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?

Chapter Text

The morning after his moonlit dinner meeting with Ra's, Tim found a thick packet waiting for him on his desk, his name—"Detective"—drawn in looping calligraphy on the cover.

He wore gloves as he flicked through the documents so the toxic ink wouldn't make his skin break out in hives. All of the information he'd requested was there, and Tim spent the rest of the morning smoothly keeping up with the two trains of thought he had running on parallel tracks, one focused on his W.E. work tasks and the other on interpreting the notes and how they related to his night investigations, the heavy pendant settled reassuringly against his sternum the whole time.

The next day, he discovered that his morning coffee had been tampered with.

That pissed him off. Was nothing sacred? He sure as shit wasn't about to start walking an extra block out of his way every morning to the next coffee shop down. Especially since the baristas at his usual place had only just stopped giving him strange looks for his "eight extra shots" special.

He cancelled his morning meetings in a haze of spite and hacked through the League's firewall. Security had improved in the year since Tim's time in Nanda Parbat, but every system had it's vulnerabilities, and Tim was very good at finding them.

He blew up a smaller base as a warning shot, catching the ninja star that came out from behind his fern as the assassin of the day belatedly realized what he was doing.

Tossing the weapon into his drawer with the others, Tim pointed sternly at that corner of the room. "Tell Ra's—" He caught a knife this time, which was what told him play time was over.

After shouldering out of his jacket and carefully laying it over the back of his chair—because he had to take some pictures this afternoon and Tam would actually assassinate him for real if he asked her for help with wrinkles again—he parried the assassin's next attack with the knife he'd caught, fighting back as she stepped out of the shadows and into view.

He once again considered the potential benefits of keeping a bo staff in the office. He'd just had these shoes polished the other day. If they got scuffed…

He managed to get a window open and unceremoniously kicked her out of it, slamming it shut after because he was sure Ra's's field agents had suction cups or something of the like in their toolkit.

A quick double-check confirmed that Tim was alone in his office, finally. Just himself and the comm device that was lying on the floor.

Tim rolled his eyes, popping it into his ear. "Ra's. Your IT department is overpaid."

"So I see," came Ra's's dry response.

Tim smirked. It was obvious that Ra's was annoyed, even though Tim had played nice.

"Touch my coffee again and you'll be saying goodbye to Muscat and Porto Velho." It was a strategic decision to reveal the locations of two of his supposedly-hidden bases, but the loss of ammunition was worth the trade-off for Ra's taking his threat seriously.

It wasn't like Tim didn't know of any other important League bases anyways.

"Your warning is acknowledged," Ra's purred, and he was totally getting off on this, wasn't he?

Tim crushed the earpiece. Flutters of excitement continued their flight inside him well into the afternoon as he came down from the adrenaline rush. It was a natural biological response. Anybody else would have experienced the same.

Leaves crunched under his bike’s tires as he roared down the driveway. In the daylight, they would have been splotched with vibrant reds and yellows, but in the dark, everything just looked brown.

Tim shook his hair out after he'd parked and pulled off his helmet. The front door was watching him with an eerie hunger, chomping at the bit to trap him inside. Tim was already regretting agreeing to this.

"Master Tim," Alfred greeted in the doorway, gesturing for Tim to come in. "How kind of you to find the time to dine with us after so long."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tim smiled apologetically. "It's been a while, huh?"

Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eye with an easy smile. "It has. But I am glad you are finally home."

The door slammed shut with the same finality as a guillotine hacking down.

Tim made an effort to return the smile then quickly changed the subject. "Who all is coming tonight?"

It wasn't actually a question that he needed an answer to; he'd already deduced which members of the family were going to make it. Regardless, he appreciated Alfred's confirmation, and the light talk saved him from the heavier topic of what had kept Tim away for so long.

Tim really, really missed Cass, he decided as he entered the dining room, where Jason, Dick, and Bruce were already seated around the table. Tim waved awkwardly when his presence was noticed, scanning the available seats.

Bruce was seated at the head of the table, Dick to his immediate left and an empty seat to his right. Jason was seated beside that empty seat.

Tim could sit next to Dick, leaving Jason across from him. With some luck, Damian would sit next to Jason and then Tim could keep both of them in his line of sight.

On the other hand, Damian could strategically choose to sit on Tim's other side. He usually kept his dagger on his right side—in this scenario, mere inches from where Tim would have been seated. The last thing Tim needed was to get stabbed in the kidney tonight. His New Year's Resolution had been to keep his remaining organs on the inside this year.

