Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a boy on a rooftop yelling for Nightwing.

Well, he was also yelling for Batman. But it was more surprising that he was calling on Nightwing. Nightwing had only existed for a little under a year. And he hadn't spent a whole lot of time in Gotham. He'd spent more time in New York, with the Titans.

But he happened to be here tonight. He even had an apartment in the city now, sparsely used but definitely in existence. Alfred had furnished it when Dick wasn't looking, so now it was full of all the necessities, with that particular Alfred touch that was both stylish and homey. There was even food in the cupboards and the fridge.

Batman was on patrol somewhere in the city, but Nightwing hadn't spoken to him. They were friendly enough when they crossed paths, these days, but it wasn't something they generally did on purpose. Bruce was still too annoyed at Dick for leaving, and Dick was still annoyed at Bruce for trying to make him stay.

Nightwing didn't approach the yelling kid right away. There was every possibility that it was a trap set by one of Batman's enemies. Not a lot of people knew about Nightwing's existence yet, or even that he was from Gotham originally, but certainly most of the rogues were aware that Batman's partner had changed or left or both. It would be less unexpected for a random civilian to be yelling for Batman and Robin, not Batman and Nightwing. Still unexpected, though.

Why wasn't the kid calling for the police? As corrupt and untrustworthy as the Gotham police could be, they were certainly more reliable than standing on a rooftop and calling for entities that might or might not be urban myths. Yelling for Batman from a roof was literally a shot in the dark.

The kid was either a stooge, or he was truly, completely, breathtakingly desperate.

The more Nightwing listened, the more he became convinced that the latter was the truth. The kid's voice was cracking, losing power, yet he kept yelling. Nightwing heard the sharp edges of terror, of despair held just at bay. If the kid was a stooge, he was also an absolutely terrific actor.

"Batman! Nightwing! Please! Please, I need your help!"

Finally, Nightwing couldn't stand it anymore. He swung down from the neighboring rooftop and landed a few yards away from the kid, his feet crunching on the dilapidated tiles. The kid cut off with a gasp and spun to face him, reeling on his feet. Now that he was this close, Nightwing could see just how shaky the kid was. And holy cow, he was thin as a rail, skinny arms clutched around his middle in a shivering self-embrace.

"Are...are you Batman?" the kid's voice held only the slightest touch of hope. "Or Nightwing?"

"I'm Nightwing." He took a few steps closer, his hands outstretched. Frick, the kid had been calling for him without even knowing what he looked like? Dick had thought his new costume was pretty distinctive, but it wasn't like he was a fashion designer.

"Oh, thank God." The kid's breath left him in a rush, and he went down to his knees, his head bowing. "Thank fuck. I can't believe that worked."

Nightwing took a few steps closer. "Who are you? Why were you calling for me?"

The kid drew in a shaky breath and raised his head. Nightwing could see his face pretty clearly with the night vision lenses, and the sight hit him like a punch. The boy couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, and he looked utterly wrecked. Homeless, maybe. Definitely abused. Far too thin, far too many bruises.

He reached the boy and went down to one knee next to him, though he didn't reach out to touch him yet. The boy looked back at him, blinking and shivering. Now that he'd found help, reached his goal, he seemed to have run out of energy. This close, he looked like a famine victim, far worse than the usual scrawniness Nightwing saw in the street kids of Gotham. He was little more than skin and bones.

And the marks around his wrists... They were in the shape of fingers. A hand.

Nightwing clenched his jaw, but he kept his voice gentle. "What's your name? What are you escaping from?"

"I'm... I'm Jason." The word was little more than a wisp. Jason blinked, his head wavering. He seemed about two seconds away from passing out. "I got away. I did it. I escaped."

The last part was said with wonder, as if Jason had just realized it was true.

Dick nodded, his throat aching. He reached out and put his hands on Jason's shoulders, and the boy didn't flinch away. It might have been because he was too tired, though. Holy hell, he really was far, far too thin. It was dangerous. Dick felt like he was holding onto a boy-shaped skeleton.

"You did, Jason," he said softly. "You escaped. Good job. I'm gonna get you to safety now, okay? We're gonna get you to the police, and no one will hurt you again."

Now Jason did try to jerk away, utter terror flooding his features. Dick firmed his grip on his shoulders, and Jason grimaced at the pressure, gasping. "No, no cops. Please, no cops. No hospital, either. They'll call the cops, too."

"You don't have to be afraid of the cops, Jason. You're not in trouble. Whoever did this is in trouble, not you. The police will protect you."

Jason's breath came faster, verging on panic. "Please don't call the cops. He's a cop."

A heavy pit opened up in Dick's stomach. "The guy who hurt you. He's a cop?"

Jason nodded, a jerky movement that seemed to take far too much of his remaining strength. "That's why Tim said I should call for Batman and Nightwing. He said...he said Batman and Nightwing are better than the cops for this."

"Okay. All right. I get it. Who's Tim?" Obviously someone Jason trusted, someone who knew about Jason's situation and gave him advice. Hopefully he was a relative that Dick could get Jason back to, somewhere he'd be safe.

Jason was losing the plot now, drooping in Dick's hands. Still, at the mention of Tim's name, he mustered up a smile. That name had power for him, warmth and comfort. "Tim is... Tim is so smart. He taught me...taught me how to get away, what to do. He's really smart, Dick. You would like him."

Dick's mouth went dry in a rush. "My name is Nightwing."

"Oh, right." Jason lifted one shaky finger and pressed it to his lips. "That's a secret. Sorry. Tim told me not to tell. I won't tell anyone, swear."

And then he passed out and slumped into Dick’s chest, completely done.

Dick scooped him up in his arms. His heart was pounding. The boy was far too light. He couldn't have weighed more than seventy-five pounds.

The only thing he could think to do was take him back to his apartment and keep him safe and feed him. And then call Bruce. And maybe Alfred and Dr. Leslie.

So that was what he did.

X

Jason was bundled up in Dick's bed in his apartment, wrapped in a creamy, off-white comforter, just a tuft of dark hair sticking out. The line from an IV sneaked in through the folds. He had woken up a few times since collapsing on the roof, enough for Dick to get some Gatorade and part of a protein bar into him. He hadn't talked much, only answering a few of the many questions Dick had asked him before passing out again. He had made it clear that he didn't have parents, didn't have a family, nowhere to go.

He seemed to trust Dick, though, looking at him like he was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It filled Dick with a complicated mixture of emotions. The kid was so weak, so vulnerable. Dick wanted to protect him forever.

Bruce moved to stand next to him where Dick leaned in the doorway, watching Jason with his arms folded over his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dick was aware of Alfred in the kitchen, bustling around and cooking, soup for the boy and a more substantial meal for the rest of them. Leslie Thompkins had been called and was coming as soon as she finished dealing with a GSW at the clinic. Dick idly wondered when that woman ever slept.

Bruce was holding a printout in his hand. Dick hadn't even heard his printer running, he'd been so deep in thought watching Jason sleep. "His name is Jason Todd."

Dick looked at the printout, then grabbed it and held it closer to his face. Jason's small face looked back at him, younger and much more filled out than it was now. It was a mugshot. He scanned over the words beneath the picture. Jason had been caught shoplifting at a convenience store two years ago. The judge had let him go because it was a first offense, and his mother had picked him up.

The mother was dead now. Cancer. Father had been a thug in Two-Face's gang, murdered by Two-Face himself in a fit of rage. There was no report of Jason being taken in by CPS. He must have been supporting himself, somehow. Five months ago, at the end of June, he was reported missing by a concerned neighbor. After that, nothing. Until now.

He had been twelve when he vanished. He had turned thirteen a month after he disappeared. He was thirteen years old, and he was alone and orphaned, and someone had been starving him and hurting him for... How long? The whole five months he was gone?

There was no mention anywhere of anyone named Tim. Another neighbor? A friend?

Bruce anticipated the question. "I couldn't find anything about a Tim. Not a relative. I checked out to the third cousins. No neighbors or associates by that name that I could find. Not even a classmate. I'm not even sure Jason was attending school, not since his mother died last February."

He sounded frustrated. Of course he was more focused on that aspect. Tim, whoever he was, had cracked their identities. If he knew that Dick was Nightwing, it stood to reason that he also knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Dick didn't much care. Bruce could deal with his paranoia on his own. He had higher priorities.

Dick looked back at Jason. The paper crumpled in his fist. "I'm gonna adopt him."

Bruce cut him a sharp look. "You can't."

Dick turned to face him. "I'm nineteen. I'm an adult. He needs someone, and I'm it. He's obviously been through something horrible in the last few months, and he came to me. He's mine, now. My responsibility. I'm not gonna pass him off, not when he's so scared and fragile."

Bruce frowned, his forehead wrinkling. Dick blinked, recognizing that expression. It was the look Bruce got when he felt thwarted. When something he wanted was snatched out from under his nose.

Dick blinked. "Hold the phone... Were you planning on adopting him?"

The flesh around Bruce's eyes wrinkled. "The thought crossed my mind. At least fostering. I have the room."

Dick gaped at him. "You can't take in a kid like a stray dog just because he catches your attention, Bruce."

"Isn't that what you're contemplating doing?"

Dick growled and struck his own chest with the fist holding the crumpled paper. "He was calling for me. He trusts me. He's been through something horrible, but he called for me, and I found him. He's mine now. Back off."

Bruce had the audacity to look amused. "The way you told it, he was calling for me, too."

"Whatever!" Dick threw his hands up in the air. "You think I can't do it? You think I can't take care of him?"

"I never said that. But since you brought it up, you're barely an adult yourself. I don't think you realize how much you would have to give up if you suddenly decided to devote yourself to fatherhood. You should be in college, enjoying your youth, hanging out with that group of teenage heroes you put together."

Dick ground his teeth. "Oh, and you sacrificed so much when you took me in? You kept up the exact same lifestyle you had before I showed up. You didn't give up Batman. There's no reason I can't be Nightwing and adopt a kid at the same time."

Bruce's eyes flickered. "It's true that I was only a few years older than you are now when you started living with me. But I had already had my time of exploration, and I had already decided that Gotham was my future. I was...settled. Enough. You're still...figuring things out. You don't need the burden of a child. Not right now. Especially one as traumatized and troubled as Jason is going to be."

Dick latched onto one sentence out of that, unwilling to acknowledge that Bruce was making a lot of good points and was probably right about everything. "He's not a burden! He's a kid, and he needs me, so I'm gonna be there for him!" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Jason was stirring on the bed, but he couldn't seem to lower his voice.

"Dick, chum, I'm not saying you can't be there for him." Bruce reached out and took his shoulders in his hands, looking earnestly into his face. "I can see that he trusts you, and I can see how much that means to you. But maybe it would be better for you to be his big brother instead of his dad."

On the bed, Jason groaned, then suddenly sat bolt upright with a gasp. His face was paper white. "Tim! Where's Timmy?"

Dick ducked out from under Bruce's hands and beelined to the bed. He sat on the edge and took Jason's shoulders in his hands to hold him up. "Shh, buddy, it's okay. You're safe here."

Jason looked at him wildly, white showing all the way around the iris. "We have to go back for Tim!"

Dick and Bruce exchanged glances, then Dick looked back to Jason. "Okay," he said as calmly as he could. "Can you tell me now who Tim is? Where can I find him?"

"Where...where?" Jason raised his shaking hands and buried them in his hair. Strands of rough, brittle hair broke off between his fingers. He was so malnourished that his hair was lank and weak, just like the rest of him. Hysteria pushed at his voice. "He's back in...back in that apartment, with that bastard, the one who, the one who..."

Dick held his shoulders tighter. His heart was in his throat. "He's with the man who hurt you?"

Jason nodded frantically, looking at Dick with wide, pleading eyes. "Please, you have to save him." His voice broke on a sob. "He's...he's my little brother."

Chapter Text

Five Months Ago

It was June, and Tim didn't have school the next day, so he could spend all night looking for Batman if he wanted to. The night was balmy, and even the bad air of the city didn't bother him much. He felt almost giddy with excitement, the new camera around his neck a comforting weight. He had an idea for where to go. He'd been doing research, and today was special.

The memory sobered him, and he walked a little closer to the wall as he traveled down the sidewalk toward his destination. He'd hidden his bike behind a dumpster several blocks away, in a slightly safer neighborhood. It was June 26th, the anniversary of the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne. He'd noticed before that Batman and Robin didn't follow their usual patrol routes on this date, but he hadn't figured out why until he researched it this summer.

It made sense. Either Bruce Wayne was visiting his parents' grave, or Batman was visiting the scene where they died. Tim had no chance of sneaking onto the Wayne manor grounds to spy on the gravesite, but he knew where Crime Alley was.

Everyone knew where Crime Alley was.

Tim clenched his fists in the fabric over his stomach as he neared the corner of the alley and peeked around it. He wasn't planning to take any pictures of Batman while he mourned his parents' death, nothing like that. That would be...rude, somehow. Cruel. Even though Tim never intended to show these pictures to anyone else, and Batman would never know, he didn't like the idea of intruding on someone's grief like that. But hopefully Batman would go on patrol after he visited the alley, and Tim would be able to follow and take some of his usual shots.

If he could keep up, of course. Tim had put a lot of effort into speed and endurance training since he started following Batman and Robin around Gotham, but he was still a scrawny nine-year-old who couldn't fly between buildings using a grappling gun. Maybe he could figure out where Batman was going and get ahead of him, like he usually did, or there was always the police scanner he carried in his backpack.

The alley was empty, except for a big black car parked practically in the middle. Tim stared, his eyes going wide. It was the Batmobile. He'd only caught fleeting glimpses of the Batmobile before as it sped away on the streets below. He'd never been so close.

He was tempted to touch it, but he refrained. As far as he could tell, Batman wasn't in it, but there still could be cameras or passive sensors. Tim never, ever wanted Batman (or Nightwing) to know that he was following them. He didn't want to make any trouble, didn't want to alarm them by making them think they had a stalker or something.

He was just a little kid with a camera. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to notice. Not ever. He could dream about being Robin, of flying between buildings the way his heroes did with the moon above and the streets below, of following the Batsignal and driving in that big shiny black car and fighting evil and saving innocents... But it was all just a dream.

Tim knew what his reality was. He didn't mind it. He got to run around and take cool pictures, and really, that was enough.

He shook out of his thoughts and looked around the alley, afraid that he'd been caught staring at the car of his dreams like a little weirdo. No one was there, and he breathed a sigh of a relief. With another glance around the narrow space, he spotted a fire escape, the ladder lowered almost enough for him to reach. He trotted over to it, set his stance, and jumped. He managed to grab the second rung up, then pulled himself up hand over hand to perch on the rusty landing. He pulled up the ladder behind him almost without thinking about it, glad to have a safe perch. It grated as it moved, metal scraping on metal, but he managed it somehow.

His heart quickened with the slight exertion, and he leaned over and looked down at the Batmobile. It was even prettier from this vantage point, long and curved and deadly in the way that a well-shaped knife was. He was pleased he had made the effort to get up high. His hands were steady on the camera as he took several loving shots. He took his time with framing and composition, finding the perfect setting and filter for the dim lighting. It was such a beautiful car.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he looked to the other end of the alley. A boy was moving toward the Batmobile. His face was set with determination. He was scrawny, just a few years older than Tim, and his clothes were clean but a little ragged, one knee on his jeans torn and the cuffs of his red hoodie torn in places. He was holding a tire iron.

Tim caught his breath and ducked down on the landing, hugging his camera to his chest. His eyes were so wide they hurt. The boy was walking with purpose, and he held the tire iron like he knew what he was doing. He wasn't some gang banger just using the iron as a club or something. He had a plan.

Tim couldn't believe that he was about to watch some kid steal the tires off the Batmobile. He held absolutely still, barely breathing.

The boy in the alley paused when he got within a few feet of the car, his eyes narrowed and face grim. Maybe he was having same thoughts Tim had, about cameras and passive sensors. Or maybe he was just having second thoughts about stealing the tires off the freaking Batmobile.

Then his stomach growled so loudly that even Tim could hear it from ten feet above him. The boy pressed a hand against his belly over his shirt, frowning like he was in physical pain. Which he must be, if he was that hungry. Tim could see him wavering. His heart beat in his chest so hard that it hurt.

His hands shaking, Tim crept forward just so that the top of his head stuck out over the landing of the fire escape. His hands gripped the edge of the rusty metal, and he rested his chin against the back of his hand to stabilize himself.

He was about to get himself noticed, and he was terrified. No one was ever supposed to know he was here. But he didn't have a choice. He had to speak up.

"Hey," he hissed. "Hey, you!"

The boy startled and looked around, jolting back a few steps when he saw Tim up on the landing. The tire iron fell from his hand and thudded to the pavement, still several feet away from the Batmobile. "What the fuck? Who're you? How long have you been there?"

"I'm Tim," Tim said in a stage whisper. "What's your name?"

The boy cast a wild glance at the Batmobile, at the tire iron, then back to Tim. "I wasn't doin' nothin'," he forced out through gritted teeth. "All I did was carry a tire iron in an alley. You can't prove a thing."

Tim nodded, still keeping most of his face hidden. "I didn't see anything. I'm not assuming anything. I know you didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why are you talking to me?" The boy waved a hand up at his landing, his forehead wrinkled. "From up on high, huh? Looking down on me, thinking you're better'n me."

Tim frowned. "Well, I guess I am looking down on you in a literal sense. But it's not figurative, I promise. Look. Are you hungry? Do you want a cheeseburger?"

The boy went still, utterly flummoxed. "A cheeseburger?" It was like he didn't even know what a cheeseburger was.

Tim nodded enthusiastically. He pulled back from the edge and fumbled in his pocket for a moment. He never carried much money with him in downtown Gotham, just in case, but it was always good to have enough for the bus.

He moved back to the edge and held out a fistful of ones for the boy to see. "I got my allowance today." A lie, but maybe the boy wouldn't realize that he didn't belong here and wouldn't try to chase him away. "I heard your stomach growl. There's a Burger Castle two blocks over. You wanna come with me?"

The boy's lips drew back in a snarl. "I don't need charity. Especially not from a little kid."

Tim gave him a wounded look. "It's not charity." He paused. Did about three dollars in crumpled bills count as charity? He wasn't sure. "Well, maybe it is. It's just...you're hungry, right? And I can buy you a cheeseburger, so I want to. Is there something wrong with that?"

The boy looked confused. "It's...insulting. Offensive. I'm offended."

Tim was truly baffled by this. "Why?"

"Because you think I'm...poor. That I can't feed myself."

"I never said that." Tim looked at the Batmobile, and the boy did, too, then looked back at Tim with his face flushing. "I'm sure you can feed yourself, just... Look, I don't think it's a good idea for you to take those tires, okay?" He might as well abandon the pretense that he didn't know what the boy was up to. "That's the Batmobile. Do you know who Batman is?"

The boy snarled again, but with much less certainty and ferocity. He looked shaken. "Of course I know who Batman is. All us low-level street scum know you gotta stay away from the Bat."

"Okay. Well, that's the Batmobile. And I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure Batman has it rigged up with all kinds of sensors and stuff. If you try to take those tires, you're gonna get caught."

The boy looked at the Batmobile again, side-eye, then hunched his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was looking at the ground, now, not meeting Tim's eyes.

Tim let the quiet hold for a few more seconds, then asked, "Okay, so do you want a cheeseburger?"

Silence. Then the kid nodded, still not looking up. "My name is Jason."

Tim grinned. "Awesome! I'll be down in a bit, okay? I have to lower the ladder again."

He popped to his feet and hurried to the ladder, already dreading the loud noise it was going to make. But when he pushed down on the rung, nothing happened. Not even a shiver of moment. He dropped to his knees, trying to see where the hang up was. It looked like maybe a sliver of metal had broken off from the damaged support and wedged against the wall. He had to get down on his stomach to try to grab it, straining his arm as far as it would go.

"Tim?" Jason's voice was soft and hesitant.

"I'm coming," Tim half said, half grunted. "Hold on, be right there. Don't leave without me."

"Okay."

Tim stretched farther, feeling the burn of muscles in his arm and shoulder. The tips of his fingers touched the wedged piece of metal, but he couldn't get a grip on it. He drew back and reset himself, blowing out a breath in frustration, then tried again. Just a little farther, a little farther...

Jason sighed and sat down on a wooden crate by the wall to wait for him. He toed his tire iron where it lay, making it scrape on the ground. The sounds of traffic outside the alley got louder, and a wail of sirens began to rise. Tim's heart jumped, but he didn't automatically reach for the police scanner to see if he could figure out where to find Batman. He had a different mission tonight, something more important.

When the sirens died down, there were new footsteps in the alleyway, harder, heavier. Closer than expected. Tim heard Jason jump to his feet. His voice was high-pitched with fear. "Who the fuck are you?"

Tim instinctively hunkered down on the landing, going flat and quiet. He could hear Jason's footsteps shuffling backward, the other footsteps following him. As soundlessly as he could, he crept back to the edge of the landing and looked down.

A man was walking toward Jason, his stance low and predatory. He was holding a bat in one hand. He wore a ski mask that covered his face, and the rest of his body was covered, too. Avoiding leaving evidence, Tim thought dizzily. Alarms were going off in his head, dozens of them at once. This was bad, bad, bad.

Jason was backed up against the wall now, holding his hands in front of his torso defensively. Tim could see from the way he was standing that he knew his way around a street fight, but his eyes were wide and terrified.

"Don't fight," the man said, soft and calm and kind, like he was talking to a spooked animal. "It will be worse if you fight."

Jason bared his teeth. "Oh yeah, saying something like that is definitely gonna reassure me that you mean no harm." He didn't look at Tim, taking care not to draw attention to him, and Tim was grateful for it. The man didn't seem to know Tim was there, entirely focused on Jason.

The man chuckled, low and soft. Tim had never heard anything more terrifying in his life, and he'd heard the Joker laugh in the distance while following Batman once. Like, not on TV. In real life.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time, Jason Todd," the man said. There was such relish in his voice that it sent a shiver down Tim's spine. "Watching where you go, waiting to catch you alone. I'm going to enjoy every single second I spend with you. It's up to you whether or not you enjoy it, too."

The fight was short. Jason sprang away from his position by the wall, body low and compact like a football lineman. He tried to hit the man with his shoulder to bull him out of the way, but the man was ready for him. He didn't even use the bat. He just grabbed the back of Jason's hoodie with one hand and swung him around.

Then he slammed his head down on the hood of the Batmobile. And Jason went limp. Tim stifled his gasp of shock and horror.

The man still didn't see him up on the landing. He chuckled and stuck the baseball through the back of his belt, handle up so he could grab it over his shoulder with no trouble. Then he lifted Jason up over his shoulder and started walking away, calm and slow, like he had just picked up a bag of groceries.

He was going to pass right under the fire escape. Tim held still, gauging his moment. When he judged the time and distance right, he exploded into motion, jumping up onto the railing of the landing and leaping down. He made his body into a missile, his feet aimed at the man's head.

He didn't miscalculate. His aim was true. Tim didn't weigh a lot, but he had enough, falling from a height and concentrating a small point like his feet, to at least give the man a good knock and bowl him over.

But the man heard something, maybe the scuff of Tim's sneaker against the railing. He moved faster than Tim would have ever expected, spinning to meet Tim's attack. Jason's limp body shifted on his shoulder. The baseball bat was in the man's hand somehow, already, pulled back and aiming.

Pain exploded in Tim's head. Everything went dark before he felt his body impact with the ground. He didn't even have time to regret his stupid, reckless decision to try to be a hero.

When Tim woke, he was in the back of a van, and the man was leaning over him. He tasted blood in his mouth, and everything hurt, especially his head. His vision was blurred and tilting, but he still tried to shrink back. The man laughed at him.

Tim tried to move again, then struggled harder when he realized that he was bound hand and foot, thick cords wrapped so tightly around his arms and legs that they were cutting into his skin. He turned his head and saw Jason lying in a heap next to him, similarly bound, but he was blindfolded, too. At least Tim could see him breathing.

The man grabbed Tim's head and made him turn to face him. He was still wearing the mask, but Tim could feel his rage seething down on him. "I don't know who you are. I didn't choose you."

"I'm...Tim," he said thickly. Instantly it occurred to him that he should have given a false name, but his head was still ringing like a bell, and his thoughts were sluggish and painful to piece together.

"If, if you don't want me, why don't you let me go?"

It was a pathetic try, and the man chuckled, harsh and unpleasant. "I should kill you."

Tim went very, very still. He swallowed, trying to think, but words failed him. His mouth felt dry and sludgy. He desperately wanted some water.

Even more desperately, he wanted to go home.

The man let go of his face and started feeling down Tim's body, touching his clothes and tugging at them, though he couldn't move them much with the way the ropes were bound around him. "You're dressed all nice. These are good brands. You're not from around here. Rich kid, huh? Bet your parents will be looking for you when you don't show up for curfew. Yeah. I should kill you right now. Dump you in the harbor. Too much trouble."

Tim's head spun, and he blinked at the threatening tears. "You picked Jason because no one would miss him."

"You're smart." The man patted his cheek. It made Tim feel sick to his stomach. "Orphan. Street kid. CPS should have picked him up, but they didn't. He fell through the cracks, right into my hands." Tim could practically feel the grin behind his mask. "And he's just the right age for me."

Tim swallowed to keep from throwing up. "You should let us go. Both of us. Do you know what that car was? The one you banged Jason's head against?"

The man paused, staring at him.

Tim dragged in a breath and kept going. "That was the Batmobile, and it has all kinds of cameras and sensors. When he reviews the footage, Batman's gonna see what you did, and he's gonna come after you. He'll rescue us, both of us, and you'll go to prison. If you kill us, he'll break your arms and legs and give you some nice internal bleeding first. Batman doesn't like it when people hurt kids."

It seemed like he might be hesitating, but it was hard to tell since Tim couldn't see his face.

"Your best bet is to let both of us go. You should get out of Gotham, and maybe Batman won't chase you. That's your only chance, really. Jason and I never saw your face, so we won't be able to turn you in, and we wouldn't want to anyway. We'll just go home and forget this ever happened."

For a single, breathless second, Tim thought that maybe it had worked. The man agreed with his assessment of the situation and was going to let them go rather than risk the wrath of the Batman. But all that shattered when the man laughed, even rougher and more amused than before.

He reached over to the side and came back with a strip of cloth, smelly and grease-stained. He wrapped it around Tim's eyes and tied it firmly in place, no matter how he tried to buck and shake his head.

"I'll take my chances," he said. He patted Tim's chest. "Maybe it will be nice to have two boys at once. I'll give it a try. Just don't make too much trouble for me, Timbo. I can see you're going to be a pain in the ass, and I'm not a fan."

He leaned closer, his hot breath hitting Tim's ear. Tim shivered and tried to turn his head away, but the man held him in place. "Just remember, I can kill you and dump you in the harbor any time I want. Keep that in mind, and we'll get along fine."

Then he was gone, and a moment later Tim heard the van start up and drive away. Soon after that, he passed out again. It was almost a relief.

That moment before the man put the blindfold over his eyes was the last time he saw sunlight for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Jason told them to be careful going into the apartment in case "the bastard" was there and would try to use Tim as a hostage, so Nightwing and Batman took some time surveiling the place with infrared before breaking and entering. All the lights were on in the apartment, but there was only one heat signature. It was small and compact, and it did not move at all in the five minutes they waited. It could only be Timothy Drake.

It hadn't been hard to find the place. Jason had been able to remember the rough route he had taken after he escaped. He had only traveled a few blocks away before he made his way to a roof, then began yelling for Batman and Nightwing. They were able to backtrace him without much difficulty. And once they found the building itself, well...

It was the only apartment in the old, crumbling tenement building with bars over a bedroom window. A casual observer could have taken them as just being a security measure, not completely unheard of in a city as dangerous as Gotham. But Nightwing and Batman knew the truth.

They swung over to the building and rappelled down from the roof to flank the living room window. Batman kicked the latch off with zero regard for property damage, and they jumped inside.

They already knew what to expect from Jason's description of the place. A two-bedroom apartment with a combined living and kitchen area connected to a short hallway that led to a bathroom, two bedroom doors on either side...and a closet door at the end of the hall. Nightwing slid ahead of Batman, using his slighter physique to his advantage, and all but sprinted down the hall.

He barely spared a glance for the bedroom door on the left, but he was still sickened by the sight of a deadbolt and a doorknob with a keyhole. Jason's prison for the last five months, the place where that bastard had abused him in every way that a child could be abused. Nightwing was already reaching for the closet door, focused on only one thing.

He barely noticed it was locked. He pulled with a strength born of fear and rage and disgust, and the door tore off its hinges, just like that. And there inside was a small boy cringing on the floor in the corner of the closet, throwing his arm up to shade his eyes from the sudden light.

He was tiny, even more than Nightwing had expected from Jason's description. Nightwing knew he was ten years old, having had a birthday during his captivity just like Jason, but he looked younger. He was thin, though not as desperately starved as Jason, and his dark hair was long and unkempt, stuck up on the side of his head in a way that would have been adorable in other circumstances.

He was also pale as pale could be, like a mushroom that grew in a cave, and his clothes were ragged, revealing a range of blotchy marks that were quickly turning into bruises. His ankle was twisted in a way that looked painful and wrong. And he was shaking, his face drawn in a grimace of fear and shock.

Nightwing took all of this in at a glance, then instantly went down to one knee. "Tim?" he asked softly. "Timmy? That's you, right?"

Tim...no, Timmy, Nightwing couldn't imagine looking at a boy this small and cute and not calling him Timmy instead of Tim...slowly lowered his arm, squinting his eyes almost shut as he tried to look at Nightwing. The bruises on his face stood out in stark relief in the harsh light of the hall, and he had a black eye and split lip, too. Tears were streaming down the boy's cheeks, and the tracks showed they'd been doing so for quite some time. His voice was hoarse, and Nightwing had to clench his teeth when he noticed a dark ring of bruises around his throat in the shape of fingers.

"N...Nightwing? Jason found you?"

Nightwing nodded, a hard knot taking up residence in his chest. The poor kid's voice was rough and raw, but he could hear how small and high it was. Everything about this child was adorable. He couldn't imagine anyone hurting this kid, and the knowledge that someone had done so, repeatedly, for months, drove him near mad with fury. "Yeah, that's me," he said softly. "I hear you know a lot about me, but I don't know anything about you. I can't wait to get to know you, Timmy. You're quite a brilliant young man."

Timmy sobbed and covered his face with his hands. It was relief and sadness and pain and gratitude, all mingled. "Oh, god. He did it. He really did it."

"He did." Nightwing reached into the closet, moving slowly in case Timmy flinched or rejected the touch, but the kid just sat there. He rested his hands on his shoulders, gently rubbing up and down. "Jason got away, and he found help. We're here to rescue you." He could feel Batman looming behind him, then see his shadow stretching across them both. Timmy relaxed slightly when the shadow of the Bat shielded him from the hall light. His eyes had to be sensitive after being shut in the dark for so long.

"Timothy," Batman said, in the soft, kind voice he used for children and victims. "Do you know where that man is? When was the last time you saw him?"

Timmy sucked in a shaky breath, then visibly got himself under control. He roughly rubbed his arm over his face, wiping away the tears, then raised his head to look at Batman over Nightwing's head. He wasn't squinting now with his face in shadow, and Nightwing was struck by how blue his eyes were. Just like Jason's, just a slightly different shade.

"He went out to get supplies," Timmy said, his voice almost steady now. His hands were still trembling, and he curled them into loose fists in his lap. "He was here just a little while ago. Twenty minutes, half an hour. He found out Jason was gone, and he beat me up as punishment, as if I could have stopped it. I think he knows I helped, somehow, we always tried to help each other, but... But he, he didn't... He said he didn't have what he needed..."

His breath came shorter, and his face was somehow even more pale, all color drained away. Nightwing tightened his hands on his shoulders. He didn't want to ask. He thought he already knew the answer.

Still, he said the words. "Timmy. Do you know what kind of supplies he was going out for?"

Timmy looked at his face and blinked, slow and dazed. "He needed a tarp. And duct tape. And I guess some other stuff? I dunno. I know he already has the knife. He said he was going to kill me and dump me, just like the boys who came before me and Jason. He couldn't risk it, couldn't... I'm evidence, I'm a liability, I... Even though I don't even know his real name..."

Nightwing went back to rubbing his shoulders. He was overcome with chills, running down his spine and across his shoulders. "Okay, Timmy, that's enough. You don't have to talk about it anymore."

But Timmy kept talking, the words stumbling over his lips like drunken men stumbling out of a bar. "I don't even know... He told me 'n Jason to call him John, but we...we knew that was a lie. We called him 'that bastard,' that was our name for him, but... He heard once, we weren't quiet enough, and... I don't know what to call him..."

The poor kid was definitely going into shock. He'd been sitting in the dark for twenty minutes or half an hour, freshly beaten and waiting for his tormentor to return and murder him. The reaction was hitting him now that rescue had come and safety was just inches away.

Nightwing looked over his shoulder. "Batman, find a blanket. I'm taking him home."

Batman moved without a word, and Timmy ducked his head when the light hit his face again. Nightwing straightened up in his crouch and scooted closer to shield him again. This close, he could smell the bucket in the corner of the closet, covered but not airtight. It took everything he had not to wrinkle his nose.

"Timmy, we're getting out of here. Right now. Can you walk?"

Timmy considered, then looked at his twisted, probably broken ankle and shook his head. He seemed ashamed. "Sorry," he breathed.

Nightwing shook his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing." He let out a breath in something like a chuckle. "Do you have any idea how amazing you are? No? I'll tell you later. In detail. Count on it."

Batman returned from rummaging through the bedrooms and held out a blanket for Nightwing to take. "I found this one in a dresser drawer. It seems clean."

Nightwing gulped, not wanting to think about the implications of that. He took the blanket and wrapped it around Timmy's hunched body, then carefully scooped him into his arms and stood up, drawing him out of the closet as he went. Timmy held the blanket around his body with shaky fingers and hid his face in Nightwing's shoulder to hide from the light.

Then Nightwing stood in the hallway, holding a too-skinny, too-wounded little boy in his arms for the second time this night. He looked around, feeling a little helpless. "Is there anything you want from this place?"

Timmy started to shake his head, then stopped. He held still for a second, then raised his head. He looked at Batman rather than the man holding him, his eyes wide and fearful. "My...my camera. I had it the night he took us. I don't know what he did with it."

Batman nodded solemnly. "I'll find it. I promise."

Timmy glanced at the bedroom door next to them, the one with all the locks. "That's the room he kept Jason in."

Batman nodded, grim and silent.

Timmy looked at him again, forthright and determined. "Take all the books you find in there. Every single one." He blinked, as if suddenly remembering his manners. "Please."

Batman nodded again. "It's the very least that man owes you both." From the gravelly tone in his voice, Nightwing knew that Batman was going to ransack this entire apartment and take everything he even suspected that the boys would want.

When he was done, he was going to stay right here, skulking in a dark corner, and wait for that man to come back. The nearest hardware store that was open this time of night was about an hour away, so he would have time. When that bastard came through the door with his tarp and duct tape and other supplies for murdering a little boy, Batman was going to put him on the ground and probably break most of his bones before hauling him in. Cop or not, a full body cast would stop him from causing any more harm, at least for awhile.

And after that... Well. Time enough to consider that later.

Nightwing kind of wished he could be here to help. But getting Timmy away and safe was much, much more important. He snuggled the boy closer to his body and rested his cheek on his hair. "Is there anything else you can think of?"

Tim breathed shakily, in and out. "C-can I see Jason's room? Just a quick look. Then we can go."

Nightwing nodded, his entire body aching with sympathy and understanding. He stood back, and Batman kicked down that bedroom door, obliterating all of the locks. Only afterward did it occur to either of them that it might not have been locked at the moment.

Nightwing stepped into the room, and Timmy sat up in his arms to look around. There was a queen-sized bed, the covers crumpled and half thrown on the floor. A TV monitor on a stand with an old video game console and a small crate of games. A bookcase with only half the shelves filled, the books ratty and dog-eared. Still, there were enough books that Batman was going to have to find a duffel bag or something to take them all. And, of course, the bars on the window.

Tim looked around, taking it in with wide eyes. Then he looked over at a spot that Nightwing didn't understand the significance of for a while. It was the corner of the room just to their right as they stepped inside the bedroom door, blank and uninteresting, except for the fact that a pillow had been set on the floor there.

Then Nightwing realized what it was, with another shiver that crawled down his back. That was the wall where the bedroom adjoined the hall closet. That was where Jason had sat on that pillow with his ear against the plaster while Timmy sat on the other side in a similar posture, so near and yet so far. That was where two kidnapped boys had sat for hours, talking, crying, laughing at each other's jokes, getting to know each other.

Jason had read books to Timmy through that wall, the younger boy's only source of entertainment in the last five months. Timmy had taught Jason how to pick a lock through that wall, searching his mind for all the books he had ever read on detective work and escapology. They had made escape plans, talked about their pasts, shared their hopes and dreams. They had become brothers through that wall, and they had never been able to touch each other or see each other's faces.

After a long moment, Timmy nodded and hid his face against Nightwing's shoulder. "Okay," he said hoarsely. "We can go."

Nightwing didn't wait another second. He had seen enough. He clutched the boy a little closer and got out of there, weaving around Batman's still frame standing in the hallway.

He was done with this place, and so was Timmy, and so was Jason. Never again. Never, never again.

Chapter Text

Five Months Ago

Jason woke slowly. He felt sluggish and heavy, as if his limbs were weighted down with sand. He had a splitting headache, emanating from a spot on his forehead, but there was something cool soothing it. He twitched his fingers and felt them tangle in soft, thick fabric, like a blanket or a comforter.

Eventually he forced his eyes open, squinting at the way the light pierced into his skull. He turned his head, and something cold and squishy slid down to the pillow next to his face. He narrowed his eyes even harder trying to see it. Plastic...blue...a ziplock bag with half-melted ice?

His hand twitched again, then managed to move. He raised his fingers and set them down on the squishy thing. Yeah. A bag of ice, the cubes all but vanished now into water. Someone had put a bag of ice on his head.

Jason blinked, letting the room slowly come into focus. He didn't recognize this place. The walls were beige, not brown, and morning sun was streaming in from a different direction than the windows at home. Plus, the air felt cool. The power had been off for months at the apartment Jason used to share with his mom, and usually by this time in the morning the summer heat was starting to seep in, making everything feel sticky and uncomfortable.

He got his elbows underneath himself and pushed to a sitting position, groaning as his head reeled. Once up, he looked around himself, blinking. His breath came faster. No doubt about it. This wasn't his room. This wasn't his home.

The bed was too big, to start with. He used to have a twin bed, once, but then his mom sold it to pay the bills (or maybe to buy drugs, but he didn't want to think about that), and he slept on the couch instead. Someone had tucked him in under unfamiliar blankets, and he shoved them away with gasp, his stomach rolling.

Across the room from the bed was a TV with a game console. Jason swept his eyes around, taking in the rest of the furnishings. A bookcase with some books, a chest of drawers with a few things setting on top, and a window with gauzy white curtains. It was a pretty big window, actually, kinda nice, but...

There were bars on the window.

Jason shoved himself out of the bed. He almost fell when his knees buckled, but forced himself upright with a dry sob. He stumbled over to the window, aware in some part of his body that he was dressed in clothes that weren't his, too. A pair of shorts and a t-shirt, both a little big on him, hanging loosely. But the window, the bars...

He wrapped his hands around two of the bars and pulled as hard as he could. His breath was coming short and harsh, almost like a sob though it wasn't very loud. The bars didn't move. Didn't even creak. He pulled again. He shook the bars with all his strength, cold metal digging into his fingers and palms. He pulled until his muscles burned and his arms started to shake, and then his strength gave out and he just. Sat.

His breath burned in his throat. Tears were threatening, but he wouldn't let them fall. he wouldn't. He was twelve. He was a big boy. He could take care of himself. He'd already cried all the tears he had to cry back when his mom died, when his dad disappeared, when there was no one left to care and no fucks left to give...

Jason wrapped his arms around his body and held on tight. It was almost like being hugged. Almost like his mom.

But it wasn't. It wasn't anything like it. It never would be again.

He remembered what happened last night, now. The big black car with the expensive-looking wheels. The kid who told him that stealing the wheels would be a bad idea. The man with the ski mask. The hood of the car rushing up to meet his face. He knew what had happened to him. He knew where he was.

He'd been kidnapped by a pedo, and now he was locked up, tucked away in a single room like a toy in a chest, to be taken out only when the owner wanted it. He had been stolen from his home, as crappy as that home had been, and now he was property.

Jason wanted to go home so bad that his entire body ached with it. He wanted the empty apartment that didn't even smell like his mom anymore, too hot in the day and too cold at night. He wanted the local library three blocks over where he could curl up in a corner and read for hours, never bothered by anyone except an occasional librarian who just wanted to know if he was enjoying his book. Heck, he even wanted the streets and alleys where he could wander freely and look for unlocked dumpsters and unwatched cars.

He pushed to his feet, his breath coming even faster, and all but sprinted over to the door. He saw the keyhole. He knew it was locked. It didn't matter. He had to try.

The door was locked. Of course it was. He hung on the knob, trying to turn it, both hands clenched around it, knuckles white and teeth clenched. He shoved against the edge of the door with his shoulder, pounding on it again and again until his shoulder hurt too much and he had to stop. He even tried to kick it with his bare feet, but of course that did nothing.

And then there was nothing left. Jason sank down by the door and let his aching head lean against the cool wood, trembling hands wrapped in the fabric of his t-shirt. And he cried. He cried and cried and cried.

At least that little kid had gotten away, right? He'd been up on the fire escape, out of sight. The creep's attention had been focused on Jason only, so he wouldn't have noticed the kid. It seemed like he'd been watching Jason for a while, stalking him. He'd obviously been prepared to kidnap him. It wasn't random. It was planned. So yeah, the kid must have gotten away.

Tap, tap, tap. Jason lifted his head, sucking back his sobs even while tears kept streaming down his cheeks. It sounded like someone was knocking. He lifted his head and looked at the door, but the sound wasn't coming from there.

Tap, tap, tap. It was the wall next to the door. Someone was knocking on the wall. The taps weren't terribly loud, but they were confident and assertive. Then he heard the voice.

"Jason? Are you there? Can you hear me?" A small, high voice, muffled through the wall.

Jason knew that voice. The kid. The little kid. Tim. He hadn't gotten away after all.

The breath rushed out of Jason's lungs, and it felt like his tears dried up instantly, fear for the kid washing away all of his terror for himself. He scooted along the wall, closer to the taps, and laid his palm against the textured plaster. "Tim? Timmy? Is that you?"

"Jason!" The kid didn't sound happy, exactly, but he did sound relieved. "Oh man, I'm so glad you're awake. I've been knocking every once in a while for, like, hours, but you never responded. I was so scared you were..."

Dead, he didn't say. Didn't have to.

Jason shivered. "What are you doing here? How did you get caught? From the way that bastard was talking, I thought he just wanted me."

Tim said something too soft to make out. Jason leaned closer, setting his ear against the wall. The plaster was cool where he pressed his arms and the side of his face against it, and even with the carpet the floor was going to get uncomfortable before long, but he didn't care about any of that right now. "Sorry, what did you say?"

Tim raised his voice. He sounded rueful. "I was stupid. I tried to be a hero."

Jason bit his lip, trying to figure out what Tim was saying. "You tried to stop him?" For some reason the idea made him upset.

"I tried. I jumped down from the fire escape, trying to land on him and knock him out. But he got me instead."

"Are you okay?" Jason felt almost frantic with worry. He wished he was in Tim's room with him so he could look him over and make sure he wasn't hurt too bad.

"Yeah, I was knocked out for a little bit, but not very long. I don't think I have a concussion or anything. I was more worried about you, but I think that bastard gave you some kind of sedative. But he didn't have enough for me. He hadn't planned for me."

Jason closed his eyes. It was his fault Tim was here. If he hadn't tried to jack those tires, if Tim hadn't seen him and tried to be kind, tried to protect him, tried to save him...

But it was too late now. They both had to deal with the hand they'd been dealt. Jason was used to dealing with crappy hands, but he wasn't used to having a nice little kid like Tim dragged down with him.

He turned so his back rested against the wall and stared out at the room, his new home. His new prison. "Hey, Tim, what's the room you're in like? Do you have a game console and a bookcase, too?"

Tim said nothing for a little while. "You have a game console? Which one?"

"I don't know, I hadn't figured that out." Jason shoved off the wall to lever himself to his feet. He felt steadier now. His head still hurt, but a lot of the sluggishness and confusion had passed. Probably from the sedative, like Tim had said.

He checked out the TV and the console, then went and looked over the books for a couple of minutes. They were mostly books meant for kids and young adults, kind of old but not in terrible shape. A few adult novels, too, classics, old copies that had aged out from the library system maybe and got picked up cheap.

He wandered over to the chest of drawers he'd noticed earlier. The stuff on top was a plastic food container and a few bottles of water. He took one of the bottles and the container and went back to the spot against the wall where he could talk to Tim.

"The game console is a Nintendo 64. A bunch of games, too, like over a dozen. I didn't spend a lot of time looking through them. The books are decent, at least. Some kid stuff but some classics, too."

The container had a cheese stick, a hard-boiled egg, and a baloney sandwich. It felt like forever ago since Tim had promised him a cheeseburger, and Jason was starving. He started to tuck in. At least that bastard wasn't going to starve him. "So what do you got on your side, Timmy?" he asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

Tim was quiet for a long moment. "Is there a bucket in one of the corners of your room?"

Jason looked around. "Oh. Yeah, there is one. One of those really big buckets like for cement or something, with a lid."

"I have one of those too."

The food started to feel too big for his stomach. Jason set the sandwich back in the container, his fingers trembling slightly. He'd only eaten few bites, but he wasn't hungry anymore. He opened the bottle of water and took a few gulps.

"We're gonna be here for a long time, aren't we?"

Now he was the one speaking quietly enough that he wasn't sure Tim could hear him.

But after a moment, the kid answered. "Yeah." Then his voice hardened. "But not for too long. We're gonna escape, Jason."

Jason laughed, not a little bitterly. "I don't know how."

"I do. At least, I'll figure it out. I've read lots of books. I used to dream about being a detective, being like Robin or something. But I'm gonna need your help."

"Yeah, sure. Of course I will." Jason didn't actually believe that they were going to be able to escape. Not this time. Not from this. But he was willing to indulge a scared little kid for as long as he could. "What, you got, like, a crowbar on your side? Gonna bust through the wall to get to me, and then we'll pry the bars off my window?" And then they would jump out of the window and fly like birds. Yeah, that was likely.

Tim laughed. It was a sweet sound, even muffled through the wall. "No. I actually... Uh. I don't have anything on this side, Jason."

Jason went still, frowning. He could feel his forehead wrinkling up, which hurt a little, so he made himself stop. "What do you mean? You're in a room, right?"

"Sort of. I mean. Not exactly. I'm in a closet."

Reality crashed down again, and Jason went limp where he sat against the wall. It felt like he'd already been crushed twenty times in the last fifteen minutes, and now it was happening again. "Oh, crap. Oh, kid. That sucks so hard."

"He didn't plan for me." Tim's voice wavered like he was trying not to cry. "He didn't choose me. I'm not his... I'm not in his age range. But he couldn't let me go, and he decided not to kill me, so... I'm in storage. I'm in storage, Jason."

"Oh, God." Jason pushed the food and water aside and curled up in a little ball with his hands over his face. "Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, damn."

Tim was too young for that bastard. Jason was the right age. The bastard was probably at work right now, but when he got home he was going to come in here, take his little toy out of its chest, and he was going to, he was going to...

He couldn't cry. Not again. He'd already cried enough.

Escape wasn't possible. He could let the kid dream, but Jason had to be practical. He wasn't getting out of this. Neither of them were.

The best he could do was protect the kid as much as he could for as long as he could, with every scrap of strength he had left. The best he could do was go down fighting. He could at least do that. He was going to fight every step of the way.

Jason turned to press his ear and side of his face to the plaster again, his fingers digging into the wall as if he just tried hard enough, he could reach Tim. Touch him. Make him understand. "Listen. Tim. Are you listening?"

The kid's voice was soft, but it was audible. "I'm listening."

"Listen, when that bastard comes in here... When that creepy bastard fuck decides to do what he's gonna do, I want you to move to the other side of the closet and put your hands over your ears, okay? Put your hands over your ears and press as hard as you can. It might get kinda loud, 'cause I'm gonna fight. I'm gonna fight that bastard with everything I have in me. But don't listen. I don't want you to hear."

"Okay." Now Jason was sure that the kid was crying. "I won't listen. I won't, Jason."

"You make all the escape plans you want. You tell me about them, and I'll do everything I can to help. But I don't want you to listen in on what that bastard does to me. You don't need it, and you don't deserve it."

With his ear pressed to the wall like this, Jason could hear Tim's sniffles, even though he tried to suppress them. "Okay. I understand."

"Okay."

Jason turned his back to the wall and closed his eyes, just breathing. He let his fists clench and unclench, let his body settle and his mind fall at ease. He knew where he was, he knew what was going to happen to him, and he knew what he was going to do in response. There was no more confusion, no more wavering.

The plan was set. Tim could plan for escape, that was fine. Jason was going to plan to fight, and that was all there was to it.

Jason opened his eyes. His head still hurt, but his body was more at peace. He even felt hungry again.

