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There’s a kid with suspiciously familiar eyebrows glaring up at Tim, seated primly on one side of the Titan’s kitchen table, hands folded in front of him. For some reason, all of the lights except for the ones hanging directly over said table have been turned off, creating what would have been an impressive level of atmosphere, if it wasn’t also literally one o’clock in the afternoon. Since there’s plenty of natural sunlight filtering in through the Tower’s completely unnecessary windows, the attempt at grandeur strikes Tim as kind of dumb – this kid turned on the kitchen lights for no reason.
Blinking, he takes a second to internalize his wince at the lecture Jason’s going to no doubt put all of them through. They obviously missed a pretty big gap their security systems, seeing as this little gremlin was able to break in, and he knows that Jay’s going to be as annoying as possible about it. With that compartmentalized, he takes in the situation in front of him with a more critical eye.
The kid is wearing flowing clothes that aren’t commonly seen in America, the deep greens poking at something that has him rifling through all of the potential connections in his head until he hits on something that makes sense. They remind him of the small details that manage to stay consistent in the stories Jason sometimes shares about his time with the League of Assassins. The only issue with identifying that as the source of familiarity, is the fact that Tim’s brother has an insufferable habit of saying completely off the wall shit while also giving absolutely no context or clarification as to whether or not he’s being serious, so Tim doesn’t have a solid confirmation on how much of those stories are real. Still, that’s another mark in the “possibly an assassin” column, since it would be kind of weird for Jason to lie about clothing.
Hedging his bets, Tim makes a mental note of the potential connection anyways. It fits right in with the other factors “broke into the Titans Tower undetected”, “has a love for unnecessary dramatics (only applies to main-line Al Ghul descendants)”, and “threw a knife at Tim as soon as he stepped into the room”.
Tim would add “knows how to catch a knife thrown at him,” onto the growing list, but he doesn’t want anyone asking unwanted questions about why someone was throwing knives at this seven-year-old. If anyone does find out, he’s absolutely going to blame Jason and his penchant for starting random knife fights – at this point, it’s second nature for Tim to snatch any blades coming his way out of the air and return the favor in kind.
His stunt with the knife seems to have earned him at least a little bit of credence with the child, apparently, since his only response to getting a knife tossed back at him was to palm it, disappearing it up his sleeve with a slightly interested look as he folded his hands like a villainous CEO about to offer Tim a terrible deal again.
No child should look this condescending, in Tim’s humble opinion. It’s honestly kind of offensive, to get looked down on by someone half his size. The kid hasn’t even said anything yet.
“You have something that belongs to me,” the child starts off, grave tone clashing strongly with the high pitch of his voice.
“I highly doubt that,” Tim replies, blinking slowly. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The kid scrunches his face at Tim’s words, as though he didn’t expect him to respond. Which, poor planning on his part – Robins, as a whole, are notorious for not knowing when to keep their mouths shut. Plus, while Tim gets that the kid’s going for the whole “intimidation” thing, it’s simply not working.
Tilting his chin up, the little brat pins Tim with a thoroughly unimpressed look. “And if we manage to come to an agreement today, you’ll never have to see me again.”
Wow, did this kid take lessons on dramatic one-liners from Jason? Rolling his eyes, Tim tightens his grip on the mug he’d grabbed from his room as he moves further into the kitchen, intent on shuffling around this miniature threat so he can get the coffee maker started.
Glaring, the kid throws another knife at him when Tim gets too close to the table. Instead of tossing it back, Tim decides to keep this one – if he wants to be a brat, Tim’s just gonna take all of his knives. It’s hard to throw pointy shit at people if you run out; he knows that from personal experience.
“Do not ignore me, Pretender. You will listen to what I have to say.”
Pausing, Tim stares at the ceiling and huffs out a long-suffering sigh. Who’s he pretending to be, now? Man, the amount of nicknames he’s picking up is kind of annoying. “You didn’t say anything worth listening to. Accusing me of stealing doesn’t count, since you didn't give any clarification or evidence.”
“I did not say you stole it,” the kid sniffs arrogantly. “To do so would imply that you have the skill necessary to pull off that feat. You’re merely monopolizing something that is mine, holding onto it while not being worthy of doing so.”
Making a face, Tim ruffles his hair absently. “Man, who taught you how to speak? You sound like you swallowed a dictionary. How do you even know half of the words you’re using?”