No, Tim would rather have taken his chances next to Jason. He'd seemed more hinged lately, and he was too respectful to spill blood in Alfred's dining room.

"I'm glad you made it," Bruce greeted warmly as Tim walked past to sit between him and Jason.

"Happy to be here. Actually, I had a couple thoughts on that mobster disappearance we were talking about the other night. Let's rally sometime in the next couple of days."

"It sounds like you've solved it," Bruce acknowledged, with a small smile that Tim swore almost looked proud.

"It's just a hunch," Tim said, looking for a way out of that moment. He turned to Jason. "Speaking of, I have a couple final tests running on that toxin you asked me to take a look at. Results will be in your email by tomorrow afternoon at latest."

"Cool beans, Timbo."

Tim nodded. There was one final person left to greet, and he didn't know what to say. "Hi, Dick."

Dick waved. When he smiled, it crinkled the corners of his eyes, looking genuine every time. "Hey, Tim. You look good."

"My barber is a miracle worker," Tim agreed, because he was sure he didn't want to know what Dick really meant by that.

Unfortunately, Dick felt the need to clarify, "Well, that, too. But I mean that you seem…brighter. Healthier."

Tim resisted the urge to rub the necklace where it was hidden under his sweatshirt. Did he just look like a hot mess all the time?

"Hey, I'll have you know the raccoon look is very in right now."

Damian's appearance saved Tim from the rest of that conversation. He sat beside Dick, ducking away with a scowl when Dick tried to scruff up his hair. "Good evening, Father, Grayson, Todd…Drake."

Tim blinked his surprise. He'd expected the cold shoulder, or at least a palpable hatred directed towards him in Damian's tone, not…a completely normal greeting.

He met Damian's eyes, which looked at him intensely but with an intention he couldn't parse. They nodded at each other, finally prompting Damian to look away.

Tim kept an eye on him throughout the meal, trying to figure out the gambit. He hadn't already set some plot into motion, had he?

A quick glance up at the ceiling didn't reveal any loose light fixtures above him. And the meal smelled and tasted safe. Besides, if Damian were to acquire poison for another murder attempt, he probably would have gotten it from one of his contacts in the League, and Tim had already built up a resistance to most of those.

If Damian noticed Tim's suspicion, he didn't let on.

By the end of the meal, Tim was fully ready to quit while he was ahead. He probably should have, even. But as he slapped his knees, an ol' reliable "Welp," holding its position on the tip of his tongue, Alfred struck a finishing blow.

"Surely you intend to stay for dessert, Master Tim," he said, voice heavy with expectation. "I prepared tiramisu for this evening, as I so looked forward to your attendance."

Tim swore in the privacy of his mind.

Alfred was too dignified to gloat, but his smirk showed in his eyes, if not his lips. He shuffled Tim into the family room. The instant his back was turned, Tim sought out a perch on the armrest of the couch while he watched the others settle in.

Damian paced in the doorway, scowling to himself, before stomping right up to Tim with his trademark disparaging glare.

Finally, his actions were lining up with the precedent.

Tim raised an eyebrow, turning to face the kid as he came to a stop and puffed out his chest in front of him.

"Drake. A word," Damian demanded.

Tim watched his hands as they fidgeted, eventually clasping together to sit still against his stomach—weapon free…for now. He looked back up at Damian's eyes. "I'm listening."

Throwing a wary glance at the doorway, Damian hesitantly shifted his weight.

Tim snorted. "If you think you're getting me to a secondary location, think again. Whatever you have to tell me, you can say it here."

Damian flushed, an embarrassed heat rising on his cheeks.

Tim's eyes widened. Now he was very interested in where this was going.

"Very well," Damian accepted. He straightened himself and made eye contact. "I would like to…apologize."

"To me," Tim clarified with audible disbelief.

"Yes." Damian chewed on the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable. "I have…learned new information, since my arrival to the Manor. And it has made me…reconsider…some of my past transgressions against you."

Tim looked between Dick and Bruce, wondering who was responsible for this. Neither of them looked his way, seeming intent on letting Tim and Damian hash this out themselves.

"Alright," Tim said, since Damian was looking at him expectantly now, and the silence was grating on him. "Well. Thanks for that."

Damian's eyebrows twitched. He seemed uncertain, as though he'd expected a different response, or maybe hadn't known what to expect at all. Ever dignified, he held himself straight, vowing, "You have my word: I will no longer make myself an enemy to you within these walls." He winced as he reconsidered his words, awkwardly adding, "Nor in the field."