He picked up the food container and put it in his lap. He was going to need all the calories he could get for the coming fight. Baloney had honestly never tasted so good.

Chapter Text

Present Day

They took the Batmobile back to Dick's apartment, pulling in at last to a hidden alcove in the underground garage. Dick changed into his civvies in the car. Tim kept his hand over his eyes the whole time, partly because he was embarrassed and partly because the light still hurt. Usually Dick just came in through the window, but that wasn't feasible carrying another person, even one as small as Tim.

Dick hadn't even finished settling Tim down in the middle of the sofa, Dr. Leslie hovering nearby ready to have a look at him, before Jason's voice piped up from the bedroom door. "Tim? Timmy? Is that you?"

Jason was leaning on the doorframe, draped in a comforter from the bed. He must have heard the front door open and the voices as Dick came in with Tim in his arms. Jason still looked like a warmed-over skeleton, barely standing, but there was a flush on his cheeks and a spark in his eyes.

Dick leaned back from setting Tim down so the boys could see each other. He didn't miss Tim's short, cut-off gasp at the sight of Jason, and Jason almost choked on a laugh, high and hysterical. He ran forward, letting the comforter drop to the floor.

Or he would have run, if he'd had the strength. It was more of a stumble, scarily unbalanced and wavering. But it was a fast stumble. Dick reached him in a couple of strides and got his arm around him, then half-carried him to the sofa. Tim was reaching out with both hands, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if to draw Jason nearer, and Jason reached for him, too.

Then they were together, half-collapsed into a crying heap in the middle of the sofa, pressed so tightly together that Dick could barely tell where one boy ended and the other began. Tim had wrapped both arms around Jason's middle, his hands clenched white-knuckled in the fabric of his oversized shirt, and Jason wrapped his arms around Tim's shoulders and head, clutching him against his chest. They were both sobbing, trying to talk at the same time and barely able to enunciate their words.

"Tim, Tim Tim Tim, it's you, I can't believe it. We made it, we made it. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you hurt?"

"Jason, Jason, it's me, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm alive, you're alive, we're alive, we're here we're here, I thought for sure I was gonna die and I'd never see you again..."

Then it just dissolved to each boy repeating the other one's name over and over again, leaning into each other as if they would fall over if they didn't.

Dick had to turn away and cover his face with his hands to hide his tears. He heard Dr. Leslie sniff discreetly and Alfred muttering around in the kitchen, his voice as moist as Dick had ever heard it. These poor boys. These poor little boys.

Dick mastered himself and turned back in time to see Jason carefully pull away, not making Tim let go of him, just enough so he could take the smaller boy's face in his hands. "Let me look at you. God, I never thought I'd get to see your face."

Tim's face crumpled up in a sob. He grip on Jason's shirt shifted to the front, still holding fast. Jason's eyes moved back and forth, taking him in. "God, Tim, you're tiny. I didn't realize you were so small."

Tim sniffed and forced his eyes open, though he had to keep them almost squinted shut against the light. Dick looked around for a dimmer switch, but of course his apartment didn't have that. He'd never thought he would need it.

"I'm not that small," Tim protested, in the voice of young boys everywhere. "I'm...I'm ten now. That's big!"

"And I'm thirteen," Jason half-sobbed, half-laughed. "And ten is still tiny." He pulled Tim into his skinny arms again, rocking them slightly where they sat. "Fuck, Tim, I can't believe it. I can't believe it. We're both gonna get to have another birthday."

"And another one after that," Tim said with his voice muffled in Jason's chest. He sounded triumphant, which was totally deserved. "And another and another and another. We're gonna live, Jason. We're both gonna live."

Dick had to sit down.

Fuck. Christ. These little boys, these young children, had been convinced that they were going to die before living another year. They had expected to be murdered before they got to be fourteen and eleven. Jesus.

Dick didn't usually swear, not even in his thoughts. But the situation seemed to call for it. This situation, of all situations that had ever been, called for the deepest, most profound cursing.

He wished it was true, what the occasional bigot at his school and at the elite galas used to say about him and his people. Wished there really was such a thing as the "evil eye" that he, a Rom by heritage, could cast on the unwary. If he had the power, Dick would lay every curse there had ever been on the man who had done this to two sweet, innocent little boys.

It took a long time, but the boys eventually calmed down. Jason fell asleep, curled up face-down on the sofa with his head and shoulders in Tim's lap, and Dick tucked a blanket around him. Alfred had fetched a pair of wrap-around sunglasses from the car for Tim to wear so he wouldn't have to squint anymore. He sat limply on the sofa, his head leaning back against the cushion. The glasses were too big for him, but they helped to hide some of the bruises.

Tim had one hand resting on Jason's blanket-covered shoulder, the other sweeping meditatively through his hair, pale white fingers standing out in Jason's dark locks. He barely flinched as Dr. Leslie examined his ankle, turning it carefully this way and that. He almost seemed too tired to react to much of anything anymore, though Dick knew from experience that his ankle must be utterly agonizing.

"This ankle is definitely broken," Dr. Leslie said, in her calm, firm doctor voice. "We're going to have to get X-rays. It might need a pin or two."

Tim shook his head. With the glasses on, it was hard to tell if he was looking at her. "No hospital." His voice was wrecked, but strangely authoritative for someone so young.

Dr. Leslie sat back with a frown. "There's the clinic, but it might not have the equipment we need. And I'm not an orthopedic surgeon. You need specialist care, Timothy."

Tim rolled his head to face her, frowning back even harder. "No cops. No hospital. Not until I hear from Batman that the bastard is locked up, preferably in the medical ward with many, many broken bones."

Dr. Leslie huffed and put her hands on her hips. Dick raised a hand, instinctively conciliatory. "Can it wait? Just a few hours? I'm sure we'll hear from Batman soon."

Dr. Leslie frowned at him, but nodded shortly. "Fine. I'll just wrap it for now."

She got some ace bandages from her medical bag and knelt in front of Tim, gently propping his foot on her knee before she set to work. Dick knew that this had to be incredibly painful, but again, Tim's face barely changed. His grip on Jason's shoulder tightened, and he might have closed his eyes behind the glasses. But he just sat there and let the doctor do her work with only the smallest of stifled, barely audible whimpers.

Dr. Leslie got up from the floor and pulled an ottoman closer to the sofa along with her medical bag. "I'd like to listen to your heart and lungs, Tim. Can you sit forward? I won't make you get up, and I won't make you let go of Jason. Just sit up a bit."

Tim frowned, but he did as requested. Dick could see that Dr. Leslie was keeping her exam as short as possible, only seeking the most crucial information. Her exam of Jason earlier had been more thorough, from what she had told them over the earpiece as they were heading out to rescue Tim. She could see as well as Dick could that it would do more harm than good to separate the boys, even for a few minutes. Tim also seemed somewhat more healthy than Jason, disregarding the extreme pallor and the broken ankle.

When she was done, Alfred brought Tim a mug of chicken soup. "Master Tim, I believe it's time that you ate something."

The boy looked at him searchingly for a moment, then let go of Jason's shoulder to take the mug. His other hand kept running through Jason's hair. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

Dick couldn't remember if he'd introduced Alfred to the kid or not. It reminded him that he had a lot of questions for young Timothy Drake. A lot.

Alfred simply nodded genteelly and took his leave. Tim leaned back against the sofa and took a cautious sip. His face lit up, and he drank again, more enthusiastically. Dr. Leslie had moved to an armchair and was taking copious notes, and Dick sat in another chair, keeping a close eye on both of his young guests. He couldn't seem to tear his gaze away, more accurately.

Tim looked between Dick and the doctor, slowly sipping his soup. He hadn't even needed to be told to eat slowly, lest he get sick, as they had had to repeatedly caution Jason. "You must have a lot of questions."

Dr. Leslie looked up, and Dick nodded slowly.

Tim's expression was grim. He cradled the mug against his chest and splayed his other hand over Jason's head like he was trying to shield him. With his eyes invisible behind the sunglasses, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Dick had to remind himself that this was another little boy, even younger than Jason, who had been through a horrific experience for the last five months. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that both children had been through a kind of hell.

It was bound to age them. Bound to change them. Whoever Timothy Drake was now, he was different than the Timothy Drake who had been kidnapped back in June.

Tim took a careful breath. "I will answer any questions you have, under one condition."

Dr. Leslie's eyebrows bent, but Dick nodded. "Sure, Timmy. What's the condition?"

Tim looked at him. "Don't make Jason talk about it. I know everything that happened. Any questions you have, I can answer. He doesn't say a word, not until he's good and ready."

Dr. Leslie frowned. "You know everything that happened? I was under the impression that you were in a different room."

He turned his head slightly to face her. "Yes." His lip twisted. "I was locked in a closet. But we talked about everything." He paused and tilted his head. "Almost everything. I don't know exactly what that bastard did to him during their...alone time. Jason asked me to cover my ears and not listen, and I did my best to respect that. But I know how many times it happened. I know how badly hurt he was afterward. I know everything else the bastard did to mistreat him."

He looked at Dick. "If it's a matter of pressing charges to keep the bastard in jail, I can tell you plenty of things that he did to me. Kidnapping, assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon, wrongful imprisonment. Every kind of abuse and neglect. Depending on the definition of torture in this state, sensory deprivation and isolation might count. I don't know, I never looked up that particular statute."

It was absolutely surreal to hear this long list of technical terms in such a small, childlike voice. Dr. Leslie looked dazed. Dick just blinked. "You're...very well-read," he said cautiously.

Tim almost...almost...smiled. "I wanted to be a detective, once. And I had a lot of free time. So I read a lot."

"Do you remember everything you read?" Did he have a photographic memory? Dick couldn't imagine how hard that would be, to remember everything he had suffered during those five months with perfect clarity.

Tim shrugged. "I remember what I want to remember." He paused, then went on. "And you gotta realize, I had a lot of time to think in that closet. It was pretty much all I did when I wasn't sleeping or talking to Jason. If I wanted to remember something I'd read in the past, eventually my brain brought it back to me, just because there was nothing else to do. And if I wanted to remember something that had just happened, I went over it again and again until I knew I would never forget."

Dick's heart ached. "That sounds hard, Timmy," he said softly.

Tim carded his hand through Jason's hair. "I had to remember, because Jason wanted to forget. So I told him he could, because I would take care of it. And I'm gonna. I'm gonna take care of everything."

Dick closed his eyes for a moment. "But you're only ten years old."

Tim shrugged. Somehow it looked tired instead of insolent. "No one else was gonna do it."

Dick almost told him right then. I'm gonna adopt you. Both of you. You don't have to take care of anything anymore. You can be a kid again, you and Jason. You can both just relax and heal, and I'll protect you forever. Something held him back, though.

Tim still had parents.

The room fell silent. Neither Dick nor Dr. Leslie felt any interest in asking Tim any questions, all of a sudden. Even though there was a lot they needed to ask. A lot they needed to know.

Tim finished his soup, then wordlessly held out the empty mug. Dick took it and silently delivered it to Alfred in the kitchen. When he returned, Tim was slumped over Jason, and the two were somehow holding hands, their grip loose but tenacious. Dick cautiously leaned over the sofa and teased the sunglasses away to peak at Tim's eyes. As he'd suspected, they were closed.

Tim's eyes fluttered, and Dick slipped the glasses back on his face. He turned on a lamp on a sidetable to provide a little light, then turned off the overhead lights now that Dr. Leslie didn't need them for her examinations. Then he went back to his chair and settled into it with a sigh, even though all he wanted to do was sit on the sofa with Jason and Tim and snuggle them both until they felt safe.

Somehow he suspected that was the wrong move. Who knew when either of those poor boys would feel safe being in close proximity to an adult male again. Maybe months. Maybe never.

Something clinked in the kitchen, and Tim stirred sleepily. He raised his head and looked at Dick, then laid it back down over Jason. "Mr. Grayson?"

Dick gave a painful smile. "You can call me Dick, Timmy. Please."

Tim hummed. "Dick. You know who I am. You and Batman did a background check before you rescued me, right?"

Dick nodded, then realized Tim might have closed his eyes again. "Yes, on both you and Jason."

"My parents never reported me missing, did they?"

Dick hurt. He hurt so much. How could he confirm this? How could he tell this ten-year-old child who had just escaped hell that his awful, criminally negligent parents hadn't even filed a missing persons report? From what he and Bruce could surmise, Jack and Janet Drake hadn't checked up on Tim for months. Months. Not until the staff at the school he was supposed to be attending contacted them to ask why he hadn't shown up.

And when they realized their child had gone missing over the summer, instead of facing the consequences of their actions and speaking to the police and finally starting the search for their kidnapped son, they had just told the school staff and anyone else who asked that he was going to boarding school this year.

But Dick couldn't lie to this boy. Not if he wanted to build any kind of trust with him. "No," he said, his voice low and rough. "They didn't."

Tim hummed. "Yeah, I figured." He yawned and settled his head against Jason's side. "Good. That'll make things easier."

Dick desperately wanted to ask what he meant by that. But this time Tim really was asleep, and it seemed unwise to wake him. So he just sat there in the dimness, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. Wondering how he could possibly make even a small difference for these two boys, one starved and abused to the point of fragility, one nearly feral from being abandoned in the dark, both severely traumatized and fundamentally changed by five months of utter horror.

Chapter Text

Four Months Ago

Tim felt the vibration through the floor that meant the door to Jason's room had been opened and closed. He held still for a moment longer, then cautiously lifted one of the hands he held pressed over his ears. He couldn't hear anything.

It was over again for another night.

He counted to one hundred twice, slowly, then crept out of the corner where he had curled up next to the waste bucket and crawled over to the wall that adjoined Jason's room. The carpet on the floor was scratchy under his palms. He put his ear to the plaster and listened.

He couldn't hear anything. If Jason was crying, he was doing it quietly, not sobbing and groaning like he sometimes did. Tim bit his lips, then tapped gently on the wall, three times. Tap, tap, tap.

He kept his ear pressed to the wall, listening. He still didn't hear anything. He counted to fifty, slowly. Then he tapped again. Tap, tap, tap.

Sometimes Jason needed time to recover. Sometimes he needed a lot of time. Sometimes he didn't come to talk Tim at all afterwards. Tim tried not to let it bother him. It wasn't Jason's fault.

But Tim was just so lonely, sometimes.

All the time.

He counted to fifty again, mouthing the numbers and trying to drawing it out as long as possible. Counting sometimes helped the time to go faster, because it took a little bit of effort, so his mind didn't wander as much. He spent a lot of time just sitting in the corner or laying on the carpet, staring into the darkness and counting. Sometimes he did it by threes or fives or nines. That was harder, so it took a little more brainpower. It kept him a little more occupied. It helped.

He tapped again. Tap, tap, tap. That was three times. After that, if Jason didn't answer, Tim wouldn't try again. That was the signal that Jason couldn't talk tonight, whether because he was too hurt or he just didn't want to.

Tim closed his eyes, even though it made no difference to what he saw, and tried not to cry. It wasn't Jason's fault if he couldn't talk, he reminded himself. It meant Jason was hurt. He wasn't doing it to hurt Tim. He wasn't leaving him alone on purpose.

This time, though, Tim was almost sure he heard rustling. He knew sounds that soft shouldn't be loud enough to get through a wall, but he also knew that his hearing had gotten sharper without the use of his sight. Sometimes it felt almost like a superpower, though he knew that real superhearing was much, much stronger.

He felt the vibrations through the floor that meant Jason was walking to the wall. There was a quiet thud and thump as he sat down on the floor in his spot. Tim pressed his fingers against the plaster, wishing with all his heart that he could reach out and touch him.

"Hi, Tim." Jason's voice was weary, but it didn't sound like the bastard had choked him this time. That was good. "I'm here."

Tim slumped against the wall in relief. "Are you hurt bad?"

"No worse than usual. A couple of new bruises. A scratch on my stomach."

"Did you fight tonight?"

"No, not tonight." Jason sounded regretful. He always sounded regretful when he didn't fight. Then his voice strengthened. "I'm lulling him into a false sense of security."

Tim smiled. "Okay." He mentally catalogued Jason's new injuries in the list he kept in his head.

He knew Jason wasn't going to be strong enough to beat the bastard, especially since he started cutting back Jason's food to make him weaker and more pliable. They both knew that. But Jason wasn't giving up, and neither was Tim.

There was some rustling and some thuds like Jason was moving into a new position. When his voice came again, it was soft and sad. "Tell me again? About the house?"

Tim turned to sit more comfortably, too, his back against the wall and his head tilted as if he was talking to his friend over his shoulder. He was happy to talk about this again. This was the way they kept each other sane and optimistic. Sometimes, often, Jason told stories to Tim. And once in a while, Tim told stories to Jason.

But Tim's stories were true. At least, he was determined to make them true.

"My parents own this big house out in the suburbs," he started, as he usually did. "It's not quite as big as a manor. I took a public tour of Wayne Manor once on a field trip, for the historical enrichment. Wayne Manor is way, way bigger. But my parents' house is big, too. There are lots of rooms that are never used, including bedrooms and bathrooms. They get cleaned once a year, and the rest of the time they're empty.

"So when we get out of here, that's where we'll go. My bike probably got stolen, and we won't have money for the bus unless we manage to steal it from that bastard, but we can walk. It'll only take a few hours. Totally doable. We'll have to stay out of sight of the cops so we don't get picked up, but that won't be too hard. We're both used to avoiding being seen.

"That bastard took my key, but there's another one in the fake rock on the lawn. There will be food in the cupboards and the pantry, lots of it. Mrs. Mac will have thrown out anything that went bad, but I always got granola bars and things like that for my expeditions when I went grocery shopping, so we can eat right away. At least it'll be something besides baloney sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.

"And then we can sleep. We can sleep in my room, if you want, or you can have your own. Like I said, there are lots of rooms. There's plenty of room for you. My parents and Mrs. Mac will never even know you're there. We can shower in different bathrooms, every single day if we want.

"Mrs. Mac only comes on Saturdays, and she doesn't really like me, so I usually stay out of her way. That's why she hasn't figured out I'm missing yet and called the police, I bet. So on Saturdays we can go to the park or something, or just stay quiet in our rooms. And the rest of the time, we can do whatever we want.

"My parents gave me a credit card, and they never really check it except to pay off the bill each month, and I'm pretty sure that's on autopay. Most of the bills are on autopay so my parents don't have to worry about them. I don't usually buy a whole bunch of stuff, unless I need new equipment for my camera, or my computer. Or my bike gets wrecked or stolen, that's happened a couple of times.

"Anyway, the limit is pretty high. Like, thousands of dollars at least. I never hit it. We can go shopping and get new clothes. We can get any food you want at the grocery store, or even go to Burger Castle or Taco King or something. Probably not any sit-down restaurants, because they get weirded out when kids come in without parents, but fast food, no problem. Anything you want, as much as you want.

"I'll figure out how to forge paperwork before school starts. It can't be that hard. And we can get you registered at my school. It's a public school, so the tuition will be free, and we'll just need to get you some supplies. And then we'll go to school together. We'll have friends and teachers and classmates and all kinds of people to talk to and hang out with. I'll introduce you to my friends. They're kind of a bunch of nerds, but I love them. But you can make your own friends, too.

"We can join clubs. There's a theater club, and a book club, and of course there's all the sports, if you're into that. I was taking martial arts and gymnastics lessons before that bastard took me. I'm sure I can enroll you, too. We can get stronger and learn how to fight better. And we'll always have each other's backs."

Tim blinked, sniffling. He wished it was true now. He wished it was all true now. He cleared his throat with a little cough and made his voice steady again.

"My parents only come back once in a while, every few months or so. They usually don't stay more than a week. So when that happens, we can figure something out. I can say you're a friend of mine visiting for a while. They won't care, as long as you're polite and use nice language. So you'll have to stop saying 'fuck' and 'damn' for a bit. Maybe you can stay with one of your friends from school for a few days so they won't get too suspicious. I don't like lying to my parents, but I'll do anything to keep you safe, Jason. I'll do anything.

"And we will be safe. There's a security system on the house, and we'll arm it every night, and we'll go everywhere together, and we'll stay out of Gotham. We'll be happy. We'll be able to eat and play and go to school and have friends and... Books, Jason. I'll buy books for you, too. All the books you want. I have an Xbox, somewhere, though I never really played with it much because I had so many other things I wanted to do, and I didn't really like playing by myself. We can get games, and we can play them together.

"And we'll never be alone. We'll always have each other. It'll... It'll be like being brothers. When I make the paperwork, I can even make your last name Drake, if you want. And everyone else will think we're brothers, too."

Tim cut himself off, his lip caught in his teeth as his heart jumped. This was a new bit of the story. He'd never told this part before, just thought it quietly to himself when he was really, really lonely. What if Jason didn't like it? What if he didn't want to be like brothers with Tim?

So he started talking again, quickly. "Or not. It doesn't have to be Drake. It can be anything else. You can even keep the name you have now. It doesn't matter."

"Tim," Jason said. His voice was gentle. And thick. "I'd like that."

Tim went still, breathing heavily. Snot was running down the back of his throat from the tears he kept shoving back, and his face was too warm. He had to cough to get his voice out again. "Really?"

"Yeah, for sure." Jason's voice was stronger now. "Drake is a great name. Jason Drake sounds really cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

Tim grinned suddenly. It was so big and wide it kind of hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd grinned like that.

He sat up straighter, excitement bubbling his chest. "Okay, yeah! That'll be great. That'll be so cool. We should probably tell people that you're my cousin, so it won't seem weird that you showed up all of a sudden. But at home we'll be brothers, right?"

"Yeah." It sounded like Jason was grinning, too. "You'll be the little brother, and I'll be the big brother. It'll be super great, Timmy. I can't wait."

Tim was so excited that he had to hug himself, pressing his fingers hard into his arms. It was almost like getting a hug from someone else. He could almost imagine it was Jason doing it.

Unfortunately, the sudden pressure on his chest made him cough. He let go of himself and kind of fell down on his hands and knees, coughing and coughing. It hurt. It really hurt.

"Tim? Timmy?" Now Jason was the one tapping on the wall, sounding worried. "Are you okay?"

Tim got himself under control and slumped against the wall again. He was still breathing hard, and there were tears in his eyes. "I'm okay," he rasped out. "It was just a cough."

"Are you getting sick again?" Jason's voice was even more worried. Tim had been sick last week for four whole days. The bastard had even given him cold medicine when it got really bad. Tim hadn't fought him at all.

But then, Tim never fought. That was his strategy. Jason fought all the time, and Tim didn't blame him. But Tim did everything he was told without a single murmur of complaint. That way someday, when he did fight back, the bastard wouldn't be expecting it.

"I don't think so," Tim said. "It was just a cough."

"Being in the dark isn't good for you," Jason fretted. "The bastard needs to let you get sunlight sometimes."

"Or at least give me vitamins," Tim said. "I'll tell him the next time he gives me food and water."

"Do you think he'll listen? He's such a bastard."

Tim hummed. "I think so. It's only reasonable. He doesn't want me to die, not right now. Giving me vitamins would be easier than taking care of me when I'm sick. He should give you vitamins too."

"Yeah." Jason was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was firm. "We have to get out of here, Timmy."

Tim sighed. "I know."

"Tomorrow I'll look again for something we can use as a pick. There has to be something."

"Okay."

"There has to be..." There was a thump like Jason had hit the wall with his fist. Tim jumped slightly, then settled down. "God, I hate this. I hate it so much."

Tim's eyes filled up again. "Me too."

"But I love you, okay? You're great, Timothy Drake. You're the best thing ever. I mean that."

Tim smiled even though Jason couldn't see him. Jason had that effect on him a lot. "I love you too. I can't wait to be brothers."

"We're already brothers, little dude. It doesn't matter what the paperwork says. You're already my little bro."

Tim scrubbed at his eyes with his fist. "And you're my big bro."

"Yeah. It's awesome."

Tomorrow, Tim thought. Maybe tomorrow they would finally get free.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Gregory Pittman was not a cop. He used to be a cop. Batman didn't know if he'd shown Jason and Tim his old badge or photos of himself in uniform, or just said enough convincing details that they believed him. Either way, he was a liar in addition to all of his other sins.

Batman did not bother hiding when he heard the key in the lock signifying Pittman's return. He simply moved to the wall in the living area and waited for Pittman to see him. As expected, Pittman was carrying a rather bulky load of materials, a large tarp folded over his arm, a roll of plastic sheeting, a bag with several heavy objects swinging off his arm, probably duct tape.

Pittman closed the door to his home and dumped his burden on the floor in the entry, then wiped his feet on the mat. Then he went into the kitchen and got a frozen dinner from the freezer and set it on the counter. Batman stared in disbelief. PIttman still hadn't noticed that he was not alone in his apartment.

It wasn't like there was a wall or anything to block his view. The kitchen and living area were one big room, and there wasn't even a table between Batman and the kitchen. Pittman simply hadn't looked. He was so secure, so confident in his total control over his domain that he hadn't even glanced around the room.

Evidently Pittman intended to eat a meal before he murdered the little boy he thought was still in his closet and disposed of his body. Batman waited until the man was engrossed in his frozen dinner, leaning over the counter and humming a tune, his back to the living area. Then he stalked forward, his boots making no sound on the thick carpet. He grabbed Pittman by the back of the neck and slammed his head down on the counter in front of him.

Pittman slid down to the dirty linoleum, a strangled squeal bursting from his lips. He sounded like a stuck pig. Batman manhandled him onto his stomach, his arms trapped behind his back, and straddled him on the floor. He leaned over the bastard, his mouth close to his ear. His voice was a low growl.

"I know who you are, Greg Pittman. Do you know who I am?"

Pittman strained to look at him over his shoulder, his visible eye wide and white-rimmed. He was panting for breath, both from terror and from the pressure Batman was putting on his chest. And yet, when he saw him, he let out a strangled laugh.

"You're the Batman. I can't believe it. The kid was right."

Batman frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The kid. The little one. He said that car was the Batmobile. He said you'd look at the footage from your security cameras and track me down. I was a little worried at first, but you never came. Not for five months. You finally checked it, huh?"

Batman gritted his teeth. He held Pittman's arms with one hand. The other one, black-gloved fingers spread like claws, grabbed Pittman's head and ground it down into the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you're going to tell me. What car? When did this happen?"

Pittman laughed again, even more hysterically. "The car, the big black car parked in Crime Alley the day I went out and brought my new boy home at the end of June. Never saw a car like that, but I didn't think anything of it."

When Batman realized what night Pittman was talking about, he lost his breath. And so he just sat there listening as the man rambled on.

"I thought it was weird that my boy didn't try to run at first. In hindsight, I think he was trying to keep me from noticing the little one up on the fire escape. When he did try to get by me, I grabbed him and slammed his head onto the hood of that black car. The little one tried to jump me, but I got him, too. He told me that car was the Batmobile. He said you had cameras. He said you would track me down and beat me up. I thought he was lying, just trying to get me to let him go. So I didn't. I kept him. I figured, worst case scenario, if him going missing turned into a big deal and I saw his face on the news, I could just kill him and dump him. But it never happened. No one cared." He laughed again, a low, mean sound. "Two for one."

Batman lifted Pittman's head up a few inches and slammed it down again. "Shut up," he growled.

Pittman choked and went silent, lying stiffly under Batman's weight.

"You keep calling them 'my boy' and 'the little one.' Their names are Jason and Tim. I'm glad Tim was confident in my ability to track you down. Did he tell you that Batman would break your bones for laying your hands on a child?"

Pittman tried to swallow and squeaked instead. "Yes. He said Batman doesn't like people who hurt kids."

"He was right. Tim is a very smart young man. You should have listened to him."

With only a little effort, Batman wrenched Pittman's right arm further up his back, twisting it in just the right way. The bone broke with a sickening crack. Pittman screamed. He bucked and kicked with all his strengh, but he had no chance of throwing him off. Not now, not ever.

Batman laid the broken arm gently down on the floor by his side. Then he broke the other one, and Pittman screamed again. Perhaps a neighbor would hear the noise and call the police. Perhaps not. They must have heard many suspicious noises over the past five months, and for a long time before that, judging by what Tim had said about "the other boys." And no one had ever called.

Batman was furious, with a deep, intense rage that burned through his entire body, but he did not see this as revenge. He didn't even see it as justice. He was an instrument of fate in this moment, nothing more. Greg Pittman had sealed his doom when he kidnapped two little boys within feet of the Batmobile, when he ignored the warning of Timothy Drake and chose to keep living his evil life rather than fleeing or seeking redemption.

He had been told what would happen. He had been a fool to disregard that kindness. He deserved this, as well as everything else he would suffer for the rest of his life.

Batman broke both of Pittman's tibia and dislocated his kneecaps. He snapped each of his fingers and thumbs. Then he rolled him over on his back and broke his nose and both cheekbones with three surgical punches.

Pittman was breathless from screaming. Batman bent over him and looked him grimly in the face. "Look at me, Mr. Pittman. Are you looking at me?"

Pittman nodded, his breath bubbling in his throat. The flesh around his eyes was already starting to swell. Batman brought his face so close that he could smell the man's foul breath.

"I know who you are. I know what you did. I found your photos, Mr. Pittman. You didn't hide them as well as you thought you did. I am the Batman. I do not forget. I do not forgive. You have put children through the worst kind of hell, and it would only be right for me put you through hell as well. But I will show you some mercy. Only a little. Do you want to hear what that is? Would you like to accept my mercy?"

Pittman didn't dare to nod, not with Batman so close to his face. "Yes," he whimpered. "Please. Mercy."

Batman sat back just enough that he could see the man's entire face, the better to read his expression. "Here's what you are going to do," he said, his voice firm as granite. This was simply fact. He was fate, nothing more. "The police are going to come to get you, and you are going to confess. You are going to tell them everything you ever did, not only to Tim and Jason, but also to all of the other little boys who came before them. You will not leave anything out. If you do, I will know, and I will come for you.

"You will go to prison. There will be no trial. You will not force Tim and Jason to testify against you. You will not force them to be traumatized again by the justice system. You will confess, and you will go to prison with no trial. If a judge insists on trial proceedings for the sake of the system, you will plead guilty. If you do not, I will know, and I will come for you.

"You will be a model prisoner. You will not attempt to escape. You will not make a plea bargain. You will not become a prison lawyer and file appeal after appeal. You will make no attempt to shorten your sentence. You will not accept parole if it is offered. You will stay behind bars for the rest of your life, because that is the only way you will be safe from me. If you do not, I will know, and I will come for you.

"And every time I come for you, I will break more bones than the last time. We will go over this entire bargain again, and you will agree. I don't care how many times I have to break your bones. I will look forward to it. It will be a pleasure. You will never escape me. It doesn't matter where you go. I will always track you down. Because I am the Batman, and I don't like people who hurt kids. I do not forgive. I do not forget."

Batman stood up, looking down at Pittman from his full height. He intentionally stood in the light, so the full darkness of his shadow fell over the man, the silhouette of the Bat black on the floor. "Do you understand? Do you accept my mercy?"

Pittman wheezed, his breath coming in whistling gasps. He hesitated, but Batman made a small, sharp movement. He flinched, then nodded frantically. "Yes, yes! I accept. I accept your mercy. I will do as you say."

"Everything?"

"Everything! I'll confess. I'll go to jail. I won't try to get out. Please don't hurt me anymore!"

Batman grunted. "Then we are agreed."

He started to step away, then paused. He stomped on Pittman's ankle, the same one that had been broken on Tim. He heard bone snap once again. Pittman screamed, raw and agonized, with a touch of betrayal.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me anymore!"

Batman chuckled, low and harsh. "I never said that. That was fair recompense for what you did to Tim earlier today. Keep complaining, and I'll give you the rest of the bruises you gave him, as well."

"No!" Pittman twitched like he wanted to raise his hands in surrender, but it hurt too much. "That's enough, that's enough!"

Batman could hear sirens rapidly approaching. The police scanner in his headset told him that someone had indeed called the police on this address. If no one had, he would have done it himself.

As satisfied as he could be, given the circumstances, Batman jumped out of the window and swung away. He had already filled Pittman's suitcases with all of the books from Jason's room and moved them to a neighboring rooftop. Now he gathered them up and took them with him, heading back to Dick's apartment.

He only regretted that he couldn't bring Tim's camera, too. But that was going to have to be evidence for the police, unfortunately. He had taken note of the model, and he would buy a new one for the boy at the first opportunity. Perhaps even tomorrow. He'd also removed all of the photos taken before the date Pittman got his filthy hands on the camera, so perhaps that would be some consolation for the boy.

He'd left the camera and the photos he'd found on the bed in the master bedroom with a helpful note for the police. Even if Pittman did not confess immediately, they would have plenty of evidence to hold him. The photos plus the materials Pittman had purchased and left by the door were damning enough.

He'd better confess, though. Batman hadn't been lying about coming after him. He had enough contacts in the judicial system that he'd be able to get to him anywhere. And he could easily find a guard who would be happy to "take a break" while Batman re-broke the bones of a man who raped and murdered little boys.

Batman was never going to be able to get those photos out of his head. He had seen a lot of horrible things in his mission, but this was easily one of the most sickening. Even the Joker, for all of his genocidal mania, wasn't quite this kind of sick. It was enough to almost make him rethink his policy on killing.

But no. Greg Pittman was going to jail, and he was going to stay there. He would be in recovery for months from the broken bones Batman had given him tonight. It would do nothing to diminish the pain he had visited on Tim and Jason and who knew how many other children, but it was the worst Batman could do to him.

Now, it was time to doff the cowl. Batman could not help two wounded little boys find a home and begin to heal, but Bruce Wayne could.

Bruce Wayne was going to give those boys everything. It was only what they deserved.

Chapter Text

Three Months Ago

It was morning, and that meant Jason was watching the 9 o'clock news.

At first he had thought the TV in his room was only set up for use with the game system, but when he got bored and experimented, he found that he could pick up local channels. They were a little fuzzy and staticky without an antenna set, and sometimes he had to sit exactly the right way to make the picture come in. Not very relaxing for actually watching TV, and Jason had always preferred books anyway.

But it was important to watch the news. There was a certain thing that he and Tim had to know. They had to know if Tim's parents had reported him missing.

They both assumed that if they did, it would be on the news. Jason had no idea if his disappearance had been reported to the police, or even if it had, if it had made the news. He was a street kid, practically homeless, with no family and no friends, just a couple of neighbors who even knew his name and that he was alone now. Kids like him disappeared all the time. The police probably assumed he'd just gone to a different city, looking for a better life, or maybe moved in with relatives somewhere.

Or maybe they assumed that he'd been kidnapped and killed, and it didn't matter to them.

Either way, Jason hadn't been watching the news right after he and Tim were taken, because he didn't know he could. So he didn't know. Maybe there had been a small blurb about him deep in the local section. Maybe his face was on some milk cartons. Maybe someone had made a poster and stuck it up in the local convenience store.

Jason wasn't surprised that no one was looking for him. It stung a little, but he wasn't surprised. He had no illusions about how little the world valued a kid like him.

But Tim... Tim was different. He came from an upper-class family and lived in a nice neighborhood. Not Wayne-rich, but rich enough that Tim had never worried about the power going off or had to walk around in shoes that were falling apart because his parents couldn't afford new ones until the next paycheck, and maybe not then. He'd never been hungry a day in his life, not until he came here and the bastard started feeding him nothing but two small meals a day that never varied.

Tim had parents. Two of 'em. And a housekeeper who came to the house every Saturday. And friends, though he'd said that they usually didn't hang out during breaks or in the summer. Tim had people who knew that he existed, who ought to be looking for him.

The city would be up in arms about a kid like Tim going missing, once they heard about it. There would be updates every time the news came on about the search for the missing boy. There would be police stopping cars randomly in the poorer neighborhoods "just to check." There would be specials about Stranger Danger and serious people coming into the schools to give conferences on how to avoid being another Timmy Drake.

Jason knew all this was true. It had happened in Gotham before. Even the Batman looked for missing kids like Tim, according to the whispers Jason heard on the street corners and in the back alleys. Things got really intense around Crime Alley when a kid from the suburbs disappeared.

But so far, nothing.

It might be a good thing. As far as Jason knew, this was the worst part for Tim. The bastard kept threatening to kill him if there ended up being a big search for him. If he ended up being a liability. Jason could hear the bastard shouting sometimes, warning Tim that he'd better not be important. Even though Tim never did anything to deserve that treatment. Even though Tim never fought back. It was like the bastard just got anxious sometimes for no reason and had to go take it out on someone.

Usually he took it out on Jason. That was better, honestly. Jason hated it when the bastard was mean to Tim. Or interacted with him at all. Tim was just a kid, and he didn't deserve to be yelled at and threatened like that. Jason could take it, but Tim shouldn't have to.

Jason looked out the window, the droning from the television washing over his mind like ocean waves crashing ashore. He could see the angle of the sunlight, even at this time of the morning, that proved that summer was over. Not by the date on the calendar, but in the mind of any kid. School had started two weeks ago. Tim and Jason hadn't gotten away in time, so they weren't going to Tim's school together the way he'd wanted them to.

That was when things would change, Tim told him through the wall, his voice tight with both anticipation and terror. When he didn't show up to school, the staff would call his parents. They would finally figure out that Tim had gone missing. They would talk to Mrs. Mac and realize that she hadn't seen him since the end of June. They would finally call the police and report his disappearance.

That was when the hue and cry would start. That was when there would be reports on the news about the lost little boy from the suburbs. That was when the bastard would kill Tim, if he'd really meant it all the times he'd threatened to do it. Jason's heart was heavy and his stomach was sick at the thought. He couldn't lose Tim. He just couldn't.

"You'll fight, won't you?" he asked through the walls. His voice was small, but Tim still heard him. Tim always seemed to hear him. "If he really does... You'll stop going along and fight him, right?"

"Yes," Tim said, sounding close to tears. "I'll fight him with everything I've got. M-maybe I'll be able to wrestle the weapon away from him and kill him instead. And then I can get you out and we can go home. Maybe...maybe that'll be how we escape."

Jason doubted it, but he didn't want to say it. Not now, not ever. He nodded against the wall, his throat aching. "Yeah, sure you will. You're so tough, Tim. You took all those martial arts and gymnastics lessons. I'm sure you can get the best of one stupid, pot-bellied middle-aged man."

"Yeah, I will," Tim said, his voice stronger and more confident now. "Just you wait, Jason. I'll get us out of here. I promise."

Jason thought about that a lot. About getting out of this room and finding a knife and stabbing the bastard through the throat. What it would look like to see the blood spurt, feel it spatter hot on his hands, to watch the life ebbing from the bastard's eyes. He knew it wasn't right, to fantasize about that. And it wasn't anymore realistic than Tim's grandiose dreams about going home and forging paperwork and making Jason his brother to the world as well as to themselves. But it got Jason through the day, sometimes. And sometimes the night.

There still wasn't anything about Tim on the news. Jason was starting to think there never would be. At first Tim had said it was just a matter of time. Maybe his parents were somewhere out of cell service, so they hadn't gotten the messages from the school yet. They were deep in a jungle or a desert somewhere, engrossed in their ancient secrets so far removed from the modern world of Gotham and their son. As soon as they heard that he was gone, they would report it, and the hunt would begin.

As the days passed, though, and still nothing, the turmoil of emotion in Tim's voice when he talked about it had begun to fade. He sounded dull, now, when he talked about his parents. No anticipation, no dread. Just blankness. Just...loss.

The news ended. Jason walked unsteadily to the wall, barely keeping his balance, he was so weak and dizzy. He was on punishment rations for fighting the bastard. If he ever made it seven days without fighting, the punishment would end and he would get the same food Tim did. Jason rarely made it seven days, though. The need to fight back was just too strong, too instinctual.

He sank down by the wall and tapped his knuckles gently against it. Tap, tap, tap.

"Jason?" Tim sounded tired, like he hadn't slept all night.

Jason swallowed thickly. "Nothing."

"Oh."

They were quiet. Jason let his temple lean against the cool plaster.

"It's been two weeks," he said.

"I know."

"Do you still think they're out of service range?"

Silence.

Then, "No. I know Dad likes to check his email at least once a week in case there's anything from one of the big museums or foundations, asking for his expertise. They would have known at least a week ago."

Jason drew a deep breath. "What are you thinking, little dude?" he asked as gently as he knew how.

There was a soft thud, like Tim had let his head fall against the wall. Jason pressed his ear against it, and he was almost sure he heard Tim sniffling.

"I don't think, I know." Tim's voice cracked, and it hurt. It hurt like being kicked in the stomach, like being choked until he couldn't breathe. "They didn't report it because... Because it would reflect badly on them. 'Rich Gotham couple loses their only son, then fails to report it for over eight weeks.' It's a really bad headline, right? A really bad headline. So they... So they've made something up. They told the school that I'm traveling with them, or something. They're never gonna report it, they're never gonna..."

They're never gonna care.

Tim was crying now, and so was Jason. This sucked. It sucked so, so much.

So yeah. Tim wasn't going to get murdered because he was too important and too visible and people cared about him too much. An upside, if you could call it that.

But on the other hand, Tim was stuck here, trapped in a closet, in the dark, because he wasn't important and he wasn't visible and people didn't care about him at all.

His parents didn't care about him. At least, they cared more about themselves than they did about Tim, which was basically the same thing.

"Timmy, I love you," Jason choked out, when he could talk again. "I really, really do. You believe that, right? I love you so much, and I hate your parents for not loving you enough."

"Thank you," Tim whimpered out between sobs. "I love you, too, Jay."

"I know, little dude."

Jason wanted to punch the wall down. He wanted to make a hole and pull Tim through and hold onto him till he stopped crying, till he stopped being sad, till he believed that Jason loved him and was never gonna stop. But he barely had the strength just to sit there, leaning against the wall and listening to his little brother cry.

Two Months Ago

The bastard tried to be nice, sometimes.

He acted like Jason was his guest. Like they had a relationship. When he wasn't hurting him, when he didn't get frustrated and just force him. He would sit with Jason and try to talk to him about what he liked to do. When Jason admitted that he liked to read, he started bringing him more books. Just a few, now and then, but Jason tried not to show how much he appreciated it. He read them all, to himself, to Tim. He and Tim had their favorites, but anything new was always welcome.

If Jason showed how much he appreciated it, though, the bastard acted like he owed him for it. Like this thing was mutual now. And then Jason had to fight to show him that nothing had changed. Jason still hated him, he would never like him, this would never be a relationship.

Then one day it occurred to Jason that he might be able to use this. He might be able to get something that he needed.

"I'd like to be able to watch TV sometimes," he told the bastard. "The local channels come in, but not very good. Could I have an antenna set? It doesn't have to be anything fancy. Just one of the cheap ones from the local TV store."

He didn't know if it would work. But a few days later, there it was when he woke up in the morning. The bastard must have sneaked in and set it up like some kind of surprise present. It was just a basic rabbit ears antenna, two thin wires sticking up from the top of the monitor.

It was perfect.

Jason stumbled over to the wall immediately and knocked. Tap tap tap.

He heard Tim snort awake, then shuffle over. "Yeah? What's going on?"

"He bought an antenna for my TV," Jason said, his voice surging with excitement. "It's one of the cheap ones, the two long, sort of thin wires. It's perfect. We can finally do it."

Tim all but squealed, then muffled it in his hands. "Jason! We're doing it! We're gonna escape!"

"Yep." Jason couldn't stop grinning. He almost didn't care what the bastard was going to do to make him pay for this gift. It was exactly what he wanted, and the bastard had no idea why. "We can finally make a lockpick."

Chapter Text

Present Day

Bruce changed into his civvies in the hidden alcove in the parking garage below Dick's apartment. If Dick was going to start working out of his apartment more often, they should really set up something better, like a bunker. At least Bruce had the sense not to go in the window in full costume, as Nightwing sometimes did. It was a miracle that Dick's identity wasn't compromised already.

Well, more than it already was. That was another thing Bruce needed to discuss with little Timothy Drake. First things first, though. Once the child was safe...once both children were safe, permanently...then Bruce could turn his attention to finding out how a young boy had cracked Batman and Nightwing's secret identities.

He took the suitcases up to Dick's apartment. In the breast pocket of his shirt was the data stick with the photos he'd removed from Tim's camera—everything before Pittman started using it. He hadn't had time to look at them, but he didn't intend to. They were Tim's property, just like the books were Jason's.

Dick surprised him by dragging him into a hug the instant he stepped in the door. Bruce set the suitcases down, then wrapped his arms around him in return. The young man was quivering slightly, he noted, and he held him tighter. He didn't ask why. This was the first time Dick had hugged him since their falling out over Dick choosing to join the Titans full-time instead of sensibly going to college, and Bruce didn't want to question it.

He thought he could guess the reason, in any case.

Eventually Dick cleared his throat and stood back, giving Bruce's arms a careful squeeze. He looked away at the floor, a flush on his cheeks. Bruce stood there patiently. If Dick had something to say, he would say it.

After a few breaths to get himself together, Dick looked him in the eyes. "Bruce, I... I know I've said a lot about you being too controlling, not listening, that sort of stuff, but... I really am glad you took me in. A lot of bad things could have happened to me without someone like you in my corner. I could have..."

I could have ended up like those boys.

Bruce drew a sharp breath and pulled him into another hug, completely on impulse. Dick went back into his arms willingly. Bruce crushed him close, his cheek pressed against the side of Dick's head.

"I would never, never let anything like that happen to you," he said roughly.

Dick held him harder. "I know. I just...I want you to know I'm grateful, that's all."

Eventually they let go, and Dick led him into the living room. Dr. Leslie and Alfred had been talking in the kitchen, but they emerged to greet him. Bruce was not surprised to see the two rescued boys curled up on the sofa together, covered with a blanket. Tim's eyes were hidden with wrap-around sunglasses, but Bruce surmised from the tension in his shoulders that he was awake and paying attention to them, just not moving because that might disturb Jason.

Bruce approached the sofa carefully and sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, on eye-level with Tim but hopefully not threatening. "Tim, are you awake?"

Tim nodded carefully but didn't otherwise move.

"Do you want to know the name of the man who hurt you?"

Tim started, then began raising himself to a sitting position. He nudged Jason, who snorted awake with a much more pronounced fear response, then looked up to Tim as if for reassurance. Tim looked at him solemnly. "Batman is here. Bruce Wayne. He says he knows the bastard's name."

Jason pushed himself up, both arms wrapping around Tim as if on instinct, and looked at Bruce fearfully. Tim let himself be held and even rested his head on Jason's shoulder, but it was clear by both of their body language that Tim was the one who would speak for them both. "Okay," Tim said calmly. "Who is he? Is he in jail now?"

Bruce felt his back straighten almost imperceptibly, as if he was giving a report at a board meeting. Tim carried that kind of authority, somehow, despite how tiny he was, how obviously wounded. "His name is Gregory Pittman. He's not a current member of any police force, but he used to be. I'm not surprised that he was able to convince you that he was a cop.

"Yes, he's in jail now. I listened to the reports before coming up here. He's been taken into custody, and he is currently at Gotham General under heavy guard. The police found plenty of evidence in his apartment to hold him.

"Both of his arms and legs are broken, as well as his fingers and thumbs, and one ankle." Bruce gestured at Tim's ankle that was currently wrapped. "Under threat of having even more bones broken and being chased down by the Batman to the end of his days, Pittman swore to confess all of his crimes and go to prison with no trial."

He looked the boys in the eyes, each in turn. "You won't have to testify. You won't have any contact with him ever again, if you don't want to. I'll make sure of it."

Jason closed his eyes in relief. "Oh, thank God." Tim leaned back into the sofa, going limp, and Jason went with him. Both boys were trembling, too-skinny limbs rattling against each other.

Bruce gave them a few minutes to react to that news. When they calmed sufficiently, he looked Jason in the eye. "I brought your books. Tim asked me to take them." He nodded toward the entryway where he'd left the suitcases. Then he looked at Tim. "I couldn't bring your camera. I'm sorry. I had to leave it as evidence for the police."

Tim somehow looked even paler than before. "He took photos?" His voice was a breathy whisper.

Jason cringed against him, tightening his arms around the younger boy. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I didn't want to tell you."

Tim shook his head, though he seemed shell-shocked. "It's not your fault."

"I did save your pictures." Bruce took the data stick out of his pocket. "This is everything before Pittman started using it. I didn't look through them. They're yours."

Tim numbly took the data stick and held it in his hand. He didn't seem to know what to do with it.

Bruce looked him calmly in the face. "You're safe now, Tim. Both of you." He looked at Jason. "You survived a terrible ordeal, something I would never wish on anyone, let alone two young boys. You should be very proud of yourselves. Your courage and ingenuity in the face of such horror is admirable. You made it. Everything is going to be okay now."

Jason looked confused, but Tim nodded slowly. He tucked the data stick into the pocket of his ragged jeans and sat up straighter. "Okay. This is good. Everything is working out even better than I'd hoped."

He looked at Bruce, calm and forthright. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. You did everything I needed you to do. I'm very, very grateful, and if there's ever something I can do to repay you, please let me know. You can drop us off at the hospital now."

The room went so quiet that the air itself seemed to be holding its breath. Then Dick burst out, "Drop you off? What the hell are you talking about?"

Tim flinched at the outburst, and Jason cringed harder, but Tim didn't look away from Bruce. Bruce held up a hand to tell Dick to be quiet. He faced Tim calmly, though his heart was pounding and he wanted to yell just as loud as his former partner.