He gets a scoff in response. “In order to assume the roles due to me, I take my education seriously. I don’t expect someone who has such a poor performance in your own language studies to understand.”
Tim has to take a second, reeling slightly. That was so needlessly rude! Plus, it’s not even true, anymore – after Jason had taken personal offense to Tim’s English grades, he’s gotten more unwanted tutoring than he’d ever thought was possible. On the upside, his grade is now firmly in the “passing” region. On the downside, he’s had to read so much, and all of the extra effort he’s been forced to put into schoolwork and sleeping has really eaten into his time to focus on his vigilante responsibilities, much to his chagrin.
Taking Tim’s stunned silence as defeat, the brat nods decisively. “Precisely. Now, since you have managed to not be a complete failure despite my low expectations, I will offer you a chance to prove to me that you deserve the title you’re hoarding.”
What title is he talking about? Does it have something to do with the Titans, or is it something from Gotham? Man, it’s kind of exhausting listening to a kid spit out genuine villain-level dialogue. How is this even his life?
Sighing, Tim finishes shuffling over to the coffee maker without incurring any further attacks, and turns it on. Taking a second to get it set up and spitting out a fresh pot, he leans against the counter and surveys his tiny, self-appointed... adversary? Rival? Maybe he should just come at this little problem as though it’s one of the annoying business interactions his parents sometimes have him deal with while they’re out working on their digs. “For clarity’s sake, I would appreciate it if you could elaborate on the title in question, along with what you mean by a chance to prove myself.”
Arching an eyebrow, the kid purses his lips. “Obviously, I am here for the title of Robin, heir to the position of the Bat.”
Tim makes a startled, unflattering noise. Scrunching up his face, he responds, “It’s not an inheritance thing, like, at all. If Batman goes down, the next person to put on the cowl definitely wouldn’t be me.”
“Good, you recognize at least some of your limitations,” the kid says dismissively. Which – that’s not what Tim was saying. At all. The only reason Tim wouldn’t be the one to take over as Batman is because he’d be sure to guilt Dick into doing it first – he’s sixteen, there’s no way his skinny ass would fit into Bruce’s bulky armor. Dick’s at least taller, even if he doesn’t have quite the same height and muscle structure for it. If he tried to ask Jason, he’s sure that he would get laughed out of the room. But it’s not like he couldn’t be Batman, if there was no other option – he's got all of the necessary skills, despite what this kid is implying. Tim would be a great Batman.
Simmering with irritation, Tim takes a breath and fidgets with his empty coffee mug. He needs to do something more productive than contemplate throwing the knife he confiscated at the kid again – that would be rewarding bad behavior.
“As for the challenge...”
Looking over his shoulder, Tim watches suspiciously as the brat reaches into his robes, pulling out a small packet marked only by a simple word that looks to be Arabic.
“You’ve managed to display an acceptable level of intelligence so far. In order to give you a fair chance to demonstrate to me that you are indeed worthy of shouldering the Robin mantle, we will this through an intellectual battle. Be grateful I am allowing you the battlegrounds you are most suited for.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say that I can’t beat your ass in a fight?” Tim asks, dumbfounded, before his brain catches up with his mouth. Shit, he’s supposed to be treating this like a business deal, not running his mouth like Jay’s the one throwing taunts at him during training. Clearing his throat, Tim pours himself a cup of fresh coffee, thankful that he’ll at least have caffeine to help him get through this weird, weird afternoon.
The kid sniffs imperiously. “I did no such thing, regardless of how true that statement is. Pour another cup.”
“I’m not giving you any of my coffee,” Tim hisses automatically, protective of the small amount of caffeine he can store in the Tower thanks to Hood’s dumb attempts to get him to sleep.
(Said attempts may have been working, no matter how much he’s tried to fight against them. Over the past year, Tim’s noticed an uptick in how long he can stay focused on certain situations, notably longer periods between when he gets debilitatingly strong headaches, and he’s even managed to grow a couple of inches. This is all completely unrelated to the way Jason sits on him if he even gets close to 48 consecutive hours without sleep, he’s sure. It’s probably the freaking vegetables Jay’s been making the Titans eat. Definitely.)
Clicking his tongue, the kid sneers. “It is for the battle of wits, you simple-minded moron.”
Where has Tim heard those words before, again? In this same kitchen, no less.
