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."