"First off, you can call me Bruce, Tim. In fact, please do. Both of you. Secondly, can you please explain what you mean? You want us to just...leave you and Jason at a hospital?"

Tim nodded, though he seemed slightly less certain now. "Just not Gotham General, please. We'd prefer to be far away from Pittman, even if he's under heavy police guard."

"Fair enough. St. Jude Mercy is closer, anyway. But why would we just leave the two of you there?"

Tim's forehead wrinkled. "You did your part. You took care of Pittman for us. That's why I told Jason that we needed Batman and Nightwing. We needed something stronger and better than the police. And you did exactly what I hoped. You didn't just catch him, you made him promise to confess. That's all you need to do."

He looked over his shoulder at Dr. Leslie, a touch nervously. "I know you're a doctor, so you have to report any suspected abuse, but we'll go get ourselves taken care of and we'll talk to the police when the hospital calls them and everything. You don't have to do anything more for us." He looked at Alfred. "Thank you for the soup, Mr. Pennyworth. It was really, really good."

Tim looked to Dick. "If you could have Jason's books delivered to my parents' house, I'd really appreciate it. I'll give you the address. I can pay you back for the delivery fee once I'm back. Thank you for sharing your home with us. You've been very kind."

He turned to Bruce, his face far too solemn for his years. "This is what Batman does. You take down the criminal, and you call the police, and then you go. Sometimes you drop the victim off at the hospital if they're too injured and the case is too urgent. I know we asked a lot of you, making you wait until Pittman was caught before we would agree to get medical attention, and I'm very, very grateful for your kindness. But now it's all finished. Please drop us off at St. Jude Mercy, and I'll take it from there."

No. No, no, no. This wasn't what Bruce wanted at all.

Yes, Tim was correct, as far as he knew. Batman and Robin, or Batman and Nightwing, didn't get involved in the lives of the victims they rescued. They were a closed fist, not an open hand. They were made to destroy crime, not heal the wounds left behind.

But Tim and Jason were special cases. They had slipped beyond Batman and Nightwing before they knew it. Now they had Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne. And Dick and Bruce were determined to do much, much more than just put the criminal away and let the victims return to their lives.

Bruce's jaw worked as he tried to figure out how to express all that to this little boy.

"I can't just let you go," he said, which was probably the wrong tack. He knew that the instant it left his mouth, but he couldn't call the words back. "You know who Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson are."

"How did you figure that out, by the way?" Dick interjected, genuinely curious. Bruce was grateful for the softening.

Tim looked at him, his chin lifting. A faint flush rose to his cheeks and stood out sharply against the pallor. "I...I saw you at the circus once. It's my first real memory. There's a photo in my room of you and your parents, you holding me on your lap. You said you would do a quadruple flip for me, and you did. That was...that was the night..."

Dick's mouth dropped open. "You," he breathed. "You saw our last performance. I remember you."

Tim eyebrows rose above the sunglasses. "R-really? But I was just a dumb little kid."

Dick shook his head. "You were cute. I remember asking my parents if I could have a little brother like you, and they laughed and said maybe. And then..." His eyes flooded with tears. Dr. Leslie put her hand on his shoulder.

Tim swallowed. "I had nightmares about it for years. My parents were not happy about that." He turned to Bruce. "I was so, so glad when I saw in the paper that Dick Grayson had been taken in by someone who could care for him. I used to clip articles, keep them in a scrapbook. I followed Batman and Robin, too. A lot of people in Gotham do, of course. But I was maybe a little more obsessive than some." He unconsciously put his hand over the pocket with his data stick.

He tilted his head at Dick. "And then one day I saw Robin do a quadruple flip. I remembered the ringmaster saying that only three people in the world could do that move. And...well... It wasn't hard to figure out from there. I'm sorry if it seems intrusive. I don't mean it to be. It was sort of an accident, but once I figured it out, it's not like I could forget."

He turned back to Bruce, pleading in his face. "I promise, I'll never tell anyone. I only told Jason because I had to. It was the only way I knew we could get away from the bastard. The plan was to escape together and go to Wayne Manor and beg for help, but when only Jason could get away..."

"I improvised," Jason whispered, the first thing he'd said to Bruce since he came in. "I went up to a roof and started yelling. It was stupid, but it was the only chance I could think of. It would've taken too long for me to get all the way to Wayne Manor by myself, and Tim needed help right away."

Bruce gave him a gentle nod. "You did the right thing, son."

He drew in a deep breath and looked at Tim. "Okay. I believe you. But I think you can understand why Dick and I, as well Alfred and Dr. Leslie, might be concerned about what's going to happen to you in the future. Once we drop you off at the hospital, what's your plan? You seem to have a lot of very good plans, so I'm sure you've thought this through."

Tim nodded. "Yes, I have. I know the hospital will have to call my parents and call social services and all that. We'll have to talk to the police, and Jason and I will probably get put in a temporary foster home while my parents come back to Gotham from wherever they are right now. Hopefully we'll be in the same home, but if not, we'll deal with it." Jason held him tighter at the prospect, his mouth pulled down into a frown, and Tim snuggled harder into his side.

"It'll be tough, but we'll make it through." Tim raised his chin, his mouth grim. If Bruce could see his eyes, he knew they would be steely. This was the crux of his plan, the point everything hinged on. "And then when my parents finally come back, I'm going to make them adopt Jason."

Chapter Text

One Month Ago

"Timmy, I'm tired."

"Please, Jay. One more time."

Tim hated to push. Jason always sounded so exhausted these days. Tim knew it was the lack of food. Jason had almost quit fighting completely because he just didn't have the energy anymore, but the bastard still kept him on punishment rations. It kept Jason weak so he couldn't fight back. That was what the bastard wanted.

It made Tim almost frantic with rage. Every time he ate another cheese stick, another hard-boiled egg, another baloney sandwich, he wished with all his might that he would suddenly develop teleportation powers so he could give it to Jason instead. But it would do no good for him to starve himself in solidarity. He needed to be strong, since Jason couldn't be anymore.

Of course, if he had teleportation powers, they would be long gone by now. Out of the apartment, out of the building, out of the city. Never coming back.

But Tim and Jason were just two ordinary boys, and they had to work with what they had. So Tim had to push, even when he didn't want to.

"One more time, then we'll read the next chapter of our book. I'll listen and count how long it takes. Please, Jason."

Jason sighed. "Okay."

He moved slowly, painfully to the door, and started working on the keyhole with the two lockpicks he had made at Tim's instruction, bending two pieces of metal antenna between a bedpost and the wall. Tim pressed his ear to the corner of the closet nearest to Jason's bedroom door and listened to the vibrations through the wall.

Twenty seconds, twenty-one, twenty-two... Click. He'd done it. Tim let out a short little cheer. "That's the fastest time yet, dude! Great job!"

Jason didn't say anything at first, but Tim imagined that he was smiling. He could almost hear it in his voice, despite the ever-present weariness. "Yay."

"Okay, now put it back. No time pressure. He's not gonna be back for hours."

"All right."

Jason took his time locking the door again with his picks so the bastard wouldn't notice that it was unlocked when he came home. Then he moved back to his spot on the other side of the closet wall, and Tim heard the gentle rustling and thumps as he sat down again, then picked up his book.

Jason didn't start to read immediately, though. He just sat there in silence. Tim pressed his ear against the wall, trying to hear him breathe. Even with how sharp his hearing had gotten over the past four months, he couldn't quite pick that up, though.

"Is this really gonna work?" Jason asked. As he had asked many times before. He needed to hear Tim's assurance once again.

Tim nodded emphatically. "Yes. It definitely will. We just gotta wait for him to forget to turn the deadbolt on your door. He did it at least a couple of times in the first three months. I noticed when he let me out to take a shower. He gets lazy and doesn't do all the locks, because he's a stupid, over-confident bastard, and he has no idea that you can pick locks now.

"You've done so much practice now. You're really fast. I'll keep listening every time he leaves your room. It's at least twice a day, sometimes more. He goes in there to drop off your food and water in the morning, and at night. I just gotta listen, and I'll be able to hear it when he forgets to do the deadbolt. And then you'll be able to get out. In less than thirty seconds, Jay! You're so good now!

"After that, it depends. If it's the morning, you'll have plenty of time to figure out how to pick the lock on my door, and we'll go together. If it's at night, you just gotta get out and run. Leave me behind. It'll only be temporary. You just hafta go get help. I'll be okay, I promise. Even if he figures out you're gone and comes after me, it won't be that bad. I can take it. I can hold out. Don't even worry. You just go, and get Batman or Nightwing. They'll save me, and everything will be fine.

"It doesn't matter that he's a cop. It doesn't matter how much political power he has, or how many people look up to him, or how much he gives to charity. None of that will matter to Batman and Nightwing. They care about justice, not about how popular someone is, and they believe victims, especially kids. You just have to be brave, Jay. Just for a little while, okay? Just get out, and get help, and I'll take it from there. I promise."

Silence held a little while. Then there was rustling like Jason had turned his body to lean closer to the wall. "And after that we'll be safe, right?"

"Yeah. For sure. That's why we changed the plan, remember? We're not just gonna run away and hide in my parents' house now. That's not enough. The bastard has to go to jail. So we gotta tell. We gotta talk to the police. But don't worry, I'll do all the talking. You don't have to say a thing. You're my brother, and I'm gonna take care of you."

"I wanna take care of you, too, Timmy."

"You will," Tim said confidently. "You'll take care of me by escaping and getting help. And just by being with me afterward, and being my big brother. I'm not gonna be lonely anymore, because I'll have you. All the time. It'll be so good, Jason. Just you wait and see. It's gonna be great."

"Are you really gonna be able to make your parents adopt me?"

"Yes." Tim's hand clenched into a fist. This, above all, he was sure of. "They owe me after what they did."

Jason sighed. "I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Stuff like this has happened before, remember? When they forgot my birthday, or they didn't show up at Christmas like they said, they always got me a big expensive present. Even if I didn't care about it and didn't want it. Well, this time they forgot something way more important than Christmas or my birthday, and I'm gonna tell them what I want, and they're gonna give it to me. Or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or I'll tell on them, too." Tim's voice was grim.

This was the nuclear option, he knew. If he really followed through on this threat, his life was going to change drastically, and there was a good chance that he and Jason wouldn't get to be brothers in the same house after all. Not until they grew up and got to choose, anyway. But he was confident that his parents would give in.

He was confident because of the evidence, not mere conjecture. His parents cared so much about their image, so much about not having to admit their mistakes, that they had been willing to pretend that he wasn't missing. Of course they would do anything else to avoid being exposed, too, including adopting a thirteen-year-old street kid just because Tim told them to. They had already proved that they would do anything to protect themselves, including basically a criminal act. Persuading them to adopt a kid to keep the same secret wouldn't even be that difficult, he was willing to bet.

And he was. He was staking everything on this.

Jason laughed. It was kind of weak and thready, but it was still a laugh. It made Tim smile, too. "You're gonna blackmail your parents."

"It's not blackmail," Tim said lightly, with a prissy inflection he'd learned from some of the upper-class twits his parents had wanted him to make friends with when he was younger, though he never had. "It's aggressive negotiations."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, okay. You're going to engage in 'aggressive negotiations' with your parents. Just so we can be brothers for real."

"We're already brothers for real," Tim admonished. "This'll just make sure everyone else knows it, too."

"Right." Jason was quiet for a while. "You really don't give a fuck about your parents anymore, huh?"

His voice was gentle and a little sad.

Tim wasn't sad, though. He'd already cried all the tears he had to cry over this. Something in his heart had gone dark and cold the day he realized that his parents didn't love him and probably never had. It was just a tiny little lump in his chest now, hardened over. It didn't hurt anymore. Where his love for his parents used to be, his longing for them to return and pay attention to him, his almost desperate desire to please them in any way he could... It was just empty.

"No, I don't," he said firmly. "They're just a resource for me to use now, and that's fine. I was only ever a resource for them, too. Something they could point to so they could show that they were a normal couple with a normal marriage and a normal family. I was never anything but a tick in a box to them. A trophy maybe, but not even a good one, like you'd display in the front room. Something you stick in the back of the dresser where it gets all dirty and cobwebby, and no one cares."

Jason whistled lowly. "Damn, Tim. That's cold."

"Yeah, well, I don't care. I don't care about them anymore. I only care about you. You're my family now, and I'm gonna do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I'll use every single resource I have. That includes my parents. We're gonna get out, and we're gonna survive, and we're gonna be fine, Jason. I won't let it be any other way. I promise."

"Okay." Jason was quiet for a bit. "I wish we could just kill the bastard instead of running away."

"Me too, but we can't. We're just a couple of kids. You're too weak from being starved, and I'm too small. Neither of us have been able to train or keep up our strength. Heck, I can't even walk five steps in this closet without hitting a wall. Plus I'm blinded every time he opens the door."

Jason sighed and thumped his fist against the wall. "This sucks."

"Yeah, but not for much longer. We just gotta wait and bide our time. Keep acting the way we have been. You fight when you have the strength, and I'll go along the way I always have. And one of these days he's going to get lazy and forget to turn the deadbolt, and then we're home free. It'll all be easy from there. We just have to wait."

"I hate waiting," Jason muttered.

"I know, but we don't have a choice. Everything'll be okay, big brother. I swear. Once we get out of here, and get past the police and the hospital and probably a temporary foster home and stuff, which will suck, things'll be so good. Everything I said earlier will be true. We'll go to school and have friends and sign up for martial arts lessons and watch movies and play video games. I'll buy anything we want with my parents' credit card. And this way we really will be brothers, instead of having to tell people that you're my cousin. Because we're telling the police, people will know that we stopped a serial killer, and we'll be heroes, too, maybe."

"I'd rather not talk about it. Ever."

"You won't have to. I'll do all the talking, like I said. We can be quiet about it too if you want. We can just say that you're a relative that my parents took in because it was the right thing to do." Tim barely restrained from snorting. As if his parents would ever do something because it was the right thing to do without being coerced. "But you'll be my big brother, and everyone will know it. Tim and Jason Drake. It still sounds really good."

"Yeah," Jason said wistfully. "It really does."

Six Hours Ago

Tim pressed his ear to the wall near Jason's door, listening as hard as he could. He heard the key turning in the lock, as usual. And then... Nothing.

The bastard didn't turn the deadbolt.

Tim scrambled to the door and pressed his ear to it, his heart pounding so hard he could barely hear anything else. Still, he heard the bastard's footsteps as he stepped away. At first Tim was afraid that he was going to go into the living area. Jason couldn't escape through the door if he was watching from there. This had happened a couple of times, where he didn't turn the deadbolt and Tim thought this might be it, but then he spent some time puttering in the kitchen and then went right back to Jason's room.

But no, this time he went into the master bedroom. Tim moved to that wall as quietly as he could, crouching down by the waste bucket. He was so used to the smell he didn't even notice it. He listened and heard the bedsprings creak as the bastard laid down, hopefully to take a nap or something. Tim held as still as he could, barely breathing.

And then. Blessed, amazing, perfect day. The bastard started to snore.

Tim scrambled back to Jason's wall, his entire body shaking, and tapped on the wall. TAP TAP TAP.

He heard Jason moving immediately. Tim had never knocked so urgently before. "Tim? What is it?"

"This is it!" Tim hissed through the wall, trying not to scream. "He didn't turn the deadbolt! He's asleep in his room! Get out, Jason, get out! This is it!"

To his surprise, Jason did not instantly start moving to get the lockpicks from where they were hidden in a rip in his mattress while the bastard was home. "But, Tim... It's night out. I won't have time to pick your door."

"I don't care!" Tim was shaking harder now, with reaction, with relief, with anxiety, with terror. "Get out, Jay! You have to go. Now!"

"I don't want to leave you!"

"You're not leaving me. You're saving me. Please, Jason. Go! You have to escape!"

"Tim..." Jason sounded close to tears.

Tim pressed himself so hard against the wall that it hurt. "Jason. Please. Get out. Go to Wayne Manor and get help. They'll come. They will. I promise, you're not leaving me. Everything will be okay. And once I'm out, I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything. It's going to be fine, but you have to get out first. You have to!"

Jason was audibly sniffling now. "You'd better not be lying to me."

"I'm not. I'll be fine. Now, go, Jay, please. Hurry!"

Tim finally heard Jason moving. A bit later, he heard the lockpicks scraping against the keyhole. He didn't bother to listen to how long it took. He moved back to the bastard's bedroom wall to listen. Still snoring. Thank God. Hopefully he would keep sleeping.

Jason's door opened. It creaked. The snoring stopped.

"Jason, get out!" Tim screamed. "Get out get out get out!"

Footsteps on the floor, running. The bastard lumbered to his feet, snorting in confusion. Tim pressed himself to the closet door, listening for the sounds of Jason leaving. He felt dizzy and faint. The front door opened, then slammed. He couldn't hear Jason's footsteps anymore. He hoped he was running fast.

The bastard's bedroom door opened. Tim pushed himself to the back wall of the closet and leaned there, his knees bending beneath him as his entire body quaked. Jason was gone. Jason was free.

The bastard found Jason's open door. "What the hell?" he bellowed. It seemed to shake the rafters.

The closet door opened. The bastard stood there, silhouetted black in the bright light of the hall. He was seething, trembling with rage. "You!"

Tim closed his eyes. He had done everything he could. Now it was up to Jason.

So he knew it was going to be okay. Jason would never let him down. He held onto that while the bastard's fists crashed into him, while his fingers closed around his throat, while he screamed in Tim's face and sprayed him with spittle and foul-smelling breath. Even when he stomped on Tim's ankle, and the worst pain Tim had ever felt flared through him, he barely reacted beyond a strangled yelp.

Everything was going to be fine, because Jason would never, ever let him down.

Chapter Text

Present Time

Dick had moved over to the ottoman pulled up near the sofa so he could watch the boys more closely. Now he blinked and wrinkled his forehead at Tim. "Is that what you meant by... It would make things easier..."

Bruce wasn't sure what Dick was referring to, but he waited while the young man worked things out. Dick's eyes suddenly widened. "You're going to blackmail your parents? Into adopting another child?"

Tim's mouth pulled down into a small frown. Jason, oddly, looked almost smug. "It's not really blackmail," Tim said tightly. "I'm just going to ask them to adopt Jason, and if they don't, I'll..." He stopped, realizing what he was about to say. Forcing someone to do something under threat of damaging information being revealed was literally the definition of blackmail.

Dick huffed. "You'll what? Stop helping them cover up their wrongdoing? Tell the police about their criminal negligence? Cause the scandal they've been trying to avoid?"

Dick's voice rose higher and higher in outrage as he went on. Bruce knew his outrage was fully aimed at Tim's parents, not the boy himself, but Tim was shrinking back into Jason's side, looking alarmed, and Jason was glowering.

Bruce raised his hand again, cutting Dick off, and slowly reached forward. He only meant to rest his hand on Tim's knee, trying to soften what he was about to say. But Jason growled—literally growled—and squeezed him so tightly in his arms that the younger boy gasped. Bruce backed off instantly, raising his hands in surrender.

"Tim," he said gently. "There are better ways. Besides, your plan is impossible."

Tim's gaze returned to Bruce. His lip curled in a sneer, instantly rejecting his words. "No, it's not. It'll work. I've been thinking about this for three months. My parents will have to adopt Jason. It'll work."

Bruce shook his head carefully, then sat still, considering. Tim was obviously a very intelligent and logical child, so Bruce would do best to approach this logically. It wasn't that Tim's plan was bad, per se. Under other circumstances, it had a high likelihood of working, from what he knew about the Drakes and their relations with Tim. But Tim was...lacking information.

"The only way blackmail would work...and yes, this is blackmail, don't argue with me... The only way it would work is if you were the only one who had the information that the other party wants kept secret. Or just you and a small number of people you trust to keep the secret, too. Like, say, Jason. But that's not true anymore, kiddo. Lots of people know now that your parents are criminally negligent. Everyone in this room, for instance, and you already stated that you know Dr. Leslie is required to report suspected abuse. Once you go to the hospital and talk to the police, the police are going to investigate, and they'll probably find a lot more."

Tim scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "I know. But it's fine. I'll just refuse to press charges. You know, unless my parents don't adopt Jason like I want them to."

Bruce's heart ached. Tim had spent a long time working on this plan, three months, he'd said. He'd built his entire future around this idea, all of his goals and dreams of keeping Jason safe and being his adopted brother and the life the two of them would have together. It was something good the two boys had held onto through all those months of torment. This hope for the future had probably been responsible, in large part, for keeping them sane and working toward escape. It was the reason they had survived.

Bruce hated to destroy all of that, but he had to.

"Tim, sweetheart," he said as gently as he could. "In cases of abuse and neglect, it's not the child who presses charges. It's the state."

Jason looked confused for a moment, but then understanding hit. His eyes fell shut in weary acceptance, and he leaned limply back into the sofa, dragging Tim with him. Tim stared at Bruce, frozen and silent and infinitely pale. He only moved when Jason moved him.

Then Tim's face crumpled. His hands rose to hide it, but Bruce had already seen everything. The devastation, the grief. It was terrible. Tim turned toward Jason, curling down into his side. And he started to sob.

It was horrible to listen to. Tim kept trying to bury it, to make himself stop. Worse, his throat had been damaged by Pittman half-strangling him. His sobs sounded broken, rough and cut off and choked. It was not the way a child was supposed to cry.

Jason held onto him, but his eyes were wide and frantic, and it was clear by his body language how uncomfortable this made him. He wanted to help his little brother, but his own breath was speeding up, and he seemed inches from falling apart and running away. Jason was too weak and fragile himself to handle this outpouring of anguish from the only person in the world he fully trusted.

Bruce didn't know what to do. The boys had already rejected his tentative offer of comfort. Then Dick moved. His face was screwed up, too, tears standing in his eyes. He leaned forward on the ottoman, so close he was all but crawling onto the sofa, reaching toward them with both hands. "Tim, Jason, please. Can I...?"

Jason looked up at him, still with those white-rimmed, terrified eyes. His gaze flicked over Dick, taking him in, then down at the sobbing boy in his arms. Then he looked back up at Dick and nodded, short and jerky, just once.

Dick blew out a breath in relief and practically leaped onto the sofa, sitting next to Tim so there was still a bit of a buffer between he and Jason. He wrapped his whole body around Tim, consequently catching some of Jason in his octopus hold, too. His head lowered over Tim's dark hair, face hidden in his unruly mop.

"It's okay, Timmy," he started murmuring, soft and sweet and urgent. "It's gonna be okay, honey. It's not over. It's not over. Don't cry, baby. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. Me n' Bruce are gonna take care of you, I swear. I swear, Timmy, it's gonna be okay."

Both of Tim's hands were clenched white-knuckled in Jason's shirt, but after a bit of this he let go of Jason with one hand and grabbed hold of Dick instead. Dick took this as a cue and lifted Tim like a toddler, bundling him into his lap where he sat cross-legged and sideways on the sofa. Jason moved with him, still tethered to Tim by one of Tim's hands and both of his own. Jason looked absolutely miserable, but also a little less frantic now that Tim was getting the comfort he needed.

Dick tucked his chin over Tim's head and gave Jason a tearful smile, then bent to reassuring Tim all over again. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It's gonna be okay."

It went on for a while. Bruce took Dick's ottoman, pulling it over to where he'd been sitting on the floor. He waited patiently, willing to give all three boys as much time as they needed to work through this. Jason eyed him warily out of the corner of his eye, but kept most of his attention on Tim, awkwardly patting his shoulder and what he could reach of his back with Dick wrapped around him like a blanket.

Tim slowly got himself under control. The sobs tapered off to whimpers, but he remained ensconced in Dick's lap, face hidden against his muscular bicep wrapped around his head and shoulders. One hand was still clenched in the fabric of Jason's shirt, the other in Dick's. The rest of him had gone limp as he let himself be held.

Bruce wondered when the last time was that Tim had been held like this. If it had ever happened. But now was not the time to reflect on how much he wished he could break the bones of Jack and Janet Drake the way he'd done for Greg Pittman.

Eventually Bruce cleared his throat, and Dick reluctantly uncurled a bit. Tim stared out at him from between Dick's chin and arm, still sniffling quietly. The sunglasses had gotten knocked off in the kerfuffle, and his eyes were blue and rimmed with red. Bruce's heart gave another little throb at the sight.

He smiled at the boy, trying to convey his sympathy. He was slumped casually on the ottoman, his elbows resting on his knees and hands folded together.

"Hi, Tim," he said softly. "I have a proposal for you. Will you hear it?"

Tim's eyes fluttered in surprise, and he nodded faintly. Dick pressed a kiss into his hair. Tim's head shifted with the force of it, but he was too exhausted to react. His focus remained on Bruce.

Bruce squeezed his fingers together. "I'm a licensed foster parent. I had to be, for Dick. I don't know why I kept renewing the license, but I'm glad I did. I'm only set up for one child, but I can change that. You were worried about you and Jason being sent to different foster homes, but I can stop that from happening. You'll both be with me. I won't let you be separated. Not ever, if I can help it. Is that acceptable?"

Jason raised his chin, something like wary hope lighting in his eyes, but Tim just stared at Bruce without blinking. "Why? Why would you do that?"

His voice was still wrecked, broken and full of phlegm. Alfred left the room at the sound, back to the kitchen. Probably to fetch hot tea, or maybe more soup. The boys hadn't eaten for an hour or two, so it was time.

"Why?" Bruce echoed the question to give himself time to come up with a good answer. Tim's eyes were hard and challenging. He did not trust Bruce, and he had no reason to. Sure, he had trusted Batman and Nightwing to save him and his brother from a human monster, but he knew next to nothing about Bruce.

Because I want to adopt you, was probably too much, too soon. Tim had been screwed over by every authority figure in his life for as long as he'd lived. He wasn't likely to trust another anytime soon. Bruce hoped to work on that, but he was aware that it was going to take a while.

Because I want to, was probably too fickle, too "Brucie" Wayne. Tim had been studying him for a while, so he knew the playboy image was a sham. It was the kind of answer Bruce could give the paper for why he'd suddenly taken in two boys who had been through hell, but the boys themselves were unlikely to accept it.

In the end, he shrugged and went with a version of the truth. "You need help, and I can give it. Isn't that reason enough?"

If Tim had been following Bruce Wayne, he would know how much he gave to charities, both large-scale and small-scale. Some of the papers implied that this was why he had taken in Dick, too—just another well-meaning but not particularly well-considered project. If he could frame his desire to help Jason and Tim like that, not too intimate, but not too impersonal at the same time, maybe Tim would go for it.

Tim watched him carefully, eyes slightly narrowed, like he was working out a complicated puzzle. "For how long?" he asked eventually.

"For as long as you want," Bruce said. He and Dick exchanged a glance, and he tried to tell the younger man with his eyes to hold off on the adoption talk for now. Time enough for that when the boys weren't quite so raw, so freshly traumatized, in pain and exhausted. Give it a few days, or a few weeks, to let them settle in and start to feel safe, and the future wouldn't feel like such a daunting prospect.

"Most important right now, though, is that we get you two to that hospital," Bruce told Tim gravely. "You need to get your ankle set, and you both need treatment for malnutrition, as well as blood tests. Whether or not you choose to stay with me, we don't want to just drop you off, though. Dick and I want to stay with you the whole time." He looked up and met Dr. Leslie's eyes, then Alfred standing in the kitchen door. Both nodded gently. Bruce smiled at Tim. "Alfred and Dr. Leslie will come, too."

Tim's face wrinkled skeptically. He finally sat up in Dick's lap and leaned away from him, turning toward Jason, though he didn't let go of Dick's shirt. He didn't seem aware that he was still holding it. Dick let him move, looking amused. Jason and Tim bent their heads close together and held a whispered conference that Bruce tried not to eavesdrop on. Both boys gave Bruce side-eye glances as they talked that would have been funny if the circumstances weren't so serious and heartbreaking.

Even so, Bruce was even more charmed by these two children than he'd already been. God, he wished he was Dick right now. He just wanted to hold them.

At last, Tim and Jason stopped talking and looked at each other seriously. They nodded in unison, firm and decisive. It was almost cartoonishly adorable. Both turned to face Bruce, Jason with his lips tightly sealed. Tim was still doing the talking.

"We've decided to accept your proposal," Tim said. "Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Wayne. It's more than either of us ever expected from you."

Bruce couldn't help grinning, both happy to have his proposal accepted and overcome with how cute this small, business-like boy was. "Please, call me Bruce. Both of you. I don't want to have to remind you again." He said the last teasingly, praying that it would be taken well.

Jason looked slightly alarmed, but Tim tilted his head at him, eyes narrowed. "Okay, Bruce," he said. "I'll give you the same deal I gave the others earlier. Any questions you have, I'll answer. But not Jason. I'll answer for both of us."

Bruce nodded back as seriously as he could while resisting the urge to crush the child in his arms. "Understood. I'd already gathered that that was your preference, in any case. Questions can wait, though. Let's get you both treated."

Tim looked abruptly exhausted. "Right, the hospital. St. Jude Mercy."

"Yes. St. Jude Mercy." Bruce clapped his knees and stood up, then dared to take a step closer to the sofa. He kept himself angled toward Tim, trying not to frighten Jason. "Would you like me to carry you?"

Dick leaned back to make room, and Tim looked up at him, squinting against the light. "...Okay."

And finally, finally, Bruce had one of his new kids in his arms.

He never wanted to let go.

Chapter Text

Mr. Pennyworth...Alfred...had brought two thermoses of soup to the hospital. ("Please do call me Alfred, young sir," he'd said, and Tim was trying, but it was hard. He'd never had any adults in his life tell him to call them by their first names before, and now he had four of them. It was a lot to adjust to.) One thermos was for Jason and held mostly broth with only a few bits, which was easier for Jason to take in, and the other one, for Tim, was much more substantial. As they sat in the waiting room, every now and then Alfred would pour out a portion of soup into the plastic mugs that topped the thermoses and give them to Jason and Tim.

It tasted so, so good. Tim had never had such good soup before. And it wasn't just because he'd only eaten three different food items for the last five months, plus an occasional multivitamin when the bastard remembered to give him one.

Dr. Leslie...not Dr. Thompkins...had gone to the check-in counter with Bruce...not Mr. Wayne...to tell the nurse about them. If Tim closed his eyes, his hearing was still very sharp, so he was able to hear most of what she said. She asked the nurse to call in the social worker on staff, someone named Dahlia, so they could start paperwork, and gave a brief description of what had happened to Jason and Tim and what treatments and exams they would need. When she said the words "sexual assault, not sure about penetration," Tim stopped listening. Jason didn't want him to know about that part, so Tim tried not to know. Even though he kind of did.

Tim felt itchy all over, and he didn't know why. He just knew that he hadn't felt like this when Jason was hugging him, or when Dick was holding him, or when Bruce was carrying him. But since Bruce had very carefully set him down in this hard plastic chair and very, very gently propped his wrapped foot up on a pillow on another one, this strange, overwhelming sensation of need he didn't understand had started to wash over him.

Other than that, and the throb of his ankle, and the ache of his bruises, including his throat, Tim felt okay, physically. Not great, but okay. The soup was doing a lot to warm him up and soothe him. It was almost enough to make him forget how awful he felt inside. Almost.

He had a horrible sinking in his chest and a numb feeling of shame that prickled in his head and limbs, from having all of his plans so easily dashed away by one sentence from a man who knew more than him. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid, so naive, to think it would be easy or even possible to make his parents adopt Jason. He'd been so cocky and self-assured, too, constantly telling Jason that it would work, that everything would be fine. Because Tim was smart and he knew how to make things work and just you watch, big brother, I'll take care of everything.

But no, it turned out that he was just a dumb baby who didn't know anything at all. Everything was ruined now. There was no way that he and Jason would ever be brothers in the eyes of the law. His parents were going to come back and he would have to go live with them again, in that empty, empty house, all by himself. The itching all over his body felt even more pronounced. He rubbed his arms and closed his eyes behind the sunglasses, shuddering.

Someone grabbed his arm. Tim opened his eyes and looked up. It was Jason, sitting in the chair next to him. His mouth was firm, his expression pinched. "It's okay, little bro," he said softly, just for Tim's ears.

Tim wanted to reassure him in return, but instead he shook his head numbly. "It's really not." He blinked, and a stupid, traitorous tear leaked out under the glasses. "I'm...I'm sorry."

Jason's forehead wrinkled up, and wow, it was cool to be able to see his face while they were talking instead of just guessing what he looked like the whole time. "For what?"

"I was stupid." Tim sucked in a breath and forced the tears down. He'd cried enough. "I'm really sorry."

Jason frowned harder. He slid his hand down Tim's arm and grabbed his hand instead, twining their fingers together. And wow. Wow, that felt good. The itching almost went away entirely. "You're the smartest kid I know, Timmy."

Tim closed his eyes and turned his head away. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. Didn't want to explain to Jason in detail just how ignorant he'd been, just how foolish. He kept holding Jason's hand, though. He didn't want to let go.

All too soon, a nurse came out and said they were ready to move Jason to an exam room. Tim didn't want to let go, and part of him expected Jason to object to leaving him behind. But he didn't. He gave Tim a regretful look, then disengaged his hand and stood up. Dick and Dr. Leslie went with him. Dick put a hand on his shoulder, and Jason started to lean away, then just let him do it.

Then Tim realized. They were going to examine Jason and ask him questions about what the bastard had done to him. This was the part Jason never wanted Tim to know, so he was okay with being separated from him, at least for a while.

Tim took off his sunglasses and covered his face with his hands. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry.

"Tim?" It was Bruce's voice, almost in his ear. It was low and soft and so, so gentle, like he was afraid that Tim would crack apart if he talked too loud.

Tim sniffed hard, forcing back the tears, then lowered his hands to look at him. Bruce was sitting in the chair Jason had left, his body angled to face Tim. His eyebrows were wrinkled, and his eyes were sad. It was still pretty neat to be able to look at people while they were interacting.

Tim sniffed again and put the sunglasses back on. He very much appreciated how they shielded him, both from the light and from the eyes of others. He tried to smile, but it didn't work. "Yeah?"

"Alfred and I will stay with you, all right? We're not going to leave you alone. Is there anything you want?"

Jason, Tim almost said. Adoption paperwork with Jason's name on it. To be eighteen years old so I can leave and Jason can go with me. He shook his head. "Water?" The soup was good, but a little salty, and he was starting to feel parched.

Bruce looked at Alfred, and Alfred moved toward the vending machines in the corner of the waiting room. Bruce kept looking at Tim with that careful, penetrating gaze. Like he was trying to figure him out, or figure out what to do, maybe. After a moment, he held out his hand, empty and open.

Tim looked at his hand. It was so big. He could see the callouses from hard work, lifting weights and throwing batarangs, the tiny scars on his knuckles from throwing punches and splitting skin. He didn't know how anyone could look at those hands and think that Bruce Wayne was just a useless socialite. But people saw what they wanted to see. He'd always known that.

Tim glanced up at Bruce's face and saw him simply waiting, open and patient. Slowly, tentatively, he reached back. The tips of his fingers set down in the center of Bruce's palm. Bruce let out a breath, like he'd been waiting for this. Slowly, carefully, he folded his hand around Tim's and held it in his own.

It felt nice. The itching subsided again. Tim leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Alfred returned with a bottle of water. He opened it for Tim and put it in his hand so he didn't have to let go of Bruce. Tim sat up to drink, letting the coolness flood his mouth and soothe his throat. "Wow. This tastes a lot better cold."

Bruce's face stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Tim looked at him. He'd known the questions would start eventually. Might as well get going, he guessed. Still, Bruce didn't let go of his hand, and Tim didn't try to pull away.

"Every morning, Pittman gave me a food container and two bottles of water. That was to last the whole day. The container would have a string cheese stick, a hard-boiled egg, and a baloney sandwich, no mayo. In the evening, he gave me the same thing again. A food container and two bottles of water.

"The water was never cold. I bet he just bought the bottles by the case and left them in the packaging in his kitchen. I kept getting sick at first, from being in the dark with not-good food. So he started giving me multivitamins too, after I kept asking. Sometimes he forgot, though. He was so lazy. God, I hate him. I wish he was dead. Are you sure Batman didn't kill him?"

He didn't know why he said the last part, especially in that harsh, vicious tone. It just burst out of him. He had meant to be more careful, more polite.

Despite himself, he was starting to feel safe with Bruce. Like he could say anything. Like he could be himself. It was dangerous. He wanted to pull away, but he also didn't want Bruce to stop holding his hand. So he just sat there, his shoulders hunching up around his ears.

"I'm sorry, Tim," Bruce said. "Pittman is just in the hospital with a number of broken bones. I'm sure Batman wishes that he had broken more, though."

Bruce squeezed his hand. Tim's shoulders released from their hunch, and he slumped down and drank more water. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"Was that the same food he gave Jason?" Bruce asked, and Tim was so, so grateful for the distraction.

He nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, except for when Jason was on punishment rations for fighting back. Which was most of the time. Then he just got the water and one hard-boiled egg, morning and night." He looked up at Bruce, a sneer curling his lip. "Can you believe that? The bastard gave him nothing but two hard-boiled eggs a day. For weeks at a time. I hope he dies in prison."

He was quivering with rage. It made his entire body feel tense and overstrung, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Bruce reached out with his free hand, slowly, giving Tim time to shake his head or move away. But Tim leaned toward him instead, almost instinctively. Bruce laid his hand on the back of Tim's neck and massaged his tense muscles, stopping the incipient headache from getting too bad.

"I can assure you, Pittman will spend the rest of his life in prison," Bruce said gravely. "How long or short that may be is out of my hands. But he will never get out, and he will never threaten you or your brother again. You have my word."

Tim nodded limply, and his body tilted toward Bruce even further. The arm of the chair got in the way, but he ended up leaning on Bruce with his upper body. Bruce kept holding his hand, and his other arm wrapped his shoulders. He started petting Tim's hair, slow and almost contemplative.

It felt so, so good. The itching was all the way gone, at least for now. Tim just lay there with his eyes closed, aware of nothing else.

"You're so nice," he murmured after a while. "I didn't expect you to be so nice."

Bruce hummed. His voice rumbled in Tim's ear. It was amazing. "I'm glad you think so."

"Do you think you'd be a good dad? Were you a good dad to Dick?"

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "I made mistakes. You can ask Dick, and I'm sure he'll give you an earful. But I can say with certainty that I love having Dick in my life, and I wouldn't give up our time together for the world."

"That's good. More than my parents could say." Tim didn't try to hide the bitterness in his voice. He didn't hate his parents as much as he hated Pittman. He mostly just felt nothing for them anymore. Nothing but betrayal and loss. They weren't important, except for the ways they could ruin things for him.

Which was all of it. All the ways.

Tim sighed. "Do you want to adopt Jason?"

Bruce's hand paused in Tim's hair, then started moving again when Tim made a low noise of frustration and butted his head against his chest. "Do you want me to adopt Jason?" he asked, which was frustratingly obtuse.

Tim frowned. "If I can't make my parents do it, I think you're the next best option. I'm still gonna ask them, but... I don't think they're gonna do it if I can't force them. They owe me big, but this is probably still too big."

Bruce made a noise of agreement. "Adoption takes a long time. They would have to start out as foster parents, which is a process in itself. There would be visitations and court hearings and a lot of contact with the law. From what I've learned about your parents, I'm not sure they would have the patience or temperament for something like that."

Tim sniffled. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry.

"Tim." Bruce's voice was suddenly very serious. He stopped petting his hair and holding his hand. He pushed him away from his chest and held his shoulders with both hands, despite Tim straining against his hold and gritting his teeth, trying to go back to the warmth of his chest and his arms. He looked into Tim's eyes, frowning and intense. "Tim, do you think you're going back to your parents?"

Tim blinked. He wasn't going to cry. "Of course I am. They'll come back from wherever they are and collect me from the hospital, or from your house, whatever, and I'll be home again. They'll make a fuss and say a lot of nice things about sticking around and spending time with me and making up for being away, and then a couple of weeks or a month later another exciting dig will pop up, or a business opportunity, or the beaches will open at Belize, I don't know, and they'll leave again, and I'll be alone again, and it'll be just like it was before."

Now he was crying, and the glasses hid nothing, and Tim hated it. He hated this. He hated everything. He hated Pittman for torturing him and destroying his friend, he hated Jason for growing to be his brother only for it be taken away, he hated his parents for being so absent and so fickle, he hated himself for being stupid and ignorant and naive and just...dumb, to think that he could fix things, to think that he could fix anything. That he could ever make anything better, for himself or Jason or anyone else in the world, when it was all too obvious now that he was too young and too weak and too useless to be any good to anyone, let alone himself.

"Tim. Kiddo. Sweetheart. Please stop." Bruce's voice sounded broken, too, and it was awful. It was the worst thing in the world.

He took off Tim's sunglasses and wiped his tears away with his thumbs. And he picked him up in his arms, just like Dick had on the sofa, being careful not to jostle his ankle. He pulled Tim into his lap, and it was like being carried again, like being taken away from that awful place. Like being wrapped up in an oak tree, tall and strong and broad and sheltering and wise and so, so kind. Tim hadn't expected Bruce to be nice. He hadn't expected Batman to be gentle.

And it was ruining him. He was never going to be able to stand being alone in his empty house again, not when he knew that there was something like this in the world and he could never have it. He tried to push off Bruce's chest with his hands, trying to escape, but Bruce just tucked him in closer and held him harder and...

Tim didn't want to get away. He never wanted it to go away. The itching was gone. He went limp in Bruce's hold.

"Tim," he said, and again his voice was rumbling in his chest, filling every nanometer of Tim's skull with a low, comforting hum. "You are never going back there. Never. Your parents... What they did to you was evil. It's abuse. Child neglect, child endangerment, child abandonment, and that's just off the top of my head. I don't know all the legal terms. We'll let the lawyers sort it out. But you're never going back there. I won't have it.

"To answer your question, yes. I want to adopt Jason. I want to adopt you, too. I wasn't going to mention it, yet, because I didn't want to scare the two of you away. You've been through so much, so much horror, and I know it will take time for you to trust again. I don't want to force you, and I don't want you to feel obligated in any way. But yes, I want you. I want you both. And so does Dick, and Alfred."

He laughed, which was weird, and nice, and so, so warm. Tim had never imagined Batman laughing either, at least not this gently and sweetly. "Dick wants to adopt you, too. He called dibs, actually. We're going to have to work it out. But God, Tim. You and Jason, you're both... You're family. No matter what that means, no matter how it shakes out, or how long it takes to work out the legalities."

He kissed the top of Tim's head, and it was too much. It was all too much. Tim didn't even have any tears to shed anymore, he was so completely overwhelmed.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to believe. It was all too good to be true, and he was too exhausted and battered by the swirling emotions inside his head and his heart to sort it all out.

But he still didn't want to move. And Bruce didn't make him.

Eventually, he drifted off, sliding into sleep between one moment and the next, cradled by warmth and calm and the gentle murmur of Bruce's voice.

Chapter Text

The exam sucked. A lot. Jason only barely kept himself from running away. He was so tense the whole time that he ended up with a bad headache. Dick offered to hold his hand, but it didn't really help. Jason felt like there were bugs crawling under his skin whenever someone touched him, including Dick. The only one who didn't make him feel that way so far was Tim.

Dr. Leslie persuaded the nurse to let her do the most invasive stuff, which he appreciated. He'd been able to put up with Dr. Leslie touching him in Dick's apartment, so it was better to let her do this now. She was calm and professional and made it seem like not such a big deal.

But when they made him put his feet in the...thingies...stirrups...whatever... Jason did grab Dick's hand then. He held on so tight that there was a red mark on Dick's hand for a long time afterward, but he didn't say a word. Didn't even flinch. It was like his own pain didn't matter, if it meant making Jason feel even a tiny bit better. Jason's respect for Dick rose another couple of notches when he realized that.

He answered the questions, too. Kind of shortly and rudely, but he did. He told them what they needed to know, sitting on the exam table with his arms wrapped around his stomach the entire time. Yeah, Pittman did do that. Yeah, he did that too. That too. No, Jason didn't know how many times. A lot. A lot of times.

Protection? What was that?

He never wanted to talk about this again. He didn't even want to talk about this time, but he made himself do it. It hurt like hell, but he did it.

This was for Tim, he kept telling himself. Jason could run away and disappear into the night, and he would be fine, but Tim wouldn't. Tim would want to come with him, because he couldn't stand being apart from Jason anymore, and Jason couldn't stand being apart from him, either, to be honest.

But Tim had always had a house before. His parents sucked major balls, but they gave him food and clothes and a bed and all that stuff. The apartment Jason used to live in had probably been taken over by someone else, so they wouldn't be able to go back there. Jason had slept behind dumpsters and in boxes in alleys a few times when his dad was home and he needed to get away for awhile, so he knew he could get used to living on the streets eventually, but Tim shouldn't have to put up with that.

Tim deserved better. He deserved so, so much better than the crappy deal he'd gotten, mostly because of Jason. He deserved a house and nice things and people to look after him.

This was not to say that Jason trusted Bruce Wayne. Far from it. Tim had been talking up Batman and Nightwing, and therefore Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, from pretty much the first day. They were Tim's heroes, and he acted like they hung the moon and stars. Jason would be lying if he said a little bit of that hero worship hadn't rubbed off on him, too, at least enough that he'd been pretty awed and overwhelmed when Nightwing showed up on that roof.

But Jason had a different perspective on the winged vigilantes of Gotham, as well as on rich elitists who didn't even live in the city proper. He'd never argued with Tim during any of their conversations through the walls, never tried to talk him down. Tim was just a little kid in a horrible, horrible situation, and he deserved to be able to hold onto any sliver of hope that he had. Jason had even encouraged him at times, asking him to tell again that story of how he got that really good shot of Batman and Robin up on the roof of the GCPD headquarters talking to Commissioner Gordon, or the time he got some action shots of Batman fighting Poison Ivy from a couple of blocks away with a telephoto lens. Tim was always super excited to share those stories again, no matter how many times he'd told them in the past.

But Jason remembered being on the streets when the Bat and his little bird flew overhead, surrounded by people who maybe weren't exactly on the up-and-up, but really weren't so bad in the grand scheme of things. He remembered the murmurs of fear, the way some guys would slink away to their homes rather than risk being caught by the Bat at whatever shady job they had lined up that night. And then maybe those guys couldn't make rent that month, and maybe they lost their homes, and maybe Jason didn't see their wife or kids anymore because they ended up in one of the shelters or had to move away because Gotham couldn't sustain them anymore.

Sure, he knew Batman and his allies did a lot of good in Gotham. They kept the crazies down, and Jason had seen how the violent crime statistics decreased after the Bat started his mission, the same as anybody else who watched the news. But that didn't always mean good specifically for Jason and the people who meant something to him. Not by a long shot.

When Bruce had made that offer and said he wanted to foster the two them, Jason almost spit in his face. It was pure instinct, nothing of reason in it. He did not want that man anywhere near him and Tim, and that was that. But Jason's hand had been resting on Tim's back, and he'd felt the way Tim's breath hitched in shock and delight at being asked to stay with not just Bruce, but Batman. That was really the only reason he ever agreed. So now he was stuck with it, and he was going to do his best to bear it.

For Tim's sake. All for Tim.

When the exam was over, the nurse left the room with a tray of...stuff, and Dr. Leslie followed her out. Jason sat slumped on the exam table, staring at the wall. He felt cold and sort of absent, like he wasn't really in his body. Dick put a hand on his back, and Jason jumped and looked up at him. He had to blink about a million times to make his vision clear.

"We're done in here," Dick said softly. "I think the police are going to show up eventually to interview you and Tim, but you don't have to sit here anymore if you don't want to. We can go back to the waiting room if you want. Only if you want, though. If you want to sit here a while longer and calm down, that's fine too."

Jason blinked at him. "Can I take a shower?"

It was the only thing he wanted right now. He just wanted to be clean. He needed to be clean.

Dick somehow looked even more sympathetic, which Jason hadn't thought was possible. If he looked anymore sympathetic his face would melt right off. "I can ask the nurse if there's a locker room or something you can use. But as soon as we get back to the manor and get you and Tim settled in, for sure, you can take a bath or a shower or whatever you want."

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying to imagine stripping down in a locker room in a hospital and showering in a stall that only had a curtain to shield him, or maybe nothing. He couldn't see it happening. Not now. Maybe not ever. He shuddered and shook his head, then jumped down from the exam table. It jarred his aching body, but he ignored it.

"I want to go back to Tim."

"Sure thing, buddy. Whatever you want."

Jason didn't actually remember the way back to the waiting room, so Dick led the way. He started to put a hand on Jason's shoulder again, but he ducked away, and Dick didn't force it. Jason stayed a step behind him the whole way, just staring at Dick's back covered in his nice-looking dark gray shirt. What, was it silk or something? It had felt really nice when Jason's hand brushed against it when Dick was holding Tim on the sofa.

Jason heard voices murmuring before they got to the waiting room, Bruce's and some lady's. He ducked behind Dick for cover and only peeked out when Dick halted in the middle of the room, his stillness offering shelter. What Jason saw just about drove him out of his mind.

Bruce was sitting in one of those hard plastic chairs, just like he'd been when they left. Across from him, a middle-aged black woman had dragged up another chair and sat conversing with him. She was kind of frumpy and tired-looking, but in a middle-class, business-like way that made Jason think of every social worker he'd ever met. That wasn't what drove him nuts, though.