Narrowing his eyes, he slowly grabs a blue mug out of the cabinet, pouring a small amount of coffee into it. Still glaring, he brings it over to the gremlin that definitely knows Jason, if he’s trying to pull the same poison trick. He sets it down with a sharp clack in front of the impatient child. “What battle of wits did you have in mind?”
“One that I will need both mugs for,” the kid replies promptly, fingers skating along the edges of the packet almost unconsciously.
Without breaking eye contact, Tim chugs most of his coffee, not stopping to breathe until there’s only a bit left, about as much as the other cup. Irritated at getting bossed around by a kid in his own safe space, he slams his cup down next to the blue one.
The only reason he hasn’t snapped at the kid and kicked him out of the Tower yet is because Jason always seemed slightly wistful when recounting his absolutely wild stories from his time in the League. Tim’s more than familiar enough with his brother’s character to know that the taller boy would have absolutely latched onto this prickly little shit, and that Tim will probably get no end of crap if he’s unduly mean to him.
Poking at the packet again, the kid displays it to Tim, who’s starting to regret not teaching himself Arabic after Jason first started muttering to himself in the language whenever he didn’t want the Titans to understand. “This is a highly deadly poison, specifically engineered to be tasteless and odorless. I will add it to one of the cups, and your test is this: using simple logic, you must determine which cup contains the poison. After you make your choice, we will both drink. The survivor will be the one worthy of the title of Robin.”
Taking a second, Tim pinches the bridge of his nose.
It’s the same. This kid is pulling the same thing Jason pulled months ago, but this time he’s pretty damn sure the “poison” involved isn’t just cold medicine. Despite that, Tim can’t help but imagine this kid watching Jason’s dramatics, taking notes and trying to replicate them as best he can – this entire encounter seems far too rehearsed, and the kid is disgustingly sincere in his presentation of the challenge ripped straight from the Princess Bride.
When he opens his eyes again to face reality, the brat has both mugs pulled closer to him, the open packet resting innocently on the table between him and the coffee.
Twining his fingers back together, the kid raises an eyebrow at Tim. “The battle has begun. Make your choice, Pretender.”
Tim bites back a scoff – what choice? Obviously, both cups have been poisoned. He had a whole five hours of sleep last night, unlike last time, and there’s no way he would make the same mistake twice. Instead, he crosses his arms. “Why do you want to be Robin so much?”
“Irrelevant,” the kid snips. “Do not try to weasel your way out of this challenge. Choose.”
“Wow, impatient much?” Tim mutters loudly, but acquiesces, grabbing his original mug with a grimace. He’s going to have to do a full scrub down, complete with multiple swabbings to ensure that no trace of poison is left once this is over. “Tell me, or I won’t drink.”
Not that he’s planning on drinking at all, but if this gets him info, then he’ll keep playing along.
Pausing, the kid considers his options. Eventually, he tilts his chin up arrogantly, reaching out to snag the remaining cup. “I am owed the position as the rightful heir to the Bat.”
“Rightful heir?” Tim repeats, frowning. “What, are you saying B's your dad?”
“I am the blood son,” the kid says simply, and Tim’s honestly shocked. Sure, his boss has his Brucie persona, but Tim was convinced that the man was far too paranoid to fool around with anyone other than Catwoman. “You’ve made your choice, Pretender. Now, we will drink and determine the winner.”
Blood son. That means, from the League of Assassins... Jason had mentioned... is it possible that Talia could have...?
“Don’t think about it too hard, Replacement. Trust me, you don’t wanna know the specifics.” A familiar glove flashes in front of Tim’s vision, snagging his mug from his grip with practiced motions. Jason ruffles Tim’s hair with his other hand, an unfair way to distract him from the outrage that is taking away his coffee. Automatically closing his eyes in content, Tim relaxes into the motion, enjoying the light pressure of a friendly touch.
The kid lets out an annoyed sound. “You are the Red Hood. Leave, this does not concern you.”
That doesn’t sound like the recognition Tim had been expecting from the young League operative. Did he get the relationship between him and Jason wrong?
“Aw, really? That’s too bad, I’m not going anywhere,” Jason shoots back, modulated tone full of mischief. He, at least, seems to be sure-footed in this strange situation. Is it possible that the kid does know Jason, and they’re both trying to pull something over on Tim?
... no, no. That sounds like something Bruce would say, in one of his fear-gas induced paranoia spirals.
