Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It began and ended with the necklace. Tim had taken one look at it in its satin-lined, white box and had actually laughed out loud. “Fuck no, I’m not wearing that,” he’d thought, then repeated it out loud because he knew there were assassins lurking around in the shadows somewhere, waiting to relay his reaction.

It was the gaudiest, tackiest thing he’d ever seen: chunky and gold and overly-ornate, with a massive, green gemstone pendant hanging from the center.

Tim had closed the box without even taking the necklace out to hold it up. He'd shoved the box into the back of the desk drawer in his office and promptly forgotten about it.

It began and ended with Bruce. Call it fate or call it self-sacrifice, Tim was caught in his pull, and nothing short of universal catastrophe could knock him from orbit.

Of course, that was before, when Bruce and Tim talked about his schoolwork at the dinner table and Batman and Robin collaborated in perfect sync. Now, Tim wasn't Robin anymore, nor was he one of Bruce's wards, for the short period that had lasted. The cards had been shuffled up and re-dealt, and Tim could still feel tremors between them as their roles shifted and scraped together, searching for the places they'd once lined up. The divots were no longer there, carved away just as rivers were known to erode a crack to a canyon.

What was Darkseid's time-and-space shredding Omega Sanction if not a catastrophe of universal proportion?

Bruce had returned from his impromptu timestream vacation to find his family fractured in his absence: Dick holding on by a withered thread, Cass all the way in Hong Kong, Jason back to radio silence. Bruce had his hands full, relearning his home because the city had changed, too, and he had a new and far-more-murderous Robin to wrangle.

Upon his own return to Gotham, Tim built the foundations of his new life: a base of operations that doubled as a home, a regular patrol schedule for Red Robin, a coffee shop next to work that knew his order and had it ready for him when he walked through the door.

He was juggling a lot, between co-running Bruce's company with Lucius, patrol, leading his own investigations, and consulting on the others' as needed. With enough caffeine, he could get it done. He'd always been a problem-solver. He'd always liked being helpful. Besides, it was better to be busy; the last thing he needed was to start thinking about the alternative.

"Is now a good time?"

Tim glanced up from the notes Tam had compiled for him, surprised to see Bruce standing in the doorway. He gestured to the chair across from him with the document—typed in Comic Sans, because she loved to torture him, and fourteen-point font, because his vision started to blur before he'd had his afternoon coffee and Tam was thoughtful like that.

"Come on in," Tim said, smiling because it was good to see him, if foreboding. "I'll warn you that I have a date with accounting at noon."

"I'll be brief, then," Bruce said, shutting the door on his way in and taking a seat in one of the armchairs opposite Tim. He sat back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee and leaning on one of the armrests.

He was the perfect picture of relaxation and comfort—which was how Tim knew it was an act; he'd intentionally picked out the most deceptive chairs money could buy: their torturous experience was in direct contrast to their plush appearance and served as a subtle—yet very effective—means of manipulating his one-on-one meetings to be shorter.

"Your office is nice," was Bruce's opener. Not his best work, and the split-second flash of displeasure was evidence of the uncertainty he was feeling. He reached forward to nudge Tim's nameplate for a better look.

Tim smiled, willing to play along. "The view is incredible."

Bruce hummed, looking past Tim to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. When his attention returned, Tim let the weight of his stare press over him. "Those cufflinks suit you. Are they new?"

Tracing a finger over one of them, Tim nodded. "They were a gift from a colleague."

Bruce hummed. "Will you be at dinner this weekend?"

Apparently they were done with the small-talk portion of the event.

"I didn't realize I was invited to dinner," Tim deflected.

Bruce's features stretched in surprise then creased. "You're always invited. The manor is your home."

Was. The manor was his home. Now, the most time Tim spent on the premises was in the Cave when he wanted to use Bruce's specialized equipment, fully suited-up in his body armor because the brat hadn't made any serious assassination attempts in recent months, but Tim deserved to occasionally indulge in a healthy level of paranoia, as a treat.

Tim wasn't touching that with a ten-foot pole. Instead, he smiled as he politely declined, "I won't be able to make it this weekend. I have some work I need to catch up on."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Anything I can take off your plate?"

Static prickled in his shoulders, even though Tim knew Bruce hadn't meant it as a slight against him. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"Is it office work or…"

What wasn't it? 

Tim pointedly picked up Tam's notes again. "Bruce, I really have to finish prep for this meeting." He winced then added, "I promise I'll ask for help if it gets to be too much for me."

It wasn't what Bruce wanted to hear. But then, it wasn't Tim's job to manage Bruce's emotions anymore.

So Tim was avoiding going back to the Manor—hire a lawyer and sue him about it. He was always meant to be the replacement Robin, and now his turn was done. The last thing he needed was to be surrounded by reminders of what he'd lost. Tim was fine, but the wound was still fresh—he needed time, and it wouldn't heal if Damian's smug look kept tearing it back open.