It was the fact that Bruce was holding Tim in his lap. Bruce was sitting sort of sideways in his chair, which did not look comfortable, and Tim's wrapped foot was reclining on Bruce's propped-up shin so it wouldn't get smacked or jostled. Tim was slumped over with the side of his head against Bruce's chest, his limp arms curled up between his body and Bruce's stomach. Both of Bruce's arms were wrapped around him, holding him securely. Tim's mouth was slightly open, and he was drooling on Bruce's shirt, but Bruce didn't seem to mind.

Tim looked utterly defenseless, utterly vulnerable, and Jason hated it. He stalked forward, abandoning the shelter of Dick's back, his breath seething and hands clenched into fists. "Get away from him!" he barked.

Bruce looked up, his eyebrows rising, and the social worker turned in her chair to look at him. Tim didn't even twitch. Did he really feel that safe, that comfortable? So much so that even Jason's voice yelling from a few feet away didn't wake him?

"Jason," Bruce said. "It's okay."

"No, it's not! You need to get away from him right now!" Jason stomped up next to them, intent on dragging Tim out of that man's arms by force, if he had to. He reached forward, his fingers spread like claws, but he couldn't figure out a way to grab Tim without touching Bruce, too, and he couldn't stand that.

Dick came up behind him and grabbed Jason's shoulders, dragging him back. Jason growled and spun, twisting away from his grip, then stood there panting, staring wide-eyed between Bruce and Dick. "Don't touch me!"

Dick backed off with his hands in the air. The social worker looked sad. Bruce, if it was possible, looked even sadder.

"It's okay, lad," Bruce said with such gentleness that it made Jason want to rip off his own ears. It wasn't right, it wasn't true. He hated it, and he wanted it to stop.

He wanted to run, he wanted, he wanted...

But he couldn't. He couldn't leave Tim.

Bruce ignored him for the moment and bent over Tim, tenderly rubbing his thumb over a soft, slightly chubby cheek. It made Jason want to tear his thumb off his hand with a pair of pliers. "Tim, kiddo, can you wake up? Just for a little bit."

Jason yelling didn't do it, but somehow Bruce's voice close to his ear finally made Tim rouse. He groaned and shifted in Bruce's arms, then slowly blinked his eyes open. He seemed exhausted, so maybe it made sense that he'd been sleeping so heavily. He looked around the room, eyed the lady curiously, blinked at Dick. Then his eyes found Jason, and his face opened up in a wide, sleepy smile.

"Jason, you're back." His voice was so sweet and pleased and relaxed that Jason found himself relaxing in response before he knew it. That voice meant things were okay. They were safe, for the moment, and Tim was happy, or as happy as he could be. And it was all because of seeing Jason.

Bruce squeezed him in his arms. "Tim, do you want me to put you down?"

Tim frowned and considered it deeply, still half-mired in sleep. It was sort of hilarious to watch, or it would have been if Jason's heart wasn't pounding in his ears. "No," he said after a moment, then snuggled his head into Bruce's chest as his eyes fell half-shut again. "This feels nice. The itching is gone."

Bruce looked bemused, and the social worker looked concerned. "Itching?"

Tim hummed. "I don't know what it is. Not really itching. Sort of...need? I felt twitchy when no one was touching me, but I feel better now."

Bruce sighed and looked at the social worker. "Touch starved. He was locked in a closet for five months, completely isolated and alone."

Tim nodded sagely, like it all made sense now. "Oh, that's why." He settled his head more firmly on Bruce's chest and closed his eyes again. "Don't put me down."

"Okay, kiddo. Whatever you want." Bruce passed his hand through Tim's hair, smiling softly. Jason watched helplessly, his teeth gritted.

And that stupid kid just...went to sleep again. He was going to drive Jason stark raving mad. How was he supposed to keep his little brother safe when said little brother kept making such dumb decisions?

Dick made the universal noise that meant he'd just seen something ridiculously cute. He touched the side of Jason's shoulder, just with a few fingertips, carefully nudging him toward a chair. "Let's sit down, okay? Tim is safe, I promise."

Jason grunted in displeasure, but let himself be led. He sat down next to Bruce and Tim, simultaneously itching to get closer and get much, much farther away. Dick sat on his other side. At least he didn't try to touch Jason's shoulder again.

Bruce gave him a careful smile, then tipped his head at the social worker. "Jason, this is Dahlia Fomby. She's going to help us get things worked out so you kids can come home with me."

"I never said that," Dahlia said. She gave Tim an evaluating look. "This little one's trust in you is definitely making your case, though." She looked at Jason. "But you seem much less willing. Do you have a problem with Mr. Wayne?"

Jason scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "No. Where Timmy goes, I go. I don't care if it's with Bruce Wayne or someone else. But if you separate us I'm just going to run away, so don't even try it."

Dahlia frowned. Dick spoke up before she could respond. "With all due respect, Ms. Fomby, Jason's problem isn't with Bruce, specifically. It's all men, at the moment. He's just...a little raw."

Dahlia looked more sympathetic now. "Yes, Mr. Wayne told me what he believes happened to you, Jason. Can you confirm it? What have the last five months been like for you?"

Jason curled up with his hands over his ears as if he could block out the words. Or the thoughts. "I already said all of it in that room. I don't want to talk about it. Tim said he would do the talking. I don't wanna talk anymore." He felt like he was about to fly to pieces, or even worse, start crying. He couldn't stand it. He just wanted this ride to stop so he could get off.

But it wasn't a ride. It was his life.

"All right, sweetie," Dahlia said. "I'll get the report from the hospital. But you'll need to speak to the police, you know that, right? They'll be here to interview you boys within the hour. They were just waiting for me to get the state guardianship started so I could make decisions for you."

Jason sniffed and rubbed his hand under nose. "Yeah, I know I gotta talk to the police. But that's the last time. I don't wanna do it anymore."

"Okay." Dahlia sighed and looked at Bruce. "These babies are going to need a lot of therapy, hon."

Bruce nodded. "I know. I'll start vetting therapists tomorrow. If you'll let me foster them, of course."

She smiled grimly. "I don't think we have much of a choice. The little one can't stand to be separated from you, and other one can't stand to be separated from him."

"His name is Tim," Jason spat. "Don't call him 'the little one.' That's what...that's what..." His chest heaved, and he felt even more like crying. Or vomiting on the floor. "That's what he called him."

The adults all looked at him, and Jason couldn't stand the pressure. He hunched over and stared at the floor, breathing hard.

"Okay," Dahlia said. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Is there anything else we shouldn't call you or Tim, son?" Bruce asked. "The last thing we want to do is remind you of that...that wicked man."

Jason stared at the floor, trembling. "He mostly called Tim 'the little one.' It was like he couldn't even bother to learn his name, not till Tim was old enough to be useful to him. He just called me Jason, most of the time. Sometimes..." He shuddered. "'Love.'"

Brief silence held. Then Bruce blew out a noisy breath. His voice was very solemn. "Okay. I will never call you that, and neither will Dick, or Alfred, or anyone else who takes care of you while you're with me."

Jason nodded and hunched over even farther, hugging his thighs and resting his head on his knees. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be here.

But here he was, and there was no escaping from this one.

Chapter Text

By the time the state guardianship was established and the hospital was finally able to set Tim's ankle and draw blood from both boys for the needed tests, it was closer to 3 AM than 2 AM. Jason was numb and quiet, following requests without a murmur and staring vacantly into the distance. He didn't even flinch when Dick took his hand to lead him around. He seemed to have spent all of his energy and had nothing left, not even to glare at Bruce for continuing to hold Tim.

Tim, on the contrary, was as clingy as a child much younger than ten. When an orderly tried to get him to sit in a wheelchair to go get x-rays, Tim simply shook his head and wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck with surprising strength for a kid who had been locked in a closet for almost half a year. He barely opened his eyes the entire time. Bruce ended up carrying him in his arms with Tim's head heavy on his shoulder and his knees clenched around his waist.

They put Tim's ankle in a temporary cast and scheduled him to come back the following afternoon for surgery, as Dr. Leslie had been right about him needing pins. They also x-rayed his throat, but fortunately the near-strangulation hadn't caused any internal damage. His other bruises were ugly and painful but not dangerous.

Neither boy objected to the needle sticks, though they held hands through the entire thing.

Tim was prescribed painkillers, and Jason antibiotics as a precaution. Once the blood tests were done, they would know if more was needed, such as supplements to make up for any deficiencies. The doctors printed out several pages of instructions, including dietary guidelines to help Jason's recovery from starvation. Bruce folded them up and stuffed them in his back pocket, but he knew that Alfred would already be doing research. He probably had a book. That man was prepared for anything.

The police finally showed up, and Dick told them to come to the manor in a couple of days. Pittman was already in custody, which removed a lot of the urgency to interview the boys, so the officers agreed without much persuasion. Bruce knew it was just kicking the can down the road, but the kids desperately needed rest before being re-traumatized yet again.

Alfred had left the hospital right after it was confirmed that Bruce was going to be allowed to foster Jason and Tim. He went to pick up supplies, such as new clothes for the boys, and to prepare two bedrooms at the manor. When the hospital finally released them, nobody wanted to wait for Alfred to return with the towncar.

So it was Dr. Leslie who drove them to the manor in her powder-blue sedan, her hands tight on the cracked steering wheel and eyes peering blearily out the windshield. Bruce sat in the front seat, still with Tim sleeping his arms. Dick sat in the backseat with Jason, who slumped against his window and watched the lights go by. Nobody talked. They were all too tired. Bruce hoped that Jason would fall asleep, but he didn't, and his shoulders remained tense for the entire ride despite how beyond exhausted he had to be.

They arrived at the Wayne estate and drove through the quiet grounds. The moon was bright above, and November frost sparkled on the expansive lawns. Thanksgiving was next week, and Bruce found himself looking forward to it. Alfred was going to cook up a masterpiece of a feast with two new boys to feed, and Dick would be home, too, most likely. A far cry from what Bruce had expected this holiday season to be like.

Dr. Leslie parked in the attached garage, and Alfred met them at the door. Once again, Bruce was carrying Tim, and Dick led Jason by the hand. The boys perked up a bit when they stepped into the manor, but not much. Neither seemed very interested in looking around.

It was completely understandable, but Bruce couldn't help but contrast it with the first time Dick came home with him. Dick, while obviously still mourning his parents, had been excited to run around and explore everything he could, his sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood floors, his delighted shouts echoing in the arched hallways and too-large rooms. It had made both Bruce and Alfred smile to hear such youth and exuberance in a home that had been far too empty for far too long.

Dr. Leslie split off to the guest room that was hers whenever she was forced to stay too late at the manor for some medical emergency, and Alfred led the rest of them to the two rooms he'd prepared for the boys. The rooms were adjacent, of course, only a few doors down from Bruce's room. They were across the hall from the room that Dick used to claim, which still had a generous portion of his things that he'd never moved out. The rooms were warm and dimly lit in deference to Tim's photosensitivity, the pillows freshly fluffed and blankets turned down. Outfits had been laid out on each bed, including pajamas.

Each room also had en suite bathroom, and it was actually here that Dick led Jason when they stopped at his room.

"You can take your shower now, buddy," he said softly.

Jason looked at him, then to the bathroom, then over his shoulder at the clothes laid out on the bed. Bruce stood in the doorway with Tim in his arms, who blinked sleepily at it all with jaded curiosity. Jason watched them for a moment, and Bruce wasn't sure if he was looking at him or at the child he was holding. His expression was conflicted and wary, and Bruce instinctively took a step back. This is your space, he tried to say with his body language. I won't violate it.

After a moment, Jason's need to be clean seemed to win out over his fear of Bruce. He wrenched his hand out of Dick's grip and stalked over to the bed to snatch up the pajamas, then walked into the bathroom with all the dignity he could muster. He didn't slam the door, but it was a near thing. They all heard the lock turn, and water started pattering moments afterward.

Bruce looked at Tim. "Do you want a shower, too? We'll have to wrap your cast."

Tim nodded. "It's been more than a week since the bastard let me have one. I feel pretty gross."

Bruce put his nose in his hair and sniffed hard. "Yeah, you smell pretty gross, too. Like cheese and old socks." In truth, he just smelled like a kid who had had a long, hard day, which wasn't a bad smell at all. Bruce rather liked it. But he wanted to make him laugh.

Tim obliged him and giggled, which was delightful. It might have been the best sound Bruce had ever heard.

Dick groaned as he realized something. "We left your new crutches in the car. I'll go get them."

"No need, Master Dick," Alfred said immediately. He'd been standing quietly in the hall, watching and listening. "I'll fetch them. You just continue to care for the children."

Bruce nodded slowly. "You should probably stay here in case Jason needs something. He trusts you more than me. I'll help Tim get clean and ready for bed." He looked at the boy in his arms. "If that's okay with you, of course."

Tim nodded. "I want a shower, but I don't want to sleep in my own bed. I wanna be with Jason."

"All right. I'll bring you back here afterward. Hopefully Jason will be ready for sleep by then, and you two can sleep in the same bed."

Jason wasn't there to ask, but Bruce couldn't imagine that he would object to sharing a bed with Tim. It seemed to cause the boys almost literal pain to be apart. He had a feeling that neither would be sleeping alone for a long time, though he still felt it was a good idea for each to have his own room, his own space.

He set Tim down on the bed in his room and went to start the water running. By the time the water was hot, Alfred was back with both the crutches and a waterproof plastic bag and tape to wrap the cast, because Alfred was a marvel. Tim had untucked his shirt, but had made no other move to get undressed.

"Do you want to use your crutches to get to the bathroom, or do you want me to carry you again?" Bruce asked.

Tim shook his head and held out his hand. "Just...help me hobble."

Bruce snorted and took his hand, then supported Tim as he hopped across the room. Once he was inside and seated on the toilet, the shower making the air steam all around him, Bruce brought him his pajamas and the bag and tape.

"Do you need any help getting undressed or taking care of that?" He waved at the cast.

Tim shook his head, his small face weirdly solemn. "Don't watch me shower, okay?"

Bruce blinked. Three times. "I wasn't planning to. I'll shut the door, and you can come out when you're ready. Yell if you need anything. You can leave the dirty clothes on the floor, and we'll take care of them later."

He left the bathroom and closed the door, making sure it was firmly shut and latched. A few seconds later, he heard the lock click. Bruce looked at Alfred, who was standing next to the bed as tall and straight and stoic as Bruce had ever seen him. "Al... I may have bitten off more than I can chew."

Alfred allowed one of his very small, very British smiles. "All will be well, Master Bruce. We just need to take it one day at a time."

Bruce sat down on Tim's bed and ran his hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. "Did I do the right thing?"

"Beyond question," Alfred said firmly. "These boys need you, and you're doing an excellent job so far."

"I'm going to mess it up."

"That's inevitable. But you have others to rely on as well. I and Master Dick are here to go through this journey with you, and you have a wider support network as well that you need only to call on."

Bruce gave him a smile, small and grateful. "I don't deserve you."

"That was never in doubt," Alfred said primly. "Yet I am here, and I have no intentions of leaving."

"Thank God for that."

Tim didn't take long in the shower, probably because he was thoroughly exhausted and just wanted to sleep. When he emerged from the bathroom, bright and shiny as a new penny, he went right into Bruce's arms without a word. Bruce scooped him up. He couldn't resist sniffing his hair again. Now it smelled like the apple-scented shampoo Alfred must have picked out.

"No more cheese and old socks?" Tim asked sleepily, his head lolling on Bruce's shoulder.

"Nope." Tim's hair had been clumped and shaggy. Now it was smooth and satiny, though over-long. "Do you want to get a haircut later?"

He couldn't imagine that cutting Tim's hair had been on Pittman's priority list. Though come to think of it, Jason's hair was a much more standard length. Bruce didn't want to examine that too closely, not right now.

"Maybe." Tim yawned. "I'll think about it."

Bruce carried him to Jason's room. The shower in there was still going. Dick was lounging at the head of the bed, his eyes drooping, but when he saw them coming he perked up and held his arms out with a grin. "Gimme, gimme. It's my turn, Bruce. You had him long enough."

Bruce snorted, but he was willing to indulge Dick. He'd had a rough time trying to handle Jason. It wasn't Jason's fault, not remotely, but it was hard to be so close to a child who was obviously suffering acutely and not be able to offer comfort. Especially for Dick, who had always been an empathetic and outgoing soul, particularly with the various children and victims they'd met on their mission.

He let Tim down into Dick's arms, and the two of them snuggled together on the bed, looking like two peas in a pod. If one pea was much smaller and paler than the other pea, of course. Dick couldn't resist smelling Tim's hair either, Bruce noticed. It seemed to be a universal compulsion when holding a freshly washed youngster. Tim nestled his head on Dick's chest, his eyes falling shut. Bruce dragged over a straight-backed chair from the desk in the room and sat next to them while they waited.

By the time the bathroom door finally opened, Tim was fully asleep. Jason paused in the door, staring at them. Bruce instantly stood up and made his way to leave the room, but paused by the bedroom door. Dick sighed and reluctantly disentangled himself from Tim as he slid out of the bed. "It's okay, buddy. We'll leave you and Tim alone." He went out into the hallway without pausing, brushing past Bruce as he went.

Jason slowly moved closer to the bed, never breaking eye contact with Bruce. Bruce took a step back into the hall, his hand on the doorknob. "Do you want your door open or shut?"

Jason paused, flummoxed. "I...I don't know." His eyes widened in sudden panic.

Bruce understood. Jason wanted the door closed, a barrier between him and the men in the house. But he also wanted it open because he had spent the last five months locked in a room that had become his prison. It was a puzzle with no solution.

Bruce let out a breath. "Jason, come here, please. I promise I won't touch you."

Jason bit his lip, then slowly, slowly made his way over to Bruce. Bruce waited patiently. This had to be done on Jason's terms, or not at all. Finally, Jason stood just out of Bruce's reach, and there he stopped.

Bruce moved the door so Jason could clearly see the knob. "Look. There's a latch on the inside of the door. All you have to do is turn it up or down to lock or unlock the door. It's completely in your control, no one else's. There is a keyhole on the other side..." He swung the door inside the room to show him the outer knob. "...but I frankly have no idea where the key is. No one is going to lock you in, and even if they did, you could just turn the latch yourself."

Jason took a step closer and reached out for the doorknob, turning the latch several times to feel how it moved. Bruce could see that it was not enough. He looked into the hall and saw Alfred standing there. "Al, would you get a Phillips-head screwdriver? Standard size?"

"Right away, Master Bruce."

Bruce looked back to Jason. "May I come inside your room for a moment?"

Jason took several steps back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?"

"I just want to show you a few things."

Jason took a couple of deep breaths, then nodded.

Bruce stepped inside, being careful to move slowly and deliberately. He went to the window and waved for Jason to join him. After a moment, Jason did, though he kept his distance.

Bruce turned the latch on the window several times, showing how it worked. "Looks like the latch is well-oiled, even though we haven't used this room in a while." He pushed the window up, letting in the frosty air. Jason shivered slightly in his shirt sleeves, but he looked more relaxed. "Do you want me to remove the screen?"

Jason nodded. Bruce pulled down the plastic catches that held the screen in place and set it against the wall under the window. He craned out into the open air, looking down from the second-floor height. "Ah, there it is."

He stepped back from the window and waved for Jason to come closer. "Look outside, right under the window."

Jason moved carefully closer and leaned out the way Bruce had. Then he leaned back and looked up at Bruce. "There's a coiled ladder there."

Bruce nodded. "It's a safety measure, in case of fire. Here, I'm going to close the window now, but only because it's cold out. When it's warmer, you can feel free to leave windows open whenever you want."

Jason stepped back out of the way, and Bruce pushed the window down, though he didn't turn the latch. Jason's shoulders hunched again at even this slight impediment to escape. Bruce nodded, then led him over to the closet. "Here, one more thing."

Jason followed a few steps behind. Bruce opened the door and gestured at the object on the wall there. "Do you know how to use a fire extinguisher?"

Jason shook his head.

"No problem, we'll teach you later. But for now, this is a moderately large, quite heavy object, and it will always be in your room for safety purposes. If you ever have trouble opening the window, you can just take this extinguisher and chuck it through. I promise, I won't be angry about the broken window. I'd rather pay to have a hundred windows replaced than have you feel trapped and unsafe for even one second."

By this time Alfred had returned. "Master Bruce, the screwdriver you requested."

"Excellent. Thank you, Alfred." Bruce went back over to the door, and this time Jason followed without being asked. Bruce leaned over and showed him the two Phillips-head screws that held the knob in place. "If you ever have trouble opening the door, just take the knob off. I promise, I won't be mad. In fact, we can go shopping for a different doorknob, one you like better, anytime you like. You can have a key. You can have a whole ring of keys. I don't care. I want you to feel safe and happy here, Jason. No matter what it takes."

He straightened up and held out the screwdriver. "Here. For you. Keep it anywhere you like. I'll buy you a whole toolbox to keep in this room, if you want."

Jason eyes widened, but he reached out and gingerly accepted the screwdriver. "Thank you."

Bruce nodded. "You're very welcome. Is there anything else I can do to make you feel more safe and comfortable? Even a little bit?"

Jason considered. "Could I have a set of lockpicks? Real ones? It doesn't have to be right now, but eventually."

Bruce smiled. He felt it reach his eyes. "Of course. I have several sets downstairs, in the...well, in the basement. I'll show you and Tim tomorrow. You'll each have your own set, and I'll teach you how to use them, too."

"Okay." Jason held the screwdriver closer to his chest, all but hugging it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Bruce started to reach out to touch his shoulder, then reconsidered and pulled back. "Sleep well, Jason. I'm going to shut the door now, all right? You can lock it or not as you choose."

Jason nodded. "Good night."

"Good night, son. I'm so glad to have you here, you have no idea."

Bruce stepped back into the hall and shut the door, gently but firmly. He sighed and turned to walk away, then all but tripped over Dick. Dick was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall just outside the door to Jason's room, looking utterly, utterly done in.

Bruce let out a gusty sigh and sat next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Dick huffed and leaned into him without complaint, and Bruce ruffled his hair. "How are you doing, chum?"

"This is so hard," Dick said dully.

"I know. It really, really is."

"I still want to adopt them, though. Both of them. God, they're so...completely lovable. It's breaking my heart."

"Mine, too." Bruce couldn't hold himself back. He kissed the side of Dick's head, as he'd been longing to do for Jason during the entirety of their little tour. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for finding Jason. Thank you for calling me in. I couldn't do this without you, and I wouldn't want to."

"I got a call from the Titans," Dick said with no emotion. "There's something happening. I didn't get the details."

Bruce breathed. "Are you going to go?"

Dick sat still for a moment, then shook his head. "I think I'm gonna sleep here tonight."

"What, right on the floor outside Jason's door?"

Dick shrugged. Bruce hesitated, then slowly climbed to his feet. "I'll ask Alfred to bring you some bedding. Maybe an air mattress."

Dick looked up at him from the floor. "Are you going to bed?"

Bruce stared down the hallway, his mind already far away. "No. Not right now. I have footage to watch."

Chapter Text

Jason woke up several times over the next few hours, each time in a panic that he was back in that bastard's apartment and the escape and everything after it had been a dream. Each time, he was almost immediately calmed by the feeling of Tim wrapped around his middle, small arms gripping surprisingly tight in his sleep. Jason had left a lamp glowing on the nightstand in case Tim woke up and was scared of the dark, but it turned out that he needed it instead.

Each time, he lay there for several minutes, trying to go back to sleep, while anxiety ticked over and over in his brain. What if Bruce had been lying? What if the door got stuck? What if he had just imagined that ladder under the window? What if the latch didn't turn?

He knew it was stupid. He had tested both the door and the window several times and made sure that the fire extinguisher was in the closet and the screwdriver was on the desk before going to sleep. He knew his mind was just playing tricks on him. He knew he wasn't trapped, wasn't locked in, he could leave at any time. He knew it. And yet...

And yet, still, everytime he woke up, he had to carefully slide free of Tim's clingy grip and go see. He turned the doorknob first, making sure, and opened the door a few inches, then closed it again, doing his best to be as quiet as possible. Then he went to the window and turned the latch. Then he went to the closet and tapped his fingers against the hard, cold surface of the fire extinguisher. Then he went to the desk and picked up the screwdriver and rolled it between his hands, feeling the bumpy plastic ridges of the handle.

And then he went back to bed, and Tim murmured in his sleep and wrapped around him again the instant he sensed his presence. Slowly, slowly, Jason's heartbeat slowed, and his eyes drooped shut, and he fell asleep. As far as he knew, Tim didn't wake up once the entire night. Or what was left of it, once they got here from the hospital.

At some point, his brain must have finally figured out that this was real, and the door and window really did open. When he fell asleep after one of his checks, the first indication of light was just starting to creep over the lawn as dawn started to make its presence felt. The next time he woke up, full sunlight was streaming in the window, and he finally felt at least somewhat refreshed, so he knew he had managed to sleep for several hours straight.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling and letting himself wake up. Tim was still clinging to him, and even that slight weight was starting to feel heavy and confining, a little too hot and uncomfortable. Last night he had felt so disconnected from his body that it was a little surprising to realize that he felt like a person again. He was aware of his body now, the various little aches and pains, the sore legs from walking and running after getting no exercise for months, the feeling of Tim's face pressed into the side of his chest.

There was a small, biting pain in his stomach, and Jason laid his hand over it and rubbed slowly, trying to figure out what it was. He could only reach part of his stomach with Tim laying partially on top of him, and the rubbing didn't really help. When Jason's hand nudged him, Tim mumbled in his sleep, something about penguins. Jason couldn't help but smile and pat his head.

Tim was such a good kid. And kind of shockingly adorable? Jason had never been one to coo over babies or anything like that, but the first time he'd seen Tim last night, he'd suddenly understood the urge. Timothy Drake was just so small, and his little face was somehow chubby and delicate at the same time. And he was so earnest. Everything he said was uttered with such conviction. Jason had felt that when listening to him through the walls, for sure, but seeing his expressions and little gestures while he talked had been a whole new experience.

And once he got those sunglasses, holy crap. They were so huge on him. They made him look like a tiny badass. Jason had the best little brother in the world.

Except that he was making it kind of hard to breathe. Not because he was heavy, but just because he was...close. Jason squirmed, trying not to wake him, then carefully slid out from under Tim's body and rolled away. Tim's fingers were loose on his shirt and let go without much difficulty.

Jason rolled up onto his knees and took a few deep breaths, then looked back at his little brother. Left alone, Tim was curling up into a ball with his arms folded beneath him and his face hidden in the pillow. What Jason could see of his face was scrunched up, like the light was hurting him.

Jason glanced at the window, then slid off the bed and padded over to it. He tried the latch—still easy to turn—then pulled the curtains almost all the way shut. He looked back and saw that Tim had relaxed slightly from his curled-up ball. Jason blew out a breath and rubbed his stomach. Still that little pain, like being poked from the inside...

He heard a little gurgle and looked down at himself. Oh. He was hungry.

When Pittman had been starving him, sometimes his body sort of...forgot to be hungry. Jason ate the pitiful rations he was given like an animal, barely tasting them, and his stomach would wake up for a bit and he would feel really, really terrible. But then the sensation would pass, and he just felt tired and cold and like nothing was really worth doing.

Last night, the first time Alfred had given him soup, they all kept warning him to slow down while he ate. He tried to listen, but it was so hard, and he'd felt weirdly desolate when the food was gone, even though his stomach felt a little sore from being so full. He expected his stomach to wake up and be awful, but then...they just kept feeding him, again and again.

He'd started feeling stronger immediately, at least enough to manage. He also felt better now than he usually did in the mornings. He was hungry, but the feeling wasn't as ravenous and painful as it was when he ate his single hard-boiled egg.

Maybe he could go find food? Bruce had acted like the house was open to them, but they hadn't gotten a tour. Jason didn't know where the kitchen was, but he might be able to find it. He crept over to the door and turned the knob, feeling the now-familiar surge of relief when it worked.

But when he put his head out into the hall, he stopped. Dick was sleeping on the floor there, sprawled on an air mattress with a blanket and sheet twisted around his body, one foot sticking out and resting on the floor. Even in sleep, his face looked blotchy and sort of tense, like he'd been crying or something.

Intellectually, Jason knew he could just walk past the guy and go exploring. He could even wake him up, and Dick would probably be happy to show him where the kitchen was. But his heart pounded at the thought, and before he knew it, he was back inside the room, staring at the closed door.

He couldn't. He couldn't do it.

He felt a surge of rage at himself. Stupid. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just be normal? Before Pittman, he would have had no trouble walking through a house or waking up someone he'd only known for a day. He wouldn't have let anything stand in his way. But now he was too afraid to leave his room.

He felt broken. There was something missing inside him. It was like Pittman had taken away something very important, and Jason didn't know how to get it back, or even if he could.

He took a deep breath, and the rage passed. It left him weary and a little numb. There was nothing he could do about it. He just had to accept things as they were and work with what he had. His resources were limited now, and he had to conserve them.

Jason blinked at the door, realizing that he must have zoned out. He was swaying slightly where he stood, and his feet hurt. He shook his head to clear it, then went to the bathroom and got himself a glass of water. It made him feel a little better, and his stomach stopped growling for the moment.

He decided to at least explore his room. He'd already seen the closet, but he went and checked it out again. It was big, basically a walk-in with lots of room for clothes, though it was currently empty except for some hangers on the rods and the fire extinguisher on the wall. Jason tapped his fingers on the extinguisher, relishing in the weight against his fingers. That fucker could crash through a window for sure, no problem. Maybe even through the door, if thrown with enough strength.

He exited the closet and looked around. He took in the bed where Tim was still sleeping, the nightstand with its lamp, a comfy-looking armchair near the windows, a desk and a straight-backed chair, cupboards on the wall... Everything looked nice, if a little generic. Luxurious in the kind of way that didn't flaunt how luxurious it was. No gold-plated fixtures or red velvet curtains, but everything was of the highest quality and looked like it was meant to last for centuries.

Everything except the pair of suitcases near the door, scuffed and hunter green. Jason blinked at them, trying to figure out the anomaly of their presence. Tim had said something about suitcases at some point, hadn't he? Jason tried to remember, but last night was something of a blur in his mind.

His eyes widened. The books! Tim said Batman had rescued his books and packed them out in a couple of Pittman's suitcases. Apparently Bruce didn't care about stealing from criminals, or maybe he didn't consider it stealing, as Tim and Jason didn't, because the books basically belonged to them now. Pittman may have bought them, but it was Jason and his little brother who had read them and loved them and found pleasure and solace in their company. They fucking earned those books.

He went over to the suitcases and pulled one down to lay on the floor. It was heavy as fuck. The zipper was old and stiff, but he got it open and flopped back the lid. And then he was grinning, broad and wide, because holy crap, here they were. Books! Some good, some bad, some just fun, some a little boring but still interesting enough to hold his attention when there was nothing else to do.

These were basically the only thing that had made the last five months worth living through. Well, these and getting to know Tim and becoming his brother. Jason would never give up Tim for the world. But it was nice to have books, too.

He dug through the stacks until he found one of his favorites that he hadn't read in a while, The Hunt for Red October by Tom Clancy. It was a hardback, so it had a nice, solid heft in his hands. The dustcover was long gone, but the title was embossed on the cover. The price from whatever garage sale or clearance rack Pittman had gotten it from was still written in pencil on the first page. Two whole dollars. Worth every penny.

Jason took the book back over to the bed. He propped himself up on pillows against the headboard and sat on top of the covers with his legs stretched out next to Tim, then started reading. Before long, Tim had migrated over and was sleeping on top of his legs. His weight felt less suffocating when it wasn't all over his torso and chest. It felt nice. Jason absently reached down and petted Tim's hair while he read.

After a couple of chapters, he could feel that Tim had woken up. He was lying still, like Jason had, trying to figure out where he was. Jason put his book aside and patted his head. "Good morning, Tim. How ya doin'?"

Tim rolled over onto his back and blinked up at him. "We're really here. I thought maybe it was a dream."

Jason nodded. "Yeah. Not a dream. I had to keep waking up to check. It seems so unreal."

Tim pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around the room, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "That was Bruce Wayne. We're being fostered by Bruce Wayne."

Jason chuckled. Somehow Tim was even more adorable this way. "Yeah, we are. Crazy, huh? And you were clinging to him like a little monkey for half the night. Or do you not remember that part?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I remember." He sounded faintly shocked. "I can't believe I did that."

"I don't think you were really awake. You said it made you feel better and you didn't want him to put you down. Bruce said that you were touch-starved or something. Do you know what that is?"

Tim blinked at him. "It probably means what it sounds like. I guess it's true. I mean, I was locked in a closet, alone, for five months. The only time someone touched me was when the bastard grabbed my arm once to drag me around. Oh, and last night when he beat me up." He hunched over and wrapped his arms around his knees, shuddering.

Jason rubbed his back. "It's over," he said, though he wasn't sure that he believed it, himself. It was so nice to be able to touch Tim when he was feeling sad to offer reassurance, instead of just talking at him through a wall. He slung his arm around the kid's shoulders and pulled him close, overcome. "We're free. We made it."

Tim nodded against his knees.

Jason looked around the luxurious room. "I know this wasn't what you wanted for us. But we're out. Your plan worked. The bastard is in jail, and hopefully he'll stay there. We're gonna be okay." He hoped desperately that that was true.

Tim shuddered, his hands clenching into fists against his legs. "My plans suck. I'm an idiot. I'm so, so stupid."

"What the hell?" Jason pulled back and looked at him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"The adoption thing." Tim hit his legs with his own fists, which was sort of terrifying. Jason scooted around on the bed to grab his hands and make him stop. Tim looked up at him with tears in his eyes. "I was so sure that I could make my parents adopt you, and I was so arrogant about it, too. You kept asking if it would really work, and I kept saying yes, but I was wrong. I was stupid."

Jason shook his head and squeezed Tim's little fists in his. "You're not stupid. You just didn't have all the facts. Just one fact, really. You didn't know that it was the state that prosecutes cases of child abuse and neglect."

"I should have known. I've read newspaper articles about it, and they would say things like, 'The case of The State of New Jersey vs. Blah Blah Blah will go forward.' That's why when Bruce said that I knew he was right. I just didn't remember. I had all those months to figure things out, and I didn't remember that one simple thing, and I really should have. I'm stupid."

Jason made an exasperated noise. "You're not stupid. Maybe your brain didn't let you remember that one little thing because we needed to believe in your plan. We needed something to look forward to, something we could hope for. We really, really needed that, Timmy. It's the only reason we were able to hold on for as long as we did."

Tim shook his head and pulled his hands away from Jason's grip, staring sideways at the wall. Jason sat back and folded his arms over his chest. "Listen, Tim. I know Batman and Nightwing are your heroes. But you're my hero, did you know that?"

Tim looked back at him, eyes wide with shock.

The corner of Jason's mouth turned up in a smile. "It's true. You know, I didn't really believe you at first. You kept talking about how we were going to escape, and you had all these ideas. And I pretended I believed you because I didn't want to take away any little bit of hope you had. I wanted you to have that for as long as possible. But I was sure, I was sure we were never getting out of there, and the bastard was gonna kill us both."

There were tears in Jason's eyes now. He dashed them away with his hand. "But you kept talking, and you knew all this stuff. You kept telling me we could make lockpicks and giving me ideas for where I could find something to use to make one. And you had all these plans, and you were so smart and so certain and you knew so much stuff... And eventually I started to believe you."

Tim's face twisted up in anger at himself again, and Jason nodded fiercely. "I was right to believe you. You were right. You taught me how to make lockpicks. Through a wall. You couldn't even see what I was doing, but you described it well enough that I could do it. And you taught me how to pick that lock. Through a fucking wall, let me emphasize again. Yeah, it took a lot of practice for me to get it right, but do you know how amazing you are, Timmy? You're incredible.

"I never would have made it through that hell without you. No, don't shake your head, it's totally true. I would have fought the bastard until he felt he had no choice but to kill me. But I couldn't let that happen, because I was your only link to the outside world, and I didn't want to abandon you. And you taught me how to pick a lock. You taught me how to escape. More than that, you convinced me that I could escape. That freedom was possible. From the very first day, I was ready to give up and resign myself to my fate, but you didn't let me.

"And that's why you're my hero, Timothy Drake. You saved my life. I know you were mad at yourself at the beginning because you tried to fight the bastard to save me and it didn't work. But you did save me, it just took a lot longer than you wanted it to. And you had to suffer a lot in the meantime, and I'll never be happy about that. But I'm grateful. I'm so grateful for you. You're amazing. You're the best. I love you, little brother. More than anything in the world. Even books."

Tim was full-on sobbing now, tears streaming down his face. He flung himself into Jason's arms, and Jason wrapped his arms around him and held on tight. He hid his face in Tim's hair and let the tears flow down.

"I'm just, I'm just sad," Tim forced out between sobs, "that we, we won't get to be T-Tim and Jason D-Drake. That would have been...so cool."

"I know." Jason rubbed his cheek against his hair. "But your parents really suck, Tim. They really, really suck. We'll get ourselves a different last name. You could be Tim Todd."

Tim chuckled moistly into his chest. "That sounds awful."

"Yeah, well." Jason shrugged. "We'll workshop it."

Tim laughed again, more genuinely.

Jason smiled and snuggled him close. And for once, he didn't feel like there were bugs crawling over him at all. He even forgot that he was hungry.

He was full.

Chapter Text

"Master Dick, it would behoove you to arise."

It had been a long time since Dick had been awoken by the dulcet tones of Alfred Pennyworth standing at the foot of his bed. He groaned and flopped his arm over his eyes, unwilling to face the morning light. What, was he late for school or something? Did his alarm not go off, or did he throw the clock against the wall? For a moment his mind was filled with something like static that blocked everything except the fatigue that weighed on his limbs and ached in his head.

"Master Dick, I would like to have your assistance with the children."

Wait, children? Everything flooded back at once, and Dick removed his arm from his eyes and stared up at Alfred in dismay. No morning light pierced his eyes—he was sleeping in the hall outside Jason's room on an air mattress, and the light was dim and moody. Right, because of Timmy's eyes.

His mouth felt fuzzy and dry... He was dehydrated from crying himself to sleep. Ugh.

He managed a sheepish smile. "Alfred, sorry... What time is it?"

"Nearly 10:30. I was willing to let you all have a bit of a lie-in, but Master Tim and Master Jason have been stirring for a while, I believe. They seem less than eager to leave their room for the moment, and I am unwilling to breach their sanctuary. Would you please dress and see if you can persuade them to come downstairs for breakfast? They both need to eat."

"Oh. Of course." Dick sat up, which cost more effort than usual because of the unstable air mattress. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "I don't suppose you brought any of my clothes from my apartment?"

"With all of the excitement of last night, I'm afraid it slipped my mind. You should still have some clothes in your old room. I never threw them out, though the collective taste of the manor would have risen several degrees if I had burned them."

Dick grinned and rose lightly to his feet. Alfred had never cared much for his fashion choices, though he was usually too polite to say anything about it. "Thanks, Alfie. You're the best."

Alfred sniffed and started to head back downstairs, but not before Dick grabbed him in an impulsive hug and kissed the side of his head with a resounding smack. He didn't think he was imagining the slight smile on Alfred's face as he finally made his escape. Dick propped the air mattress against the wall and left the bedding in a pile to be dealt with later, then went to his old room across the hall.

He hadn't been in here for months. More than half a year. He had grabbed the things that felt most important to him when he moved out and started living full-time with the Titans, but there were still plenty of clothes and other items he hadn't bothered to come back for. He dug through the dresser and closet and came up with a pair of red and blue yoga pants and a pink t-shirt emblazoned with the name and logo of a band he had loved when he was fourteen. Perfect for a day in which he had no intentions of leaving the manor.

When he exited his room, he was aware of delectable scents floating up from downstairs. Eggs, bacon, and something sweet and wholesome, maybe oatmeal. Alfred didn't usually bother with something as stodgy and carby as oatmeal, since Bruce and Dick had always preferred a breakfast with as much protein and fat as possible, but maybe it was for the boys.

Speaking of whom... Dick crossed the hallway and carefully tapped his knuckles against the door of Jason's room. "Timmy? Jason? May I come in?"

Brief silence, then Timmy's high little voice piped up. "What's the password?"

Dick grinned. He hadn't expected the kids to be feeling secure enough to be playful, not this soon. That had to be a good sign. "Um, swordfish?"

"Nope," Jason's voice replied, slightly deeper than Timmy's though still unmistakably the voice of a child. "Try again."

"Uh... One two three four five?"

"No." Timmy's voice again.

"Open sesame?"

"Nope. Last chance." Jason sounded practically gleeful.

"Oh man." Dick thought hard, covering his mouth with his hand. "Breakfast is ready?"

Pressing his ear to the door, he heard a murmured consultation, though he couldn't make out the words. After a moment, Timmy responded. "Password accepted. You may enter."

Dick laughed and opened the door to peer in, though he didn't step inside. The boys were both sitting up in Jason's bed, dressed in their pajamas but looking bright-eyed and attentive, much more at ease than they had been last night. Jason was holding a book in his lap, and Timmy was leaning on his shoulder like he'd been reading along. "Hey, kiddies. Alfred wanted me to bring you down for breakfast. You must be hungry. Can you smell it?"

Timmy nodded. "Do we have time to change?"

"I want to take a shower," Jason said.

"You're welcome to just come down in your pajamas. Bruce and I eat breakfast in our PJs all the time."

The boys looked at each other, then back at Dick. "We'd rather get dressed," Timmy said for both of them.

"Okay. Whatever you want."

Jason set his book aside and slid out of bed, glancing at Dick several times as he walked to the bathroom. Dick did not move from the doorway, just gave him a reassuring smile. Timmy, meanwhile, had pushed the covers aside to sit on the edge of the bed and was looking around with a consternated expression.

Dick saw the cast on his ankle and smacked his own forehead. "Crap, your crutches. Sorry, Bruce didn't bring them over when he carried you last night, did he? Do you want me to carry you to your room, or just get the crutches for you?"

Timmy looked relieved that he didn't have to explain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, which just emphasized again how very young he was. "Nah, that's okay. Can you just get me some clothes? I don't need to take another shower."

"Sure, I can do that." Dick grinned and pushed the door open a little wider so Timmy could see what he was wearing. "I just want your statement, for the record, that you trust my fashion choices."

Timmy eyed him up and down, then gave Dick a serious nod. "I trust your fashion choices."

Dick laughed. "Great. We'll rub it in Alfred's face later."

He hopped next door to Timmy's room. Alfred had put away the clothes he'd bought in Timmy's dresser. Just a few outfits, an emergency stopgap until he or Bruce could do some decent shopping. Dick checked the brands out of curiosity, and...yep. Alfred had been forced to shop at Walmart, given the hour. It must have nearly killed him, poor man.

He found a pair of sweatpants, plain black, that would fit over the cast, and a blue t-shirt with the face of some cartoon character, as well as plain socks and undies. Alfred must have had to guess at the sizes, but when Dick held them up to measure them in his hands, they looked about right to him. Gosh, Timmy's clothes were small. Timmy was small. Were all ten-year-olds this small? Or had he been stunted by five months in the dark following nine years of parental neglect?

Nope, he wasn't gonna get angry, not right now. Today was a good day. He had two new kids to play with and show around the manor, and he intended to enjoy every minute. They were officially his foster brothers, though Dick still wanted to change that. In any case, they were family, and they were precious, and Dick was going to take amazing care of them.

He took the clothes to Timmy and placed them in his hands. The water was running in the bathroom, so he knew he wouldn't discomfit Jason with his presence, and so far Timmy didn't seem to mind. "How about these? Do they meet with your approval?"

Timmy held up the shirt with the cartoon character to look at what it was, then nodded solemnly. "I like Voltron. I didn't know they made shirts with Voltron on them."

Dick grinned. "Kiddo, they make all kinds of shirts with just about anything on them. I'm gonna go out in the hall and close the door, okay? Just yell when you're ready."

"Okay. Thank you."

In the hall, Dick leaned against the door and waited. He heard the shower turn off, then Jason and Timmy's voices as they conversed quietly. After a while, Timmy did indeed call that they were ready.

Dick gently turned the doorknob and stuck his head inside. "Ready to go?"

The boys were standing near the foot of the bed with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, Timmy with his ankle cast raised in the air. They started to make their way to the door, only to stumble and start to fall when Timmy bumped into Jason too hard and Jason couldn't take the weight.

"Whoa!" Dick leaped forward and caught them before they hit the floor, managed to get his arm mostly around Timmy without contacting Jason too much. Jason straightened up and backed off as if stung, even so, while Timmy sagged in Dick's arms. Dick held him closer instinctively. "You both okay?"

Jason nodded, though he looked like he'd eaten something sour. He was breathing hard, thin chest heaving with effort. He was too weak to support his little brother, and it grated on him. Timmy's head lolled on Dick's shoulder, and Dick didn't think he was imagining the way he melted into him. Still touch-starved, still in need of contact. Poor kids.

Dick looked down at Timmy. He was starting to understand why he kept refusing to use his crutches. Leaning on someone for support, even being carried, was too good of an excuse for contact. Poor baby didn't know how to ask for a hug, having been neglected all his life, but he was clever enough to find other ways to get the touch he was craving.

"That ankle is being problematic, huh?" Dick sympathized. "I could give you a piggyback ride. It'll be quicker than the crutches, especially on the stairs, and I don't mind at all."

Timmy nodded almost too eagerly, and Dick grinned in response. He set the boy on the foot of the bed and crouched in front of him, and Timmy slid forward onto his back, arms wrapping confidently around his neck. Dick stood up, catching his hands around Timmy's legs as he went. Jason watched the whole operation with a suspicious scowl. Dick gave him a smile.

"All set. Let's go eat."

He chattered all the way down to the private kitchen, filling the void of the boys' silence. "You guys needed sleep more than anything last night, so we didn't really show you around much. But don't worry, you'll get the grand tour today. I don't know if you remember, but my room is right across the hall from both of yours, so if you ever need anything, feel free to get me. That door we just passed was Bruce's room. He won't mind you coming to him, either. In fact, I think he likes it. A lot. He's just bad at showing it.

"Man, when I first came to live here, it was so intimidating, you know? This giant house, and I grew up in a circus, which was also huge, but not like this. The first few times I snuck into Bruce's room when I had a nightmare, I tried to just be quiet and not wake him up, but he figured it out. He sleeps light, too, like, super light. So before long he would just grab me and pull me under the covers with him and snuggle me like a teddy bear. It was nice. I kinda miss being able to do that. I guess I still could, but I don't have many nightmares anymore, thank goodness.

"These stairs are super good for sliding down the bannister, but you should wait until Alfred is outside working on the garden or doing errands or something. Holy cow, that man can glare like nobody's business. It's way worse than Bruce growling at you. I got grounded more than once for treating the furniture with disrespect. But still, it's super fun, and you should definitely try it. Just be smart about it, by which I mean, smarter than me.

"The chandeliers... You should probably stay away from the chandeliers. They are not meant for swinging. I speak from experience. Gosh, you have never seen fear until you're lying on the floor in a pile of broken crystal with Bruce standing over you looking like he just had ten heart attacks in a row.

"And here's the kitchen, where you can often find Alfred. Hi, Alfie! I brought the boys."

Alfred smiled one of his warm little smiles. "I see. Please be seated, young masters."

Dick set Timmy down in a chair at the kitchen table, and Jason sat next to him, of course. Dick sat on Timmy's other side. Alfred brought two bowls for the boys and set them in front of them, followed by large soup spoons and glasses of milk. Timmy picked up his spoon and prodded at the pale porridge in his bowl. "Is this...rice pudding?"

Jason had already taken a bite, chewing only briefly before swallowing. "It's definitely made with rice. It's good." He kept eating, one spoonful after another.

"Take your time, Master Jason. There is plenty of food. You will not run out." Alfred brought a plate of bacon and eggs for Dick. "Yes, it's a kind of rice porridge sometimes called congee or jook. I've chosen to make it with full-fat cream and a small amount of honey for flavor, as well some ginger and chopped dates. It is said to be good for those recovering from periods of severe want. Please eat slowly and stop when your stomach begins to protest."

As last night, Jason struggled to slow down, while Timmy seemed to have much less trouble following instructions. Dick kept an eye on them as he demolished his own food. After about two-thirds of his bowl, Timmy set down his spoon and pushed the bowl away from himself. Jason had already finished off his bowl by that time and was holding his glass of milk in both hands, looking uncomfortable.

Then the unprecedented happened. Alfred sat down at the table across from Dick, angled to face the boys. He gently removed the glass of milk from Jason's hands and replaced it with a glass of water. "Take slow sips, my boy. That's it. Does your stomach hurt?"

Jason nodded, breathing heavily through his mouth. He drank the water slowly while Timmy watched, all but vibrating with concern. Poor kiddo, of course he ate too much despite the warnings.

"I'll make you some ginger tea, shall I?"

Jason nodded again. "Thank you."

Alfred gave him a smile and stood to walk back to the stove. Water was already starting to boil.

Dick stared at him, then back at the boys. Alfred never sat at the table with them during meals, something about the butler code? That was what Bruce called it, anyway. The only times Dick had managed to sit at a table with him was for a sort of informal afternoon tea, and even that seemed to make Alfred a little antsy, so he hadn't done it often.