Instead, maybe with how much Jason’s grown, he’s changed enough that the kid doesn’t recognize him anymore? Since Jason just arrived at the Tower, he’s wearing his Red Hood outfit, helmet still on his head for now – the bulky armor and jacket giving off a much larger silhouette than any assassin-styled robes would.
Forcing his eyes open again, Tim twists around to scrutinize Jason’s posture – assured, amused, and full of mischief. He’s playing a prank, or at least finds the situation funny. Tim can recognize the absurdity of being pulled into a real-life rendition of a move scene not just once but twice, but seeing as he’s interfering to make it so Tim doesn’t have to come up with his own reason to not drink poison, he doesn’t think that he’s the one being laughed at today. That leaves the kid as Jason’s intended target.
Content with his analysis, Tim settles, letting his head tip back to give Jason more access. He may as well enjoy the show, even if it’s costing him some of his precious coffee.
Toying with the mug he liberated from Tim, Jason tuts at the way the kid snarls at him. “Come on, Baby Bat. I think you need to do some more information gathering before you can confidently make that call.”
“I have as much information as I need!” the kid hisses, offended. “You don’t know what you’re talking about – you are merely tangentially related to the Batman, and therefore of no consequence to me or my mission.”
“You really don’t, brat!” Jason crows through his helmet’s modulated tones. “No matter how much you trust your source, you always need to verify before you act! More experienced operatives than you have been killed because of bad intel.”
Almost faster than Tim can track, the kid throws another set of knives at Jason. Wow, he looks pissed. Obviously Jay catches them all with his signature flare, much to the kid’s continued displeasure. Tim’s not surprised – Jason seems to have a gift for getting under people’s skin, even when he’s clearly doing it as a way to teach them a well-meaning lesson. It’s really annoying, actually, but much nicer to see from this perspective.
“I will not stand for what you are implying,” he declares coldly, mouth set in an agitated snarl. “My source would never provide faulty intel. He is loyal.”
“But how do you know that?” Jason questions, shaking his head. “And even if he is loyal, how can you be certain that the intel isn’t faulty anyways? What if he missed something, and you’re going in without knowing the full picture? What if you end up entering into a situation unprepared and get killed because you didn’t double check?”
Watching the kid’s face go redder and redder with anger, Tim lets himself fall into a seat at the table. Leaning against the backrest of the chair, he observes the two arguing assassins, both turning in sync to look at him when his sudden movement breaks their concentration.
This is basically a Titans level “you have to learn this the hard way” lesson from Jason – he only gives those out to people he really likes, not just the ones he doesn’t want dead. Plus, Jason’s clearly familiar with the kid, knowing exactly how to rile him up with nothing more than a handful of words. Tim had thought that Jason would be partial to the kid earlier on, but this level of attachment seems stronger than that.
... is he another brother?
Well, Tim supposes that it has been a while since he’s last picked up a pseudo-sibling from the slowly amassing army of children Bruce has decided to hoard – putting aside the fact that this one may actually be related to the man by blood, Jason’s clearly decided that he cares for the little gremlin. It’s probably only a matter of time until he bullies Tim into doing the same with his gratuitous mother-henning tendencies, now that they’ve met. Actually, now that he’s considering it, it might even be nice to have another sibling he can toss knives at without the awkwardness that comes from trying to have a friendly knife fight with someone who's not familiar with the practice. He won’t accept the brat as family until they clear up the literal murder attempts, though.
“I will repeat myself: Red Hood, this does not involve you. Leave.” the kid demands, standing up so he can glare at Jason with both feet on the ground. He’s shorter this way than he was sitting down. Tim does his best not to laugh.
When Jason pointedly stares at him, ignoring his order, the brat huffs. “Fine then, if you wish to witness the outcome of the Pretender’s evaluation, then so be it. Return his cup to him, and let us continue. He needs to drink his choice.”
“Mm, nah,” Jason says casually. “I think I’ll take this one for him, as his older brother.”
Before either of them can react to that, Jason pulls off his helmet and brings the cup up to his mouth, drinking it in one gulp.
That... that was poisoned. Tim’s absolutely sure Jason just drank poison for him.
“What are you doing, you imbecile?!” The kid yelps, offended. “Drake was supposed to drink that! You have wasted a limited supply of iocaine powder, fool!”
Ignoring the tantrum the kid’s throwing, Tim stands and turns towards Jason, panicking. “Oh fuck, why would you do that?! I don’t know what he put in there, we may not have an antidote!”
Raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim, Jason puts the mug back on the table and crosses his arms. “What do you mean you don’t know what’s in the coffee, the little brat just said it was iocaine powder.”
Is it okay to feel the strong urge to smack your brother who just drank poison for you? “Iocaine powder isn’t real, Jason!”
“Jutha made that poison for me!” the brat sounds like he’s seconds away from stomping his foot. “I wanted to use it for something that would make him proud, and you wasted it!”
“I don’t care who made it, I need to know what symptoms you’re experiencing!” Tim cries, reaching out to grab Jason’s arm. “We need to get to the medbay, now!”
“You two are overreacting,” Jason says, instead of coming with Tim so he can hopefully save his damn life. “I’m fine.”
Jason doesn’t sound like he’s lying, he actually sounds highly amused by something, but Tim knows better than to trust him with things like his own personal health. Gripping harder, he tries to tug the unfairly tall man towards the door. “Cool story, I hope you don’t mind me not believing jack shit until I can verify that you’re not dying on me!”
“You are an overconfident fool, Red Hood,” the brat bites out. “You are not fine, you will die in five seconds.”
“Five seconds?!” Tim panics.
“Four,” the brat counts down grimly. “Three.”
Jason rolls his eyes behind his domino.
“Two.”
“Hood, move!”
“One.”
The countdown concludes, and Tim is frozen in place as he stares at his brother, petrified by the idea that he’s going to lose this annoying, solid source of comfort and familiarity he’d only just accepted as a permanent part of his life.
Jason stares back, waiting a beat in the silence that follows the kid’s dramatics, before shrugging. “Well, it looks like you were wro- ghk,”
Cutting off mid-sentence, Jason doubles over, clutching at his chest as his breath catches in his throat.
“Jay!” Tim crouches, adjusting so he can get his fingers on his brother’s pulse. It’s... fine. His heartbeat is completely regular, not even elevated by stress.
He’s faking it? Did the kid really only poison one cup, and Tim had just gotten lucky by choosing wisely?
A loud sigh sounds from the other side of the table, the kid calming as his last-minute opponent appears to be dying. Crossing his arms, Tim can only describe the look on his face as disappointed. “Jutha’s poisons never fail to perform as intended. Pretender, you chose poorly. You are not worthy to –”
“Psyche.” Uncurling from his crouched position, Jason stands up tall, waving his hands slightly in a sort of “ta-da” movement he no-doubt stole from Dick. “Come on, Baby Bat, you know better than to count your bodies before they’re cold.”
The kid’s jaw drops – guess that’s a no on the cup not being poisoned, then.
“How?!”
Snorting, Jason leans over and, since ingesting something meant to kill him wasn’t enough, ruffles the mini assassin’s hair. “We trained to build up an immunity to the same poisons, brat.”
Utter affront flashes across the kid’s face, and he immediately tries to grapple with Jason. The short tussle that ensues is vicious, but ends with the kid on his knees, straining against the arm lock Jason has him in. “You lie! You are no member of the League!”
“Wow, a guy doesn’t show up for a couple of years, and suddenly he doesn’t exist anymore,” Jason bemoans. “Man, I can’t believe this keeps happening to me. What do you think, Tim, am I doing something wrong?”
“If you try to fake your death again, then you won’t need to disappear for it to happen a third time,” Tim threatens, crossing his arms, angry.
“Come on, don’t be like that! It was funny!” Jason grins over at him, insufferable.
“It was not funny!” Tim grits his teeth. “I’d rather not have that kind of panic in my life, asshole! You could have just said you were immune!”
“He’s lying,” the kid bites out, furious. “There is no way for him to be immune. That poison is highly specialized, only three people in the world have access to it. Whatever he did to cheat death, it is not due to any fault in the iocaine powder.”
“Man, Dames, the next thing we’re working on is going to be facial recognition, after we clear up that overreliance on outside intelligence,” Jason tuts, sounding scolding.
“You dare address me so informally?!” the kid goes red in the face. “Pretending to be a member of the League is an offence punishable by death, as is inflicting any insult upon the Demon’s Head and his legacy!”
“What, you want me to call you the Son of the Bat? No way, Damian. I get that we haven’t seen each other in a while, but I feel like you’re overreacting a bit. You’re too young for teenaged angst, and T would be pissed if I managed to set you off early, somehow.”
“Do not speak as though you know me or my mother!” Damian hisses, incandescent in his anger.