A part of him wondered if it was time to cut ties. He'd accomplished what he'd originally set out to do. Bruce was fine now. Gotham—as much as it could be, anyway—was fine. The only thing tying Tim here was himself.

But then, Tim's parents were dead and the Wayne name was etched in gold on the nameplate in his office. Even if it felt like playing pretend, this family was all he had, and Tim didn't want to let go of what he had left.

So even though Tim could feel necrosis setting in, he carried forward. What other choice did he have?

Tim fiddled with the cufflinks after Bruce had left.

"A gift from a colleague." That was certainly one way to put it.

The cufflinks had mysteriously appeared on his desk a couple of weeks after the necklace. The jewelry came in matching golds, each cufflink adorned with a gleaming, green gemstone in the center—but the cufflinks were more minimalist, more classy; in other words, they were something that Tim would actually have worn.

What really sealed the deal were the hidden knives he uncovered after a closer inspection. "Now that could come in handy," Tim had thought. He didn't make a point of being kidnapped, but high-profile rich people like the Waynes were the crème de la creme for Gotham's criminals.

So Tim started wearing the cufflinks.

"This doesn't mean anything," he informed the shadows matter-of-factly as he secured them to his jacket.

The shadows didn't reply, but he knew the League assassins were gossiping about him.

Of course, even the hidden weapons wouldn't have been enough to warrant Tim wearing the cufflinks every day.

No, the final nail in the coffin was the way his productivity increased on days when he wore them. He swore that he was getting sick less often, too.

It would have been just like Ra's to give him some mystical artifact as means of manipulation, and Tim wasn't completely stupid. He called up Constantine for a consultation, delivering a payment for his services and a larger payment for his discretion. The last thing Tim needed was for his family to hear about this.

Constantine whistled when he saw the cufflinks. "You must have paid a pretty penny for these."

Tim shrugged. "Can you tell me if they have any…magical influence?"

"Sure, I can," Constantine replied confidently, savoring the last puff of his cigarette. He held a hand out. "Let's have a look."

Watching him closely, because Constantine may have been Tim's preferred magic user to work with, but the man was also a self-proclaimed conman, Tim stepped back to give him space for…whatever he needed to do.

Constantine muttered something that probably translated to "abracadabra" and stared at the cufflinks intensely, eyes glowing green for an instant.

"Yup, just as I figured," he decided after, passing the jewelry back over. "There's Lazarus magic in those gems."

Tim had also suspected that as a possibility. "Is there anything I need to be worried about in terms of side effects?"

"Well, you probably won't turn into a rage monster, if that's what you're worried about." Constantine shrugged, already lighting another cigarette. Words muffled by the cigarette held between his lips, he elaborated, "Those rocks are pretty small. I'd figure the worst side effect might be a little road rage."

Reassured by the clean bill of health, Tim felt free to wear the cufflinks every day. It was flu season, after all, and his spleenless immune system needed all the help it could get.

Then he unburied the necklace from the back of his drawer.

God, it really was so ugly.

"Not a word," he warned the shadows as he clasped it around his neck then tucked it under his shirt.

One of the shadows audibly snickered.

When he returned to his Nest that night, he found that he still had a lot of energy left in the tank, despite leaving work late and skipping his afternoon coffee. He cleaned up around his apartment, solved a murder, typed up a couple of reports, and sent Dick some advice on one of his cases.

When he wore the necklace under his armor at night, Red Robin's endurance was indisputably improved.

So, fine, the necklace became a regular part of his daily attire. He figured he might as well get some benefit out of Ra's's creepy obsession with him.

He felt himself being watched while handling a couple of muggers one evening—more than usual, anyways. A glance at the rooftops revealed Batman lingering in his peripheral. Tim finished up with the muggers then grappled up to the roof.

"Red Robin," Batman greeted in his signature growl. He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

"Batman." Tim nodded back. When a second of silence went by, he prompted, "Did you need a hand with something?"

"I came to invite you to dinner."

A startled laugh burst out of Tim's chest.

Batman's lip twitched, unsure about Tim's reaction.

Tim caught his breath. He gave Bruce a teasing smirk. "Should we be having civilian conversations in the masks? That's your own rule that you're breaking."

Bruce didn't seem amused. "You won't talk to me as a civilian, so this is my only option."

With a huff, Tim said, "Maybe work isn't the best place to catch me."

"You're never at the manor. Are you avoiding us?"

Leave it to Bruce to cut right to the point.

Tim holstered his grapple gun; he didn't want to seem like he was one conversational misstep away from bolting. Of course, he'd already calculated the three best potential escape routes, should this take a turn for the irredeemably-awkward. "I was in the Cave the other night when 'Wing's shoulder was acting up again."