Apparently things were different when you had two young, traumatized boys to care for. Dick couldn't remember if either Jason or Timmy had seemed intimidated by Alfred standing over them last night, but surely Alfred would have noticed, himself. Of course Alfred was willing to break the code to help a wounded child.

He wondered if Alfred had done the same after Bruce's parents had died. Neither liked to talk about that period, but it must have affected them both deeply.

Alfred made four cups of ginger tea and brought them back to the table, then sat again, facing the boys.

"We need to have a discussion about food," he said gently.

Both Jason and Timmy stared at his face, transfixed.

"You were both malnourished and starved by that man whose name I will not speak, though Master Jason's suffering was more severe. You are both quite underweight for your size and age, and it will take time for you to recover both physically and psychologically. So I want to assure you that the kitchen is always open to you both. I will be regulating your meals, at least for the first few weeks, but that's only because too much, too soon can be dangerous after such a long period of deprivation.

"If you are hungry, come to me. I will feed you. You have my word. I will not allow either of you to be hungry, never again if I can help it. The refrigerator and pantry will always be well-stocked with healthy, nutritious food that will assist you in recovering your strength. I, as well as Master Dick and Master Bruce, want to give back everything that was stolen from you, including your health.

"Once the dangerous period has passed, you will be allowed to keep food in your rooms. They will be shelf-stable and nutritious items intended to give you a sense of security. Even then, you do not have to eat that food when you get hungry between meals. You can keep it as long as you like. The kitchen will still be open at any time, day or night. I will show you what you should eat and when to maximize your health. I would also be happy to teach you to cook, if you'd like lessons in that."

Jason straightened up at that, looking interested, and Alfred gave a firm nod, just for him. He broadened his gaze to both boys, looking each carefully in the eyes. "Does all of this sound acceptable to you?"

Twin nods. It was almost eerie how perfectly in sync the boys were.

"Do you have any questions?"

Timmy hesitated, then shook his head. Jason carefully sipped his tea.

"If...if we do have questions later, can we come talk to you?" Timmy asked.

"Of course. As I said, the kitchen is always open to you. I do spend time in other parts of the manor, including my private quarters, but I'm usually not hard to find. If you have difficulty, Master Dick or Master Bruce will be happy to help you." He looked at Dick, who nodded readily.

"Yeah, of course." Dick smiled at the boys. "Alfred is the backbone of this house. We would all crumble into nothingness without him."

Alfred nodded and started to stand.

"I guess I do have one question," Jason said, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Alfred sat back down and faced him seriously. "Yes, my boy?"

Jason full-on smiled. It was marvelous to see. "When's lunch?"

Alfred laughed, gentle and delighted. "Soon. Perhaps two hours. And if you get hungry before then, you only need to return."

Jason nodded and drank his tea.

Chapter Text

He hadn't put a sensor in the hood of the Batmobile.

Bruce sat at his desk, staring down at a legal pad on which he'd been making copious notes during the various calls he'd been making, as well as the various surges of researching he kept doing in between calls. There were still more calls to make, more important decisions to consider, more he needed to learn in order to keep his new sons safe. But through it all, there was that beat in the back of his head, constant and condemning.

He hadn't put a sensor in the hood of the Batmobile.

There were many sensors on that car. Far more than any civilian vehicle, or even most military vehicles Bruce had ever seen the specs of. All of the windows and doors, of course, but also every other possible orifice, including the tailpipe and lamps, the license plate, even the wheels. The latch for the hood had a sensor, even though it could only be disengaged from inside the car. But not the hood itself. Bruce had never thought to put a sensor on the hood.

He and his mechanical partner, Harold, had installed many cameras on the Batmobile. Every angle of approach was covered, including from above. Part of his routine on leaving the Batcave was to set all of the cameras to run and record footage, and when he returned he stopped the cameras and downloaded the footage to his massive bank of hard drives for safekeeping. But he didn't review the footage unless something happened, or a sensor went off and sent an alert to his wrist gauntlet or to the main Batcomputer.

On the night of June 26, no sensors were tripped. Bruce had parked his car in Crime Alley of all places, then gone about his business. He dealt with the grief of that terrible anniversary, he patroled the city, he fought crime. Then he went home and downloaded the footage into his databank, as usual. But he didn't look at it. It never occurred to him to give it a single glance.

Once the boys were safely tucked away in Jason's room and even Dick seemed ready to settle down for the night, or what was left of it, Bruce had gone down to the Batcave and finally reviewed the footage. He expected to be sickened, and he was right. It wasn't even hard to find the right footage. Tim had told him the date it happened. He even remembered the approximate time, because Tim was far too smart and remembered far too much.

The camera looking out from the windshield of the Batmobile had given Bruce a crystal-clear view of a masked man grabbing a young boy—Jason, Bruce's new son—by the hair and slamming his head down on the hood of the car, knocking him out. Moments later, another young boy came hurtling from above, only to be knocked out by the man with a baseball bat.

Then the man walked out of frame, carrying Jason over his shoulder and Tim under one arm. He didn't even hurry. He was completely unconcerned, completely sure he'd gotten away with it and no one was watching.

He had been right.

Bruce bundled up the footage in a zip file to send to the police, carefully removing all markers to show where it had come from, though they would surely recognize the bits of the Batmobile that were visible. And then he watched it again. And again.

He lost track of how many times he watched that footage.

Now, Bruce set the phone down in its cradle and rubbed his hands over his face. His eyes felt gritty, and he knew that his brain was not moving with its typical alacrity. He needed to be sharper, more on top of things. The work he was doing today was very, very important. Some of the most important work he'd ever done in his life. But his mind kept returning to that single, damning fact.

He hadn't put a sensor in the hood of the Batmobile.

A soft knock at the door drew Bruce out of his funk, and he raised his head and blinked, hard, several times. "Yes?"

"Bruce, it's me." Dick stuck his head into the study where Bruce was sitting, then came inside. "How's it going?"

Bruce looked down at the legal pad, covered from top to bottom in his notes, the ink pressed into the page so hard that the pen had sliced through in a few places. "It's going."

"Holy moly, Bruce, have you slept at all?" Dick crossed over to the desk and leaned on it with both hands, leaning over to peer into his face. "You look awful."

"I'm fine," Bruce snapped. Dick flinched minutely and leaned away, and Bruce sighed and rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry. No, you're right. I didn't sleep. I was...preoccupied."

"With that footage you mentioned? What is it, some case you have going right now? I could help you, you know. Whatever's going on, I'm sure we can handle it. I just thought you'd be more worried about Timmy and Jason right now."

Bruce chuckled shortly. "I am."

He sat still, considering. It really wouldn't do any good to torture Dick with the knowledge of how near and yet how far he had been to preventing five months of utter hell for the two children who now shared their roof. But the footage was going to come out in the news, anyway, once he passed it off to the police. Or even if not, there was still a good chance Dick would hear about it another way.

He raised his head and looked into Dick's concerned face, so near to his. "The footage was concerning Tim and Jason, actually. It's from...the night they were kidnapped."

As briefly as he could, he described the footage. By the end, Dick was pacing back and forth in front of the desk, his hands buried in his hair. When Bruce finished, he rounded on him, his eyes wild.

"It was the anniversary of your parents' death."

Bruce nodded, his teeth clenched so tightly he could feel it in his shoulders.

"I can't... That's awful, Bruce. I'm so sorry."

Bruce blinked. He had expected Dick to blame him for not saving the boys sooner, not offer sympathy. "I... What for?"

"Now you have another reason to loathe that date. It's just..." Dick laughed, a sound with absolutely no humor in it. He continued to pace. "What a shitty coincidence."

"I... I should have caught it sooner. If I had reviewed the footage..."

"Yeah, but you didn't. Did you have any reason to?"

"No," Bruce gritted out. "I didn't put a sensor in the hood, and that's the only part of the car that was impacted during the incident."

Dick turned to face him, looking gobsmacked. "Well, and why would you have done that? Is the hood something that gets a lot of isolated attention, normally?"

Here Bruce was stymied. He didn't have a good answer for that one. Still, his fingers itched with need to get down to the Batcave and start designing a sensor for the hood right this instant. He drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to work out some of the restlessness that plagued him.

"Bruce, you can't torture yourself with this." Dick stopped pacing. He grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the other side of the desk to sit facing him. He rolled his eyes at the look on Bruce's face. "Yes, yes, I can see that you're going to torture yourself anyway. But even if you had reviewed the footage on that date, would there have been enough information to chase Pittman down?"

Bruce frowned. "He was masked and gloved, wearing dark clothes. Average height, average weight, no visible identifying marks. Still, I would have known that two boys had been kidnapped. I could have found their identities, at least, and worked out who their attacker was from there."

"Maybe. But this was a case of stranger abduction, which is incredibly rare. We still don't know how Pittman selected Jason for predation, and we already know that kidnapping Timmy was a crime of opportunity. There might not have been any records linking any of them. Jason was an orphaned child with no records, no school, no employment, and Pittman had done this numerous times and had perfected his methods of avoiding detection."

Bruce stared down at the legal pad, frowning. He didn't want to admit that Dick was right. But no matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn't come up with a rebuttal.

Dick sighed and rested his head on his folded arms. "In all likelihood, you would have known that two young boys had been kidnapped, but would have had no way to save them. The only difference is you would have spent the last five months torturing and blaming yourself, instead of just starting today."

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, then drew a deep breath and met Dick's eyes. "You might be right."

Dick smiled, though it was a little twisted, a little sad. "Of course I am. That's not what I came in here to talk about, though." He looked down at the legal pad in front of Bruce, tilting his head to try to read it upside down. "Child abandonment? Is that about Timmy?"

Bruce nodded grimly, feeling a headache start to throb behind his eyes. "Yes. Unfortunately, keeping him might not be as simple as I expected."

Dick's mouth dropped open in dismay. "What? Why not? Timmy's parents failed to report him missing. For five months. How can that be anything but incontrovertible proof that they're unfit parents?"

Bruce ground his teeth together. "Unfortunately, there's no law against not reporting your child missing."

Dick goggled. "What the heck? Why not?"

Bruce shook his head in frustration. "I don't know. I just got off the phone with a family lawyer, the best one I could find at short notice, and I'm still trying to understand it myself. There's child neglect and child endangerment, of course. Leaving a child under thirteen alone without supervision still counts as both of those. Once the police forward the case for prosecution, there's a high likelihood Jack and Janet Drake will be charged under those statutes. Since Tim was hurt because of their negligence, it counts as reckless child endangerment, which can carry a fine of up to $1,000.00 or even a year in jail. So that's something."

"But...custody...?"

"Yes, that's the real question I'm concerned with." Bruce rubbed his forehead. "I'm suing for custody, of course. That's a given. The lawyer I spoke to thought that child abandonment is probably the best angle to take, but even that's a little...shaky."

"Why?"

"Terminating parental rights on the basis of child abandonment usually happens under the premise that the abandonment was voluntary. But Tim was kidnapped, so that's a little harder to argue. It wasn't like his parents could come to see him when they didn't know where he was."

"Yes, but they didn't even know he was kidnapped for months, and then they didn't report it! It's...how can this even be a question?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. I can't fathom it either. But you know the bias the legal system has toward reuniting displaced children with their biological parents, even in cases of abuse and neglect." He smiled crookedly at the look of disgust on Dick's face. "Or maybe you don't. But believe me when I say that this happens every day. A major goal of the foster system is reconciliation, and that makes sense, I suppose. Still, the thought of Tim going back to his parents after the way they treated him..."

Dick looked nauseated. "It's... I can't stand it, Bruce. Tell me you're going to fight for him."

Bruce nodded firmly. "With everything I have. Down to my last dollar. You have my word."

Dick drew a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. But at least it's going to take weeks or months for this to go through the legal system, right?"

"Yes. Tim is my foster son, for now. For as long as I can keep him. If all else fails, we'll delay with motion after motion. From what we know of the Drakes, they may very well give up if it gets to be too much trouble."

"We don't know that, not when it's their reputations on the line." Dick looked even more sick, then shook his head and stood up. "Enough. Enough of that. We've got to get you out of this room, Bruce. You need a break."

Bruce chuckled, but did not disagree. "I have more calls to make. I want to get a second opinion. And I haven't even started looking at therapists."

"No. You need to come spend time with your new foster kids. You promised Jason that he and Timmy would get their own lockpicks, and you'd teach them how to use them, remember?"

Bruce lifted his head, a spark of interest lighting in his heart. "I did say that, didn't I?"

Dick nodded firmly and gestured for him to get up. "Come on, you need to give them a tour of the Batcave. I want to see their faces when they get a look at that stupid dinosaur."

"All right, all right. And I think you mean awesome dinosaur." Bruce chuckled and stood up, circling around the desk to follow Dick as he practically skipped out the door. "Where are the boys now?"

"In the library, if you can believe it. I started to give them a tour of the manor, but when we got to that room Jason instantly got lost in the stacks, and Timmy sat down and said he didn't want to leave without him. I waited around for a while, but Jason started reading something and Timmy cuddled up next to him. They said it was another book in a series they'd started reading together, and yeah, they were both pretty engrossed."

Bruce kept pace with Dick as they headed through the halls to the big library on the first floor. "I'm surprised you survived the boredom. Should we really interrupt them?"

"They've been at it for hours now. They need a break to rest their eyes, just like you do."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah! It's time for a break. We all need one." Dick turned and walked backward in front of Bruce, grinning brightly.

"I think you just got tired of waiting around and decided it was time to drag your little brothers away from their boring books to come have some fun with you."

Dick shrugged. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other." He turned back around and trotted down the hall.

Bruce grinned and hurried to keep up.

Chapter Text

Anne of the Island had been one of the books on Jason's shelves back in that apartment. Jason had read it to Tim through the walls three times, because Tim really liked it a lot. Jason had been annoyed because it was actually the third book in the series, and Tim had never read the first two.

Tim liked the book because it was about a smart, kind, creative woman going to college and living on her own for the first time, sort of learning how to be herself. But she also had a really great family to go home to on holidays, and her head was just full of all kinds of interesting thoughts that never seemed to stop. Jason told him the first book was better, like, the real classic Anne. Jason thought Anne as a child was funny and brave and "A good fighter, for real, my favorite scene is the one where she breaks her slate over that jerk Gilbert's head," and apparently Anne had mellowed out some by college. But Tim liked the third book anyway. A lot.

Still, when Jason found the first book in Bruce Wayne's gigantic library, he came running back to Tim and thrust it into his face. "We gotta read this. Right now."

So they did. They sat together in a leather loveseat, Tim leaning on Jason's shoulder as Jason held the book in his lap, and they fell into the world of Anne Shirley and Matthew and Marilla and the beautiful house called Green Gables. Tim was distantly aware of Dick Grayson, somewhere on the edge of the room, sometimes leaving and coming back. He dragged them away for lunch, which was delicious and filling. Jason brought the book with him, but Alfred wouldn't let him read at the table. And then right afterward they curled up on another sofa in a nice lounge and kept reading.

Tim was slower than Jason, maybe because he hadn't had any practice for five months, maybe just because Jason was better at reading. So when Jason reached the end of a page, he would wait for Tim's okay before he turned to the next one. He never seemed bothered that Tim was slow.

And sometimes Tim's eyes hurt, so he closed them and rested on Jason's shoulder, and Jason read to him instead. It was so, so nice to be able to hear his voice so clear and so close. When Tim leaned into him, he could sort of feel it, too. It wasn't like lying on Bruce's chest and listening to him talk, not that deep and resonant and all-encompassing. But it was still so, so nice.

After lunch, Tim was a little sleepy, and he drifted off to the sound of Jason's voice. He woke up because of footsteps on the floor, heavy and familiar. He was sitting straight up before he knew it, heart pounding as he pulled away from Jason's shoulder. The footsteps sounded like when the bastard came home, and Jason and Tim abruptly halted what they had been doing as fear rushed in.

Tim blinked, struggling to make his blurry vision cooperate. It didn't feel like he'd been asleep for long. Jason had his hand on his shoulder, and he was telling him that it was okay. Tim couldn't relax until his vision finally cleared and he realized that it was just Dick in the doorway, Bruce standing behind him. Dick looked sheepish, and Bruce was frowning.

"Sorry," Dick said. "I didn't mean to startle you guys. Bruce and I were just thinking that it was time to give you a tour of the basement."

Tim blinked and rubbed his hand over his heart. His chest ached, and it seemed to get worse when he touched it. He winced and realized it was the bruises from Pittman punching him, so he stopped rubbing and lowered his hand to his lap instead. "Basement? What's down there?"

"Ah, we can't really tell you," Dick said, eyes sparkling. "You'll just have to come and see."

"It's nothing scary, I promise," Bruce said over his shoulder, deep voice rumbling. "Well, depending on how deep you go, I suppose." He looked at Jason. "I promised you both a set of lockpicks, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Jason hopped to his feet, leaving Tim alone on the couch. Tim tried not to feel abandoned by that, though his side was suddenly cold where Jason had been pressed against him. He looked up at him, forehead wrinkled in surprise.

Jason smiled at him. "Bruce said he had lockpicks in the basement. Real ones, not the half-assed ones I made myself. He's gonna show us how to use them, too." He looked at Bruce, hesitating. "Right?"

Bruce smiled gently. Tim still wasn't used to seeing gentleness on Batman's face. It was so strange. But nice, like hearing Jason's voice with no wall in the way. "Yes, Jay-lad. I promised."

Jason looked confused at the nickname, but shook it off and looked back at Tim. "You're gonna come, right?"

"Of course." As if Tim would ever let Jason go somewhere by himself. Ever again.

Dick approached the sofa, all but bouncing on his toes. "You wanna piggyback ride again?"

Tim grinned. "Okay."

Dick was warm, and he was strong. He carried Tim like he weighed nothing at all. They traveled through the hallways of the manor, going somewhere new. They didn't stop at a stairwell, though. They went into a private study, one that seemed warmer and more personal than some of the more staged-feeling rooms they had passed on the way.

There, Bruce paused and looked at Tim and Jason, a strange look of hesitation on his face. Dick tilted his head at him, then nodded as if urging him to go on. Bruce looked into Tim's eyes, then Jason's. Almost involuntarily, Tim felt his shoulders squaring as if to show Bruce that he understood the seriousness of this moment, even though he wasn't sure what it was about.

"This is...a large show of trust," Bruce said gravely. "Before this moment, only three people have known what I'm going to show you: Alfred, Dick, and myself. Well, and Batgirl, but she comes in a different entrance. But you two, Jason and Tim...you are my foster sons now, and you came in already knowing the big secret. I'm glad to share this with you, but I want you to understand how important it is that no one else can ever know."

Tim sat straighter on Dick's back, holding his shoulders with both hands. Oh. This had to do with Batman. The basement must be where he kept his gear and his tools. Maybe training equipment, too. Excitement started to pound in his chest, and he nodded eagerly. "We'll never tell. Will we, Jason?" He looked at his big brother.

Jason couldn't erase the skeptical look from his face, but he still nodded immediately at the urging from Tim. "No, of course not." He frowned up at Bruce, more in confusion than his usual wariness. "I still don't get what you're talking about."

Bruce smiled, his eyes sparkling. It occurred to Tim that he was just as excited as Dick, just not as demonstrative in showing it. "You'll see."

He walked over to the stately grandfather clock against the wall, then turned the hands of the clock as Tim watched avidly. When the hands reached 10:48, there was a click, and the clock swung open to reveal a secret door.

"Holy shit," Jason breathed.

Bruce grinned at him. He didn't correct his language, just led the way through the door and down a set of stairs. Dick had to duck so Timmy didn't bump his head as they passed through, and Jason followed close behind.

Tim clicked his tongue as they descended the stairs, then listened to the way the sound echoed in the gigantic space they were descending into. "This isn't a basement," he said, equal parts accusing and excited. "This is a giant cave!"

Dick looked back over his shoulder to smile at him. "You're so smart, Timmy. Yep, welcome to the Batcave."

Lights flickered on as they descended, illuminating the vast space. Off in the distance, Tim heard the chittering of bats. "You have bats in the Batcave!"

Dick laughed. "Sure do! Lots of other stuff too."

They were far enough down the staircase now to see that the cave actually existed on multiple levels, an open space in between that put almost everything in full sight. Tim felt dizzy, trying to take it in. He saw the Batmobile parked on a turnstile. A clear case full of Batman suits was nearby. Another level had the biggest computer setup Tim had ever seen, complete with giant monitors that wouldn't have been out of place overlooking a sports stadium. He also spotted various lab equipment, some he recognized and some he didn't, empty exam tables, what looked like changing stalls, and there must be so, so much more that he couldn't even see yet.

Not to mention the things that made no sense at all, like...

"What the fuck," Jason pronounced in a tone of deep disbelief. "Why is there a T-rex in here? And...a giant penny? And, and, a giant Joker card? What the... What the..."

He was out of breath and out of words. He stopped on a landing and bent over to pant with his hands on his knees, his entire body trembling. Tim wanted to jump off Dick's back and go to him, but all he could do was tighten his arms around Dick's neck in sudden concern.

Dick made a slight choking sound and came to a stop. He had been grinning at the looks on Tim and Jason's faces, but now his voice was full of sympathy. "Sorry, Jason. Those were a lot of steps. We should have taken the elevator."

Jason straightened up to stare at him, white-faced. Somehow that seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back. "You have an elevator?"

Bruce had continued descending the stairs while they stopped to exclaim over everything, but now he turned back with a prodigious frown. "I'm sorry, Jason. You're not strong enough for a lot of exertion right now. Dick's right, we should have taken the elevator down."

"I'm fine," Jason said, though he was wheezing.

Bruce started to reach out, his mouth opening like he wanted to offer to carry him. He thought better of it and pulled back, his hands closing into helpless fists. It made Tim ache to watch it. Bruce just wanted to help, but Jason was too jaded and wounded to accept his touch.

Tim needed to fix this, and fast. Jason deserved and needed a family who could take care of him and hold him when he was hurting, and this was the family he'd gotten. They had to make it work somehow. Tim could see that both Bruce and Dick were eager to love him, but Jason couldn't see or understand that himself. He'd been alone for too long with no adults he could trust.

Tim sat up on Dick's back and reached out for Bruce. "Bruce, could you carry me piggyback instead? That way Dick can help Jason."

Bruce smiled, instantly reaching back to him. "Of course. C'mon, Dick, my turn."

Dick laughed and acquiesced. Tim slid off him and onto Bruce's back, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Bruce held him even more securely than Dick had. Tim was even taller this way and could see more of the cave. It was awesome.

"You've got an impressive grip, kiddo," Bruce said, glancing sideways at Tim's hand. He squeezed his leg. "And you didn't skip leg day."

Tim squeaked in embarrassment and let up the pressure a little. He'd been squeezing too hard out of excitement at all the sights surrounding them. "Sorry. I did, um, push-ups and squats when I could. When I wasn't too tired from the bad food."

"Impressive," Bruce murmured again, and Tim had to duck his head against the back of his shoulder to hide his blush.

Jason, meanwhile, had rejected Dick's offer of a piggyback ride, but accepted an arm around his shoulders to help him down the stairs. "Right over there," Dick said cheerfully, pointing. "We'll get the rolly chair from the Batcomputer, and you can sit on it, and I'll push you around. Okay?"

"You called it the Batcomputer?" Jason said mockingly, though he followed Dick's lead easily enough. "Is everything down here called Bat-something or other?"

"Hey, I was twelve, okay? Anyway, it was Bruce's fault for letting me name everything."

"I'm twelve now, well, thirteen, and I wouldn't call it the Batcomputer."

Dick just laughed. He let Jason stand on his own for a moment as he fetched the chair for him.

Jason sat without complaint, and Dick's hands held the back of the chair. Jason twisted his head to look up at him, eyes sparkling and lips pulled in a sardonic smile. "Also, don't think I didn't notice that you ignored my question. Why is there a dinosaur?"

"Well, that's from a little place called Dinosaur Island," Bruce said, his voice rumbling with pleasure. He walked over to stand under the huge T-rex, and Dick followed, pushing Jason's chair. Tim craned his head to look up at the thing, marveling at its size and lifelike features. "Jurassic Park isn't real, though, don't worry. These were robotic dinosaurs, not flesh-and-blood ones..."

They spent the rest of the time until they had to leave for Tim's ankle surgery walking around the Batcave while Dick and Bruce told stories of where the various trophies had come from, what the equipment was for, the villains they had fought and the victories they had won. It was amazing and awesome, absolutely the best day ever. It was far beyond Tim's wildest dreams, not just getting to meeting Batman and Nightwing, but seeing the place where they worked, hearing their stories, seeing their expressions as they laughed and teased each other. Jason seemed to enjoy it, too, though he was nowhere near the fanboy Tim was.

It was so good. So good. Tim was in a daze the whole time, though he did everything he could to press it all into his memory. He didn't want to forget any of this, not one single second. The sights, the stories, the smile on Jason's face, the way Dick tossed his head. The warmth of Bruce's back, the feeling of his hands bearing him up, the rumble of his voice seeming to vibrate down into Tim's soul.

And through it all was that thread of melancholy he'd been feeling ever since he woke up, though he refused to acknowledge it, refused to let it overtake him and ruin this beautiful, wonderful, magical day. This wasn't going to last. There was no way it could last. His parents were going to come back and claim him, ripping him away from this warmth, this kindness. He was going to be alone again. He couldn't afford to get used to this.

But for now, he would soak it up. The stories, the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging. He pressed his hands into Bruce's shoulders, squeezing a little too hard, but Bruce didn't say a word. He just turned his head and gave Tim a gentle smile, like he understood. Like he wanted to give everything Tim wanted to take, so there was no need to be frantic, no need to rush.

Tim laid his head on the back of Bruce's neck and hunched his shoulders, all but burrowing into him. He listened to Dick telling the story about another time he fought Two-Face. A time he won, and innocents were saved, and the bad guys went to jail. It was so, so good.

Tim wasn't stupid. He knew that the good guys didn't always win, not every time. He knew sometimes the bad guy got away, and people got hurt, and even Batman and Robin, or Nightwing, had to retreat and lick their wounds so they could try again another day. He knew his own story didn't have a happy ending, no matter how much Bruce and Dick and even Alfred would want to make it so.

But for now. For these few hours. For this afternoon. He could pretend.

Chapter Text

Bruce should have paid more attention to Tim. He shouldn't have dismissed him as the "easy child," at least compared to Jason, or assumed that he was okay just because he seemed to be adjusting more easily to his new circumstances. Tim was just as deeply traumatized as Jason, only in a different way.

He was sharply reminded of these facts when he heard Tim screaming from the other room, his high, childish voice shockingly loud and ferocious.

"Don't you touch him! Stay away! Stay where you are! I'll kill you! Don't you dare!"

Bruce and Dick raced toward the sound, followed by Detective Bullock. They'd been standing in the foyer, quietly discussing the boys' case before fetching Jason and Tim from the lounge where they were resting for their interview with the police. Bullock's partner, some fresh-faced idiot straight out of the academy, must have gone wandering and found the kids without proper preparation. He'd said he was just going to the restroom, the utter fool.

In the lounge, the kids were backed up into a corner between the sofa and the wall. Tim was standing in front of Jason, his small frame doing little to hide the older boy, his broken ankle raised in the air as he balanced on one foot. One hand was holding the arm of the sofa for balance, and the other hand was holding a knife, pointing forward. He was red-faced, wild-eyed, and shaking with fury and fear.

Behind him, Jason was pale and grim-faced, shoulders hunched against the wall and hands resting gently on Tim's shoulders. He didn't seem as terrified as Tim was of the apparent threat in front of them—stupid idiot rookie cop poking his nose where it didn't belong, damn him—but he was obviously rattled and unsure what to do. He was letting Tim shield him, probably because he didn't really have a choice.

Bruce grabbed the rookie by the shoulder and practically threw him behind himself, growling, "Get him out of here," at Dick or Bullock, he didn't care who. He stood in his place in front of the boys, giving them plenty of space, his hands outstretched non-threateningly. "Tim, Jason, it's okay."

Tim switched his focus to Bruce, the knife now pointed in his direction. His eyes were glassy, like he'd just woken up from a nap. The painkillers and his injuries were making him sleep a lot, Bruce knew. Maybe the rookie had woken him up from a nightmare by accident. That might explain some of this extreme reaction.

"Don't you touch him!" Tim roared. "No one touches Jason!"

"Okay. You've got it." Bruce considered, then lowered himself to sit on the floor, cross-legged, still several feet away from Tim. It made Tim taller than him, though not by much. Good Lord, the child was small. Or maybe Bruce was just too big. A glance over his shoulder showed that the policemen were gone from the room, Dick hovering in the doorway looking just as white-faced and shaken as Jason.

"Tim, you're safe," Bruce said in the deepest, calmest voice he'd ever used. It felt like talking a jumper off a ledge, which was not something Bruce had ever wanted to do with a son. "You and Jason are both safe. I swear, you are safe here. That man will not touch you. He will not touch Jason. No one will harm either of you, not in my house, not while I'm caring for you. I'll protect you."

Tim blinked. His hand on the sofa arm gripped tighter, going white-knuckled. "Y-you will?" He gulped, wincing as he did so. Bruce could still see the bruises in the shape of fingers around his neck, and he had to grab the fabric over his knees to steady himself.

Bruce nodded. "It's me, Tim. Bruce. Your foster father, remember? You were sleeping, maybe had a bad dream, huh? Then you woke up to find a strange man standing over you? No wonder you were scared. It's okay."

Tim blinked rapidly, but Jason nodded over his shoulder. "Yeah, he was napping, and then the next thing I knew that guy was there and Tim was waking up and pushing me off the sofa into this corner."

Bruce nodded. "Okay. Thank you, Jaylad. That explains things perfectly." He looked back to Tim. "It's okay, Timbit. That man is a police officer. He's here to talk to you and Jason."

Tim had been starting to relax, the knife lowering in his hand, but now he tensed and raised it again, still pointing at Bruce. "No talking to Jason," he snarled. "That was the deal. I'll do all the talking. Not Jason! He's been hurt enough!"

Bruce nodded slowly. He was starting to feel like one of those drinking bird desk toys, just bobbing his head over and over again, steady as a metronome. "Okay. No talking to Jason. Dick will take him somewhere to just hang out and relax, far away from the police. Would that be okay?"

Tim went still, panting for breath. He looked over and saw Dick now standing a few paces inside the room, hands outstretched much like Bruce's had been. Dick offered a gentle smile. "It's okay, Timmy. Everything's okay. Can you trust me with Jason? I promise I'll keep him safe."

God, it felt like a hostage negotiation. Tim blinked at him, then looked over his shoulder at Jason, who gave him a tense, uncomfortable smile. Tim looked back to Dick and let his head dip once in concession, then hopped forward to make room for Jason to slip out from behind him.

Jason patted him carefully on the shoulder, then all but fled to Dick. He seemed glad to go. Bruce knew Jason was a tough kid, but the one thing he could not handle in any form was Tim upset or crying. It was almost the reaction of a child when a parent became visibly overwhelmed—the shock and confusion, the discomfort and need to escape. Dick gently rested just the fingertips of one hand on Jason's upper back, with a glance at Tim to make sure it was okay, then ushered him out of the room using a different door than the one the officers had gone through.

Bruce looked back to Tim. "Okay. Your big brother is safe. I swear. So are you. I won't let anyone hurt you. Can you think about giving me the knife?"

Tim looked down at the knife in his hand, then back to Bruce. He blinked again and seemed to come further back to himself. "I..." His voice wavered. "B-Bruce?"

Bruce smiled. "It's me, Timbit. Everything's okay. You can put down the knife. I'll protect you."

"What... What am I...?" Tim looked around the room, eyes wide. His breath quickened, sounding panicked. The knife wavered wildly in his hand.

"You had a bad dream, maybe, or a flashback. You got scared, and you reacted. It's okay, kiddo. Just put the knife down, or give it to me. I'll keep you safe." Bruce dared to scoot closer on the floor, holding out his hand.

Tim's fingers loosened around the knife, and Bruce carefully removed it from his grip and tossed it to the other side of the room. It was a steak knife from the kitchen. He wondered when the kid had managed to grab it. He was so smart and brave. Bruce loved him fiercely in that moment, his wild little warrior, his half-feral child.

Tim looked down at him, blinking as tears flooded his eyes. The glassiness was gone, the dissociation passed. "Bruce?"

"It's me, baby." Bruce held out his arms.

Tim burst into tears and fell into his lap as his leg finally gave way. Wiry little arms wrapped around Bruce's chest and held on tight tight tight, and Bruce wrapped him up in return and hunched over the balled-up little boy in his lap, covering him with his entire body. "Shh, Timbit. It's okay, it's okay, everything's okay."

"I'm sorry!" Tim half-sobbed, half-screamed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me, I don't know why I did that! I held a knife on you, I d-don't..."

"Shhh, it's okay. It's okay." Bruce rocked him in his arms. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were frightened, and you acted to protect your brother. I'm not angry, not even a little bit. You're okay, you're okay."

"I sh-shouldn't I have done that, I shouldn't have... What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing, baby. Nothing is wrong with you. Not a thing. You're perfect. You're fine. It's okay."

Still, Tim couldn't stop weeping and sobbing out apologies for several minutes. Bruce sat on the floor with him, rocking and murmuring reassurances, until his butt started to hurt. Then he stood up, carrying the boy with him, and sat on the sofa instead. A book was on the floor in front of the sofa, dropped there when Jason had been startled by Tim's sudden attack, most likely, and Bruce nudged it out of the way with his foot.

He looked up to see Alfred in the doorway. He was holding a glass of water. At Bruce's nod, he approached and set the water down on an end table where Bruce could reach it. Tim would need rehydrating once the tears died down.

"I was thinking perhaps tea would not be amiss," Alfred murmured, barely audible over Tim's continuing sobs, though they were starting to slow now as the kid ran out of energy.

Bruce nodded gratefully. "That would be wonderful, Alfred, thank you."

Alfred nodded and took his exit, after retrieving the steak knife Bruce pointed out. Next to peek in the room was Detective Bullock, looking sheepish. Tim had settled down to the hiccup-and-sigh stage at that point. "Should we just...go?"

Bruce frowned. Part of him wanted to say yes, go away and don't come back until Tim and Jason were ready to talk. Pittman was in jail, and the gathering of evidence would take weeks if not months. They had plenty of time to get the boys' statements once they'd had time to heal at least a little bit from the months of torment they'd endured.

Moreover, right now Tim needed rest. He'd just had a major trauma reaction and then spent at least ten minutes violently crying in Bruce's arms. He would need time to recharge.

But there was a much more urgent issue beating in the back of Bruce's brain. They needed to pursue charges of neglect against Tim's parents as quickly as possible. Though he was staying out of the effort to contact them, he knew Jack and Janet Drake were going to be found and informed of Tim's reappearance soon. Bruce had already hired a family lawyer to sue for custody on grounds of child abandonment, but a criminal neglect case would boost his chances by a large margin.

That was what he had hoped to get Tim to talk about today. Forget Pittman—Batman could handle him without an issue. But the Drakes were a different problem. A much thornier, much trickier problem.

Bruce wrinkled his nose at Bullock. "Give us a few minutes." Bullock nodded and ducked out of the room.

Bruce turned his attention to Tim. The kid was still curled up in a little ball in his lap, white-knuckled fingers wrapped in his shirt and tear-soaked face pressed against the center of his chest. He swept his fingers through messy, sweaty hair and nudged a finger at his temple, trying to get him to reveal his face. "Timbit, can you look at me? It's okay, I promise. I'm not angry at you."

Tim sucked in a shuddering breath, then slowly peeled his face away from Bruce's chest and looked up at him. He looked utterly miserable, face blotchy and eyes red, a persistent frown tugging at his lips. Bruce smiled and stroked his cheek with his thumb. "It's okay. Are you feeling a little better?"

Tim nodded reluctantly and sat back to rub his eyes with fists. "I'm so-sorry. I shouldn't have done that." His voice sounded rough. Bruce handed him the water, and he drank.

"No more apologizing," Bruce said. He set the water aside again when Tim handed it to him. "You couldn't help being frightened. I'm just impressed you managed to sneak a knife from the kitchen. Alfred is usually much more careful."

Tim looked guiltily at the doorway Alfred had gone through. So he'd been aware of him coming and going. Of course—this boy's situational awareness rivaled that of some Navy SEALs Bruce had known. "I'm sorry about that, too. I just... I didn't feel safe without it."

"And that's okay. I want you to have whatever you need to feel safe. I would prefer that you stick to non-lethal weapons, though. I'll train you and Jason in self-defense. I'll give you tasers and pepper spray and other things, too." Like batarangs, but he couldn't say that with the police possibly listening around the corner. "We just need to make sure you know how to use them safely before I'll be comfortable with you carrying them around, that's all."

Tim drew a shuddering breath. "That's reasonable." He frowned and rubbed at his chest, then winced and let his hand fall again.

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Does your chest hurt?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah. The bastard punched me there. I had x-rays, remember? Nothing is broken."

"Okay. Be sure to let me know if anything hurts more than usual, though. Doctors can miss things, and you can also make things worse with too much exertion, too soon."

Tim sighed and leaned sideways into his chest. "Like freaking out and pushing Jason into a corner and then holding a knife on two grown men?"

That almost sounded like a joke. Bruce smiled and ruffled Tim's hair. "Yes, like doing something like that."

Tim sniffled. "I really am sorry."

"I know, but you don't have to be."

"I'm sorry I'm a problem. I shouldn't have been so loud."

Bruce frowned. This was a new variation on the endless apologies Tim had been spewing. "You're not a problem. And what do you mean, you shouldn't have been loud?"

Tim shuddered. "I shouldn't be loud and cause problems. It's not good to draw attention to myself. It's...selfish."

Bruce's breath stuttered. Suddenly, he hoped that the police were listening. And taking notes. "Who taught you that? Your parents?"

"No. I mean, kind of? I know it's because I was...loud and annoying that they started t-taking all those long trips."

Bruce wrapped his arms around the boy and pulled him to his chest again. "That's not right," he said softly.

"And I shouldn't be loud and cause problems in school, because then I'd get in trouble, and they'd call my parents, and they would be upset with me. And then they'd stay away longer."

Bruce shook his head. He was starting to tear up. This wasn't right. None of this was right.

"And of course I couldn't be loud at the bastard's place. That would be the worst. If I caused problems there, he would have killed me. So I was always quiet. I was always so, so quiet, Bruce. I did what I was told, and I didn't cause problems, and I wasn't loud. But my parents still stayed away. Nothing I did was ever good enough, and I don't know why."

Tim was too tired to cry again, not so soon after the last jag, but he turned his head against Bruce's chest and trembled. Bruce held him close and breathed deeply through his mouth, forcing back his tears. "You were always so quiet," he said. "But you're ten, Timbit. Ten-year-olds are supposed to be loud. They're supposed to be loud and annoying and cause problems and make a mess. That's what kids do."

"I couldn't, though. I couldn't do that."

Bruce closed his eyes. He wanted to tell Tim that that was over now, he could be a kid. He was safe, and he didn't have to follow those rules anymore. He didn't have to break himself to please parents who would never be pleased, didn't have to be quiet in a closet for fear of being murdered. Everything was different now.

But they needed to talk to the police, and it was the worst. Just...the worst possible timing. Bruce hated it, but they had to take the chance.

Bruce took a deep breath. "Tim, the police are here. Will you talk to them?"

Tim pulled away to look at him, his face solemn. "Yes. That was the deal. I'll do all the talking so Jason doesn't have to."

Bruce shook his head. "Not about Pittman. We can talk about Pittman later. Anytime, really. I want you to talk to the police about your parents."

Tim blinked. "My parents? Why?"

Bruce pressed his lips together. How much should he tell him? He didn't want to burden this child with the intricacies of a custody battle, especially one that involved him. He'd told Tim that he was going to keep him safe, and he meant to keep his word. Tim didn't need to know what kind of war would have to be waged to make that promise come true.

But Tim was also a very intelligent, very independent young man. And a very wary one, considering everything he'd been through. He was going to figure out some of it on his own, if he hadn't already.

Bruce decided to go with a simplified version of the truth. "I want to keep you, but I'm going to have to fight for it. When it becomes known just how unfit your parents are to care for you, it will be easier for me to keep you. So I'd like you to talk to the police, please, and tell them everything."

Tim frowned. "But..."

"But what? You can tell me or ask me anything."

Tim squirmed uncomfortably, though he made no effort to escape Bruce's arms. If anything he settled in further, pressing himself into Bruce's warmth as if he couldn't get enough of it. "But they weren't that bad. I mean...I was sad when they left and all, and I was really, really upset when they didn't report me missing. But it's not like they starved me or hit me or anything like that. They just...weren't there."

Bruce sighed. He hated having to explain this, but Tim needed to know. "Tim, sweetheart, neglect is a form of abuse, no matter how benign. Your parents treated you badly, and they need to pay for it. You're the only one who can tell us what they did and how long it lasted. I'm very, very sorry to ask this of you, especially when you're so tired and upset. But we need to talk to the police. Do you understand?"

Tim hesitated, but then he nodded against his chest. "Yes. I understand."

"And you're okay with it? Do you want to wait and have them come back another day?"

As much as Bruce itched at any delay, Tim's comfort and health was more important. If he said he couldn't handle it and he didn't want to talk to the police today, Bruce would make them leave. No further questions asked.

Tim sighed. "I'd rather get it done today. But you'll stay with me, right?"

Bruce smiled and held him close. "Yes. Of course. I'll be with you every step of the way."

Chapter Text

Dick guided Jason down the hallway, still with his hand just barely touching Jason's back. It felt warm and a little creepy at the same time. Behind them, Jason could still hear their voices, Tim's wavering and uncertain, Bruce's low and soothing. Then suddenly Tim was loudly sobbing while Bruce kept murmuring, his deep voice swelling in and out like a tide.

Jason almost turned back then. He froze in the hall, listening as hard as he could, but he couldn't make out any of the words they were saying. His hands closed into fists at his sides, and he felt sweaty and a little dizzy, his chest tight and eyes burning. Dick stopped with him, standing patiently while Jason decided what to do.

After a moment, he shook his head and looked up at Dick, his throat clogged too full for speech. Dick seemed to understand. He gave Jason a smile and nudged his back to start him moving again.

"C'mon, buddy. I promised Timmy I would keep you safe, far away from the police. Where do you want to go? The library? Maybe your room? The kitchen? I'm sure Alfred would be happy to make you a snack."

Jason shook his head. None of those sounded right. What he really wanted was to be with Tim, holding him and protecting him the way Tim kept doing for him, but even the thought of going back there while Tim was still crying and yelling made his feet almost freeze to the floor.

Dick led him to the stairs. "We could go hang out in my room? Is that okay? I have some music CDs and a pretty good boombox. What kind of music do you like?"

Jason cleared his throat. "I dunno. Normal stuff, I guess. What they play on the radio."

Dick hummed. "Yeah, that's cool. Billboard stuff is catchy and fun. I have a lot of albums from the sixties and seventies, actually, because that was the stuff my parents were into and it reminds me of them. You want to give it a try?"

Jason shrugged. It wasn't like he'd ever had a chance to build his own music collection. There was never the money for that sort of thing. They hadn't even had a CD player, just a radio that only worked half the time. If his parents had ever had a music collection, they must have sold it. He had no idea what Catherine had liked. Or Willis, if he even liked anything.

It was kind of hard to think about his parents. His time with them seemed so very, very far away. Not just years, but decades. It was like the last five months was a glass wall that blocked off everything that had happened before. He felt so different now, he was such a different person, that the little boy who used to run and jump to give his mom a hug, or run out the door to escape his father's belt, didn't even feel like him. That was somebody that he used to know a long, long time ago. The divide that separated them was too deep, too dark and cavernous and opaque. There were monsters down there.

They reached Dick's room. Dick left the door wide open and led Jason in to sit on the bed, then went to an entertainment stand on the other side of the room to sort through a pile of CDs. Jason looked around, taking in the posters on the walls. There were movies, bands he didn't recognize, and some posters that looked like they came from a circus. A strongman, an elephant act, a group of clowns climbing out of a tiny car.

He fixated on a poster that was placed in a position of prominence, easily visible from the bed: Three acrobats, a man, a woman, and a little boy. The were posed like superheroes in their colorful costumes, the man and woman with their arms above their heads holding on to the bars of trapeze swings, while the boy stood between them with his feet spread and his hands on his hips, a beaming smile lighting up his face. The shiny text over their heads proclaimed them to be The Flying Graysons.

Dick noticed what he was looking at and came back to the bed. He sat next to Jason and looked at the poster with him. He was holding a small stack of CDs in his hands, but he didn't look at them, staring at the poster instead. "Those are my parents," he said quietly.

Jason nodded. "Tim told me. He said he was there the day they fell."

"Yeah, he mentioned that. He had nightmares about it for years, I think he said." Dick's mouth twisted in a sad smile. "So did I."

"Were they good parents?"

Dick was quiet for a moment. "The best."

He shook his head softly and angled himself to face Jason, holding out the CDs in his hands. "Here, which one do you want to listen to?"

Jason blinked and took the little stack, looking through them disinterestedly. The Beatles, Bee Gees, Electric Light Orchestra, The Rolling Stones. He didn't know any of these groups. He picked one that looked fun and colorful and handed it back to Dick.

Dick lit up. "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Clubs Band! Excellent choice."

Dick took the CDs and went back to the entertainment center. In a few moments some peppy, guitar-heavy music started playing. Jason's shoulders slumped. He felt exhausted all of a sudden.

He let himself fall backward onto the bed, lying there with his feet still on the floor, looking up at the ceiling as the music continued to play. He felt restless and sort of frantic, like there was something he needed to do, but he also felt pinned down by the weakness of his body. The fatigue was getting better with regular food and rest (and all of the food here was really, really good, he and Tim were both huge fans of Alfred), but he still got tired too easily. It was frustrating, but he also felt helpless to correct it. It just was, like a lot of other things he couldn't control and had no hope of fixing.

Like Tim. He couldn't help Tim, couldn't fix him. Tim had been upset and hurting, possibly having some sort of mental breakdown, and Jason just ran away. He was a useless big brother. But he couldn't fix it. He couldn't fix himself.

Soft footsteps alerted him to the fact that Dick was approaching, and he looked up to see him looking down on him with a smile. "Is it okay if I lie next to you?"

Jason shrugged. "It's your bed."

He felt the shift and the movement as Dick carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, like Jason had done, then lay back to look at the ceiling with him. Dick was careful to leave a big gap between them, which Jason was both grateful for and resented. He knew why Dick (and Bruce, and Alfred) were all being so careful with him, tiptoeing around and giving him a wide berth, and it wasn't like he wanted them to be all up in his grill all the time. But it was also a constant reminder of just how ruined he was, how broken.

He hoped Tim was okay. With the music playing, he couldn't catch even the faintest hint of his sobbing echoing through the halls anymore. Maybe he'd stopped, though. Jason hoped Bruce was taking good care of him. Tim deserved a good parent, even a foster one, after the shitty ones life had saddled him with.

Jason turned his head to look at Dick. "Is Bruce a good dad?"

Dick turned his head to look at him, frowning. His hands were folded over his chest, and they tightened around each other like he was struggling with something. "Bruce is...not perfect," he said after a while. "If you'd asked me a week ago, I would have said that he was the worst parental figure in the world, though even then I would have known that I was lying. We had a fight, you see. I split off from him to do my own thing and join the Teen Titans in New York, and he wasn't happy about it. We'd kind of been avoiding each other for months. Until the other night."

"Until I went up on that roof and yelled for Nightwing?"

The corner of Dick's mouth turned up. "Yeah. I'm glad I happened to be in Gotham. I'm glad I found you."

Jason wanted to say something mushy like he was glad Dick found him, too, but he couldn't manage it. He blinked and looked back to the ceiling. "Are you and Bruce still fighting?"

"Kind of? We haven't really talked about it. Everything sort of went to the backburner when you and Timmy came into our lives. We'll probably have to talk about it at some point, but for now, you boys take priority."

Jason's stomach squirmed. He hoped he and Tim weren't anywhere around when Bruce and Dick had that "talk." He was sick of listening to adults yell at each other.

And shit, that meant that Dick might leave. Go back to the Titans, back to his own life. What would he and Tim do then? Yeah, Alfred was great, and Bruce was trying, but...

Actually, scratch that. Tim would probably be fine. He thought Bruce was awesome, and though he clearly idolized Dick, too, Bruce would probably be enough for him. But Jason found himself feeling almost desperate at the idea of Dick leaving. He wanted to grab his arm and cling to him and beg him not to go, but he folded his hands over his stomach and clenched them tight instead.

Dick sighed. "But I didn't really answer your question, did I? Is Bruce a good dad? The truth is... I really don't know."

Jason blinked and turned his head to look at him. "Isn't Bruce your dad? Haven't you lived with him since your parents died? How can you not know?"

"Well, Bruce never adopted me, not formally. I'm officially his 'ward.'" Dick held his hands in the air and made two big air quotes. "Which is sort of an archaic term that Bruce's lawyers figured out a way to make work for him. Or I guess I was his ward, until I turned eighteen. I'm officially a free agent, now. Bruce can't tell me what to do."

"Is that why you left? You turned eighteen and he didn't have to keep you anymore?" Jason frowned. He hadn't thought Bruce was that fickle. He really seemed to care about Dick.

This didn't bode well for Tim. Tim had been abandoned by enough parents.

Maybe Bruce really was a bad dad.