Heaving out a large sigh, Jason spins the kid around, reaching up to tug off his domino. “Baby Bat, I helped potty train you. You gave me my first personal knife, and T’s the only reason I’m not still wandering around Gotham as a braindead zombie.”
Damian freezes, locking eyes with Jason’s uncannily green stare. Blinking in confusion, the kid frowns. “You... you claim to be Jutha?”
Flashing a grin at the small murder demon, Jason releases him from his hold. “Knew you’d get there eventually, Dames.”
Wordlessly, the kid reaches to the small of his back and draws an ornate, curving blade, holding it in front of him in challenge. Jason, seeing this, smiles warmly and waves at Tim to move back.
Cautiously, Tim complies, strategically retreating to the counter next to the coffee maker as his older brother pulls out his own strange blade from one of the Red Hood’s many hidden sheathes.
At some unknown signal, the two spring towards each other, daggers flashing in the afternoon sunlight. It doesn’t look like any sparring match Tim has seen before, the angle of the slashes and stabs clearly aiming to do more than simply incapacitate. Even compared to the knife lessons Jason’s been giving Tim ever since he broke into Titans Tower that first time, the fight in front of him looks like it could almost be a different art entirely.
In mere minutes, the confrontation ends. After watching the two clash against each other as though they were wind, bending and twisting around near-misses instead of the signature Robin flips and tricks Tim had gotten so used to seeing, the final result is much the same as the first fight’s – Damian has been forced to his knees, dagger arm captured, Jason’s dagger set a hair’s breath away from his throat.
Tim would feel guilty over the feeling of satisfaction he got from watching a seventeen-year-old face off against a literal seven-year-old, but he’s petty. The little shit tried to kill him, and it’s not like Jason was ever going to actually hurt the kid.
In contrast to before, however, Damian’s face is no longer a mask of anger. Instead, it’s a conflicted mess, swinging between hope, betrayal, joy, and confusion.
“I yield,” the kid calls out, and Jason releases him. Bouncing back to his feet once unhanded, the kid sheathes his dagger, frowning up at Jason’s face. “You did not used to speak.”
Jason’s smile turns deprecating, at that. With a shrug, he lifts a hand to tap at his temple. “I was brain damaged when you knew me, Dames. T did her best, but there was only so much she could help me with before she had to throw me in the Pit.”
Understanding flashes across Damian’s face. “That is why you left us?”
Grimacing, Jason shoots a guilty glance in Tim’s direction. “It’s... one of the reasons. I got hyper focused on something, after I came out. Your grandfather was pissed that T went against his orders, and she had to do something to direct me towards useful endeavors instead of allowing my obsession to be detrimental to the League. Sending me off to learn was the best solution for all of us.”
The kid pouts, and Tim has to catch himself before he thinks of it as cute. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I was on a time-crunch,” Jason shakes his head. “I wasn’t cognizant for even a whole hour before T gave me my first mission and kicked me off of a cliff.”
“What?!” Tim pipes up, confused. Previously, Jason had made it sound like Talia was on his side. Why would she throw him off of a cliff?!
Jason makes a face as he shrugs. “Ra’s has men everywhere, and I made it readily apparent that I wasn’t about to be cooperative. She had limited options, at the time.”
“That doesn’t make it any better!” Tim gapes.
“Eh, it’s fine,” Jason waves off his concern. “The League just does things differently – she gave me some intel before she did it, and we even kept up communication afterwards. It’s how she was able to direct me to my next teacher, and how I was able to ship goodies and letters back to you two, Baby Bat.”
Damian’s quiet, chewing over the new information.
To distract himself from this ridiculousness, Tim decides that cups are for losers who willingly ingest poison, and grabs the carafe. He deserves as much coffee as he can possibly drink, after this rollercoaster of an introduction.
“You are taller, now.”
“Maybe you just shrank, Dames,” Jason teases, cocking his hip as he crosses his arms in mock condescension.
“... I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk,” Damian grumbles under his breath, looking thoroughly annoyed.
Gasping out theatrically, Jason reels backwards as though struck. “Betrayal! You wound me so, Habibi.”
Damian’s face flushes again, the kid glancing up at Jason before staring at his hands. “I did no such thing, ahki. Cease your dramatics.”
It’s Jason’s turn to go all mushy, now, and Tim once again mentally kicks himself for missing his opportunity to learn Arabic before it became a necessity.