Unimpressed, Bruce whipped out the statistics: "The last time you attended family dinner was over three months ago."

"But who's keeping track, right?" Tim said, the attempt at levity utterly failing, just as expected.

Bruce took a step forward, softening his voice from the Batgrowl to his Dad Voice. "Tim, what's going on?"

"B…" Tim sighed. "Half the people in that house tried to kill me or have me committed. Sorry if I don't feel like playing happy family right now."

"Things are better now," Bruce insisted. "You have my word: you will be safe in our home."

The problem was that Tim wasn't sure how much weight Bruce's word held for him anymore.

"Please, give it a chance," Bruce pleaded.

"Ugh." Tim could never say no to him, and Bruce knew it. "Fine. But if your kid pulls his katana on me again, I will punt him into the chandelier, I swear to god."

Bruce chuckled, looking pained. 

As Tim followed a finely-dressed assassin into the dining room, what he first noticed was that a candle was lit at every white-clothed table, even though only one of them would be occupied that evening.

Next, he saw an older man strumming a chardha in the corner. Tim recognized him; he was one of the better musicians on Ra's's payroll, and the chardha seemed to have been one of Ra's's preferred instruments.

It made for better dinner music than the pungi, which typically made an appearance during the main course, as if Tim were a cobra able to be hypnotized into submission through the power of good food and woodwinds.

"Detective," Ra's purred, looking unexpectedly small seated alone in the empty restaurant, even when he was lounging on what seemed to be his travel throne.

"Evening, Ra's." He sat across from the man in the chair the assassin pulled out for him—a smaller throne that was decorated elaboratively enough to display Tim's status as a special guest, but not quite as tall nor extravagant as Ra's's gemstone-encrusted monstrosity—holding the back of it with one hand to make sure it wasn't going to be last-second yanked out from underneath him like an elementary school prank. "Training must be getting lax for your field agents."

Ra's rested his chin on one hand, looking amused. "Oh?"

"I keep catching whiffs of eucalyptus lately. And I heard sniffling in my office the other day," Tim complained as he unfolded a napkin and placed it on his lap. "What, you don't provide sick days in the benefits package?"

"Aromatherapy has known health benefits," Ra's said, since he wasn't going to admit that his lackeys were lacking.

"Eucalyptus won't save me when your assassins give me the plague. Are we dipping into biological warfare now?"

"Ah, but you seem quite well, Detective," Ra's countered. His eyes glinted with excitement. "Healthier."

Tim had intentionally left the jewelry at home, but he had no doubts that Ra's knew he'd been wearing it. "No thanks to your goons." 

He picked up his wine glass, swirling it and taking a sniff. Poisoned.

Ra's looked amused as Tim switched their glasses.

"What are we having tonight?" Tim asked as though nothing had happened, raising the wine glass in indication.

One of the assassin waiters exchanged the poisoned wine with a new glass, which Ra's picked up to mirror Tim. "Intimate conversation and better company," he suggested.

Tim sipped the wine. "Château Pétrus?" he guessed.

"Your discerning taste never fails to astound me." Ra's maintained eye contact over his sip of wine while a series of waiters began placing dishes on the table. "I hope you brought your appetite."

"I always do. Let's see if your chefs can impress me this time." 

It was all talk, of course; the only thing he missed about his time with the League was the food. He had to admit: the royal chefs knew what they were doing.

They met in Gotham, like they usually did. Ra's came to Tim, and hopefully he'd rented out this restaurant for the evening; Tim actually liked this place, even when it wasn't taken over by League chefs, and if the owners turned up dead, he was going to be damn-near inconsolable. He would have had to change his entire takeout schedule.

Their quarterly meetings were mostly an intel exchange, at least for Tim; Ra's had specialized knowledge and resources that Tim occasionally couldn't comparably substitute with the World Wide Web alone. It made sense to cooperate, especially since the most Ra's got out of it from Tim was a couple hours of snark and banter.

Of course, Tim was well aware that Ra's was getting something else out of these evenings as well. His dark eyes followed Tim's every movement, hungering for something other than the food.

Ra's had been quite forward with his intentions. Tim supposed that after a couple centuries, a man stopped caring about playing coy.

The affections were one-sided, of course. Tim just appreciated connecting with another intelligent mind and having an excuse to practice his wit—and of course, the food was a big plus.

In an ironic way, despite the constant assassination attempts—or maybe in part because of them, who knew?—Ra's was a breath of fresh air. Nothing about the man was safe nor sane, but he also never claimed to be. There was something thrilling about the endless chase, the repeating patterns that flipped the unexpected to something calculable, something reliable.

Ra's's straightforward persistence was admirable, if hopeless, and Tim found himself enjoying their little game. That was all it was: a game—and Tim was winning.

Right?