But Dick laid that to rest with his next words. "Sort of. It's not like Bruce ever kicked me out or anything. In fact, the problem was that he wanted me to stay. He wanted me to go to college and, like, get a job or something. And I just wanted to be with my friends. So we had a big screaming match, down in the Batcave, and then I took off and didn't...really...come back."

Jason blew out a breath. "Until the other night."

"Until the other night."

Dick turned his head to look at him. "Look, Jaybird, I don't want to put bad ideas about Bruce in your head, okay? He's a great guy. A hero. Just...our relationship is a little different. When he first brought me here to live with him, I told him I didn't want another dad. I was twelve years old, and he was only twenty-five. My parents had just died, and I didn't want to replace them. He agreed. He said we would be more like partners. And we had a great time together. The best. Being Bruce's partner, being Robin, was so, so cool.

"And it's not like he didn't take care of me like a parent does. He sat by my bed when I was sick or injured, he cuddled me when I had nightmares, he took me to get ice cream when I got good grades. All kinds of dad-like stuff. I love him, and he loves me, despite our arguments and fights.

"Is he a good dad? I dunno. But I think he will be. I think he'll be a great dad for you and Timmy. I really do. He already loves you both, just like I do."

Jason's eyes filled up, and he blinked rapidly, sniffing. He didn't want to cry. That was dumb. He wasn't even sure he believed everything Dick was saying.

But it sounded nice. It sounded really, really nice.

The bed rustled as Dick rolled up on his side, facing Jason, and held out his hand. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Jason looked at his hand, then at his face. He saw nothing but concern, there. Kindness and sincerity. It was so weird, so unbelievable. Dick had only known Jason for a couple of days. Why would he care so much? Why would he love him?

He understood why Dick and Bruce would love Tim. Tim was adorable, and tiny, and cuddly, and incredibly needy. All the things designed to make him shoot straight into an adult's heart like an arrow from a bow. Heck, Jason had fallen in love with him just from a five minute encounter on the street and talking to him through the walls.

But there was nothing lovable about Jason. He wasn't cute. He wasn't cuddly. He couldn't even stand to be touched. He was loud and abrasive and swore too much. He made fun of the things other people cared about and closed himself off. There was no reason for Bruce and Dick to love him or even care about him at all.

But there was Dick, still lying there with his heart in his eyes and his hand resting on the bed between them, reaching toward Jason. He was still leaving a gap, big enough that he wouldn't be able to touch him if Jason didn't reach out in return.

Jason wanted to believe it. He really did. He was so tired of fighting on his own, and what was worse, he couldn't. He didn't have the strength. He couldn't take care of Tim, or himself, or anyone. He needed help, and Bruce and Dick were offering. They seemed like they meant it.

Jason rolled up on his side, too, facing Dick, and slowly reached out. He let his hand rest on top of Dick's palm. He didn't curl his fingers in, didn't grab on. He stared at their hands, resting there together. It felt warm, slightly sweaty. Not bad. It didn't feel like bugs. His skin didn't crawl.

It was nice.

Dick slowly, carefully curled his fingers around Jason's hand, watching his face the whole time to make sure it was okay. Jason kept looking at their hands, focusing on how it felt to be touched, to be held. Dick didn't hold on tight. Jason could escape at any time. A slight shudder passed over his shoulders when Dick's fingertips first touched the back of his hand, officially encircling him, but then it passed. It was fine. It was fine.

Jason breathed out in relief and looked at Dick's face. "Okay," he whispered.

Dick beamed at him. "Thank you, Jason. And listen, like I said, Bruce isn't perfect. He's going to make mistakes. He's bad at feelings, and a lot of times when he wants to show concern it comes out sounding like criticism.

"But he'll never hurt you. He'll never hit you or beat you, nothing like that. If he makes you uncomfortable in any way, just tell him and he'll stop. He'll never abandon you or kick you out, no matter what you do. In fact, he's probably going to frustrate you by being too protective and pushy, not the other way around. He'll want to shower you with presents you might not even want or need. It's just how he shows he cares.

"He's going to make you mad, and probably Timmy, too. He's anal-retentive, and he can be too controlling. But if he ever gets too assy, just call me, okay? I'll come and fight him for you. You won't ever be alone against him. Deal?"

Jason nodded solemnly. "Deal."

Dick smiled. "We'll go check on Timmy in a little while, okay? I know you're worried about him."

"Okay."

Jason closed his eyes. He listened to the music. He felt Dick holding his hand.

It wasn't bad.

Chapter Text

Jason fell asleep only a couple of songs into the album, his hand going slack in Dick's. Dick lay there for a moment, just watching him sleep. He was so small and gaunt. It was startling to look at his statistics next to those of healthy twelve- or thirteen-year-olds. He wasn't only dangerously underweight, but also far too short for his age. Timmy was even smaller, of course, but he was also three years younger.

Dick looked down at the small hand in his, staring at the way the wrist bone jutted out. Jason's hands were too big for his body, almost like a puppy's paws. Maybe he would be big when he got older. When he got enough food, enough care. Enough safety. Dick hoped he would get to watch him blossom. He wanted to see Jason grow tall and broad.

And happy. Dick's body literally ached with how much he wanted this child to be happy. It felt like a pit in his stomach, an emptiness that needed to be filled. Timmy, too, of course. His two bitty little boys, both so small, so hurt. But so strong in their own way. So loving, despite everything.

Such a gift of trust, to have Jason not only hold his hand, but then fall asleep beside him. Jason had been tentative, but he had reached out in the end. He had accepted Dick's offer of comfort and touch despite his fear, despite the overwhelming weight of trauma that sat on his shoulders like a gigantic ugly bird. Yes, this boy was mighty, and Dick could only marvel at his strength.

He had told Jason that they would go check on Timmy, but he didn't want to wake him up. Dick contemplated this problem for a several minutes, then gently pulled his hand out from under Jason's slack fingers and sat up. He fetched a spare blanket from the closet and covered Jason from toes to shoulders, then turned down the music and left the room, padding silently on the balls of his feet.

The truth was that he wanted to check on Timmy, too. It had torn at his heart to leave when Timmy was so upset, then to hear him sobbing through the halls. But Jason had needed comfort, too, and Dick could not ignore that. Having two kids was going to be a strain on his heart, he could see that already. When both of them needed him, but needed different things, how could he possibly choose?

Thank God Bruce had been there for back-up. Before he reached the lounge, Dick could hear the voices, Bruce and Detective Bullock, both talking calmly. Timmy wasn't crying anymore, but Dick also couldn't hear his voice.

He stuck his head in the door. Bruce was sitting in the corner of the couch, his arm wrapped around Timmy, who sat with his back against Bruce's side. His broken ankle was propped up on a high mound of pillows, and he was drinking a cup of tea held carefully in both hands. His eyes were still swollen and moist, his face patched with red. He seemed calm but drained, paying no attention to what the adults were talking about.

Timmy saw Dick at the door and perked up, raising his head with a smile. He let go of his teacup with one hand to wave at him. "Hi."

Dick waved back, grinning. "Hi, baby bird." He stepped into the room and walked over to the couch so he could kneel next to Timmy. Bruce and Bullock had fallen quiet, watching him come. Dick had eyes only for Timmy. "You look like you're feeling better now."

Timmy's face fell, and he looked down at his teacup, cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Dick was baffled. He looked up at Bruce, who only gave him a frown, then back to the child. "What for, sweetie? You didn't do anything wrong."

"I freaked out. I was too loud. I was a puh-problem." Timmy's lip wobbled, and Dick's heart broke.

Dick threw Bruce a look of wide-eyed dismay, then carefully took the teacup from Timmy's trembling hands before it spilled in his lap. It was ginger tea again, no doubt prescribed by Alfred for its warming and soothing qualities. "Oh, no, Timmy. No. You're not a problem. You're not too loud. You freaked out, yeah, but that's okay. You have a lot to freak out about. Freak outs are expected."

He set the teacup aside and pulled Timmy into a hug, leaning over Bruce's arm to do it. Timmy grabbed onto his shirt with both hands, clinging with heartbreaking intensity. A few more tears leaked out to wet Dick's shoulder, but then he pulled back and gave him a watery smile. He let go of his shirt, too, though it seemed to pain him to do so. "I'm okay. Thank you."

Dick doubted that. Timmy didn't seem to be okay at all. He suspected that this child had taught himself to act okay when he really, really wasn't, but he was still young enough that the act wasn't perfect. There were cracks in the facade.

Still, he didn't want to shame the boy by pointing that out, so he nodded and sat back with a sigh. He looked up at Bruce, with a glance over his shoulder at Bullock. "Are we still having the interview with the police?"

Bruce looked grim. "Tim has agreed to talk about his parents, but we're going to leave Pittman for another day. Jason won't be required to talk. Detective Bullock will take Tim's statement. We need to make sure charges of neglect are pressed as soon as possible."

For the custody case, of course. Dick nodded in understanding and turned his body to include Bullock in the conversation. "What happened to the rookie? The one that scared Timmy so badly?"

He kept the anger off his face as he asked, but it was a close thing. That dumb newbie cop could have caused irreparable harm to these two wounded boys, and he hadn't seemed to even understand or care about what he'd done to them.

Bullock's lip curled. "I sent him out to wait in the car. I don't care how cold it is out there, and I don't care how long the interview takes. He violated protocol in a big way, and you'd better believe he'll be getting a hefty reprimand. He's off the case, too. Don't worry, he'll never talk to the kids again."

Dick nodded in satisfaction. It was no less than that jackass deserved. Dick would have preferred to give him a belt in the jaw as well, but the kids had been more important at the time.

He looked back to Timmy. "Do you want me to be here in the room when you talk about your parents, or would you rather I leave?"

Timmy looked conflicted. "You, you can do what you want," he said shyly. "I don't mind either way."

"Okay." Dick laid a warm hand over his knee and squeezed it gently. "I'd like to be here, then. I'd like to know more about your life. Is that okay?"

Timmy nodded hesitantly.

"Do you want Jason here, too, or do you still want him to stay away from the police?"

Timmy's face flushed red from his chin to his forehead. "Oh, that's...that's okay. I was being stupid."

"No, honey." Dick squeezed his knee more firmly. "You weren't being stupid. You were scared, and you were trying to protect your brother. That's not stupid. That's admirable. Amazing. You're a hero, you know that?"

Timmy bit his lip to keep from smiling too hard and covered his blushing face with his hands. It was incredibly adorable. Dick wanted to take a picture, or better yet, video, but he didn't want to disturb the moment by taking out his phone. "You're...you're being silly," Timmy squeaked out.

Dick grinned and patted his knee. "Nope. Not a bit." He looked at Bruce. "I'll be back, okay? Don't start the interview without me."

Timmy lowered his hands and looked at him seriously. "It's okay if Jason wants to come, but tell him he doesn't have to. If he'd rather read a book that's fine. I understand."

"Okay." Dick stood up and ruffled his hair. "I'll be right back." Before he went, he gave Timmy back his teacup, which he accepted gratefully.

Dick bounded up the stairs, feeling much lighter than he had on the way down. In his room, though, he treaded softly. Jason was still soundly asleep, and that song with all the sitar music was playing.

Dick turned off the music, then went back to the bed and lay down in his previous spot. He carefully took hold of Jason's hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Hey, Jason. Can you wake up for me, buddy?"

Jason stirred, wrinkling up his nose and squeezing his eyes shut like it pained him to wake up. It was so cute Dick wanted to die. Then he opened his eyes and blinked blearily. He didn't seem alarmed or upset about having fallen asleep on Dick's bed, holding his hand. He looked at the blanket over his shoulder, then back to Dick. "Mnh, yeah? 'M awake."

Dick smiled. "I went down and checked on Timmy. He's feeling better. They're gonna go ahead with the interview, but just about Timmy's parents. We're gonna forget about Pittman for now, okay? You don't need to talk. I asked Timmy if he wanted you to be there, and he said it's up to you. If you just want to hang out in here and read or listen to music, that's fine. What do you think?"

"Oh." Jason yawned and straightened up, pulling his hand out of Dick's. The blanket slid down off his shoulders, and he shivered and pulled it up again, wrapping it around himself. "I want to be there. I don't want Tim to be alone with the cops."

"He won't be alone." They stood up and headed to the door, Jason still with the blanket wrapped around him. "Bruce and I will be there, but I'm sure he'll be glad to have you, too. The more support the better. Oh, and that dumb rookie got exiled to the car. He's not allowed to talk to you or Timmy ever again."

Jason grunted and nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Fucker scared my little bro. I wanted to punch him, but Tim was in the way."

Dick laughed and patted the top of his head, just once. "You're a good brother."

Jason grumbled, but didn't duck away from the touch. The corner of his mouth curled up.

In the lounge, Jason marched straight to Timmy without a word. He moved the pillows out of the way, then slid under Timmy's legs, taking their place in supporting his feet. He also pulled his blanket around to cover Timmy with a corner of it. Dick moved an armchair closer to the couch so he could reach over and touch Timmy's uninjured foot. Timmy watched the entire operation with a look of wonder on his face.

"Hi, Jason," he said softly, when Jason was settled.

Jason patted his leg. "Hey, squirt. I heard you're gonna talk about your shitty parents, so I wanted to be here for the show."

Timmy rolled his eyes, but he also seemed to relax, molding back into Bruce's side. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for coming."

Jason looked at Detective Bullock, his face grim. "You're gonna make sure Tim's parents can't have him anymore, right? They're terrible and they shouldn't be allowed."

Bullock's mouth twisted. "It's not really up to me, but I'll certainly do my best. If the facts warrant it."

Jason nodded firmly. "They do."

"Okay." Bullock looked at him steadily, then around the room at Bruce and Dick, too. "Listen, I'm gonna have to ask you to let Tim speak for himself, okay? I need to hear about his experiences in his own words. You guys are all welcome to be here for moral support, but you can't coach him, and you can't interject with your own feelings or thoughts on events you didn't witness. I'll ask the questions, and Tim will answer them. Capiche?"

Nods all around. Bullock looked to Timmy. "Okay, kiddo. I'd just like you to tell me what life with your parents was like, okay? However you want to say it, doesn't matter. I'll take notes."

"Oh. Um." Timmy's eyes widened, and his hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket. He looked suddenly overwhelmed, and Dick's heart hurt for him. "I'm not sure... You mean, anything?"

"Anything." Bullock seemed to catch on that Timmy didn't know where to start. "Okay, how about... Mr. Wayne said he suspects that you were left alone from a young age. Is that true? Your parents went on long trips and left you behind?"

"Oh, yeah." Timmy nodded, more confident now. "It started when I was...five, I think? Maybe four. It was after we went to the circus, and I think I was three then. It was my fault, though."

Bullock frowned. Bruce held Timmy tighter, and Jason looked thunderous. "It was your fault that your parents started going on long trips?"

"Yeah. I mean. I was annoying. And...and loud. They didn't like it."

Bullock rubbed his forehead. "Did they tell you that was why they were leaving? Because they didn't want to deal with you?"

"No, but I could tell. It was..." Timmy looked troubled. "It started after the circus," he said slowly, not like he thought Bullock was stupid, but like he was trying to figure it out himself. These were assumptions that had long been baked into Timmy's brain, into his perception of the world, and now he was being asked to unravel and explain them.

"What happened at the circus?"

Timmy gave Dick a guilty look. "I was there," he murmured. "The night, the night the Graysons fell. It's my first strong memory."

Bullock blinked. "That must have been hard for you."

Timmy nodded and looked back to him. "It was horrible. I had nightmares about it. And I would wake up and cry, and I would wake up my parents, and they didn't like it. I tried to be good, but I couldn't make myself stop, and it just kept happening." He blinked, and two crystal tears rolled down his cheeks. "So they started going on trips. They were always happy when they got back. And then they got less and less happy the longer they stayed, until they left again. So it's my fault, I know it. Because I was being loud and waking them up and annoying them."

Dick wanted to kill the Drakes. Their son had been traumatized, their tiny, toddler son, and they had abandoned him instead of trying to help him. By the looks on Bruce and Jason's faces, he knew they felt the same.

Bullock was taking notes. He took a breath and looked back to Timmy. "Did you have a caretaker when your parents went on these trips? A relative, or a nanny or babysitter?"

Timmy nodded. "Yeah, until I was old enough for school. I had a nanny. She was really nice."

"What then?"

"Then I had boarding school. In the summer I had camps and classes. I didn't have a nanny anymore, but we have a housekeeper, Mrs. Mac. It wasn't really her job to look after me, but she made sure I had food and that my clothes were clean."

Bullock squinted at him. "So from the time you were...six or so, when you started school, until now, you didn't have a dedicated caretaker when your parents were gone? Just a housekeeper who did the minimum to keep you fed and clothed?"

Timmy squirmed uncomfortably. "I wouldn't say Mrs. Mac did the minimum, no. She always... She did more than she had to. She would talk to me about school and tell me to keep my room clean and wake me up if I slept in. That was back when she was around more, though."

"Hey," Jason spoke up then, his voice outraged. He looked at Bullock, his teeth clenched. "I know we're not supposed to talk, but..." He looked at Timmy. "You said Mrs. Mac didn't like you. Why would she do more than she had to if she didn't like you?"

Timmy shrugged helplessly. "I dunno, I think maybe she felt obligated? Like, I was a dumb little kid, and there was no one there to scold me or tell me what to do, so she felt like she had to do it. She smacked me with her spoon a couple of times when I made a really big mess. She tried to help me grow up."

Bruce was grinding his teeth so hard that Dick could hear it from where he sat. He himself felt almost dizzy with rage. He didn't know who this Mrs. Mac was, but he dearly, dearly wanted to have a talk with her.

Bullock looked like he was tasting something sour, too. He was trying to keep neutral, but Dick saw the way the pencil was creaking between his meaty fingers. "Did your..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Did your parents know that Mrs. Mac disciplined you when they weren't there?"

Timmy shrugged. "I don't know. We never talked about it. I always got the feeling they probably would have approved though. I mean, I needed someone to keep me in line, right?"

Bullock just looked at him.

Timmy swallowed nervously. "And I did grow up. Mrs. Mac helped with that. So this summer, when I asked my parents if I could skip the summer camp, and go to public school in the fall, and take more care of myself... They agreed. I had a PowerPoint. It was very persuasive."

Dick hid his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed with both adoration at the image of tiny nine-year-old Timmy with a PowerPoint presentation, carefully explaining to his parents why he should be given more freedom like a little bitty businessman, and complete and utter rage that it had worked.

Bullock blew out a breath. "Okay. So what did that mean for you, this summer? How were things different?"

Timmy held up his hand and started ticking off points on his fingers. "Well, Mrs. Mac didn't have to come over every day anymore, just once a week to do spot-cleaning. I promised to keep my room and the kitchen clean from my own messes, and I knew how to do that." Second finger. "They increased the limit on my credit card so I could do my own grocery shopping and buy my own clothes and stuff. I'd had the card for a while, but it was only supposed to be for school supplies and equipment for my camera and things like that."

Third finger. "I had good enough grades that they let me skip summer camp, so I had the whole break to just do what I want." Fourth finger. "And this fall I was finally gonna get to go to public school and be classmates with my friend, Sebastian Ives. We met in kindergarten, but we were never in the same schools after that. I was really looking forward to spending more time with him."

He looked sad at the thought and lowered his hand back into his lap, clutching at the blanket again. "And yeah, that's about it."

Bullock rubbed his forehead with the knuckles of the hand holding his pencil. "And then you got snatched by a pedophile while running around in Gotham."

Timmy looked mulish. "I thought we weren't going to talk about that."

"I think that point was relevant." Bullock took more notes. He looked tired and saggy. Dick could relate.

Jason cleared his throat and knocked his fist against his brother's shoulder. "Hey, tell him about when school started."

Timmy's nose wrinkled. Bullock looked up. "What now?"

Jason stared back at him, bold as brass. "When school started, while we were with the bastard. I can talk about this part, right? I was there."

Bullock sat up straighter and held his notebook in front of him. "Sure, son. You can tell me. What happened?"

Jason looked at Timmy, who had turned away to hide his face against Bruce's bicep. He seemed fed up with this conversation now, but he didn't tell Jason to stop.

Jason looked back at Bullock. "Tim said that when school started, his parents would have to know he was missing. We watched the news, see. We figured that eventually, someone would notice Tim was missing and report it to the police, and it would be on the news. We were really scared of that happening, because the bastard said he would kill Tim if there was a big hunt for him and he was causing too much trouble.

"So we watched the news, every morning. Or at least I watched the news and told Tim what I saw. And Tim said that when school started, his parents would know he was gone, because the school would call them and ask why he hadn't come. Maybe they didn't know over the whole summer, because Mrs. Mac only came once a week and might not notice that he was gone, but after the school called, they would have to report him missing.

"And we watched the news and we watched the news, and it never happened. And then when we got out Dick told us that his parents never reported him missing, but we already knew, because we watched the news."

Jason was quiet for a moment, his hands clenched into fists. He stared at the floor as if reliving the memory. He eyes were moist, and his body was trembling.

At last, he looked up at Bullock again. "When Tim figured out that his parents were never gonna report him missing, he cried for hours. Because that was the final proof, see. They didn't love him. They never did. If they had, they woulda reported it. And maybe then the bastard would have killed him for being a pain in the ass, but at least Tim woulda died knowing his parents loved him. Instead, they just murdered his heart instead of his body. And really, I don't know which one is worse."

Bullock closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and gave him a nod. He wrote down a note on his pad.

Jason wrapped his arm around Tim's legs, hugging them close because that was all he could reach of him at the moment. His voice was hoarse. "So you gotta make sure Tim's parents never get him back, mister. They don't want him, and they never deserved him anyway. He's better off here. He's better off with me. Even if I was homeless and living on the street again, he'd be better off with me."

Chapter Text

Being on parental leave was nice. Bruce wasn't worried about Wayne Enterprises at all. He didn't even think about it. Lucius Fox was imminently capable, and Bruce trusted him implicitly. But of course, the reason he was on parental leave was so he could worry about many, many other things.

The child psychologist Bruce had consulted had advised him to give Jason and Tim plenty of space and alone time, while allowing them to seek out adult company on their own if they wanted to. The boys needed to know that they were safe and that their boundaries would be respected, and the only way to demonstrate that was with consistency over time. They had all seen what could happen when those boundaries were violated, with Tim's mental break two days ago, and nobody wanted a repeat.

Eventually they would need to start the boys on a path to reintegrate with society. Bruce and Alfred had discussed hiring tutors to help the boys get up to speed on their academics rather than putting them back in school immediately. Of course there would be psychotherapy sessions as well, twice a week at first, though those weren't starting until next week. For now, the emphasis was on letting the boys rest, eat, and settle into their new home.

The boys had been promised three hours of alone time this afternoon, and Bruce hated to break that, but he had news that couldn't wait. He ascended the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps light. He'd seen how Tim, especially, started at the sound of footsteps. It made perfect sense once Bruce stopped to think about it. Tim's situational awareness, or hypervigilance, more accurately, was a product of five months of fear and agony. No doubt by the end of his captivity he'd been able to tell where Pittman was in the apartment at all times, just by the vibrations through the floor.

He wished Dick was with him, but he'd gone back to New York to deal with Titans business. He'd proclaimed his intention to be back in a few days, hopefully two, three at most. No one in the household had been happy about him leaving, not even Dick.

Jason in particular had trembled at Dick's announcement, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes, until Dick gently held his shoulders and got down to his level and promised that he would come back. Tim had taken the news more stoically, though he clung to Dick for several minutes before letting him go. Bruce could relate. He wanted to cling to Dick, too. He needed him now more than ever.

On the residential floor, he could hear music coming from Dick's room. The door was ajar and the light was on. Jason and Tim had taken to playing Dick's music during the day, leaving the door open so they could hear it. Bruce really needed to take them shopping to set up their own rooms, or at least let them pick furnishings and decorations out of a catalog if they weren't ready to go out into the world yet. They were both welcome to have their own entertainment centers, their own collections of music. Bruce just hadn't taken time yet to help the boys customize their space, dealing with a myriad of other issues. Thankfully, the boys seemed content with Dick's music; perhaps it helped them feel closer to him in his absence.

The light was also on in Jason's room, and the door was open. Bruce paused outside and knocked against the frame before peeking inside. Jason was sitting cross-legged on his bed, leaning against several pillows on his headboard, reading a book. He looked up at Bruce's knock, though he didn't respond with either welcome or fear, his face nearly blank.

Bruce gave him his best smile. "Hey, Jaylad. Do you know where Tim is? I have some news I need to give him."

Jason's scowled. "I haven't seen him for a while."

"Really?" Bruce's eyebrows rose. He'd been under the impression that the boys still spent barely any time apart. Perhaps they'd started to grate on each other, like any normal pair of brothers. Jason's expression certainly spoke of something similar to annoyance. "Is he okay? You seem...upset?"

Jason considered for a moment, then set the book aside and waved for Bruce to come in. "Close the door."

Bruce looked around. "Are you sure?"

Jason nodded and pointed at the chair near the bed. "Yeah, come in."

Thoroughly bemused, Bruce stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him, then stepped over to sit where Jason had indicated. This was the first time Jason had invited him into his room without being asked, and he honestly hadn't expected such a privilege nearly this soon. Jason wiggled around on the bed to face him, his hands on his knees and back slumping.

"Timmy's been acting weird for the last couple of days," Jason said, his voice low, even though the door was shut and music was playing. "Ever since the thing with the police."

Bruce's lips tightened. "Do you think he's still upset about it? Blaming himself?" He'd thought he'd said enough to convince the child that it wasn't his fault and he had nothing to be sorry for.

Jason shrugged. "Dunno. Something. It's almost like he's trying to push me away. He won't talk and just looks away when I ask him questions. At least yesterday he still let me read to him, but today he said his head hurt and he wanted me to stop." Jason's shoulders hunched up to his ears, and he flushed with guilt. "So I kinda got huffy and told him to leave if he was gonna be an asshole, and he did. I don't know where he went. I'm sorry I was a jerk to him. He's just a little kid."

He sniffled suddenly, and his hand flew to his nose, eyes scrunching shut as tears leaked out. Bruce's heart ached. This was probably the first time these children, so tightly bonded by months of hardship, had had even a minor fight.

"It's okay, Jaylad." Bruce started to reach out to touch him, then thought better and pulled back, hands closing into fists in his lap. "I know you didn't mean to hurt his feelings."

Jason nodded shakily and put his hands back in his lap, fingers twisting nervously together. "Can you please find him and tell him I'm sorry? I'm afraid he'll just run away if I go after him, but he really likes you, so he'll listen to what you say."

"Of course I will." Bruce rose to his feet, and Jason bowed his head, sniffling harder. Bruce stared at him for a moment, his breath aching in his throat. His hand reached out and patted the boy's head before he could stop it.

Jason stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and looked up at him. He seemed relieved rather than frightened, which felt like a minor miracle in itself. "Are you really gonna fight to keep Tim, like you said after the police left?"

Bruce gave him a grim smile. "With everything I have."

"Okay." Jason scrubbed his hand over his face. "I don't think Tim believes that."

"Then I'll have to convince him. You two boys are mine now, and I'll fight everyone in the world to keep you safe, without hesitation."

With that in mind, Bruce went to find Tim. He tried his room first, not put off by the fact that no lights were on. Tim was still photosensitive, and enough gray winter light was coming in the windows to navigate by. He also found Tim's crutches propped against the wall and his knee scooter near the door. But the room appeared empty.

Bruce stood just inside the doorway, looking around. "Timbit? Are you hiding somewhere in here?" No response, and the air felt somehow dead. Tim had barely used this room since moving in. It mostly served as a storage place for his clothes and a place where he could shower.

He went across the hall to Dick's room, which seemed much more promising. Again, the room seemed empty, the bed neatly made and no random items to announce anyone's presence. Bruce stepped inside and looked around. Would Tim hide in the closet? Surely not.

Then again, maybe small, dark places had come to feel comforting to him, rather than confining. He had been trapped for those five months of hell, but as long as he was inside the closet with the door shut, he was safe. It was only when the door opened that he was in danger. With that in mind, Bruce hesitated to open the closet door and violate any sense of safety Tim might have regained since his fight with his brother.

A tiny noise, muffled and barely audible, changed his mind. Bruce hesitated, smiling sadly, then got down on his stomach and looked under the bed. There was Tim, curled up in a ball on his side, seemingly unaware of Bruce's presence. He was holding Dick's stuffed elephant, clutching it against his chest with one arm. His other hand held a flashlight, one of the slim, practical models Bruce kept for night work.

As Bruce watched, Tim held the flashlight toward his face and turned it on, wincing in the brightness, then turned it back off. In the brief glimpse Bruce got of his face, his eyes seemed glazed, his cheeks flushed. Then he shivered and turned his face into the carpet to muffle a sneeze—the tiny, almost inaudible noise that had alerted Bruce to his presence earlier.

"Timbit," he said gently, trying not to startle him. "What are you doing under there?"

Tim rolled his head languidly over to look at him. "Training," he said hoarsely. Then he shone the light in his face again, winced again, and turned it off again.

Bruce desperately wanted to reach under there and rip that flashlight away. The kid was deliberately hurting himself. But he didn't want to scare him, and he wasn't sure that even his huge wingspan was long enough to reach back where Tim had jammed himself. "You're trying to train away your photosensitivity?"

"Yup," Tim said matter-of-factly. "It's a problem."

"This isn't the way, sweetheart. You're hurting yourself. It will get better naturally, over time."

"Don't have time." Tim started to press the button again, but Bruce made a noise of distress. He stopped and looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. "What's wrong?"

Bruce reached under the bed with his long arm, getting as close as he dared. "I don't like you hurting yourself, Timbit. C'mon, give me the flashlight. Will you please come out from under there?"

Tim stared at him, his fingers loose around the shaft of the flashlight, body limp on the floor. He seemed baffled by the idea that Bruce wouldn't like him hurting himself. "No, I wanna stay under the bed."

Bruce opened and closed his fingers, silently asking for the flashlight. "Why, baby? Do you feel safer under here?"

He finally managed to scooch himself far enough under the bed, his back scraping against the frame, that he could touch the flashlight with his fingertips and roll it away from Tim's loose grip. This was made easier by the fact that Tim had turned his face into the carpet again and was coughing helplessly, unable to fight him. Bruce pulled the flashlight back and stuck it in his pocket, then reached out for Tim again.

"C'mon, Tim. Come out and let me have a look at you. You're sick, and you aren't thinking clearly. I bet your head hurts, huh?"

Tim hadn't been trying to annoy Jason when he told him to stop reading aloud. He was genuinely in pain. Then he wandered off in a feverish haze, looking for somewhere he felt comfortable and wanted, and ended up wedging himself under Dick's bed, listening to his music and holding his stuffed animal. It would have been adorable if it wasn't so sad.

Okay, it was still adorable. Bruce was definitely going to tell Dick about this when he got home.

Without the flashlight to hold onto, Tim curled up tighter and hugged the stuffed elephant closer to his chest with both arms. Bruce seriously considered getting to his feet and just tipping the bed up on its side to get to him, but the bed was huge and unwieldy, and he didn't want to break it. And, again, probably not a good idea to drag a traumatized child out of a place where he felt safe against his will, even if he was feverish and acting irrationally.

Bruce sighed and flattened himself against the floor, the carpet fibers tickling his nose. There had to be some other way to lure the kid out rather than forcing him. "I bet you're thirsty by now. How about some ginger tea? Or a smoothie? Does your throat hurt, too?"

Tim stared at him blankly, unmoving.

"We'll get you some medicine, okay? Something to help with that cough and the headache. You must be cold from lying on the floor, too. I'll wrap you up in some blankets, and you'll feel better."

The staring continued.

"I know you're tired of Jason reading to you, but how about me? You like my voice and the way it sounds inside your head. I'll hold you, and you can put your head on my chest, and I'll read to you. Does that sound good?"

Tim looked somewhat tempted, shifting a bit toward Bruce.

"Or we could watch TV. Or a movie. I bet you missed TV and movies while you were in the dark, huh? What's your favorite movie?"

Finally, a response. "Star Wars," Tim said, his voice hoarse from coughing.

Bruce grinned. "Ah, perfect. You know who owns all of the Star Wars movies? I do. Just come out from under there, and I'll get some medicine in you, and we'll watch all the Star Wars you want."

Movement at last. Tim nodded shakily and uncurled from his little ball, then started to scoot across the floor. Bruce backed up to make room for him, finally getting up on his knees next to the bed with a deep breath of relief. Tim wriggled out from under the bed, still holding the stuffed elephant with one hand. Bruce picked him up under the arms and set him on the edge of the bed so he could look at him.

Tim was flushed and rumpled, breathing heavily. Bruce cupped his hand around his cheek, then rested the back of his hand on his forehead. Definitely a fever. Not a terrible one, not enough that he felt the need to call Dr. Thompkins or rush to the hospital, but the poor kid had to be very uncomfortable. His eyes were still glazed, though he watched Bruce with a hint of his usual intelligence, now.

Bruce held out his arms, and Tim went into them without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and his legs around his waist. Bruce stood up easily, supporting him in his arms. Tim sighed contentedly and tucked his hot little face against Bruce's neck. The stuffed elephant dangled down Bruce's back, held by one leg.

Bruce went to Jason's room and knocked on the doorframe. "Hey, kiddo?"

Jason looked up from his book, eyes widening at the sight of his little brother in Bruce's arms. "Oh, shit. What happened?"

Bruce raised a hand, braced against Tim's back. "It's okay. He's just a little sick. A cold, I think, nothing serious. I'm going to take him to Alfred to get checked out and get some medicine in him, and then we're gonna go to my room and marathon a whole bunch of movies. I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to join us, but don't feel obligated in any way."

Jason had been sitting forward, ready to swing his legs off the bed and run to them, but now he relaxed and leaned back into his pillows again, clutching his book. "Oh, okay. That sounds fine. Thanks for telling me."

Bruce watched him carefully. He'd been afraid that Jason would be upset or angry at the idea of Bruce taking Tim to his room, but it seemed that Jason did trust him, to a certain extent. Not enough to accept a lot of physical touch on his own behalf, but he was okay with Tim cuddling with Bruce. Bruce hadn't even needed to explain that his room was just the most convenient place with a big TV, a comfortable place to sit, and a bathroom only a few steps away in case Tim suddenly got worse or started throwing up. He and Dick had spent plenty of sick days there, lounging on the big bed and watching trashy television.

"The invitation is open," Bruce said, tipping his head toward his room down the hall. "Anytime."

Jason nodded. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind."

Bruce gave him a smile, then retreated with Tim.

The rest of the day was spent pampering a sick and feverish kid, which was something Bruce hadn't done for quite a while. After his initial hesitance, Tim was a very clingy and pliable little patient, grateful to accept every scrap of comfort Bruce and Alfred lavished on him. They spent hours lounging in Bruce's bed, watching Star Wars movies. Tim lay against his chest and slept through most of it, which was all to the good.

Jason came in to check on them once in a while. He even pulled up a chair next to the bed and watched most of Return of the Jedi, smiling and laughing and reacting to the flick like any normal kid. Bruce watched the boys as much as he watched the film, reveling in the light in their eyes, the joy on their faces. Tim tucked in along his side like a ragdoll-shaped furnace, and Jason's eyes were gentle when he looked at him, no fear, only relief.

Bruce realized he hadn't told Tim that Jason was sorry about snapping at him, but there was time for that later. Time enough later, too, to share the news that had sent him up the stairs in the first place. It had fled his mind in the search for Tim, then the flurry of activity of caring for a sick child. They would deal with it later, in due time.

CPS had called to tell them the news. Jack and Janet Drake had been found, and they were coming back to Gotham. They wanted to see their son.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson and Princess Koriand'r descended on the grounds of Wayne Manor, Dick held securely in the arms of the princess. It was late afternoon of the third day since he'd left. He'd kept his promise to return in three days, just barely, thanks to his kind teammate.

"Kori, thank you so much for flying me here," Dick threw his arms around her in a hug once she set him down, grinning and breathless. They had both bundled up for the flight, Dick because he had to and she because he persuaded her to at least try to blend in, but the cold air still stung his face and lungs. "C'mon, I can't wait to introduce you to the boys."

Kori giggled and let Dick pull her into the house, trotting ahead and dragging her by the hand like an eager golden retriever. "You've talked about them so much in the last three days, I feel like I already know them."

Dick laughed, still giddy from the flight and Kori's closeness. "Trust me, my descriptions didn't do them justice. I didn't even have a photo to show you! We'll have to fix that..."

The boys had been so unhappy when he left, he half-expected them to leap into his arms as soon as he came in the door. Okay, maybe not Jason. And actually, Tim had a broken ankle, so probably no leaping from him either. Maybe someday. Dick was kind of maybe very much hoping it would happen someday. He had called ahead, so the kids should know his expected arrival time and that he was bringing a guest.

Alfred greeted him at the door as expected, with warm smiles for both of them. Dick handed over his coat and scarf to be hung up as Kori did the same, then looked around eagerly. "Where are the boys?"

"Hi," came a soft voice, and Dick finally saw Jason leaning out of a door partway down the entry hall, half-hidden behind the door frame. He gave Dick a cautious wave and stared at Kori with undisguised awe.

"Jaybird!" Dick crossed over to him, grinning broadly. He wanted to scoop the kid up in a hug, but held off just in time and squeezed his shoulders instead. "It's good to see you, buddy. Where's Timmy?"

Jason shook his head, eyes flickering to him briefly. "I dunno." He went back to staring at Kori.

Dick frowned. Jason and Timmy had been practically joined at the hip when he left three days ago. Had something happened? Dick shook it off and wrapped his arm around Jason's shoulders to lead him back to his teammate. "Here, come meet Princess Koriand'r! Also known as Starfire. She's one of my very best friends."

Kori grinned unabashedly, watching them come. Dick had advised her not to make any sudden moves with Jason and Timmy, but to let them come to her, so she was standing stock still in the entryway waiting. "Oh, I think we are more than that, Dick Grayson."

Dick laughed and blushed. "Yeah, maybe." Once they got within a few feet, he let go of Jason's shoulder and put a small gap between them, conscious of not putting too much pressure on him. Jason stood there, still staring at Kori with his mouth slightly open and cheeks flushed.

"I know who you are," he said in that soft, shy little voice. "Tim told me all about the Teen Titans. He didn't tell me how pretty you are, though."

Kori laughed gleefully and got down on one knee to be closer to his level, her glorious hair surrounded her face like a fiery corona, green eyes glowing with pleasure. "By X'hal, aren't you a precious little one! Tim told you stories about me, did he? I hope they were flattering."

Jason nodded vigorously. "All good," he told her earnestly. "You're a hero, just like the rest of the Titans."

"That is who I desire to be." She held out a slender golden hand. "Shall we greet in the manner of Earthlings?"

Jason looked at her hand, then back to her face. "...Earthlings?" he repeated in confusion.

Dick cleared his throat. "Ah, Tim mentioned that she's an alien princess, right? She's from a planet called Tamaran."

"Oh." Jason looked at her hand again. "Are you asking for a handshake?"

Kori nodded patiently.

Jason shoulders shifted, and his face turned even redder. "You could...you could hug me instead. If you want."

Kori laughed again, even more gleefully. "I do want! Thank you for the honor!" Without further ado, she scooped Jason up in her arms and rose to her full height, pressing their cheeks together. She began floating into the air, seemingly without meaning to, just flying higher and higher with the soaring of her emotions.

Jason gasped in shock and clung to her, and then he was giggling, too, staring down at the floor several feet below with wide eyes. "Holy shit! How are you doing this?"

"Star power, little one!" Kori spun in the air, still holding him tightly against her. Her peals of laughter rang through the cavernous entry hall, and Dick grinned uncontrollably, watching her go.

"Dick, you were right!" she called as she took Jason on an impromptu flight around the hall. Jason's laughter trailed behind them. "Your descriptions did not do justice to this child Jason. He is much, much more adorable than you were able to convey!"

"I know!" Dick cupped his hands around his mouth to call back.

Alfred had returned from taking care of their outer garments and joined Dick in watching Kori and Jason fly, dodging the chandeliers. He was smiling, too, warm and soft. "It's good to hear Master Jason laughing," he said.

Dick nodded, then had to swallow the lump in his throat. "I didn't know it would sound so beautiful."

Alfred looked at him fondly. "Yes, the laughter of a child is especially wondrous. We are blessed to hear it once again."

Dick rubbed away the sheen of tears in his eyes, then took a deep breath and blew it out. He faced Alfred more seriously. "Where's Timmy? I was really looking forward to introducing him to Kori, too."

Alfred frowned, which made Dick's heart fall into his stomach.

"Oh, God. His parents didn't come back, did they? They didn't take him away already?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, no. Nothing like that." He hesitated. "At least, not yet."

Dick stared at him in dismay. "What does that mean?"

"I think you should discuss the matter with Master Bruce. He's up in his office."

Dick blinked. "Okay, I'll do that. But in the meantime, where is Timmy? I still haven't gotten a straight answer."

Kori and Jason descended beside them, and Kori let Jason down, though she still held his hand. And Jason clung to her hand in return. "Tim's been acting weird," he said, his voice wavering.

Dick turned to face him and got on one knee, like Kori had, trying not to intimidate him. "What do you mean, kiddo?"

Jason shrugged and leaned into Kori's side. She put her other hand on top of his head in a protective gesture. It made Dick's heart ache, in a good way.

"He's been... I dunno. Just weird. He stopped talking, and he keeps going off and hiding in different places. He got sick the day after you left, and he spent the whole time cuddling with Bruce, so I thought it was better. But then as soon as he felt mostly okay he started wandering away again. And when he does talk to me it's like... I dunno. He keeps telling me how great you guys are, and how awesome Bruce is, and how good Alfred is at taking care of us. Like, trying to make me happy to be here. But then he acts like he can't stand to be around anyone, himself. I really, really don't get it."

"So he's hiding somewhere?"

Jason nodded wearily. "Yeah, I guess. I haven't seen him since breakfast. We didn't even sleep in the same bed last night." He sniffled suddenly, eyes filling with tears. "I dunno what's wrong. I think I made him mad. I tried to tell him I was sorry, but he didn't even say anything back."

Dick felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart. "Oh, Jaybird." He held out his arms, and for a wonder, Jason moved forward and leaned into him, though he didn't let go of Kori's hand. Dick hugged him, careful not to hold on too tight or too long, then let him go and gently ruffled his hair. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault, honey. It sounds like Timmy has...something else going on. I'm gonna go talk to Bruce, and then I'm gonna look for him. Okay?"

Jason nodded, looking almost disproportionately relieved. He must really trust Dick a great deal. Dick felt the weight of that trust as a precious burden, golden in his hands. He rose to his feet and looked at Kori. "Will you be okay staying with Jason while I look into this?"

She smiled brilliantly and placed her hand on Jason's head again. "Yes, I would be delighted to spend more time with this precious child. Go on, find the other little one. I want to meet him too."

Dick moved toward the stairs. He wasn't surprised when Alfred fell in with him. It must be really grating on Alfred that one of his charges kept disappearing on him. "You gonna look for Timmy?"

Alfred nodded. He even let out a discreet harrumph. "He must be somewhere. I refuse to be bested by a ten-year-old."

Dick laughed and clapped his back. "Good ol' Alfie. You'll never let us down."

When Dick reached Bruce's office, he barely knocked before opening the door and stepping inside. Bruce was sitting at his desk, looking distinctly harassed. He was leaning on the surface on his elbows, his fingers pressed to his forehead. He straightened up at Dick's entrance and let his hands fall down. "Dick. It's good to see you."

"You too, old man." Dick gave him a grin and came over to lean on the desk, peering upside-down at the papers Bruce had been looking at. "More custody stuff?"

Bruce let out a gusty breath and leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Jack and Janet Drake are back in town. They're demanding to see their son."

A ball of ice took up residence in Dick's stomach. He sat down on the edge of the desk, angled so he could still look at Bruce. "Do we have to?"

"I'm stalling by insisting on a court-appointed supervisor, which will take at least a week to get set up. But yes, we do have to let the Drakes...visit their child." He ground his teeth at being forced to admit that Timmy was still someone else's child, at least in the eyes of the law.

Dick grunted. "Is it still out of the headlines, at least?" He'd been caught up with the Teen Titans for the last three days and hadn't paid attention to the news.

Bruce sighed and waved a hand at the stack of papers on the side of the desk. "Have a look yourself."

Dick picked up the stack and paged through them. It wouldn't be front page news, but maybe in the local or crime section, maybe even the society pages... Yep, there it was. Local industry leader and wife demand that Bruce Wayne return their son.

Nothing else, but that article had today's date. The story was only going to snowball from here. Dick made a noise of disgust and tossed the stack aside. "I told you that we needed to get ahead of the press on this, Bruce. Now they're spinning the story to make you look like the bad guy, when they're the ones who abandoned and neglected their child for his entire life!"

Bruce set his jaw. "I will not parade those poor children in front of the press like some kind of spectacle. If I give an interview, even send out a press release about my new foster sons, there will be no stopping the demand for more information. Those vultures in the media will figure out that Tim and Jason are connected to the serial killer child rapist who's been all over the crime section, and then the boys will never be free of that stigma. You know that rookie cop, the one who terrified Tim and practically forced him into a meltdown?"

Dick nodded mutely.

Bruce's hand closed into a fist on the desk. "Bullock told me later. That stupid rookie just wanted to see the kids out of some twisted sense of curiosity. Because they'd been abused and subjected to absolute horror, and he wanted to see what they looked like, as if it was some kind of freak show. You know the rest of Gotham is the same. They'll all want to look at the poor little boys who were victimized by a monster, and the rumors will follow them forever. I will not let my children be victimized again by the gossiping mob."

Dick felt nauseated. Bruce was right, and it didn't feel good. Not in the slightest.

"I take your point," he said stiffly. "But we gotta do something about the situation with Timmy. We need to get it out there that they neglected their kid, and you're saving him from a bad situation, not stealing someone else's child on some kind of whim. There's gotta be a way to convey that without mentioning Pittman. It's the Drakes who are in the wrong here."

Bruce shook his head. "A lot of Tim's case is bound up in the abandonment issue, which is directly connected to Pittman. I can't risk it." He sat forward and rested his hands on the desk. "Besides, as long as the law makes the right decision, none of this matters anyway."

Dick flattened his lips. He disagreed, but there were more important matters to discuss. "Forgetting the Drakes," because oh, how he wanted to forget Jack and Janet Drake, "what's been going on with Timmy lately? Jason said he's been acting weird, not talking to anyone and hiding a lot. Any idea why?"

Bruce frowned and folded his hands under his chin. "I was aware that Tim hasn't been talking to Jason much. But he's been talking a lot to Alfred, or so Alfred has said."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Oh? About what?"

"Food, apparently. He's been very curious about Alfred's food plans for him and Jason, asking him about nutrition and what kinds of recipes he's been making and how to find similar ones. Alfred had thought that Jason showed more interest at the idea of learning to cook, but he's been delighted to guide Tim through the information as well."

"And the hiding?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not sure why that's happening, either. He never leaves clues as to where he goes. He won't use his crutches or his knee scooter, and somehow he's very stealthy without them." He paused. "Well, there is one thing I know of." He waved Dick over to his side of the desk, and Dick hopped down and walked around. Bruce opened a drawer and showed him the collection of flashlights he'd gathered there. It looked like every flashlight in the house.

"I keep having to confiscate flashlights from him, because he'll go into a dark place and shine the light into his eyes, over and over again. He's trying to train away the photosensitivity. I don't even know where he gets all these flashlights. I told him to stop because I don't like him hurting himself, but he's...stubborn."

Bruce worked his jaw, and Dick almost laughed at him. Stubborn man cursed with stubborn children...it was almost poetic.

He didn't laugh, though, because it wasn't funny. It seemed like Tim was deliberately hurting himself in a number of ways. He'd been clingy and cuddly just a few days ago, before Dick left, and even while he'd been sick according to Jason. That touch starvation caused by five months of isolation, not to mention an entire lifetime of parental neglect, was nowhere near satisfied yet. By hiding, refusing to interact with people, even not sleeping in Jason's bed, he was denying himself the physical contact he so obviously needed and craved.

Not to mention separating himself from Jason, the person he adored more than anyone else in the world, while simultaneously trying to convince Jason that the other inhabitants of the manor were wonderful and worthy of trust. Meanwhile he was doing his best to train away his photosensitivity, and also learning about food from Alfred. Not using his mobility aids, insisting on getting around under his own power...

Dick felt a swooping in his stomach. "Oh. I think I know what's going on."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Please, enlighten me."

"Did you tell Timmy that his parents wanted to see him?"

"Yes. I felt like I had to."

Dick just looked at him.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Oh."

They were interrupted by a gentle knock at the open office door and looked up to see Alfred standing there, holding Timmy in his arms. The child was curled up with his arms resting between his chest and Alfred's, his head limp on Alfred's shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist. Dick hopped off the desk and hurried to meet him.

"Alfie! I knew you would find him!"

Alfred raised a finger to his lips, holding Timmy securely with his other arm. Dick nodded and deliberately softened his footsteps. "He was in the third linen closet," Alfred said in a near whisper.

"Any flashlights?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shook his head. "I think you impounded the last one."

Dick reached out his arms for the child. "May I take him, please? We need to have a talk."

Alfred craned his head to look at the boy. "Master Tim," he said softly, "Master Dick is home. He'd like to hold you. Would that be all right?"