“Only for you, Baby Bat.” Smiling at the kid, Jason motions towards the table. “Come and sit, we’ve got shit we need to talk about. Tim, pour that crap into a mug, you animal, and join us.”
Clicking his tongue at getting called out for merely being efficient in his caffeine consumption, Tim sets aside the carafe he’s been sipping from to rummage around in the cupboard for yet another mug. After a second, he pulls out Jason’s Wonder Woman mug, making direct eye contact and daring him to say something as he fills it to the brim with the lifesaving elixir known as coffee before shuffling over to sit across the table from Damian.
After everyone’s situated, Jason picks up where he left off. “Now, Damian. Why are you challenging Tim for Robin?”
Damian huffs, crossing his arms. “I am not challenging him for anything other than his right to continue existing. I am owed Robin: he is merely holding the title from me.”
Wow, fucking rude.
Jason reaches out to flick the kid on his forehead. “Wrong, Tim earned his right to be Robin back when he stole the suit out from under your father’s nose. If T cut you out early so you could hunt him down and claim the position, then I’m stealing you until both you and him are ready to pass the mantel on.”
“That’s not what you put in your intelligence report!” the kid complains, but Jason just raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“I haven’t added any meaningful updates to my intel report for you in months, because both T and I agreed that you need to learn how to think critically about your sources and potential misinformation. Contact her for my actual report, then come to me to discuss what’s different, how your actions would have changed if you had the additional information originally, and what you think has still been left out,” Jason lists, leaning casually back in his chair. “Now, let’s talk about B’s rules, since you want to join the batclan early. Tim, what’s rule number one?”
Taking a long drag from Jason’s mug, Tim stares at Damian’s face. “No killing.”
The kid scoffs. “Surely that’s merely lip service.”
“Nope,” Tim hums, popping the p. “B and Jason get into fights about it regularly, and even Batgirl gets on his case when he goes overboard.”
“She’s the one you have to worry about, honestly,” Jason says with a shrug. “It’s a bit harder for B to track down any marks you take down outside of Gotham if you’ve got Oracle on your side, but Batgirl always seems to know.”
“If you don’t want to sit through her disappointed lectures, then you could just stop killing so much,” Tim points out.
Pulling a face, Jason shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that, Baby Bird. Plus, I can deal with her lectures the same way I deal with Dick’s – what I can’t stand is the moral debates she pulls me into.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “I gave you my advice. What you do or don’t do with it is on you, now.”
“Father sincerely enforces his no killing rule?” Damian butts in, frowning in confusion. “I was under the assumption that he had made it his goal to rid this city of crime.”
“Through non-lethal means,” Tim volunteers.
Damian wrinkles his nose. “That seems inefficient.”
“You should probably try to reframe it as an interesting challenge, if you want your introduction with Bruce and the rest of the bats to go smoothly,” Jason suggests helpfully.
“And maybe chill with the assassination attempts,” Tim grumbles half-heartedly into his coffee, already almost gone. Balefully, he stares into the dregs thinly coating the bottom of his cup, willing it to replenish itself.
The little brat clicks his tongue. “Perhaps I should re-evaluate how necessary this position is for me.”
Reaching across the table, Jason flicks Damian’s forehead. “Stop being a little shit, Tim’s multitasking by helping you integrate with the bats while trying to get you to stop trying to kill him.”
Draining the last of his beloved coffee, Tim shrugs as he makes eye contact with the kid. “It’s not like I’m going to convince Jason to drop you: once he picks up someone as a sibling, that relation tends to spread. Like a virus.”
“Cass was not my fault!” Jason defends. “Cassie can back me up, she said that Batgirl was breaking into the Tower to see you before I ran into her!”
“Debatable,” Tim dismisses, eyeing the abandoned mug in front of Damian. “She definitely never stuck around to make food and take naps with us, before.”
“Did you invite her to?” Damian asks, tone highly judgmental for someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“That’s not the point!” Tim scowls, reaching forward to try and snag the only coffee remaining on the table.
He’s blocked by Jason, the other boy’s hand smacking him away from his prize.
“Timbit, what the fuck are you doing?”
“I wanted to test how potent the poison is,” Tim lies, acting like he isn’t shaking out his hand.
“If you want to know that, you can just ask me,” Jason frowns. “I made the damn stuff.”
“Clearly, the person you wish for me to collude with was attempting to poison himself. We should let him,” Damian says, bored.