"Okay. Cool. It's really annoying to replace grapple lines, you know." His attempt to lighten the mood had the opposite effect, causing Damian to scowl.

"That was your own—" Damian paused, eyes flickering to Dick before he took an intentional breath. He started again, words stiff and rehearsed, "Although my anger was justifiable, I should have…resolved the conflict…through nonviolent means. Therefore, I apologize for that as well."

Tim wasn't completely confident that he hadn't entered a parallel universe without noticing. He still calculated a nonzero probability that Damian's speech was all a means of throwing Tim off his guard, but the kid seemed genuine about it. And he wasn't a very good actor yet, so Tim had to believe he wasn't bullshitting.

The strangely…calm mood continued into the evening.

Dick turned on a movie, which was probably the safest move for their group. He and Jason argued over the selection, but in a normal, brotherly way. Tim kept an eye on Jason in his peripheral and noticed that despite their "heated discussion" inching towards shouting levels, his temper remained on a tight leash, his actions controlled.

Maybe Bruce had been right: things were getting better.

And sure, Jason sat in the seat closest to the doorway, tense and prepared to make a quick exit, if need be, while Dick and Tim sat with a foot of space between them, a visual manifestation of the rift that they still hadn't quite managed to close, despite their efforts.

But Damian sat with Bruce, leaning against his father's side. He never would have accepted that kind of physical affection in the beginning.

And when something funny happened on screen, Dick crossed the distance with his foot, nudging Tim to make sure he'd seen.

It was almost frustrating, actually; Tim hated waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They managed to make it to dessert without incident. Even Alfred seemed pleasantly surprised as he delivered a plate to each of them.

Somehow, the clues were all pointing in one direction, backing Bruce's bold claims from before. The bubble stretched wider and wider, seemingly-impenetrable. Tim started to think he was going to escape this evening with nothing but good news to gossip about with Tam come Monday morning.

A fatal error pierced through the evening with deadly precision: Tim took off his sweatshirt. The bubble burst, sticky, pink gum flying everywhere. Really, it was a rookie mistake to have felt comfortable enough around his family to remove the oversized cotton-poly blend armor.

The necklace flopped out into the open for only a second before Tim was stuffing it back under his shirt, but that was long enough for the demon brat's beady laser eyes to see it and demand, "Drake, why do you have that amulet?"

It was almost relieving, in a backwards sort of way. Finally, things were as he expected them to be. The tension flooded out of him, adrenaline booting Tim's brain back to life and into the moment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. Yes, gaslight the twelve-year old. Plan A was great.

"I recognize it," Damian insisted, crossing the room to stand directly in front of Tim, hands on his hips. "That necklace is from my grandfather's personal collection. What are you doing with it?"

That was news. His personal collection? Tim had figured Ra's had had it custom made or, heck, dug it out from the back of his treasure room or something.

Oh well. In for a penny. "I really don't know what you're talking about Damian," Tim said slowly. "I'm wearing a jadeite necklace that my mom left for me."

"I have known you to be a liar, Drake, but never a thief," Damian accused, reaching for him.

Tim flinched back, one hand coming up to protect his jugular and the other guarding his squishy and vulnerable internal organs.

But Damian wasn't taking a cheat day on his homocide fast; he was stealing the necklace out from under Tim's shirt, holding it up to the light even as it remained leashed around Tim's neck.

"It has the crest of al Ghul etched onto the back," Damian announced. "You will return it at once."

Tim stood as he snatched the pendant back, cradling it in his palm. "It was a gift." He stuffed it back under his shirt with a sharp glare and hissed, "You have no right to touch me nor tell me what to do."

Damian faltered, falling back a step as indignation flagged to uncertainty. His glare fell away as he analyzed Tim, seeing his honesty. "I…I don't understand…" he murmured. "Why would Grandfather gift you a powerful amulet for nothing in return?"

"Wait, wait," Dick cut in, and now he was standing, too. "You're receiving gifts from Ra's al Ghul and actually wearing them?!"

"Robin. Explain," Bruce demanded, joining their little semi-circle and looking right at Tim.

Tim squared his jaw. He wasn't Robin anymore.

Damian spoke up: "Drake is wearing one of my grandfather's amulets."

"It's gaudy costume jewelry," Tim defended, evening his tone to something blasé. "And I don't see how it makes a difference to you."

"Lazarus stones are powerful artifacts—" Damian ranted before being cut off by Dick.

