfortable or there is anything you need, I will be there.”
Behind the back of one hand, Dick stage whispers to Tim: “He’s gonna have the supersonic jet on standby the whole time.”
Jason knocks his shoulder companionably against Tim again, before sitting up and seeming to begin getting into the spirit of things. “Come on, let’s get packing before B changes his mind.” Bruce allows himself to be bullied aside by his older sons, Dick following Jason out. The sounds of them racing off, bickering over what snacks to beg from Alfred, echo down the hallway.
Kneeling, Bruce gently takes the domino from Tim, activating the adhesive and gently smoothing it over Tim’s brow and cheekbones. When he’s finished, Bruce puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders, giving him another tiny smile.
“Have fun, Tim. Try not to get in too much trouble. Alfred and I will be waiting for you at home.”
Home. Tim’s home; his forever home. Wayne Manor. Tim reaches up, running wondering fingertips over his domino with something approaching awe. Impulsively, Tim lunges, flinging his arms around Bruce, who laughs, tightly squeezing him back. Grinning, Tim gets his feet under him, and gives an exhilarated whoop as he races out the door to chase after his brothers.