“I wasn’t gonna drink it!” Tim hisses, offended.
Both Jason and Damian look at him, completely unbelieving. What a bunch of assholes.
“I still have three reports to write,” Tim folds. “I need the caffeine.”
“The only thing this coffee is going to give you is a dirt nap, Baby Bird,” Jason sighs, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Uncharitably, Tim notes that the action makes him look a lot like Bruce.
Small fingers dart out and latch onto the mug’s handle, pulling it back to the demon brat. “I suddenly find myself interested in trying this coffee. How convenient to have some right here, at this table, readily available.”
This little shit. Tim glares at Damian as the other slowly lifts the mug to his lips, maintaining smug eye contact the whole time -
- only to have the mug of poisoned coffee ripped away from him as well. Jason tosses the contents back like a pro, slamming the empty mug onto the table after finishing. “Baby Bat, you need to check the concentration before trying to drink that shit. We’ve built up a resistance, but you don’t have enough of a tolerance to deal with a dosage that high.”
Damian’s face heats up, turning his head to the side so he doesn’t have to look at the person he just insulted for trying to drink poison right before doing the same thing himself. “I can handle a dose that big!”
“T sends me performance reports on you, Dames. You couldn’t have.” Jason crosses his arms, stern.
“How do you know the reports you received were accurate?” he sniffs, quoting Jason’s earlier words back at him like they’ll help deflect the older boy’s mother-henning.
“I don’t know, I think you should have let him ‘attempt to poison himself’,” Tim snarks, leaning back in his chair to glare at the annoyingly well-lit ceiling. Huh, they missed a couple of scorch marks from the last kitchen mishap Bart and Cassie caused. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, they’ll go unnoticed until Jay’s allowed to take over cleaning duty from him and Bart again.
“Because I periodically check your bloodwork myself, and I know exactly how much I can trust my results,” Jason tuts. “And Tim, you’re going to have to learn how to deal with a little brother – throwing shit back in their face is fun every once in a while, but they wise up fast, and you have to learn how to conserve your blackmail.”
Damian’s face goes a deeper red, and Tim just huffs out a sigh.
“Whatever,” he says, shoving to his feet. “I’m going to chug the rest of my nice, un-poisoned coffee, and finish up those reports. Jay, don’t forget to put your mugs in the hazmat bin. Demon brat, feel free to join me in the ops center once you decide to stop trying to murder me.”
Ignoring Damian’s indignant splutter and Jason’s hearty laugh, Tim lopes over to the coffee maker, snags the half-full carafe, and slips out of the kitchen. Those two can come find him after they finish their weird assassin/brother catch-up routine – he’s got shit to do, and this little caffeine break took far longer than anticipated.
(Jason and Damian do eventually join him in the ops center, currently abandoned – Cassie and Kon are already back in their rooms, sleeping off a long night full of messy, dumb missions that seemed to never end, and Bart’s passed out cold at the computer terminal tucked away in the corner of the room. Nothing short of a natural disaster would be able to wake him up.
The two assassins take up residence on the small couch that had at one point been squished along one of the walls, Jason donning his mandatory Blanket of Shame while the kid’s bundled up in one of the lighter, less annoying blankets, a mug of something that smells like tea clasped in his hands.
Jason pokes Tim until he swaps to his laptop and joins the two, nearly overloading the poor couch that had already been at its max occupancy limit. Damian only glares at him for a couple of seconds before he goes back to enjoying his illicit beverage, which Tim’s honestly kind of shocked about.
Still, it takes him a minute to get back into the rhythm of things, focusing on the information he’s digging up, analyzing, and rearranging into manageable, easily digestible chunks for their records. Distantly, he makes a note that it’s kind of nice to be able to do this without hunching over the terminal’s keyboard – his brothers are certainly more comfortable to lean against than that awful chair, no matter how ergonomic it claims to be.
So absorbed in his work, Tim doesn’t realize how closely Damian watches him, missing the way something close to reluctant admiration creeps into his gaze as he powers through the night’s data. He catches onto the amused chuckle Jason gives, but doesn’t have any context for the dual hair-ruffles he and Damian have to suffer from their older brother.
Jason returns his hands to himself, and Tim dismisses it as a one-off occurrence. The rest of the day passes comfortably, and Tim doesn’t even get stabbed once. This new brother thing might not turn out too terribly, after all.)