"Lazarus? Tim, tell me you're not playing with Lazarus magic." He looked at Tim with a pleading expression, looking like the concerned brother Tim always wanted him to be.

It softened something in him automatically. He couldn't face Dick's earnest, kicked-puppy eyes without trying to reassure him. "Everything's fine, Dick. I had it looked at by a magician—"

"Tim…"

Tim whipped his head around, surprised to hear Jason joining in.

Jason stepped closer, his voice lower and kinder than he'd ever heard it outside of talking to victims. "Take it from me: you don't want to mess with that stuff. Nothing good comes from a Lazarus pit."

Tim scoffed. "Thanks for the warning." He trailed his fingers over the scar on his neck. "I'm already well-acquainted with the consequences of the Lazarus pit."

If the words cut him, Jason showed no indication.

Tim refused to return Bruce's analyzing stare, which left him to meet eyes with Dick as he stepped forward.

"Tim… Brother to brother, I need you to be honest with me right now: are you compromised?"

Tim flinched. It would have hurt less if Dick had slapped him instead.

Memories of that awful year without Bruce came rushing back. Tim would have much preferred for those emotions to stay buried in the grave he'd dug for them in the back of his mind.

"We can help you," Dick pleaded.

They were supposed to be past this.

"God, fuck off, Dick." The words spilled past Tim's lips before he could consider their value to the discussion, but that didn't make him mean them any less.

Dick reeled back.

Alfred, who had been drawn back to the room as tensions rose, sounded particularly appalled, voice squeaking a little with surprise as he scolded, "Master Tim."

They were shocked that Tim dared to stand up for himself. But if Tim didn't, then who would?

Looking Dick in the eye, Tim straightened his shoulders and said, "The last thing I need is your brand of help. Are we back to thinking about tossing me in Arkham, brother?"

"That… That was a mistake. And I'm sorry," Dick said, repeating his same words from a conversation they'd shared months before, confessions and apologies and hugs had in a rundown diner over milkshakes.

At the time, Tim had accepted Dick's regret and agreed to move on.

That was before history unearthed itself, half-rotten and starting to repeat.

"You told everybody I was going insane, Dick! Half the caped community still thinks I'm crazy, even though I was right all along! But please, go on about how you know what's best for me."

He looked between all of them, taking in Jason's too-understanding expression, Damian's uncertainty, Dick's hurt, Alfred's concern.

Behind them all was Bruce, blank-faced and searching between their words for clues.

Tim didn't want to see when he came to a conclusion.

"I'm not going to take this from you," Tim hissed. He blew out a steadying breath, hugging his arms around himself. "You want to help me? Then trust me to take care of myself."

Chapter Text

Batman was leaning over the ledge of a rooftop. The shadows seemed to curl around him as he contemplated what lied below—certainly lost in studious thought, although the angle at which his neck dropped made it almost seem like despondence, like the grit of the city had finally caught up with him. Across his legs were the bold text words: "When somebody takes the last box of Choccy Croccy right as you turn down the aisle."

Yes, this meme hit all the right notes: overly-dramatic, making fun of Batman, love of Cereal. Tim opened up a message to Dick but paused to reconsider before he could hit Send. Tim hadn't been giving Dick the cold-shoulder, per say, but he had made the intentional decision to distance himself after being labeled as insane—again. As the wound festered, he had the nigh-irrestistable urge to reach out, to fix it. Self-sacrifice was what family was all about, right?

On the other hand, suddenly sending a ridiculous meme—regardless of how relatable it was—after ignoring Dick's texts for days would certainly not have helped him prove his mental stability.

A call came through, offering Tim the opportunity to delete the text without actually having to make the decision on his own. It was Constantine's number, so he didn't hesitate to answer with a plain, "Hi."

"You in Manhattan, mate?"

"Yup," Tim answered calmly, a contrast to how Constantine was yelling.

A third person was swearing in the background of the call. A metal boom and the wobbling crackle of shattering plexiglass followed.

Voice distant, as if the phone were held away from him, Constantine said, "Damn it—can you tie the—there you go." His voice was clearer, speaking to Tim as he said, "You drive here?"

"Yeah, I drove my Bugatti. Seats five." Tim was already slipping his shoes back on, double-checking that he had the key-card for the room in his pocket before heading for the door.

On second-thought, he snatched one of the takeout boxes off the coffee table on the way.

"Sounds perfect, do me a favor and—" Tim had to strain to hear the rest of his sentence, since he spoke it through heavy coughing. "—pick me up from Hell's Kitchen in fifteen."