Timmy stirred sleepily and raised his head. When he saw Dick, he blinked himself a little further awake and reached for him, tipping sideways out of Alfred's arms. Half-asleep, as well as when he was sick, he would seek the contact he needed. Dick lifted him out of Alfred's arms and cuddled him close. Timmy sighed and settled into him, pressing his little face into the crook of Dick's shoulder and neck. It was one of the nicest things Dick had ever felt.

A small object had been dislodged between Alfred and Timmy's bodies during the transfer, and Alfred had caught it. Now he handed it over. It was Dick's old stuffed elephant, which he was pretty sure he had stuck under his bed a long, long time ago. He grinned nostalgically and tucked it under his arm next to Timmy.

"Baby bird, you found my old elephant?"

Timmy nodded into his neck but didn't otherwise move.

"That's Zitka. I'll have to tell you all about the real Zitka. Would you like that?"

Timmy nodded again, sluggishly.

Dick hummed and rocked him in his arms. "Okay, you just sleep. We'll talk when you wake up."

He gave Bruce and Alfred a smile. "I'm gonna go find Kori and Jason. Don't worry, I'll take care of Timmy."

Both men nodded, Alfred fondly and Bruce with naked relief. Looked like it wasn't just the little boys who had missed Dick while he was away. Dick tucked his head down, letting his cheek rest on Timmy's hair, and walked out of the office.

Chapter Text

"Timmy? Are you ready to wake up?" The voice was gentle and familiar, longed-for.

Tim's forehead wrinkled. No, he was not ready to wake up. Sleeping was good. Sleeping was nice. Nothing hurt while he was asleep.

Tim muttered unintelligibly and turned his face into the warm, firm surface under his head. It moved, which struck him as wrong. The voice chuckled, vibrating through his skull. Somewhere in his sleep-fogged brain, he recognized that he was reclining against someone's chest.

He was sprawled all along someone's body, actually, a muscular arm wrapped around his torso holding him close, several layers of blanket folding him in like crust on a pie. He felt safe and warm, and he felt no desire to move. Nor to wake up. He was the pie filling and he was right where he was supposed to be.

There were other noises in the room. The muted murmur of a television, a giggle that sounded like Jason, a female voice Tim didn't recognize. Jason sounded relaxed, practically happy. So again, no need to wake up. Nope. Not at all.

"Timmy?" A callused thumb stroked along his cheekbone, soft as snow falling on a windowsill. "You almost said something, there. Care to repeat it?"

Tim turned his head slightly so his mouth wasn't restricted. "No. Pie filling's warm and wake up is dumb."

Another pleasant chuckle resonated through his head. "Okay, okay. Never mind. You sleep as long as you need to."

The thumb kept stroking lazily along his cheek, though, which was mildly irritating. Tim wanted to raise his hand and swat it away like a fly, but his arms were trapped at his sides by the weight of the blankets and the arm around him. He kept waking up despite himself, little by little.

He knew it was Dick who was holding him, which must mean that he'd come back from New York like he'd said he would. Tim still didn't recognize the female voice in the room, laughing and talking with Jason, but it was probably one of Dick's friends. He sort of wanted to open his eyes and see who it was, a tinge of that old excitement he felt at following superheroes touching his heart again.

But he was still tired. He was always tired, it seemed like. Even right after he woke up in the morning, he was still tired. It took a lot of effort to get out of bed. He only really did it because he didn't want anyone to worry about him.

In a few more days they wouldn't need to worry about him at all. He just needed to be quiet and keep his head down, and soon enough everyone would forget about him. That was the way it should be. Even though the idea of Jason forgetting about him made Tim feel like a coloring page with just lines and no colors.

But it was better. It was better if Jason forgot about him, because then Jason wouldn't need to worry anymore. He could just be Bruce's foster son and live in Wayne Manor with Alfred making food for him and Dick making him laugh, and he could get better and happier and maybe even help Bruce someday with Batman. Bruce definitely needed help. He kept coming home all banged up and bruised.

It would be good if Jason could forget Tim, because then he could forget about those five months in that apartment, too. Having Tim around was a constant reminder, and Tim didn't want to be that. So if Jason could forget Tim, and forget those five months, and just be happy and safe, that would be better. Everything would be better for Jason when Tim was gone, so it was okay. It was what Jason wanted. Jason didn't want to remember. Tim had told him he would do the remembering for him, and he would, but he also didn't want to be a reminder.

Bruce and Dick and Alfred might be kind of sad when Tim went away, but they would get over it. They'd only known him for a few days. They would be able to forget him quickly, easier than Jason, probably. Tim was doing his best to make it easier for them to forget him, by being quiet and taking care of himself and not being around. Out of sight, out of mind. That was something he had learned early. When he was out of his parents' sight, he was out of their mind, too, and that was the way they wanted it. So everyone would be happier when Tim was out of sight and out of mind, and that was fine.

He could take care of himself. He would be okay on his own. He just had to get used to it again, because he'd let himself get used to being able to talk to Jason through the walls. That was stupid. He should have known it wouldn't always be like that. In a few days he wouldn't be able to talk to Jason anymore, neither through the walls nor any other way, and he had to get used to that. He definitely couldn't let himself get used to eating Alfred's food, or leaning on Bruce's chest, or feeling Dick's arms wrapped tightly around him. He was trying really, really hard not to get used to any of that.

Tim's eyes opened wide. He was doing it right now. He was lying next to Dick on the sofa, all wrapped up in blankets and Dick's arms, and he was letting himself get used to it. He couldn't do that.

He struggled upright with a gasp, pushing aside Dick's arms and the blankets with flailing limbs. "Whoa, Timmy!" Dick sat up next to him, sounding shocked. He helped Tim unwind the blankets and steadied his shoulder as Tim pushed himself to his feet beside the sofa. Well, to one foot, his broken ankle raised in the air.

Dick grabbed his shoulders, trying to get his attention. "What's the matter, baby bird? Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Tim stared at him, heaving for breath. He could definitely use the bathroom right now, but that wasn't why he'd dragged himself out of Dick's grip with such violence. He shook his head wordlessly, a lump standing in his throat.

"What then?" Dick rubbed his shoulders. "Did you have a bad dream? You got scared all of a sudden? It's okay. You're safe. I'm here."

Tears welled in Tim's eyes. Dick was being so kind. He was making it so, so hard for Tim to drag himself away. He should be running right now, finding someplace he could hide and be forgotten, but he didn't want to. Surely he could stay a little longer, right? He could let Dick be kind to him for just a little longer.

But no, that was what Tim kept telling himself every time, and he knew it wasn't true. He couldn't let Dick or Bruce or Alfred or Jason be kind to him, because he had to stop being used to that. It was just going to hurt more when he lost it, if he let himself be used to it. And it would hurt them more, too. He couldn't let anyone else hurt because of him.

His ankle throbbed. It had been too long since his last dose of painkillers. He really ought to be getting used to that, too. But he didn't want to. It hurt so much.

"Timmy?" Dick sat up straighter on the sofa and leaned closer to him, still holding his upper arms in a warm, careful grip. His face filled up Tim's whole vision. His eyes were large and worried and so, so kind. "Are you thinking about running away again? You think you need to go hide away?"

How did he know? Tim stood there for a few more seconds, wavering, holding his breath. The TV sounds had ceased, and he couldn't hear the other voices in the room. It was just he and Dick, staring at each other.

"Please come back." Dick tugged on his arms, pulling him toward the sofa. "Please sit with me on the sofa here, and we'll talk about it. Okay?"

Tim resisted passively, leaning away as Dick tried to pull on him. He shook his head, the lump in his throat growing ever bigger. "I can't," he choked out at last.

"Can't what? Can't sit with me? Can't talk with me?" Dick smiled softly, though his eyes were full of worry. "I think you can. We can give it a try, at least."

Tim shook his head again, more heavily. He let his body sag against Dick's hands, deadweight. "I can't get used to this."

Dick's face was stricken. For a few seconds, he held absolutely still, his face frozen in grief. At last, he said, "You can't get used to what, baby bird?"

Tim swallowed. "All of this."

"To this house? To having people around? To having people who are concerned about you, who want to be with you? To someone else cooking for you, sitting with you, talking to you, holding you? To all of that?"

Tim stared at him, barely breathing. "How did you know?"

"Oh, Timmy."

Dick dragged him forward, and Tim was limp in his hands, letting himself be manhandled. Dick pulled him into his lap and held him tight, both arms wrapped around him, chin tucked over his head. Tim sat there stiffly, trying to resist the warmth, the kindness, the closeness. All of it, everything he couldn't afford to get used to because it was going to be gone, gone, gone so very soon.

"Timmy, you're not going back," Dick murmured in his ear, rocking him where they sat. "You're not going back to that cold, empty house where you had to do everything alone. Where there was no one to see you, no one to listen, no one to care. You're not going back. I know that's hard for you to believe, but you are never, never, never going back there."

Tim wanted to believe this, but he couldn't let himself. He shook his head into Dick's chest, still unable to speak. He was still stiff in Dick's arms, not letting himself relax into it.

Dick raised his head and spoke to the rest of the room. "Jaybird, would you go get Bruce, please? I think Timmy needs to hear this from him, too. Kori, did you see what happened to Zitka, the stuffed elephant?"

Footsteps sounded as Jason rushed out. He was probably glad to escape. There was rustling beside them on the sofa, and that warm female voice spoke again. "Ah, here it is."

Dick carefully loosened his grip on Tim, pulling back so he could see out. A woman with fluffy red hair and golden skin was kneeling beside them, smiling broad and wide. She was holding the stuffed elephant in both hands, presenting it to Tim.

"Greetings, little one!" she said with joy ringing her voice. It was so beautiful that Tim could only blink at her, dazed. "I'm very pleased to meet you. And see, here is your Zitka! Will you take it?"

Tim stared at her. He couldn't stop. He held out one hand, mechanically, and she gave him the stuffed elephant. He curled his arm inward and held it against his chest. "You're...Starfire."

She laughed, as delighted as if he had given her the grandest compliment. "Yes, I am! Though you are welcome to call me Koriand'r, or Kori, as Dick does. Jason said that you told him stories of me and the other Teen Titans. I hope I always live up to your expectations."

Tim nodded, still feeling dazed. People kept noticing him when he didn't want to be noticed. He didn't know what to do with it. He still wanted to fight his way out of Dick's arms and go hide somewhere, but it felt rude to do that when a princess was in the room.

Kori pointed at the TV screen, where the image of a girl with red pigtails was paused. "Jason and I were watching a series about the girl, Anne of Green Gables. He told me all about the books, saying my hair reminded him of her, and then Dick said that there was a show we could watch, so we decided to do so. Do you know the story?"

Tim nodded again, a bit more confidently. "Jason and I read it together."

A bit of the joy faded from Kori's face, her expression becoming more pensive. "Do you know, I had to leave my home when I was twelve years old, too?"

Tim shook his head, eyes wide. He knew Kori had escaped from space slavers, that had been in some of the news articles about her and the others, but the articles never went into any great depth about her history. His heart ached for young Princess Koriand'r, ripped away from her home against her will.

Kori's smile was sweet and sad. "Like you and Jason, I suffered a great deal at the hands of my captors. But I escaped, and I am free now, and I have a wonderful new family here on Earth. Dick wants to make a family for you and Jason, too. I hope you will be able to love your new home, just like I do."

Tim blinked back tears. "I do, I do..." He bit his lip. "I do love it here, Princess, but I can't, I can't..."

Dick's hand tightened around his shoulder, tugging him in to rest on his chest, and Kori reached out and stroked her golden fingers through the long strands of hair hanging down beside his face. "You can't what, little one?" she asked tenderly.

Tim hugged Zitka tighter with one arm and used the other hand to cover his face, curling up into a ball in Dick's lap. "I can't stay," he whispered.

Tears started sliding down his cheeks, slow and weary. Kori made a noise of distress and cupped her palm around his cheek, wiping away the tears with her thumb. Her hand was so, so warm. "Why not, darling child? Don't you want to?"

Tim nodded. "I do, I do. I want to stay so, so bad. But my parents are gonna take me back, and I can't stop them."

There was a flash of light behind his shielding hand, and Tim lowered it with a gasp. Kori was standing back from him, floating in the air. Her eyes were glowing bright sea-green, and starlight was beginning to glimmer between her fingers. "Your parents?" she asked, and her voice was thunderous. "Dick told me of these parents. He told me of their cruelty to you. It is unbearable."

Tim gaped at her. Was Koriand'r...was Starfire, the alien princess who could fly and shoot starbolts from her hands and fought for justice with all the fury of a flaring sun...was she actually angry on his behalf? Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined even meeting this marvelous woman, never mind watching her glow with righteous fury when he merely spoke of his parents.

Dick was still holding Tim tightly to his chest with one arm, but the other one he was reaching toward the floating princess. "Kori, calm down. It's gonna be okay. Bruce and I are already fighting, I promise. We have a lot of measures to try before you'll need to shoot any starbolts at Jack and Janet Drake."

"I would like to shoot starbolts at Jack and Janet Drake, Dick," Kori proclaimed.

"I know, I know. But really, you don't have to. It's gonna be okay. We're going after them for neglect, abuse, endangerment, abandonment... Everything we can throw at them. And if all that fails, we're still not gonna give him back. I promise."

Kori's eyes narrowed, but she slowly lowered to stand on the floor again. She stood with her feet spread and forearms spread out from her torso, brilliant light shining in her palms. "But if you need someone to shoot at them, you will call on me, yes?"

Dick laughed nervously. "I wouldn't dream of calling anyone else."

"Hmm." Kori contemplated this promise for a long moment. Then the scary light in her eyes and her palms finally faded, and her hair, which had been floating around her head like underwater coral in an ocean current, settled down around her shoulders again.

She went to her knees next to the sofa again and took Tim's free hand in both of hers. "I will trust Dick and his Bruce for now, little one. But if you ever need someone to be shot with a starbolt, you must call me. I will come immediately. Agreed?"

It was stated with all the earnestness of a vow, and Kori's grip on Tim's hand was tight. She was making a pledge, and she would keep it. Tim stared at her, then managed a slow blink and a careful nod. "I will. I'll call on you."

"Excellent." Kori grinned at him, then looked to Dick. "You must make sure he has my cell number. I don't remember what it is."

Dick grinned and ruffled Tim's hair. "I'll make sure." He looked at Tim with a frown. "Did Bruce set you boys up with your own phones yet?"

Tim shook his head slowly. "I think he... He said something about wanting to take us shopping, but I hid after that, so I don't know if he and Jason went out or not."

"Yeah, you gotta quit doing that, baby bird. I know you thought there was no point in getting a phone or shopping for furnishings for your room if you're just leaving in a few days, but you're not, okay? You're never leaving. I hope you're a little closer to believing that now."

"I..." Tim swallowed. "Maybe a little bit."

Jason returned to the room with Bruce in tow. Dick straightened up with a breath of relief. "Bruce! We need to show Timmy everything we're doing to make sure his parents don't get to take him back."

Bruce looked around the room, taking in Tim sitting tearfully in Dick's lap with Dick's arm wrapped protectively around him, Kori kneeling by them holding his hand, the smell of ozone in the air. He walked toward the sofa, and Kori gracefully moved out of the way in time for Bruce to take her place. He knelt down on one knee and pulled Tim into his arms, holding him tightly to his chest.

"Oh, kiddo," he said regretfully. "I thought I told you that you were never going back there. I thought you believed me."

Tim was so overwhelmed he could barely breathe. "I wanted to believe you," he said in a tiny voice. "But no, I guess I didn't."

"Okay. Okay." Bruce rubbed his big hand over Tim's back, then leaned back and held his shoulders. His eyes were large and gentle and steady. "Let's go to my office, then. I'll show you all the paperwork. All the charges, all the motions, all the notes I've taken from talking to the lawyers. But I want you to understand that that's not the end of it, all right? Even if all that fails, even if the court still won't give me full custody of you, as they absolutely should, I still won't give you back. Not if you don't want to go."

Tim smiled tremulously. "Would you run away with me, Bruce?"

It seemed so silly. So outlandish. Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prize son, defying the law for a little nobody like Timothy Drake. Just because he asked. Just because he wanted to stay.

"I would, Timbit," Bruce said solemnly. He brushed the hair back from Tim's forehead and rested his hand over the side of his head. "A hundred times. A thousand times. I would do anything for you."

Tim raised his hand and rested it over Bruce's hand on the side of his head. He closed his eyes and sighed. And finally, finally, he let himself relax.

Chapter Text

Jason had never cared much about Thanksgiving before. The local soup kitchen made a big deal about it, so he and his mom would have a tasty meal. That was about it. When Dick left, he said he would be "home by Thanksgiving," but Jason kept frowning at him until Dick altered his promise to "I'll be home in three days." He'd kept his promise, that was all that mattered.

Dick coming back had meant a lot of good things. Kori had come with him, for one thing, and Kori was amazing. Jason had never met anyone like her. She might be as cool as Wonder Woman. She was so happy and bright, and she talked to Jason and paid attention to him like everything he had to say was fascinating and important.

Dick had also managed to track down Tim and figure out what was going on with him. He and Bruce spent basically the whole evening fussing over Tim and talking to him and showing him things in Bruce's office. This meant Jason kept hanging out with Kori, and that was fine. They watched an Anne of Green Gables mini-series from like twenty years ago or something, which was pretty good. Not as good as the books, but fun in a different way. Kori loved it.

Between episodes, Kori talked to him a little bit about how she'd been taken by slavers when she was twelve, and how scared she was, and how painful and degrading it had been. The slavers had hurt her, and they had touched her in wrong places, too. Kori didn't go into a lot of detail about that, but she didn't have to.

She held Jason's hands the whole time, looking right into his face. Jason felt frozen, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't tell her about his own experience being kidnapped and held captive, not a single word. But Kori didn't mind.

She squeezed his hands gently and gave him a sweet smile. "You don't have to tell me about what happened to you. Dick told me a little, and that's all I need. I just wanted you to know that you and little Timmy are not alone. Things will get better. You just have to have an open heart and embrace the good when it comes to you."

This was a little bit too optimistic for Jason to agree with, but he gave her a nod. Clearly, being open and emotional worked for Kori, and he was glad that she was happy now. He kind of doubted that it would work for him and his little brother the same way, but he appreciated her kindness.

They went back to watching the show. Kori put her arm around Jason and held him close to her side, and he leaned his head on her shoulder. It felt really nice. He understood why Tim liked doing this with Dick and Bruce, though Jason still couldn't imagine being this physically close to a grown man. Kori was different, but the idea of resting his head on Bruce or Dick's shoulder and just sitting there still made his skin crawl.

That night, Tim came to sleep in Jason's bed again. Jason came out of the bathroom from his nightly shower to find Tim curled up on top of the covers, hugging one of Jason's pillows. He sat up when he saw Jason and gave him a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry," he said in a tiny voice.

Jason shrugged, though his heart was aching. He lay down next to Tim on the bed, close enough to touch but not reaching out. "I thought you were mad at me because I yelled at you that one time. I thought that was why you kept running away and not talking to me or looking at me."

Tim shook his head and squeezed the pillow tighter. "No, I could never be mad at you. I was just trying... I was just trying to make things easier on you."

Jason rolled his eyes. "How could you running away and hiding make things easier for me? I was worried about you, little dude. I thought it was my fault. I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong."

Tim looked even more morose. "No. No, no, no. You didn't do anything wrong. I just... I thought it would be easier if you could forget me. Because I thought my parents were gonna come take me away in a few days, and we wouldn't be able to be brothers anymore, and I didn't want you to be too sad about it. But Bruce really is working hard to try to keep me, and... I kind of believe him when he says he'd run away with me if he had to. He even showed me a list of countries that don't have extradition treaties with the US and asked me to make a list of which ones I would be okay with."

His eyes sparkled, and he leaned closer to Jason, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Can you believe that, Jay? Batman said he would run away from Gotham just to keep me safe. It's so...so weird. I'm still not sure I believe he would really do that."

Jason blew out an exasperated breath. He gently tugged the pillow out of Tim's arms and scooted closer on the bed so he could hold him, instead. "Of course he would run away with you to keep you safe, Timmy. You're so little and needy that you make everyone want to take care of you. You're basically the cutest kid in the whole world. Bruce and Dick and Alfred and Kori all think so. You're so smart, I can't believe you don't know that about yourself."

Tim squeaked and hid his flaming face against Jason's chest. "Jaaaaayyyy!"

"It's true," Jason insisted, undeterred. "I also can't believe you thought that I would ever be able to forget you. For real, what kind of jerk do you think I am? As if I could ever forget my baby brother. Not happening, dude."

Tim was quiet for a suspiciously long time. Jason pulled back a bit so he could look at his face, squirming down on the bed to look at him. He kept one hand on Tim's arm and the other one under his body, feeling strangely scared that Tim might run away again if Jason stopped touching him. "Hey, why are you being so quiet? Did you really think I would forget you?"

Tim wouldn't meet his eyes. One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I thought it would be easier," he repeated softly. "I thought it would be easier if everyone could just forget about me."

"Well, it's not," Jason retorted. "You're my little brother. I love you. Everyone else in this house does, too. We're not gonna forget you just cuz you hide in some closets for a few days. For someone so smart you can be really dumb sometimes."

Tim was quiet for a little while longer. Then he slowly raised his head and looked Jason in the face. His eyes were startlingly blue. "Wouldn't it be easier if you could forget me, though?"

Jason blinked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Tim shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno. It was something that came to my mind when I was sick, I think. It's just... I know you want to forget those five months. And I don't blame you. I wish you could forget them too. I told you that I'll do all the remembering for both of us, and I mean it. It's easier for me, because what was happening to you was so, so much worse. So it occurred to me..."

Jason held very, very still. He didn't want to talk about this. He never wanted to talk about it. He knew Bruce wanted them to talk to someone, a professional, starting next week, and he was dreading it with his whole entire body. Tim understood that. He usually didn't talk about it, either. Jason had no idea why the kid was talking about it now.

Tim cleared his throat. "I mean... I'm a reminder for you, though. Because I was there, too. So if I went away, and you forgot about me, you wouldn't have that reminder anymore. And it would be easier for you. It would be easier for everyone if I went away and wasn't such a problem, but especially for you. So I just thought..." He went still and silent at the look on Jason's face, his shoulders hunching and face turning sheepish. "Maybe not?" he squeaked.

Jason was incensed. His entire body felt filled up rage. He wished he was Kori, so he could let it build up in his palms and shoot it away in a big bolt of fire. The fact that Tim would think this about himself, believe it, even for a second...

Jason had been there when Tim was talking to the police. He knew Tim thought he was a problem because of the way his parents had continually abandoned him whenever he showed that he had any needs. Tim had learned that lesson so deeply and so young that he had no idea just how ridiculously, horribly wrong it was. He never even thought about it. It was just something he knew. Jason wanted to destroy it with his brain.

"Timmy, you're not a problem. You're not. I wish I could just...press a button and make you believe that. You can't make me forget about the bad stuff by just...disappearing so I can't look at you anymore. That's not how it works. That's not how any of it works."

"But...I'm a reminder?" Tim ventured meekly.

Jason shook his head so hard the whole bed trembled with it. "You don't remind me of the bad stuff. Not even a little bit. You know what I see when I look at you? I already told you that you're my hero, but do you know what I remember from those five months, those five awful, horrible months, when I look at you?"

Tim shook his head, eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together.

"You remind me of the good stuff, never the bad," Jason said firmly. "I remember talking to you through the walls, getting to know who you are. Listening to your voice when I was feeling down and letting you make me feel better and trying to make you feel better too. I remember reading books with you, or playing video games and yelling the plot points to you so you could follow the story with me. I remember you telling me stories and facts from the books you'd read. I remember all our big plans, how we were going to live in your parents' house and go to school together and eat anything we wanted and learn how to defend ourselves and never, ever be lonely or scared or helpless again. I remember you teaching me how to make lockpicks and how to pick a lock. I remember you cheering when I got it right and always looking out for me and guarding me as best you could. I remember when we decided that we were brothers, and I knew I had a best friend for life."

Jason took a deep breath. Tim was still staring at him, now with tears in his eyes. Jason's eyes might have been a little wet, too. "I remember so, so much good stuff with you, Tim, and I never ever ever wanna forget it. So don't you dare even think about trying to take that away from me, okay? Don't ever try to disappear, or fade away, or make me forget you. I don't want to. I never will. No matter what."

Tim stared at him straight on for a few seconds, then ducked and hid his face in Jason's chest. He was shaking. He might have been crying. Jason wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tight.

"And we're always gonna be brothers," he said, his throat tight. "Even if something really, really bad happened, and everything Bruce is doing doesn't work and somehow your parents get you and Bruce doesn't have time to run away with you to another country or whatever... Even if you're living in another house, or another city, or another country, we'd still be brothers. We're never gonna stop being brothers. I'm always gonna think about you and care about you and hope that you're okay, no matter how far apart we are. So forget that thing you said about us not being brothers anymore, okay? It's not gonna happen. I swear. Never. You're my brother forever, and that's just the way it is."

Tim nodded into his chest. His little fingers dug into the back of Jason's pajama shirt, fingernails scraping against his skin even through the thick, fuzzy fabric. Jason tucked his chin over Tim's head and held him just as tight, just as hard. He hoped Tim was starting to believe how important he was and how much he was loved, maybe. Even just a little.

Eventually they climbed under the covers and fell asleep, curled around each other like in the first few days after they escaped from the bastard. The next day was Thanksgiving.

As mentioned, Thanksgiving had never been a big deal to Jason. When he asked Tim, it hadn't ever meant much to him, either. When he was at boarding school, they had a special meal that day for the kids who were still at the school and not at home with their families, but that was about it. Tim was always at the school, so that was every year since he turned six. Even before that, he couldn't remember a single Thanksgiving that he spent with his parents. Maybe he had when he was really, really little, but if so, nothing had been special enough to stick in his memory.

Today, though, Dick came knocking on their door at 8:45 in the morning, calling their names. "Timmy, Jason! You gotta come downstairs! We're watching the parade! C'mon, you don't wanna miss it!"

Tim and Jason sat up and looked at each other. Tim's longish hair was flattened on the side of his head, one tuft sticking straight up. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

Jason scowled at the door. "We're in our jammies!" he yelled back.

"So come down wearing them! It's fine, it's tradition! I'm wearing mine!"

"I want my morning shower!" Jason called.

"You can skip it just this once. C'mon, Jaybird, come and see the big turkey!"

Tim and Jason looked at each other. Jason was still scowling. Tim looked sheepish but intrigued. "I wanna see what he's talking about," he whispered.

Jason scoffed, but there was no way he was denying anything that his little brother expressed in any interest in, not right now. Especially not when he looked at him with those big blue eyes. "Ugh. Fine." He turned and yelled at the door again. "You can come in!"

Dick burst in the door, grinning fit to bust. And yeah, sure enough, he was wearing a blue-and-white striped pajama set and big slippers on his feet that he almost tripped over. Kori was behind him in the hall, giggling into her hand, and she was wearing pajamas, too. They looked pretty baggy on her, though, so they probably didn't belong to her.

Dick held out his arms. "Timmy! Want a piggyback ride? I really missed giving you rides while I was in New York. I know it sounds like a strange thing to miss, but I really did. You're such a cute little back warmer, and it was cold in New York."

Tim rolled his eyes, but his face was red, and there was a little smile on his face that told Jason he was pleased at the compliment, as weird as it was. He let Dick scoop him up in his arms and tickle him for a few seconds, forcing little giggles out like soap bubbles rising and bursting in the air, then scrambled over to perch on his back. Dick curled his arms under his legs and beamed at Jason.

"Coming, Jaybird? If you really, really feel like you need to shower, I understand, but the parade's gonna start soon and I'd love to watch it with you."

Jason curled his shoulders and tried not to fidget too much with the blankets he held bunched in his fists. He really, really wanted to shower. He knew he was taking too many, though. He showered every morning and every night, and sometimes in the middle of the day if he got the urge. He just never felt like he was clean.

So another shower wasn't likely to help now, either. He shrugged and climbed out of bed. "Yeah, okay. If it means that much to you."

"It really, really does."

They all cuddled up on the couch in the room where they'd watched Anne of Green Gables the night before. Tim and Jason were in the middle, with Dick next to Tim and Kori next to Jason. Dick pulled a throw blanket over them all, the same one he'd been holding Tim in last night before he woke up and freaked out. After a while, Bruce wandered in, also in his pajamas, with a cup of coffee and a big yawn. They watched the parade together.

It was fun. Some of the floats were creative, some were funny, and almost all of them were impressive. Dick ignored the commentary of the news people on the TV and made his own, looking at each of them now and again with big smiles to see if they were appreciating his humor. Kori laughed loudly and often, and Tim giggled, too. Jason tried not to give Dick too much good feedback, out of principle, but he couldn't help laughing sometimes, too.

By the time the parade was finished, the house smelled like pumpkin pie. They wandered into the kitchen, Dick carrying Tim piggyback while Kori held Jason's hand, tugging him along with exuberance. When they came in, Alfred was setting out a couple of pumpkin pies on the counter to cool, and he'd already made them a light breakfast of cereal and fruit. He explained that he had to make the pumpkin pies first so they could chill in the fridge all day before they had dinner at four or five in the afternoon. Usually he made the pies the night before, but last night had been busy.

Afterward, they did get dressed, and Jason took as quick a shower as he could make himself. And then everyone moved to the kitchen basically for the rest of the day. Apparently making the Thanksgiving dinner was an all-hands-on-deck affair in the Wayne family. Alfred was in charge and had final say on everything, but he had plenty of chores to go around. There was always something to do.

So Jason learned how to hold a hot boiled potato in a towel in his hand and peel it while the skin was soft and easy to remove. He learned how to cut brussel sprouts in half, toss them in oil and spices, and lay them flat side down on a sheet pan for roasting. He learned that homemade cranberry sauce was ridiculously easy to make and ten times better than the stuff that came in a can. He learned how to make cornbread, then how to rip that cornbread up and add a whole bunch of other stuff to make cornbread stuffing. Except it was really cornbread dressing, because they didn't actually put it inside the turkey. But calling it stuffing was just easier.

Meanwhile, Christmas music was playing on the radio, and Kori and Dick were singing along and dancing together in the kitchen, trying not to run into anyone who was actually working. Tim sat on a barstool at the breakfast counter and swung his legs while he did the chores Alfred gave him, grinning happily at everything and everyone. Bruce almost burned the gravy and put too much milk in the mashed potatoes and burned himself trying to taste the cranberry sauce, and Alfred sighed gustily and forgave him every time like the good dad he was.

Then they all sat down to eat together, even Alfred, because today he wasn't a butler. He was part of the family. (He was every other day, too, so Jason didn't really get the distinction, but it meant something to Alfred.) He wasn't on the clock, since it was a holiday, he just stayed and cooked Thanksgiving dinner every year because he wanted to. He said that it was because England didn't really have a holiday like this, so having the day off wasn't important to him, but Jason figured he did it because he loved Bruce. And everyone else, too.

Jason and Tim were still on restricted diets, but they got to taste at least a small portion of every dish. It was all really, really good. It was the best food Jason had ever eaten, even compared to all the other meals Alfred had made for them, which were always, always amazing. Definitely it was way better than the Thanksgiving meals he used to have with his mom at the local soup kitchen.

It would have been better if his mom was here, too. Of course. Wow, she would have loved it. She would have loved Alfred, especially, for taking such good care of her little boy.

She would have adored Timmy. Jason had no doubt of that at all.

But the loss of his mom was an old pain, barely a sting in his chest. Jason was too happy and full of food and full of love to be sad over her for long. Whenever he felt even a little bit sad, he would look over at Tim and see him pink-cheeked and sparkly-eyed, grinning at some joke Dick had made or looking at Bruce with awe when he spouted some fact to add to the current table discussion or smiling bashfully when Kori or Alfred reached over to pat his head or stroke his cheek. Tim being so happy made the good things better and the bad things seem okay.

After dinner, they all helped clear the table, moving slowly because they were so full. Dick groaned theatrically, clutching his stomach, and Kori laughed and scooped him up in her arms and flew him where he needed to go. Tim sat at the table because of his ankle, but he stacked the dishes and gathered the silverware for easy carrying.

Then they all went and watched football on the TV. Dick said no one in the house really cared about football, except maybe Alfred. But watching football on Thanksgiving was tradition, so that was what they did. Tim and Jason cuddled under the same blanket again, holding hands and sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Tim nodded off first, leaning into Jason's shoulder and slumping down, but Jason followed him into sleep not long afterward. They dozed through the game, only waking up now and then when Dick shook the sofa, cheering at something or other, or Kori laughed too loud.

It was a wonderful day. The best day ever. Now that Tim was starting to believe that he was loved and wanted and he was gonna get to stay, Jason felt like nothing bad could happen to them again. It just wasn't allowed.

Chapter Text

Bruce did not need to go shopping on Black Friday. In fact, he very much preferred not to. Sales meant nothing to him, but having to wade through massive crowds did. Of course, even if he did go into Gotham on Black Friday, the kinds of stores he frequented weren't the kind to have sales, anyway. So it was all rather a moot point for him.

Dick really shouldn't care about money, either. While his childhood as a wandering performer and his own personality prevented him from adopting the unbearable snobbishness and entitlement of many other youngsters in his financial bracket, he had been Bruce's kid long enough that he had no fear of spending money and treated it as basically unlimited. He was normally sensible in the use of his credit card, so Bruce had never tried to teach him otherwise. Nor had he ever even considered cutting Dick off, even after their big fight when Dick ran away to New York, changed his identity, and began living with a group of other teenage superheroes full-time.

But Dick couldn't resist a good crowd, and Kori was the same. She had her own job in New York as a model, and therefore her own spending money, and she had a foreigner's appreciation for America's consumer culture and the exciting ads on the TV. One of the things she'd even said she was thankful for on Thanksgiving was, "Pretty dresses, like the ones on TV! That Dick is going to take me shopping for tomorrow!" And Dick had not said no.

So that was where Dick and Kori were today, the day after Thanksgiving. Bruce did not object to the kids having fun, by any means, and he was looking forward to hearing their stories at the end of the day. He was sure Kori would have many pretty dresses to show off, probably most of them bought with Dick's credit card, and therefore Bruce's money. He might as well see them.

Of course Kori and Dick had offered to bring Jason and Tim with them, but both boys had stared at them with matching horror on their faces and immediately refused, Tim politely and Jason vehemently. They had never looked more like twins than they had in that moment, eyes wide and mouths open in utter distaste. Like Bruce, the little boys did not find the prospect of fighting through crowds in search of elusive "bargains" at all enticing. Bruce rather suspected that both of them were introverts, like him, though they were both so traumatized that it was still hard to tell exactly what their true personalities were. In any case, this was definitely too soon for both of them, and they preferred to continue to hole up in the manor.

Still, partway through the day it did occur to Bruce that there was some shopping he kept meaning to do with the boys and hadn't gotten done yet. It didn't have to be today, but they could at least talk about it. He went and found them where they were curled up in Dick's room, listening to music and laying on the bed while Jason read a book and Tim practiced his lockpicking with the set of tools Bruce had given him.

He knocked gently on the door frame and leaned his head inside the room. "Boys, would you please join me in the study next to my bedroom? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Both boys raised their heads to look at him, Tim with curiosity and Jason with wariness. "What is it?" Jason asked, sticking his finger in his book to hold his place.

Bruce tried on a smile. "Nothing scary. I just want to talk about your rooms."

Tim looked around. "Is it bad that we're in Dick's room when he's not here? He said he doesn't mind."

"No, no, nothing like that."

"I keep my room tidy," Jason said defensively. "I know Tim's room is a little messy, but he's having problems getting around. You can't blame him for that."

"No, that's not it either." Bruce held out both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, will you just...come to the study? I'll show you why I want to talk to you. I promise, there's nothing wrong with the way either of you are treating your rooms. I'm not going to scold you, nothing like that."

Jason frowned and tugged his book closer to his chest. "In that case, is it okay if I finish this chapter?"

"Of course, Jaylad. You can take your time. It doesn't have to be right away."

Jason squinted at him, then deliberately opened his book and went back to reading. Bruce recognized that Jason was testing him, seeing if he really meant to keep his word and wouldn't get mad or yell at him for being stubborn. He could see that in the tension of Jason's shoulders and back, the way his lips were pressed together.

Bruce maintained his gentle smile and kept his body language deliberately relaxed as he looked to Tim, who was still watching him with more curiosity than wariness. "Would you like a piggyback ride, Timbit? We don't have to wait for Jason if you'd like to come now."

Tim shook his head. "I'll come with Jay."

Bruce was not the slightest bit frustrated or annoyed by this. He was glad that the children were clinging together with their usual solidarity again. The atmosphere in the manor had been unbearably thick and miserable during those few days when Tim kept hiding himself away. Tim and Jason made each other feel much safer and more comfortable, and Bruce was glad they could do that for each other.

"That's fine, sweetheart. I'll see you in a bit."

So Bruce went back to the study to wait. He tried not to fidget too much.

Bruce half-expected the boys to keep him waiting all afternoon, just to see if he really meant it when he said they could take their time. But they showed up in the study just ten minutes later, so it seemed they did decide to come after Jason finished the chapter he was on. Tim was leaning on Jason and hopping along on one foot, Jason's arm wrapped around him to hold him up. Jason looked at Bruce a bit warily, but Tim gave him a smile.

Bruce stood up from the coffee table where he'd been sorting through a stack of thick catalogs and gestured for them to sit on the couch across from him. "Come on in, kids. I'll show you what I have in mind."

He sat back down on his own couch as the boys made their way over and sat where he indicated, watching curiously as he set out the catalogs to face them. Bruce frowned down at the one from IKEA—he could only assume that Dick had obtained that one as a joke—and put it under the coffee table.

Jason kept an arm wrapped around Timmy's shoulders, both boys leaning forward to peruse the literature. Bruce had noticed that the boys' roles had reversed somewhat. Now Jason seemed to be the one clinging to Tim most often, rather than the other way around. He seemed to think that the best way to keep Tim from running away was to keep a hold on him at all times, and so far the younger boy had not objected to the constant physical contact. He seemed to revel in it, if anything.

"What's this about?" Tim asked.

Bruce smiled and tapped the catalog he was looking at, which pictured a lavish four-poster bed on the cover. "I wanted to talk about customizing your rooms. I kept meaning to talk to you about it earlier, but there always seemed to be something else gong on. Today is relatively calm, and it's a day traditionally used for shopping, so it seemed like a good time."

Jason sat back and stared at him, wide-eyed, while Tim opened the catalog and started flipping through it. "There's nothing wrong with my room the way it is," he said.

"Well, if you don't want to change anything, that's fine. But those rooms were designed as guest rooms with adults in mind. You must have something else you would like to have in there. How about a TV, or a game console? A music system? Different bedding that's closer to your personal tastes?"

Tim and Jason looked at each other, then at Bruce. Both shook their heads.

Bruce frowned and rubbed his hand over his forehead. He hadn't expected this to be difficult. When Dick first moved in, he had been excited about having his own room and setting it up the way he wanted, and he was full of ideas and eager to tell Bruce about them. Bruce had honestly expected Tim and Jason to enjoy the process, too, but instead both seemed wary and reluctant to speak.

"We'll at least need to get you boys phones and computers, but that shouldn't be too difficult. You don't have to leave the house for that, either, if you don't want to." He looked at Tim. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to bring your camera back to you from that apartment. I would very much like to replace it for you. Again, I meant to do it right away, but we always seemed to have a lot of other things going on. Do you want the same model, or something more advanced?"

Tim still had the flash drive full of photos that Bruce had saved for him. It was still resting on his dresser in his rarely used room, untouched. When they were picking out computers, Bruce would make sure to get one with a lot of storage and RAM for Tim, as well as some high-end photo editing software so he could continue his hobby. He was very curious to see what kind of photos Tim might create when he didn't have to hide them. He hoped the boy would be willing to share.

Tim looked uncomfortable at the thought, though, which was another surprise. "Can't we...can't we just get my old things from my old house, instead of buying new ones?

The corners of Bruce's mouth turned down. "I have asked CPS about that, but they said it would have to go through a judge. Technically, everything in your old house belongs to your parents, not to you. They would have to decide to let us come in and take anything you might want from there." A thought occurred to him. "Do you have anything that we need to get from your old house? Photos, printed or in digital form, that might be compromising?"

He should have considered that Tim might have other records of Batman and Robin somewhere that needed to be retrieved. Of course, it wasn't unheard of for a young boy to be fascinated with superheroes, especially a young boy in Gotham following Batman and Robin, but Tim's photos might be rather more...revealing than the average. If anything like that existed, he could send Nightwing to fetch it, or go himself.

Tim shook his head. "Everything I had was on that camera. If you took all of my photos and deleted the copies on the camera, that's it. It's all on that flashdrive you gave me."

Bruce nodded. "Yes, I did. All right, we'll get you a computer so you can transfer them to the hard drive and do whatever you want with them."

Tim's forehead wrinkled. "You...you really don't mind me having pictures of Batman and Robin?"

"Those photos are yours, Timbit," Bruce said gently. "You did the hard work to get them. They belong to you. Of course we'll set your computer up with the very best encryption and security, so there's no danger of them being leaked. But you earned those photos. I wouldn't take them from you anymore than I would take away anything else you treasured.

"Speaking of which..." Bruce picked up one of the catalogs and flipped through to a section he'd been looking at before the boys came in. He turned it around to show Tim the selection of large plush animals on the page. "I noticed how much you've enjoyed carrying around Dick's old stuffed elephant, and I thought you might like one of your own. What do you think?"

Tim didn't respond, but Jason leaned forward and took the catalog. He pulled it back and held it front of himself and Tim, looking over the teddy bears, rabbits, tigers, whales, and yes, elephants. "These look nice," Jason said. "What's your favorite animal, Timmy?"

Tim stared at Bruce with an expression of dismay, a flush rising to his cheeks. "I...I don't..."

"It doesn't have to be from that catalog," Bruce said. "We could go to a toy store so you could test a few out and see which ones you like, or order it online. Of course, I'm sure Dick wouldn't mind you continuing to cuddle Zitka, too. But you deserve your own. As many as you want."

"But I'm...too old."

"Nonsense," Bruce said firmly. "You're never too old for a stuffed animal. Dick slept with Zitka well into his teens. He found it comforting, just as you have over the last few days."

Tim leaned into Jason's shoulder. "Then Jay should get one, too."

"Of course. As many as he wants."

Jason looked up at Bruce, then abruptly leaned forward and set the catalog down on the coffee table again. "Never mind. I don't need anything."

"Nothing?" Bruce was disappointed. He'd truly thought he was making progress. He leaned back into his sofa and looked back and forth at his little foster sons' faces.

Jason nodded firmly. "My room is fine. It's way better than what I grew up with. For real, Bruce, you don't need to buy me anything."

They were both so stubborn. Bruce had suspected Tim might insist that he didn't need anything, continuing to try to avoid being a "problem," despite everything they'd been doing to convince him that he was nothing of the sort. He hadn't expected Jason to take the same attitude, though. But then, he hadn't considered the frugality Jason had grown up with, the need to keep using whatever was at hand until it was used up or broken, because there was no guarantee of being able to afford a replacement.

Tim, strangely, looked disappointed, too. He nudged Jason in the side and gave him a pointed look. "You should at least get a teddy bear, dude. I know you don't like people touching you, so you could hug a teddy instead when you feel lonesome."

Jason snorted. "Why bother with a teddy bear when I have a cute little bro?"

As if in proof of this, he dragged Tim fully into his lap and cuddled him close, pressing his cheek against his head and tightening his grip when Tim squirmed and protested. "Jay, no! Stop it!"

Jason grinned mischievously and hugged him tighter. "Nope, you wanted me to have a teddy, and you're it."

Tim quit struggling and went limp with a noise of exasperation, though Bruce thought he looked secretly pleased. Bruce couldn't help smiling, either, watching them. Though Jason had lost that starveling look after more than a week of hearty meals, he was still weak enough that Tim could have gotten away easily if he'd really wanted to. They were cuddling because they wanted to, no other reason, and they were both so cute that Bruce wanted to take a picture and hang it on his wall. Or commission a painting.

And he was getting an idea about how to get around both of their reluctance to have money spent on them.

He looked at Tim. "If Jason's room could be anything, what should it be? What should it look like, and what kind of furnishings should be in it?"

Tim's eyes lit up, and he sat up in Jason's arms, shoving him when Jason tried to squeeze him against his chest.

"It should be a big library," he told Bruce eagerly. "There should be bookcases all over the place, and lots of comfortable places to sit and read. Like, chairs and sofas, but maybe a big, thick rug, too, or foam mats on the floor. Oh, and beanbags! Big, comfy beanbags. The bookcases should be set up so there's lots of natural light, but there should also be lamps and stuff. The colors should all be nice and warm, like light brown and creamy yellow and dark red. The art should be really classy, like impressionist nature scenes and stuff. When you walk into the room it should feel really homey and comfortable, a place you could stop and stay forever. And he should definitely have a teddy bear. He should have ten teddy bears. There should be teddy bears in all the sitting places, in the chairs and sofas and on the rug and stuff."

While Tim was talking, Jason kept protesting and trying to cover his mouth with his hand, but Tim kept slapping his hand away and turning his head to keep talking. He didn't climb out of Jason's lap, though. He had no problem with where he was sitting, and Jason had no success in stopping him from talking.

When Tim was done, Bruce looked to Jason. "Does that sound nice? Would you like your room to be like that?"

Jason's face was red, but he nodded reluctantly, his lips pressed together. "It would be nice," he said in a strangled tone. He glared at Tim. "Except the teddy bears."

"Especially the teddy bears," Tim insisted with a childlike grin. It was ridiculously adorable, and Bruce and Jason were both powerless against it.

Bruce nodded solemnly. His mind was already buzzing with ideas of hiring an interior designer and seeing what he could do to change Jason's room to accommodate Tim's vision. They could even knock out the wall to the bedroom next door, opposite Tim's bedroom, to make more room for bookcases and books. Bruce should probably hire a librarian, too, at least temporarily, someone to help him order books and organize them in a way that made sense.

Time for that later. He looked at Jason. "Turnabout is fair play. If Tim's room could be anything, what do you think it should be? What colors, what furnishings? Any kind of theme?"

Jason's eyes widened with glee, and he wrapped his arms tighter around Tim and pulled him back against his chest. "Star Wars!" he exclaimed in delight. "Tim loves Star Wars. When you walk in, it should be all dark, and there should be stars on the ceiling! And, like, Star Wars ships hung around, like the Millennium Falcon and X-Wings and all of those. And a Death Star! And, like, the original movie posters on the walls. And there should be lots of computers and technology. Tim used to talk about the computer stuff he likes and how he wants to learn to hack and program and stuff. And of course his photography, too. He uses a digital camera because he didn't think a regular one would have been safe, because he couldn't take his photos to get developed anywhere. But if he had his own dark room, that wouldn't be a problem. And it could be decorated in a space theme, too. That would be super cool."

Tim said nothing during this entire speech, but he turned his face to hide against Jason's chest so Bruce couldn't see his blush. He wrapped both hands around Jason's forearm where it crossed over his stomach and held on tight, fingernails digging in. Jason never flinched.

Bruce grinned. "That sounds wonderful. Any thoughts on stuffed animals?"

That mischievous twinkle was still bright in Jason's eyes. "Wookiees and ewoks."

Tim squealed in indignation and slapped his arm. "Ewoks are not cute! Gross!"

"Wookiees, though?" Bruce asked.

Tim looked at him with one eye, most of his face still hidden against Jason. "Wookiees are cool. But I like elephants, too."

"You can still have an elephant. Or two. Or ten. What about the rest of Jason's ideas? Does a Star Wars-themed room sound good to you?"

"Yeah, it all sounds awesome," Tim admitted. "But really, Bruce, you don't have to. You don't have to do any of this."

"I know," Bruce said. "I want to."

Jason blinked like he'd suddenly put something together. He looked down at Tim, then back to Bruce. "Dick told me about this," he said slowly.

Bruce tilted his head. "What?"

"He said you would want to give us gifts. Like, lots of them. More than we could ever need. It's...how you show you care."

Bruce couldn't help smiling warmly at that. His oldest boy knew him so well. "That's right. I really, really want to do this for you, boys. Both of you. Please let me."

Jason nodded, still seeming dazed, but accepting. Tim pushed himself upright and looked at Bruce, also with a look of understanding on his young features. "You really do want to do this," he said wonderingly. "A lot."

"I really do," Bruce affirmed again. "So let's talk about it. What other ideas do you have?"

Tim slid out of Jason's lap to sit next to him on the sofa, then reached forward for one of the catalogs. Jason took one, too. And finally, they began to make plans.

Chapter Text

Jason woke up slowly and reluctantly, on some level aware that it was going to be unpleasant. There was a pain and fuzziness at the edge of his sleeping consciousness, and the more awake he became, the more he felt it. He was too hot, too heavy, too achy, and he just wanted to go back to sleep and forget about it, but his body was having none of it. Too soon, he was awake, blinking blearily at the winter sunlight streaming in the window. 

He smacked his lips and immediately winced. There was an ache and a thickness down in his throat. He tried to swallow and groaned at the sharp, biting pain in his throat. He resolved never to swallow again.

"Jason? You okay?"