"On my way."

"If you see some blokes screaming and running away, you're heading in the right direction," Constantine advised. "Ta."

Trouble tended to find Tim, so he was confident he would have stumbled upon the scene eventually even without directions. Regardless, Tim rolled up to an outdated playground twelve minutes later, just in time to watch Constantine and whoever his friend was summit the jungle gym, surrounded on all sides by a cluster of tiny and bloodthirsty trees with legs. Tim was reluctantly starting to debate whether he needed to get involved when a fiery explosion tore apart the sentient trees, bark and globs of sap spewing everywhere. As debris rained down on top of his car, the windshield wipers bravely skittered across the glop. Tim was just glad he'd left the top up.

Constantine stumbled as he jumped down from the jungle gym, blackened with soot and looking more than a little singed, a small fire burning the bottom of his coat. He hurriedly patted it out while Tim pulled up onto the grass next to him, rolling down the window.

Tim pulled his sunglasses down to peer over them. "Your Uber is here."

"Damn. What a bloody mess." Constantine ripped open the car door and slid in, picking leaves out of his hair and tossing them out the window. He raised a hand at the other person in farewell. "I'll never go back to Calgary."

"Does your buddy need a ride?" Tim asked, the black-out windows eliminating the need for him to offer so much as a wave.

"Nope," Constantine said, and the man disappeared with a burst of sulphur a moment later.

Tim coughed, waving the air in front of his nose and shifting into Drive.

As they pulled away from the park, making a couple of back-alley maneuvers to avoid the police sirens he could hear coming their way, Tim decided that "How's it going?" was probably the worst possible greeting in this situation. He passed over the box of barbecue chicken instead, asking, "Hungry?"

"Hell, kid, you actually brought me dinner," Constantine said, eagerly ripping into the box.

Tim didn't bother reminding him that that was one of his stipulations for agreeing to this last-minute meeting: a cash payment, a hotel room, the city's finest takeout—("Mexican, Korean, I don't give a damn," so he had kimchi and enchiladas waiting in the room)—and Tim had to meet him in New York. It was all the same to Tim—the further they were from Gotham, the less likely Bruce was to eavesdrop on their meeting—although the requests sounded like a cry for help, and it was only after hacking into Constantine's bank account that Tim was able to reassure himself that the man wasn't currently homeless.

"What happened in Calgary?" Tim asked, unsure whether he actually wanted to know.

Speaking through a mouthful of chicken, Constantine groaned. "Damn lumberjack cut down the wrong tree. Sent little baby tree demons scuttling around the continent."

Tim updated his understanding of the world with this new information. "I didn't realize that was a concern."

"Believe me, if you ever see an enchanted tree, you'll know. Poor bloke was a bloody moron. Mind if I light a fag?"

The air was thick with an enduring pine-sulphur smell, and Constantine was currently leaking tree sap onto the passenger seat. "I'm already losing the security deposit. Go ahead."

Constantine was polite enough to angle his smoke out the open window. He held out the "fag" box in offer, but Tim raised a declining hand.

"No, thanks. I'm faggy enough as is."

When they got to the hotel, Constantine whistled, peering up at the chandelier and winking at the receptionist. "There's a pool on the roof," Tim said as they entered the elevator. He looked at Constantine's clothes and amended, "Washer-dryers on the third floor. And a spa—room comes with a massage." Once his generosity was thoroughly laid out, Tim snatched the takeout box from Constantine's hands, shoving chicken into his mouth; his metabolism had been increased lately, and being hangry had not made New York traffic any easier to handle.

"You're much more pleasant to work with than your pops," Constantine noted.

Tim laughed. "Anybody would be more pleasant to work with than him." And because he was still partially-raised by the man, he added, "I do expect your continued discretion. If this gets back to my family, your entire bank account will be withdrawn before you can blink."

Constantine whistled in surprise, although his facial expression conveyed that this was par for the course and the threat probably didn't even rank among the worst he'd heard. He followed Tim into the room, immediately shedding his coat and shoes. "You have sufficiently bought my silence. What do we have today?"

For some reason, Tim decided to leave his shoes on. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, pulling the pendant out from under his shirt.

Constantine's eyes widened. "You've upgraded, I see. That looks like a very valuable hunk of Lazarus water."

"Can you tell me if it's dangerous to wear often?"

Constantine's eyes hadn't wavered from the gemstone. He was looking at it like he was mentally assessing its value. "Sure," he said confidently. He held out his palm. "Let's see it."

Tim hesitated, wondering why he needed to hold it when they'd already identified it as being a Lazarus stone. Eventually, he unclasped the necklace and set it in Constantine's hand

Constantine held it up to the light, humming. He closed his hand around the pendant, meeting Tim's eyes. "I'm going to need to take this to the other room, if you want me to find out if it's harmful."

"Why would you need to do that?" Tim's eyes narrowed, and his fingers twitched with the desire to snatch the necklace back.

"Who's the magician here?" Constantine's smug look pissed Tim off. "You hired me for my services, so accept my help or let me get on with my evening. Apparently I have a masseuse waiting for me on the third floor."

Tim glared at him. This man was a snake and had definitely screwed over more people than Tim could count. Tim wanted to bring the full force of Janet Drake over him. He wanted to make the kind of unforgiving demands Batman would have made.

Instead, he huffed, crossing his arms and consoling himself with the knowledge that he could always ruin his life if he tried to pull one over him. "Fine."

Constantine's eyebrows raised, seeming surprised that Tim had actually allowed it. He walked over to the coffee table and perused the takeout boxes, opening up the salsas and sides before digging into the enchiladas. He looked back up at Tim. "It's fine," he said, tossing the necklace back.

Tim lunged to catch it with both hands. His fingers were shaking from adrenaline, slipping clumsily on the clasp as he pulled it back around his neck. "Huh?"

"It was a test, mate. You didn't try to kill me over it, which is a good sign." He searched for cutlery and eventually gave up, eating his enchilada with a pair of chopsticks. "My advice?" He swallowed his bite and said, "Take it off for a couple days every now and then just to make sure you still can."

Tim's pulse was still running away from him as he slid into his car. He sucked in deep breaths of the sulfuric air until his fingers stopped twitching.

This was good news, then. Constantine said it was fine to keep wearing it.

He pulled out his phone and sent a virtual olive branch to Dick. He was still his brother, and Tim wanted him to know that he was fine; he just needed some space. Tim could only ignore so many texts before he started to feel like the worst person ever, even though he'd done nothing wrong.

When he got back to Gotham, he shoved the necklace into the back of his jewelry cabinet, to prove that it was just another useful tool in his arsenal: he wasn't reliant on the damn thing.

There was a fresh box of tissues on Tim's desk, and it pissed him off—almost as much as it'd pissed him off when some petty criminal had coughed directly into his face during patrol the night before.

He'd knocked out the criminal to get the indignation out; he wasn't sure how to dole out equivalent treatment to a tissue box.

He collapsed into his desk chair, massaging the bridge of his nose as he gulped his morning coffee. It should not have been possible to end up this congested less than twelve hours later.

"Extra lotion!" the tissues cried pleadingly. "Silk-enhanced!"

It was like a siren's call. It could have been an act of sudden generosity from Tam, after all. It appeared to have been an innocent box of tissues.

The rose bouquet, on the other hand… Tim side-eyed the thorns, which were suspiciously-purple, the stems bleaching a dead yellow around them. Those probably hadn't come from Tam. Hopefully. Unless she'd been serious the last time she'd said she would kill him if he was late again.

He sighed, pushing the vase a little further away. He added a trip to the incinerator to his to-do list; his poor custodians shouldn't have had to deal with this, even with the hazard-pay.

He considered the tissues again. The box was still sealed and everything. He held it up to his ear and didn't hear ticking noises. But with his current congestion, he had no way of performing the good ol' reliable sniff test, and he wasn't going to put poor Tam through that. She wasn't paid enough.

"You want these?" he asked the assassin stationed in the shadows of his office that morning. He shook the box of tissues. "Because I'm tossing them otherwise."

There was no response, as expected, although he was confident somebody was there. He tossed the box into the shadows then hacked into his elbow.

After washing down his phlegm with a gulp of coffee, he hoarsely called, "You got any cough drops?"

A single cough drop flew out of the shadows and into his lap a moment later.

Batman was crouched on the edge of a rooftop. He fit right in among the building's gargoyles, standing sentinel over the dark streets of Gotham. His head was angled down, but this time it wasn't due to cereal-related depression.

Tim landed silently behind him. He applauded himself when Batman's head didn't twitch until a full second later.

Bruce cocked his head in silent invitation. When Tim made it to his side, he passed over his binoculars.

Through the lenses, Tim watched a younger guy with an average build putter around inside his apartment, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers and his wet mohawk dripping down his neck. The curtains were wide open, practically inviting voyeurism. Of course, most civilians didn't have to worry about being spied on through the windows of their twelfth-floor apartment.

"He's one of the Russians?" he asked, taking note of a particular ring on his pinky finger.

Batman grunted an affirmative. "A drug-distributor. I received intel that he's a target."

Tim's Neon Knights program had done away with most of Gotham's smaller gangs. It was a step in the right direction, dozens of young adults turned away from a life of crime; but the mobs that were left were taking advantage of the clear streets, fighting for new territory.

Hood had suggested that they sit back and watch the mobs tear each other apart.

That would have been Tim's preferred method of action, too, if the collateral damage weren't so high. For every hit, every "mysterious disappearance" of one of the mob members, a handful of civilian casualties were reported as well: a car bomb that took out a ring leader alongside an entire intersection, a shootout in the middle of a packed bar, victims of mistaken identity dredged out of the bay with cinder blocks attached to their feet.

"I was thinking about the warehouse victim," Tim said, referring to a blue-collar civilian who, from their research, seemed to have been innocent; the target on his back almost definitely came from his sibling being one of the ringleaders of the French mob. Said mobster had mysteriously disappeared the same night his brother's body was found.

"Tim. We need to talk," Bruce said.

Tim gestured between them with an amused look. What did he think this was?

"We need to talk about Ra's al Ghul," he amended.

Ugh.

Tim had known it was coming sooner or later. He respected that Bruce hadn't accosted him in his office, at least.

"One of my favorite topics," Tim said. "What's on your mind?"

"You've…attracted his attention," Bruce noted, choosing his words with a questioning hesitance.

Tim snorted. That was an apt way of putting it, actually. "Red Robin has made plenty of enemies. Did I mention I just put Ulysses Armstrong back in jail?"

Ulysses—most recently Anarky—had a special kind of hatred for Tim. Tim wasn't exactly fond of the guy, either.

"Do you also accept gifts from Anarky?" The judgement was coming off of him in waves, visible like cartoon stench lines.

"Actually, he receives gifts from me. Namely, a dislocated shoulder and a black eye." Tim passed back the binoculars with a grin.

His attempt at distraction bore no fruit. Batman secured the binoculars to his utility belt without breaking eye-contact. "And what does Ra's get from you?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you accusing me of? Do you really think I'm collaborating with an international villain?"

"I don't think that you're collaborating with him," Bruce said, and Tim was surprised to see that he meant it. "I think he is a powerful opponent, and an expert in the art of persuasion."

Tim released a measured breath. Did Bruce really think Tim was so easily manipulated? "Let's address the elephant: it's obvious that this is about the necklace. Yes, Ra's has an…interest in me. I've thrown out enough flowers that Ivy would probably be pissed—"

"He sends you flowers?" Bruce cut in, sounding disturbed.

Tim shrugged. He wasn't sure if Bruce had just put together that it was a romantic (…?) interest, and if so, why the jewelry alone hadn't been enough to make that connection.

"Sometimes, yes." He decided not to mention that Ra's's gifts were normally a vessel for some sort of murder attempt; the last thing Tim needed was for Bruce to think he was in actual danger of being assassinated. "Most of what he sends me gets tossed. The necklace is a useful tool—so yes, I kept that one."

"The cufflinks were also from Ra's."

Tim was careful to keep his expression schooled. He'd been hoping Bruce wouldn't have made that connection. "Yes, they were."

"He's manipulating you," Bruce decided, with all the finality of a judge who'd heard the whole case and was ready to bang his gavel. "This is why you've been pulling away from the family."

Tim couldn't help it: he laughed. He quickly sobered up, trying to keep this from escalating into something other than a simple discussion, especially when Batman was foisting his unamused BatGlare upon him. "Look, B, Robin seems like he's doing better, and that's great. I really am happy for him. And the apology meant a lot—but none of that erases the precedent."

"He is trying to make up for his mistakes," Bruce said.

Tim nodded earnestly. "And I'll let him. I know you understand that it's basic self-preservation to take history into account: he tried to kill me multiple times in what was supposed to be my home. Hood did the same." He tilted his head back, stretching his neck to expose the pale scar that he normally kept hidden; in this particular circumstance, he thought that Bruce needed the reminder.

With a tightly-clenched jaw, Bruce gave a stiff nod. "They're—both of them, they are trying to change."

He felt for Bruce, he really did. Tim knew that he was torn, trying to hold his family together when they were a conglomerate of fucked-up people, each with their own unique flavor of PTSD.

"Awesome," Tim said dryly, giving a thumbs-up. "I'm not avoiding you guys on purpose—" That was a bit of a blatant lie, but that was beside the point. "—I just really am busy, and at the end of the day or a long patrol, I just want to go home—to somewhere I know I will be able to sleep without keeping one eye open."

"I understand the…strain…with Jason and Damian," Bruce conceded. Before Tim could celebrate having gotten through to him, he shifted gears and made a swift jump: "But what about your relationship with Dick?"

Tim was careful not to react—not until he was completely clear on what they were talking about here. "What about it?"

"You seemed upset with him, after dinner."

There was a moment of pulsing silence as Tim waited. For what? For him to laugh and say, "Just kidding!"—because Batman was known for his pranks, right? "Are you serious, Bruce?" Tim asked eventually.

Of course he was serious. And all he had to say in explanation was, "I thought your relationship was better these days."

"Yes, it was," Tim gritted out. "Then he called me crazy. Again!"

"That is not what he said," Bruce disagreed.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Fine, he implied it."

"He was questioning your judgement. It is not unreasonable, considering you are willingly accepting influence from a known villain."

It was a touchy subject, the way Dick had questioned his sanity when Bruce was missing, and Bruce was unhesitantly digging a batarang right into the center of it.

"It's just a dumb necklace, Bruce. It's not like I'm getting into bed with the guy."

"Bring it to the Cave, then," Bruce insisted, "if it truly holds no power over you."

Tim ground his teeth. "I'm not being influenced by it, but it's a useful tool—"

"Which is it, Tim? Is it meaningless jewelry or a valuable tool? The Lazarus stone is impacting your thinking."

"I'm thinking clearly!" Shouting at Bruce certainly didn't help Tim plead a strong case for his sanity, but he clearly wasn't being heard at normal volume. He yanked down the neckline of the suit to show Bruce: "I'm not even wearing the damned thing tonight! I can't believe that after all this time, you really have so little faith in me."

Bruce didn't tone-match: his voice remained low and measuredly calm—for some reason, this only pissed Tim off more; he was even treating Tim like they would one of their less hinged villains. "The effects of Lazarus magic can take months to fully wear off, even in small doses."

If that were the case, then why did Tim catch a cold immediately after taking it off? Batman was being stubborn and refusing to hear any alternative angles—but what else was new? "This is a waste of time," Tim said, bringing his voice back to a low growl. "I came to provide insight into a murder. Do you want my help or not?"

Batman stared him down. "Regardless of the amulet's hold on you, you are playing with dangerous magic with complete disregard to the potential consequences." He drew in a breath then let it out—evidence that he considered his next words before deciding to speak them: "If you cannot be objective about this, then I don't know if I can trust you on the team right now."

Ice rushed through Tim's veins, bringing with it a total freeze to his system. He analyzed Bruce's posture and expression, searching for evidence that it was a bluff. The ice piled up into glaciers, which eroded the crevasse between them even further.

It didn't matter, Tim decided: he literally ran Bruce's company for him, patrolled alone, and patched up his own wounds. He wasn't going to be treated like a sidekick with none of the actual benefits of being a sidekick.

"Fine," Tim agreed. He catalogued Bruce's surprised expression with a surge of victory as he turned around. "You know how to find me, when you need my help again."

He stalked to the other edge of the roof and leapt, opening up his cape to access the gliders and quickly put dozens of blocks of distance between him and Bruce. He gazed down on the city, watching the dots of people who looked like ants from so high up.

This city, it was Batman's mission—but Batman had been Tim's.

Bruce had been the center of his life for so long, the planet that he'd obediently orbited in a reliable, repeating pattern. Suddenly, Tim wondered if Bruce hadn't been a planet all along: was he was more like the black hole at the center of the galaxy—keeping their whole unit together, sure, but a potent danger nonetheless, capable of shredding Tim to tatters and swallowing him up if he let himself in too close?

In celestial mechanics, the point at which a star's orbit was the furthest it could get from the galactic core was referred to as its apogalacticon.

Tim was sure that he'd never been further from Bruce than he was in that moment. He felt the rip in the fabric of their relationship like a tangible thing. The man who had been a second father to Tim, whose mere presence had once meant safety, was unfamiliar to him now.

And here at the far reach of the galaxy, at the limits of his orbit, where his potential energy was at its peak, Tim was an asteroid skewed out of line, preparing to either crash down or fly out into open space.

He didn't know which possibility scared him more.