Jason rolled over and blinked at his little brother. Tim was sitting up on the bed, looking a little droopy, but infinitely more awake and ready to face the day than Jason was. It was a strange feeling. Usually Tim was the one to drag around in the mornings, while Jason was much more likely to be bright-eyed and ready to go. Conversely, Tim was more likely to stay awake late into the night while Jason preferred to drop off at a reasonable hour.

Jason opened his mouth to speak, then remembered his sore throat and changed his mind. It was probably going to hurt to talk. He didn't want to find out. He shook his head, morose and sluggish.

Tim frowned and leaned forward to place his small hand on Jason's forehead. It felt cool and nice, and Jason closed his eyes and tried to breathe. His nose was stuffy, too, which was probably why his throat was sore. Drainage. It took way too much effort to push air through his clogged nose, but breathing through his mouth kind of burned his throat, too.

There was just no winning. Jason ended up sort of panting like a dog, his mouth hanging open. He could feel his own hot breath flowing over his face like a fetid breeze.

Tim winced. "I think you're sick."

Jason nodded in the smallest motion he could manage. Moving felt akin to talking in the realm of bad ideas.

"I'm gonna go get Alfred to get some medicine for you." Tim hopped off the bed, then balanced next to it looking at Jason. "Do you want me to bring you a cup of water from the bathroom first?"

Jason nodded. Tim made his way to the bathroom, using a rolly desk chair like Dick had taught them. (His actual, official, professionally made knee scooter still sat in his own room, unused.) Jason slowly and laboriously pushed himself up to slump against the headboard, half a dozen pillows propping him up in a messy pile. By the time he finished, he was breathing hard and feeling incredibly sorry for himself. 

Tim came back with the water and put it in Jason's hand, then waiting, frowning as Jason just held it in his hands and did not attempt to drink. Jason had remembered that he didn't want to swallow. But his head ached and his eyes felt gritty, so he knew he should drink the water. He usually felt a little dehydrated in the morning, but this was much worse than usual.

"You should drink," Tim said softly. Jason rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion toward the door. Tim laughed shortly and finally moved. "Okay, okay. I'll go get that medicine for you."

He left the rolly chair at the door, and Jason had no idea how he was going to get down the hall, but somehow Tim always managed. He usually found someone to carry him within seconds, but Dick and Kori had both gone back to New York after the holiday weekend, so Jason didn’t know how Tim was going to deal with it this time. Maybe he would just hop. Or, more likely, Bruce would find him and take him to Alfred.

Jason lifted the cup to his mouth and let water flow into it, then sat there rolling the water around over his tongue and gums. It was cool and felt nice, at least. Eventually he couldn't resist the temptation and tried to swallow, just a tiny bit. He almost cried at how much it hurt, lips pursing and cheeks sucking in, and only barely stopped himself from spilling the rest of the water in his mouth down his front like a baby with no mouth control.

The water felt warm now, no longer cool and soothing, and Jason forced himself to swallow it rather than spit it back in the cup. It hurt. It hurt. God, he just wanted to go back to sleep. He let the cup rest in his lap and leaned his head back against the headboard, desperately trying not to cry. His eyes got teary despite his best efforts, and he was irrationally angry at his body for wasting water when he was in too much pain to drink more.

A few minutes later, Tim returned, not with Alfred but with Bruce. The man stopped in the doorway as Tim hopped down from his arm into the rolly chair and went straight to the bed. He climbed up next to Jason again and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. Bruce winced when he saw how miserable Jason looked.

"Hey, kiddo," he said softly. "Tim told me you're not feeling so hot. Is it okay if I come in?"

Jason stared at him wearily. For a moment, he couldn't understand why Bruce didn't just come right in, why he was asking for permission. Then he remembered, and his cheeks felt even hotter. "Yeah," he managed to get out, voice rough and phlegmy. "You can come in."

Bruce smiled gratefully and stepped inside. His footsteps were quiet and gentle, like he didn't want to disturb anything. Tim scooted over to make room for him, and Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, facing Jason. 

"Where's Alfred?" Jason asked, trying not to feel nervous about Bruce being this close to him. It really wasn't Bruce's fault. He had never done anything to make Jason distrust him. Jason's brain was just kind of broken.

"Monday is Alfred's day to do errands," Bruce explained gently. "He has a long list this time, since you and Tim finally picked out what phones and computers you want and consented to accept some new clothes, too. Don't worry, I can make porridge. Alfred coached me extensively."

Jason wrinkled his nose. "I'm not really hungry."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "You must really be feeling sick, huh?"

Jason nodded. He was vaguely aware that Tim had taken the cup from his shaking hands before it could spill. Then he snuggled up against Jason's side, propping him up. Jason felt ridiculously weak and vulnerable, but having Tim jammed up against him helped. He suspected that Tim had another knife hidden somewhere, probably on his person, and as much as Tim trusted and admired Bruce, he would not hesitate to cut him if he did anything bad.

Not that Bruce would do that. Probably. He was still keeping a careful distance from Jason, his hands folded in his lap. "Is it okay if I touch you? Nothing invasive, I promise."

Jason blinked at him. His throat was thick, and a panicky pulse beat in his chest. He jerked out a nod.

Bruce reached forward with one hand, letting Jason see exactly what he was doing. He laid the back of his hand on Jason's forehead. It felt so nice, Jason couldn't help closing his eyes and relaxing into the pillows propped behind him. Bruce hummed thoughtfully, then the cool hand went away, and Jason opened his eyes to watch him.

"You definitely have a fever," Bruce said. "Your breathing is labored, too. Stuffed up?"

Jason nodded. "Throat...hurts," he managed. "A lot."

Bruce nodded. "Coughing? Sneezing?"

Jason shook his head. "Not yet." He couldn’t help feeling a thrill of terror at the idea of coughing with his throat like this. Fuck, that would hurt like hell. He hoped his body wasn’t going to do that to him.

"You need some hot tea with lemon," Bruce said, like he knew what he was talking about. "And a salt water gargle."

Jason made a face.

Bruce laughed. "I know it sounds awful, but it really does help, and you'll feel better afterward. Do you feel up to getting out of bed, or would you rather just stay here, and I can bring you a tray?"

Jason manfully suppressed a groan. "I can get up. We're just going to the kitchen?"

Bruce nodded sympathetically. "Do you want me to help you, or back off?"

"Back off." The words came out a little too ferociously, and Jason blinked. "Please," he added belatedly.

"Of course. Whatever you need, Jaylad."

Bruce stood up from the bed, and Tim scooted over, following him with his arms outstretched. He didn’t even say anything. He just expected now that Bruce would carry him. And of course Bruce did, scooping Tim up in his arms as if he weighed nothing (which was almost literally true) and cradling him like a baby. Tim leaned into his chest with complete nonchalance, utterly relaxed and utterly trusting. Bruce stepped back several paces, giving Jason plenty of space to get out of bed.

Jason took a moment to make sure his pajamas hadn't gotten twisted around his body while he was sleeping and no bare skin was showing, then slowly, gingerly slid out of bed. He felt a little unsteady when his feet set down on the floor, but after a moment he was able to control it. Bruce and Tim both watched him with undisguised concern, and he gave them a shaky smile. "I'm good. It's fine."

Bruce nodded and turned to walk toward the door, leading the way down to the kitchen and trusting Jason to follow. Jason did, though he felt sluggish and sore. He recognized that Bruce was walking slower than usual, keeping pace with him. He was too tired and ill to be annoyed about being babied.

He stared at the back of Tim and Bruce's heads in a bit of a daze. Tim was resting his head in the crook of Bruce's neck, leaning on him without a care in the world. He said something, too soft for Jason to make out, and Bruce leaned his head over so the side of his head rested against Tim's. It was soft and tender and incredibly intimate.

Tim felt so safe. So protected. So loved. He wasn't even a tiny bit afraid of Bruce. Exactly the opposite.

Jason's chest ached, and he folded his hands into fists and held them against his sides as they walked along. He wished, suddenly. He longed. He yearned.

He wanted to quicken his step and catch up with them and walk at Bruce's side instead of five feet behind. He wanted to reach up and take Bruce's hand and feel his huge palm encompassing his. He wanted to experience that warmth, that safety. He wanted to know what it was like to have a man in his life that he could trust and depend on instead of fearing and avoiding.

But Bruce's hands were full, and Jason was too afraid.

Today was supposed to be his first therapy appointment. Until a few seconds ago, the only good thing he could see about being sick was that Bruce wouldn't make him go, not today. He was going to get out of it, at least for now, and it was almost worth feeling like ten different kinds of crap.

For the first time, though, he wondered if therapy really would help, like everyone kept saying it would. Well, everyone except Tim. He was skeptical, too, though not as skeptical as Jason. He was more willing to try it than Jason was, just because Bruce and Dick and Alfred all said he should. It was also probably a little easier for him to envision going since he'd been insisting for months that he would do all the talking and Jason wouldn't have to.

Alfred had told Jason that he wouldn't have to talk if he didn't want to, not even in therapy, not about the stuff that really hurt. It was okay to just learn some coping methods without digging into the details about why he needed them. It would help to talk about what had happened to him when he was ready, but he was allowed to wait.

So that had been his plan, after Alfred told him that. He was just going to listen to the therapist and not talk. He didn't really believe that anything the therapist had to say would be useful, but he had taken Alfred's explanation as permission not to participate, and that was good enough for now.

Suddenly, though, that didn't seem like such a good idea. He didn't want to be stuck where he was, feeling like this. He didn't like being afraid of the man who had charge of him, his foster father, the goddamn freaking Batman, especially when it kept getting shown right to his face that his little brother wasn't afraid at all. He knew his fear wasn't rational, because if it was, Tim would be afraid, too. Jason didn't like being irrational and stupid and...and stuck.

He felt cursed. He knew his life hadn't been the easiest, but before his mom died, things had at least been okay. Yeah, his dad had beaten him a few times, and they were poor and didn't have a lot of things they needed, but they got along okay. Jason had never been optimistic, exactly, but he'd always believed that he would be able to survive whatever life threw at him.

Ever since the bastard had kidnapped him and Tim off the street and locked him up like a toy and...and used him... Jason had lost that childlike naivete. That belief that he would be okay. He wasn't okay. He was never going to be okay again. That was just the facts. And he hated it, but he couldn't change it.

He knew he was going to die young. He wasn't going to make it to twenty-five, and probably not to twenty. He'd been absolutely certain that the bastard was going to kill him, and Tim had helped him cheat that fate, but death was going to catch up eventually. He'd stolen back a few years, maybe, but that was all.

So none of this really mattered in the long run. He just had to get through the next few years, and then maybe he would find something better than this crappy shithole of a world. Or if not, at least he would be able to rest and stop feeling so awful all the time.

Now, that didn't seem like enough. Just getting through the next few years until death finally found him. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be able to sit next to his foster father and lean on him the way Tim did. He wanted to stop flinching when an adult male reached out to touch his shoulder or ruffle his hair. He wanted to be a little more normal, a little more sane, a little less cursed and broken and ruined.

He wasn't expecting miracles. He knew he was always going to be a fucked-up mess until the day he died, probably just a few years from now, and that was fine. That was just the way things had worked out for him. But was it wrong to want a little more? Just a little?

He was still thinking about that when they finished the trip to the kitchen. Bruce set Tim down at the table, then went into the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. Jason all but collapsed into the seat next to Tim and flopped over the table, letting his head and upper body rest on the cool wood. It felt really good on his overheated skin, and he closed his eyes.

Tim made a sympathetic noise and rubbed his back. "It'll be okay, Jason. Bruce'll fill you up with medicine, and you can nap or read books or watch movies or whatever. And I'll hang out with you so you won't be alone, and I'll be quiet so your head won't hurt, and any time you need something I'll make sure you get it. Okay?"

Jason nodded his head against the table, not opening his eyes. Tim was being so nice and comforting, and he knew that Bruce wanted to do the same. It was just a stuffy nose and a sore throat. Tim's sickness last week had passed in basically a couple of days, and this one would probably do the same.

"Okay," he murmured. "Thanks, little bro." It hurt to talk, but not as much when he kept his voice very low and quiet.

"I got your back, man. Always. And hey, at least you won't have to go to therapy, right? I'm sure I can persuade Bruce to let me stay home, too, so I can take care of you."

Jason opened one eye to look at him. "I thought you were kind of wanting to go to therapy, though. You thought it actually might help."

Tim shrugged. "Kind of. Taking care of you is more important, though. I don't want you to feel unsafe with only Bruce looking out for you."

Jason shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, then slowly pushed himself up and rested his chin on his folded arms so he could watch Bruce moving around in the kitchen. Despite his disastrous cooking on Thanksgiving day, Bruce did seem to know what he was doing. Granted, making tea and stirring up a glass of salt and water weren't the most complicated kitchen tasks. But Bruce seemed happy to be doing it.

"I...I don't know..." he said slowly. "I think I would be okay."

Tim gave him the side-eye. "Really?"

Jason shrugged. "Well, more like I want to be okay."

Tim's eyes went thoughtful. He mirrored Jason's pose, resting his chin on his folded arms and watching Bruce work. "Bruce really is a good guy," he said softly.

"I know." Jason shivered at the wave of helplessness that crept through him. He did. He knew this, intellectually. He just couldn't seem to make his body stop reacting to the presence of a big, strong man, no matter how careful and respectful he was of Jason's boundaries.

Tim kept glancing between Jason and Bruce, trying to figure it out. "You don't have to push yourself," he said after a long moment. "If you're not ready to be alone in the house with Bruce, you don't have to force it."

Jason clenched his jaw, feeling a spike of ice in his chest at the realization. No Dick, no Kori, no Alfred, no Tim... Just him and Bruce, alone in this huge house. Anything could happen. Anything at all.

But no, he reminded himself. It wouldn't. It wouldn't, because Bruce was a good guy, and he would never hurt him. Jason had to make himself believe that so he could get better. So he could stop feeling so cursed.

"No," he said eventually, firmly, trying to convince himself as much as Tim. "I think I should try it. Really."

"Okay." Tim didn't stop looking at him with that little frown, though. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Bruce brought a teacup over to Jason and set down it in front of him, then sat across the table and watched him with a tentative, hopeful expression. Jason looked down at the clear green-brown liquid with the slice of lemon floating in it. Bruce gave him a smile. "I tested it with my pinky. It's not too hot. I know your throat hurts, but the warmth will feel good, I promise."

Jason squinted at him, but he picked up the teacup and held it in front of his nose. It smelled good, the sharp scent of lemon cutting through the herbal, earthy notes of the tea, and the warm steam already seemed to be opening up his clogged nose. He took a careful sip, held it in his mouth, then swallowed. It hurt, but just a little. It felt much better on his sore throat than the cold water from the bathroom, that was for sure.

He took a longer drink, closing his eyes and letting it soothe him, then looked up and gave Bruce a cautious smile. Bruce beamed back, as pleased as if he had found the cure for cancer. "Better?" he asked.

Jason nodded and set the teacup down. "Better."

Maybe things would keep getting better. For once, Jason allowed himself a tiny sliver of hope.

Chapter Text

Bruce tried to keep his distance from Jason while the rest of the household was gone. He was careful to tell Jason where he would be, so he would know what to expect. Jason was tucked up in bed, holding a book limply in one hand but not reading it. Bruce left a bell on the nightstand for him to ring in case he wanted him to come and help him with anything or bring him more tea or water. Jason assured him that he would not, his voice rough and scratchy.

Bruce smiled and left the room. He set an alarm on his phone to remind him of Jason's next dose of medicine. Then he retired to his study to work, leaving his door open in case the bell rang. Though he was still officially on paternity leave, Lucius had sent him a stack of reports to glance over “in his spare time.”

After about twenty minutes, he heard a scuff at the door and looked up to see Jason hovering just beyond it, watching him with a strange look on his face. He was wearing his pajamas, his hair disheveled and cheeks flushed. He was leaning on the doorframe with one shoulder, possibly because his head was spinning or his knees were weak.

"Do you need something, Jaylad?" Bruce asked, careful to keep his voice moderate.

Jason shook his head and backed off, then Bruce heard his footsteps tottering slowly down the hallway. Bruce frowned in worry and confusion, but went back to his work. A few minutes later, he was so buried in figures from the latest stock report that he'd forgotten about it.

But it happened again, some indeterminate time later. Bruce heard a noise in the hallway and looked up, and a couple of moments later there was Jason, hovering in the doorway with that uncertain expression, like he didn't know why he was there. His eyes were bleary, and it didn't look he'd gotten any sleep in the meantime.

"What I can do for you, buddy?" Bruce asked.

Jason shook his head. He started to back away, but stumbled and barely caught his feet under him. Bruce was out of his chair and moving toward the door before his mind engaged, intent on catching the boy if he fell. Jason flinched and went stock still in the middle of the hallway, just staring at him with his face chalky white.

Bruce halted himself before he got too close, silently cursing himself for forgetting. He flattened his hands at waist level, almost in a gesture of surrender. He didn't miss the way Jason's eyes flicked to his hands, then back up to his face.

"Jason," Bruce said levelly. "You're having trouble sleeping when you don't know where I am, aren't you?"

Jason blinked sluggishly, then nodded. It seemed to take a lot of effort.

"You're trying to ignore it, but you just keep thinking about the fact that you're alone in the house, except for me, and wondering where I am and what I'm doing. There's no buffer with everyone else gone, there's no one to guard you and keep an eye on me while you're out of it, and it's making you tense and afraid."

"Yes." The word was a bare whisper, forced out through a clogged throat and laboring lungs.

"What can I do to make this easier for you? What would make you feel safe?"

Jason somehow paled even further, and he swallowed like he felt sick to his stomach. "I don't know," he whispered.

Bruce stood still for a moment longer, thinking hard. What could he do to mitigate this? What could he do to comfort his son when he was the one causing the discomfort? Like the first day with the door, it seemed like a puzzle with no solution.

Bruce frowned. He thought about going to a room that had a lock on the door and giving Jason the key so he wouldn't be able to get out. But then he wouldn't be able to get to the boy if he got sicker and collapsed or something. Plus, well... Bruce didn't like the idea of being locked up, either. Just the passing thought made his skin crawl.

It gave him even more sympathy for the boys and the utter hell they had endured for five months, both locked in tiny rooms against their will. If he couldn't stand the idea of being locked up for even an hour, five months would have been an eternity.

"Would it help if you could keep an eye on me? If we were in the same room?"

Jason looked thoughtful. "I don't know," he said again, but there was a questioning lilt to it. He wasn't rejecting the idea.

Bruce gave him a half-smile. He gestured toward the comfortable couch on the other wall of his office, opposite the desk. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Jason eyed him askance, then began to edge toward the couch. Bruce stepped aside, giving him an encouraging smile, then walked out the door. "I'll be right back."

He went to Jason's room and gathered the various items from his nightstand that had accumulated there to deal with his illness: tissues, water glass, teacup, books. He took a pillow, too. He stopped at a linen cupboard on the way back to grab a couple of soft blankets. Then he returned to the office.

Jason, sitting slumped in the middle of the sofa, blinked at the pile of material in his arms. Bruce handed him the pillow and blankets, then went about putting all of the other items within easy reach on a sidetable next to the sofa. He stood back and looked over it with a critical eye. Everything seemed to be in order.

In the meantime, Jason had made himself a nest in the middle of the sofa and was curled up on his side, wrapped in blankets, the pillow propping his head up. His eyes were drooping, but he didn't let them fall shut.

"Comfy, son?"

Jason nodded slowly, then opened his eyes wide and looked at Bruce. His shoulders tensed under the blanket.

Bruce pressed his lips together and backed a few feet away. "Better?"

Jason kept his eyes on him the whole time. Once Bruce was a healthy distance away, he relaxed marginally. He nodded.

Bruce went back to his desk and sat down. He started looking over his reports again, but he kept glancing up to peek at Jason. He was unable to forget his presence in the room. He couldn't concentrate, constantly worrying whether the boy was comfortable and unafraid.

Jason's eyes remained open, watching him. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep, because he wouldn't be able to keep watch on Bruce if he did. It hurt to see it.

It was probably exactly the same when he was in his own bed. Bruce began to doubt that this was any improvement at all.

Then he had an inspiration. He looked away from Jason, keeping his eyes studiously on his desk, and began to hum. It wasn't anything intentional or organized at first, just random noises. Then it began wandering into recognizable tunes, old and familiar and well-loved. He felt his shoulders falling down, his mind settling into established grooves. Then he began to sing.

Hello, Rudy, well, hello, Harry
It's so nice to be back home where I belong
You are lookin' swell, Manny, I can tell, Danny
You're still glowin', you're still crowin', you're still goin' strong

He kept his voice soft and relaxed, the embodiment of contentment. A sneaky glance out of the corner of his eye showed Jason's eyes drooping, his face going slack. Bruce smiled and kept going. By the second chorus, Jason was, by all appearances, fast asleep.

Hello, Dolly
Well, hello, Dolly
It's so nice to have you back where you belong

He kept his voice at the same timbre, the same pace, so Jason would always know exactly where he was even while he was asleep. It might have been easier to put on a bell or something. But this was working, and Bruce had to admit he enjoyed it.

He finished that song and started another one. And he kept singing, low and smooth and sweet. He didn’t stop.

He was still singing half an hour later when the alarm on his phone went off, signifying that it was time for Jason's next dose of medicine. Bruce frowned and stopped the alarm. The instant he stopped singing, Jason woke up, cutting off in the middle of his sniffly little snores. His eyes popped open, and he stared blankly at the floor for a moment, then slowly raised his eyes to look at Bruce.

Bruce smiled at him as reassuringly as he could, still on the other side of the room with a desk between them. "Sorry, Jaylad. I didn't mean startle you. It's time for your medicine, though."

Jason nodded slowly, then began to push himself to sit upright on the sofa.

Bruce went to the bathroom to fetch the medicine, telling Jason he would be back in minute. He filled the little medicine cup to the correct line, then stood in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at himself. Bruce Wayne, at home on paternity leave, dressed in sweatpants and a navy blue turtleneck, holding a tiny cup of medicine in his hands for his sick son. He looked utterly domestic.

He kind of loved it.

He shook his head at himself, the corner of his mouth turning up wryly, then went back to the office. He scuffed his foot on the floor so Jason would hear him coming, and the boy looked up, weary but alert. He seemed more relaxed than he had been before his nap. He didn't even flinch or look worried when Bruce walked over to the sofa and held out the medicine, stretching the entire length of his expansive wingspan.

Jason drank the medicine willingly, smacking his lips at the end and wrinkling his nose at the strong taste. He handed the cup back to Bruce, then settled further into sofa. He seemed comfortable, at ease, every limb loose. Bruce badly wanted to ruffle his hair, but he refrained.

Bruce started to leave, to return to the bathroom and rinse out the medicine cup, but Jason made a small noise of protest. It seemed almost involuntary, squeezed out him like toothpaste from a tube. Bruce turned back instantly, eyebrows raised. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

Jason was staring at him wide-eyed, evidently surprised at himself. He did not speak, frozen where he sat. But there was a look of longing in his eyes that Bruce could not refuse.

"Do you need more water?" Bruce glanced at the half-full cup on the sidetable. "Or tea?" The teacup was bone dry, a faint tinge of greenish brown staining the bottom. "I'd be happy to make some for you."

Jason shook his head, wordless but certain.

"A different book? Would you like to watch something? I can fetch a tablet for you."

Another shake of the head.

Bruce smiled, small but full of humor. "Would you like me to sing again?"

Jason's expression softened. "It was nice."

"Then I will. Later. There's something else you want from me right now."

Jason nodded slowly. His hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket draped over his lap.

Bruce considered him silently for a moment, then set the sticky medicine cup on the sidetable. He could wash it later. He pulled over one of the cushy armchairs in the room, positioning it so it was perpendicular to Jason's sofa. Near enough that he could reach out and touch, though he didn't.

He sat in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together. "Whenever you're ready to say it, I'll be right here."

Jason stared at him. His fingers clenched tighter in the blanket, knuckles blanching. "I thought you had work to do." His voice was a soft murmur, his voice scratchy but clearly audible.

Bruce lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's not important. Lucius...that's my CEO at Wayne Enterprises...just wants me to keep an eye on the reports even while I'm on leave. I don't have to, though. You're a lot more important."

Jason looked down at his hands, his fingers twisting together.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Bruce prodded gently. "Something you want to ask me?"

Jason breathed quietly, in and out, staring at his lap. He didn't say anything, but Bruce could see the tension in him. He was slowly working himself up to something.

Bruce could wait. He would wait for as long as it took.

Then Jason raised his head and looked him in the face. He was pale, his blue eyes standing out sharply against his skin, but he was so brave. So steady. Bruce felt his heart melt a little bit more.

"Do you really think therapy would help me?"

Bruce gave a slow blink. He was aware of Jason's relief at not having to go to therapy today. He knew how much he'd been dreading it, how certain he was that it wasn't going to help. That nothing could help. It was a good sign that he was asking for a second opinion.

"Yes, I think it would be helpful," Bruce said. "I wouldn't ask you to do it if I didn't think it would be helpful."

Jason tilted his head thoughtfully, looking at Bruce from a different angle as if that would help him figure him out. "Have you gone to therapy?"

"I have," Bruce said gravely. "But those sessions took place when I was an adult, after my issues already had a long time to settle into my psyche. They were still helpful, but I have to admit that I'm too stubborn and stuck in my ways to take on board all of the advice that would be healthy for me."

"So you're a hypocrite." Jason's voice was challenging.

Bruce found that encouraging. Jason wasn't afraid to stand up to him, at least in conversation. He wasn't afraid to call him out.

It made him smile, though he did his best to keep his voice serious. "I am a bit of a hypocrite," he acknowledged. "Everyone is. I try to be as little of one as possible. But it is certainly true that I want my children to be better off than I am. I want more for you, and Tim, and Dick, than I want for myself. I'm willing to work harder for you and your health than I am willing to work for myself. It's hypocritical, yes, but I guess you could also say that I've found peace with my neuroses. Do you feel at peace with yours?"

Jason looked away, cheeks flushing.

Bruce sat back in his chair, heart twinging. Maybe he shouldn't have poked at him like that. Then again, maybe it was what Jason needed.

He looked away, trying to give him some space. "I think it would have benefited me to go when I was younger. Attitudes toward therapy have changed a lot in my lifetime. Nowadays an eight-year-old who watched both parents gunned down in front of him would probably find himself in therapy within a week. But back when that happened to me, it was just sort of...expected, I suppose, that I would be sad for a while and then...get over it."

Jason looked back to him, blue eyes piercing and bright. "But you never did."

Bruce shook his head. "I never did."

Jason's hands twisted in his lap. "I don't want to be like that," he said softly. "I don't want to be...stuck here. Forever."

"It's unpleasant to be where you are, isn't it?" Bruce asked gently.

Jason nodded, his lips tight.

"I don't want you to be stuck there forever either, honey. Rather, I want you to get out of that place as quickly as possible."

Jason swiped a hand over his face, his hand shaking. There were tears on his cheeks.

Bruce leaned forward in his chair, then forced himself to lean back again. God, he wanted to hold this child. He wanted to pull him into his lap the way he could with Tim and just...hold him. For a long time. Forever.

"When we were, when we were stuck in that apartment..." Jason started slowly.

Bruce held very still, listening intently.

"When all we could do was talk through the walls, Timmy used to tell me stories."

The corner of Bruce's mouth turned up, even as his heart ached. He could see them so clearly, those two little boys sitting on either side of a wall, communicating with each other the only way they could, trapped in adjacent hells but still reaching out to each other with their hearts and voices. "What kinds of stories?"

Jason drew a breath. "Stories about what our life was going to be like once we escaped." He looked at Bruce, then away. "Stories about how we would live in the same house and go to the same school and never be alone, because we would always have each other. And how Tim would get us lessons in how to fight and how to move so we would be able to defend ourselves and each other and we would never have to be afraid ever again."

The ache in Bruce's heart sharpened. "We'll still do that," he said. "I'll give you all the lessons you could possibly want. And I swear, you will never, ever be alone."

Jason nodded, biting his lip. He looked at Bruce again, and this time there was a tiny twinkle in his eye, even while it shone with tears. "Tim never told me stories about how we were going to get therapy, though."

Bruce laughed, the sound startled out of him. "No, I guess he wouldn't. Maybe he should have, though. Maybe you would be more willing to entertain the idea if it came from him."

"Yeah." Jason huffed a soft little chuckle and looked down at his hands, which were no longer clenched in the blanket, but lying loosely in his lap. "I think I'm starting to come around to it, though."

"Good." Bruce's pride and pleasure glowed in his voice. "I'm glad to hear that, Jaylad. Very glad."

Jason nodded slowly, still staring at his hands. He held his breath for a moment, and his shoulders were tense. Then he looked up at Bruce, anxious but forthright. He sat up, leaning toward Bruce, and held out his hand.

Bruce looked at his hand for a moment, then his face. "Do you want me to...?"

Jason nodded, worrying his lip between his teeth. "Please," he said hoarsely.

Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then reached out in return. He had to sit forward in his chair, leaning against the arm, but it wasn't difficult. His hand reached Jason's and folded around it, small and shaking and a bit clammy. He held him gently but firmly, determined to do this right.

Jason stared at their joined hands as if he was studying them, the way they fit together, the way it felt. Then he sighed, and his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

Bruce sat there, holding his hand. His heart was very, very full.

Chapter Text

Eventually, Jason curled up in his sleep, unconsciously pulling his hand out of Bruce's, and folded down into the couch again in a little ball. Bruce had been humming for a while, and he maintained the same pulse and rhythm as he reached over and rearranged the blankets around Jason's body, trying not to touch him and wake him up. Then he settled back in the armchair and kept humming. He thought about going back to the desk and continuing his work, but he didn't feel like it. He'd looked at enough charts and graphs for one day. It was much more pleasant to sit next to his sleeping son and just bask in the glow of progress.

Half an hour later, Bruce heard some noise in the house, which signified either Alfred coming home from his errands or Tim returning from therapy, dropped off by Bruce's most trustworthy driver. Or both. A few minutes later, that was proven true when Alfred came into the study carrying a sleepy Tim in his arms.

Bruce kept humming, but he offered them a smile and tipped his head toward Jason sleeping on the couch. Alfred nodded in understanding. He crossed the room as quietly as a mouse and tipped Tim gently into Bruce's lap. "He was asking for you," he explained, sotto voce.

Bruce nodded, already folding his arms around the warm bundle of Timmy. The boy's hard, heavy cast jabbed into his thigh, and Bruce shifted him into a more comfortable position. Tim snuggled into him and turned his head to hide his face against Bruce, pert little nose nestling directly into his breastbone like it was supposed to fit there. Bruce tucked his chin over his head and kept humming.

"I'll be at the kitchen table if you need me, setting up the boys' new electronics," Alfred said. Bruce nodded again and gave him another smile. He hoped Alfred could read the gratitude in his eyes. By Alfred's soft, almost-invisible smile in return, it seemed that he could.

And then Bruce got to revel in being as close to both of his foster children as he could possibly get, Jason curled like a cat on the couch within reach and Tim cuddled up in his lap like a sack of potatoes. By Tim's limpness and somnolence, therapy had been extremely tiring. Bruce had known it would be rough, but apparently a double session in one day, since Tim had agreed to take Jason's slot as well, had been more exhausting than even he had expected.

He wanted to ask Tim about it, make sure he was okay, that he wasn't too disturbed or wounded by the experience. But there was plenty of time for that later. Better to let the child rest while he had a chance. Bruce settled back into his chair even more heavily, his own eyes drooping as his endless humming wandered into the tune of an old, familiar song that felt as soft and soothing as any lullaby.

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff

Tim shivered in his arms, evidently not as asleep as Bruce had thought he was. He snugged him in a little closer and sang the next verse.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came
Pirate ships would lower their flag when Puff roared out his name

Tim listened quietly to the rest of the song. There was a stillness and tenseness in his frame that Bruce didn't quite like. Still, he hadn't realized just how sad the end of this song was until he sang it to a little boy who only deserved happiness, never sorrow.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave

Tim's hands had been curled up loosely between their bodies, but now he wriggled them free and wrapped his arms around Bruce's torso. He wasn't holding tight, but somehow Bruce knew that it wasn't because Tim didn't want to. Tim wanted to hold tightly, but he didn't dare. He was too afraid.

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee

The song ended, and Bruce fell silent for the first time in what felt like hours. It almost literally had been, now that he thought about it. His throat was feeling a bit parched. Maybe he should have asked Alfred to bring him some water.

Tim sighed deeply, and though he didn't quite relax, he felt a little less tense in Bruce's arms. He tipped his head forward, pushing his forehead into Bruce's breastbone almost painfully. "Hey, Bruce?"

"I'm here, Timbit."

"Could I ask a favor?"

"Anything, sweetheart."

Tim was silent for a few moments longer, gathering himself. Bruce was aware of Jason's stillness on the couch beside them. He was awake and listening.

Tim released a breath. "I want you to stop stalling my parents."

Bruce blinked. His heart had leaped into his throat. What exactly had happened during Tim's therapy session? Did something change? Had Tim changed?

Did he want to go back to his parents? Bruce squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. He couldn't allow it, even if it was what Tim wanted. It wasn't safe. He couldn't risk letting him go back there. He couldn't risk him, his baby boy, now that he had gotten to know him, who he was, how important, how essential he was to Bruce and the rest of his family. Even if he had to fight Tim as well as his parents, he had to keep him.

Bruce swallowed carefully and did his best to keep all of that out of his voice. "May I ask why?"

"I..." Tim breathed once, again. "I want to see them."

"That's....different. I was under the impression that you never wanted to see your parents again. Did something change?"

Tim didn't answer for a second. Then he shrugged. "I want to see them," he repeated simply, his voice almost flat.

Bruce was doubtful. He wasn't sure this sudden declaration had anything to do with desire. Tim didn't sound excited or hopeful at the prospect. He sounded...resigned, more than anything. Maybe a bit curious. Did he feel like this was something he had to do, and he just wanted to get it over with?

"Tim, what happened?" Bruce asked quietly. "Did Dr. Thacker say something to you?"

Bruce had been extremely careful in his vetting process. He'd made sure that Dr. Anna Thacker was trustworthy and skilled. He'd done a deep background check of her history and credentials, and had even gotten a few interviews with previous patients for their feelings and impressions. He had really thought that would be enough.

Now he wondered, though. If this therapist was putting dangerous thoughts in Tim's head, doing more harm than good, he might have to find someone else.

Tim didn't answer right away, and Bruce grimaced. "I'm not saying that you have to tell me what happened during your session. That's private, just between you and your doctor. If you want to tell me, of course I will want to listen. If you have any questions or concerns, at anytime, about anything, I will always be glad to talk to you. But you don't have to tell me any of the details you discussed or didn't discuss with Dr. Thacker."

Tim huffed a breath into Bruce's chest. His fingers clenched in his shirt. Bruce tucked his chin over his head and looked at Jason, who was watching him from the couch with clear blue eyes, steady and alert, if still a bit glazed with fever. Jason didn't seem worried, at least not as worried as Bruce felt, but he was lying very still and listening very closely.

"I like Dr. Thacker," Tim said. "Honest, Bruce, you don't have to worry about her. She's... I don't have much experience with therapy or therapists. None, I have none experience. But...I think she's good at her job. I think she did a good job with me. I don't know yet. But you don't have to worry about that."

Bruce smiled into Tim's hair and rubbed his back. Such a smart kid. Of course he had figured out that Bruce was doubting his decision-making and trying to figure out if he'd make a mistake, and then he had jumped to reassure him. Such a good, sweet boy.

"All right. I'm glad you like Dr. Thacker. Still, did something happen during therapy today? Something you want to talk about? Like I said, you don't have to. This is not a demand. Just an offer. If you want to talk, I'm here."

Tim shook his head and squeezed Bruce's shirt more insistently. "No, it's nothing like that. I just... I want to see my parents. Please, Bruce."

And, well. Bruce had absolutely no defense against that. "Okay, Timbit. Whatever you want. I'll call the lawyers and tell them to drop the injunctions, and we'll get a court observer and find a neutral ground where we can have a meeting. But you're not gonna do this alone, all right? I'll be with you every step of the way."

Tim nodded into his chest. He seemed relieved, grip slackening on Bruce's shirt, body going loose. "Thank you."

Bruce kissed the top of his head. " Of course."

Tim snuggled into him a little harder. Bruce was content to sit there holding him for a little while longer.

"Other than that, did anything happen on your trip to the city? Anything you want to talk about?"

Tim hummed contentedly, which somehow reminded Bruce of a kitten purring. "It was nice. I forgot how big the sky is."

Oh. Oh.

"You haven't seen the sky for a long time," Bruce whispered. "Except through windows in the manor, huh?"

"I didn't even really like to look out the windows. I think, um... I don't really like big spaces anymore. Stepping out of the car and looking up at the sky was nice, but it was also kind of scary."

Agoraphobia, at least a touch of it. Poor kiddo. After Tim's experiences, it would be easy to assume that he might be claustrophobic instead. But trauma was not a straightforward thing, and neither were the responses to it.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Timbit."

"It might be easier at night. I don't know. I'll have to try it. I don't want to..." Tim was silent for a long moment. "I don't want to lose what I used to have."

"The way you liked to wander around and take photos of things that interested you?"

"Yeah. I don't want to lose that."

"I don't want you to lose that either, son. Did you mention that symptom to Dr. Thacker?"

Tim shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Do you really think it matters? I mean, it's not the same as the nightmares or the way I have to keep touching people all the time or else my skin gets itchy."

"Those are important symptoms of your trauma, too. But yes, I think it matters that you don't like being under the sky anymore. You should definitely talk about that with Dr. Thacker. She'll be able to teach you some methods to try to cope with it, and hopefully someday she can help you make it go away entirely."

Tim hummed thoughtfully. "Okay. Yes. I want that to go away."

"In the meantime, we could try going outside tonight, see how you feel about being under the sky when it's dark out. It's cold, so we'll have to bundle up, but all of the frost on the grass will be pretty in the moonlight. Jay might want to come with us, too."

He glanced up and caught Jason's eyes, and Jason gave a tiny nod.

Tim made another hum that was distinctly more pleased, though starting to drift toward sleepy. "That sounds nice."

"It does. I look forward to it."

Bruce starting humming again. Tim melted into him, turning his head so he could lean his ear against his chest and let Bruce's voice rumble through his head the way he liked. Bruce also sang "Puff, the Magic Dragon" for him again, making his voice deep and rich and soothing. By the time he finished, Tim was asleep, small body slack in his arms, breaths coming soft and long and even.

Bruce looked up at Jason, half-expecting him to be asleep, too. But Jason was sitting up, now, the blanket pulled around his shoulders like a cloak as he slumped against the back of the couch. His eyes were droopy but cognizant, watching Bruce without fear.

Bruce dared to stop humming. Tim remained asleep against his chest, as far as he could tell. "You all right, Jaylad?" he asked softly.

Jason nodded.

Bruce drew a breath. He had learned that when he had a question about Tim, he should ask Jason, and vice versa. "Do you have any idea why Tim might have changed his mind about seeing his parents?"

Jason stared at Tim contemplatively. "I don't know. He probably has some sort of plan."

"Plan?"

Jason nodded confidently. "Timmy has lots of plans. All the time. Plans on plans. He'll tell us when he's ready."

Bruce glanced down at the traumatized ten-year-old in his arms. He wasn't so sure about that. Jason's trust in Tim was heartwarming, but not always entirely well-placed.

“I guess we’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Everything was happening much more quickly than Tim had expected or planned on. It was only four days after Tim had asked Bruce to stop stalling his parents, and he was going to see them in an hour. Tim wasn't sure if he was glad or sorry to have it over with so quickly. A little of both.

He was dressed in the suit that Alfred had picked out for him, his clammy hands clutching at the front of his crisp white shirt. He'd only been able to put on one of the shiny black shoes, his other foot still trapped in a cast. Now he was sitting on his bed, staring at his options and trying to decide.

The crutches or the knee scooter? He'd taken some time to practice with both over the last few days. The scooter was much more comfortable and easy to use, and he definitely preferred it to use in the manor. Well, he preferred to be carried, which was a resource that was almost always available to him. But he didn't want to go into the nice restaurant where he was meeting his parents for the first time in almost a year while being carried by someone else.

The crutches were more dignified and didn't have nearly as big a footprint as the scooter. But they also hurt Tim's armpits, and he was much more clumsy with them. He could get around with them, definitely, but it was awkward. He wished he was stronger and more coordinated. He wished he was graceful, like Dick, or could put on an attitude of not caring what others thought, like Jason, or actually didn't care, like Bruce.

But he wasn't any of them. He was Tim. He was small and weak and had a broken ankle and sweaty palms.

Tim took a deep breath. The crutches were his best bet. Unlike the scooter or being carried, they wouldn't scream to everyone in sight that he was broken. They were...normal.

And that was what his parents had always wanted. Normal.

Tim knew he couldn't give that to them. Not anymore. If he ever could. The five months of captivity, plus the last few weeks living in Wayne Manor, had changed him a great deal. But there was no need to project that to his parents, who would expect him to at least stand on his own two feet. Well, one foot and two crutches.

Tim sighed and wiped his hands on his pants, then hopped over to the wall to grab the crutches. He was careful not to touch his hair, which he had already slicked back with gel, even though he wanted to bury his fists in his locks and scream at the ceiling. He had to hold it together at least for a few hours.

He wished he'd had more time to plan. Or that he had a plan. He was aware that Jason thought he had some clever or tricky reason for wanting to see his parents. He'd asked him about it a couple of times, and Tim just shook his head and pressed his lips together like he was thinking. Jason chuckled and told him indulgently that he could keep his secrets, but he wanted to hear the whole thing once it was done.

Bruce kept looking like he wanted to ask what Tim's plan was, too, but he didn't, not after the first time. Dick, when he had come back from New York, straight up blurted in distress when he found out what Tim had done. "Why?" he'd asked, his voice strained and incredulous. "What could those awful, awful people ever have to offer you? They don't deserve you, Timmy, and you don't owe them anything. Not a thing, do you hear me? The only time you should see them again is when they're on trial for the horrible way they treated you and you're in the witness stand, testifying against them."

Just the thought of that scenario filled Tim's stomach with acid, and he almost threw up on Dick's shoes right there. Instead he shook his head and repeated again the same thing he'd told Bruce. "I want to see them." In the end, Dick had to give up.

The truth was that Tim didn't have a plan. And he really did want to see his parents. It was just...a last chance. For them, for himself, maybe all three of them.

Bruce thought it had something to do with his therapy session with Dr. Thacker, and he was right about that in a roundabout way.

At the beginning of the session, Dr. Thacker asked Tim what he wanted to get out of their time together. When he just sat there, tongue-tied, she asked if he had any thoughts about the symptoms he was experiencing. Like which ones were bothering him the most, that sort of thing. And still he just sat there, overwhelmed.

Because the thing was, he knew there were a lot of things wrong with him. He knew it wasn't normal to be afraid of hearing footsteps or feeling them vibrate through the floor. To wake up with nightmares two or three times a night and just lie there, frozen, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe because he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. The way he was simultaneously nervous about being touched by someone else and also craved it, so when anyone showed any willingness to be near him, he clung to that person, leech-like and desperate.

But he didn't know what the worst one was. Which one he wanted to get rid of the most. He wanted them all to go away. He wanted to be normal. He wanted to be the way he used to be. But he didn't think that was ever going to happen. It all hit him at once, the terrible understanding of just how profoundly he’d changed and just how impossible it was to ever go back.

He started to cry. It was awful and embarrassing, but he couldn't make himself stop. Dr. Thacker was very kind, of course. She came over to sit next to him and held out a box of tissues, and he took tissue after tissue and just cried and cried. He felt tingly and itchy, and he wanted Bruce or Dick or Jason or Alfred or Princess Kori or anyone, really, someone who could hold him and help him feel better. He ended up leaning into Dr. Thacker, stiff at first, terrified that she would push him away, but she didn't. She put her arm around his shoulders and let him curl up into her side.

It made him think about his mom and the time he broke his arm falling out of a tree. It was during spring break, when Tim was home from boarding school, and Mrs. Mac had been there and took him to the hospital, where they kept him overnight for observation because he had hit his head, too. His parents had come back from their trip. He had thought it would be Mrs. Mac who took him home from the hospital, but it was his mom who came through the door to his hospital room, frowning at the decor and sniffing at the bad hospital smells.

He'd been so shocked and overjoyed he started crying, and his mom had looked alarmed, nearly terrified. But she didn't leave. She came over and sat next to him on the hospital bed, and she let him cling to her until he ran out of tears. Janet Drake was not a warm and emotional woman, but when he needed her, she had been there.

It was still one of his fondest memories.

Eventually he was able to pull himself together and sit up straight and talk to Dr. Thacker. She gave him a lot of materials to help organize his thoughts, like lists of symptoms and a notebook. She encouraged him to study the symptoms and think about which ones applied to him, then write them down in the notebook. It was like getting homework, but the subject was Tim.

So he spent a long time studying the materials and writing things down. Then, because they had another hour, they talked about it, too. Dr. Thacker said that he had a very clear and logical mind, and she admired him for being able to study himself so objectively, because she knew that was hard. Tim couldn't help but smile and sit up straighter at that.

Dr. Thacker said journaling might help him. He was skeptical at first, but once she explained it, Tim liked the idea a lot. It wasn't like keeping a diary, just writing about random things that happened during his day. This was going to be research, taking notes on his own condition so he could understand it better and learn how to deal with it. Tim's hands tightened on the notebook she'd given him in excitement. The idea of being able to understand what was happening to him was incredibly appealing.

All in all, it had been a really good therapy session. At least, Tim thought so. He couldn't compare it to any other therapy sessions, since it was his first one. But he went home feeling better about things, though he was also utterly exhausted and really wanted to be held.

He couldn't stop thinking about that moment, though, when he leaned into Dr. Thacker's side. He couldn't stop thinking about his mom. He blamed that for the way he’d suddenly asked Bruce to let him see his parents. He had surprised himself almost as much as he surprised Bruce, and he couldn’t justify his decision. He just knew that he had to do it.

They had asked to see him, after all. Maybe it had been Janet who drove the request. Maybe Jack. Maybe both. But they had asked. They had made an effort.

Maybe they didn't have ulterior motives. Maybe they weren't only trying to manage the public relations disaster this situation had become. Maybe they really did want to talk to him.

His hopes weren't high. They had been dashed again and again and again. He thought they had died completely that day he realized they were never going to report him missing, but it turned out that they weren't quite dead, after all. He still had one tiny shred of hope left. On a scale from one to one hundred, it was about a five. Not high. But it was there.

He had to give it a chance.

A knock on the bedroom door startled Tim out of his musings, and he looked up, blinking. "Come in." His voice felt rusty, like an old hinge.

The door creaked open, and there was Bruce. He was dressed up, like Tim. Not in a tux, nothing like that. They were going to a nice restaurant to meet Tim's parents and the court observer, but not the nicest in Gotham. Bruce was wearing a suit, though, his hair styled and cuffs buttoned. He looked really nice, just like the pictures of "Brucie" Tim used to cut out of the society pages and keep in his scrapbook.

Bruce smiled. "Ah, you're all dressed. You're looking sharp, kiddo. Are you ready to go?"

Tim blinked, leaning heavily on the crutches. His armpits were starting to hurt already. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No, he wasn't ready. The mixture of anxiety and eagerness that had been bubbling in his stomach like acid all day was starting to condense into a heavy ball that felt a lot more like dread than anything else.

"Bruce." His voice cracked. He shook his head and tried again. "Are you still willing to run away with me?"

Bruce frowned. "In a heartbeat." He was silent for a moment, studying Tim, then gently reached out. "Here, I think we need to sit down and talk for a minute."

Tim let him take the crutches away and rest them against the wall, then lead Tim back to his bed, where they sat side by side. Bruce put his arm around Tim's shoulders, and Tim leaned into Bruce's warmth, trying to soak it up. Bruce was so big and strong and tough. He was Batman. Tim could believe, for the moment, that he was completely safe with Bruce at his side.

"I will run away with you," Bruce said quietly. "Anytime, anywhere. You...and Jason, and Dick...you three are more important to me than anything else in my life. Have you changed your mind about seeing your parents tonight?"

Tim was still for a long, long moment, thinking. Then he shook his head. "I don't... Everything's set up, isn't it?"

Bruce squeezed his shoulders. "It's not too late to back out, Timbit. If you change your mind and decide you don't want to see your parents after all, we can cancel. I will call myself and make sure it gets handled. You don't have to do a thing. Just say the word, tell me you don't want to see them, and I won't let it happen."

Tim swallowed and leaned more heavily into his side. His mind was spinning. He couldn't help believing that Bruce meant what he said. He sounded so certain, so matter-of-fact. Like he could just make it all go away, just like that.

But it wouldn't go away, not really. Not in Tim's heart. If he put off seeing his parents tonight, he was still going to wonder. He was still going to doubt and torture himself with that tiny little 5% hope of maybe, maybe, maybe.

He needed to know. Research. Notes for his journal. He needed to look into their eyes, study their expressions, hear their voices. He needed to know once and for all if his parents loved him, if they had ever loved him, even a little.

"No." But his voice was wavering. "I still want to see them. I'm just... You'll be there, right?"

He knew Bruce was going to be there. That had been set in stone from the very beginning. But somehow he needed to hear it again.

Bruce bent down and kissed the top of Tim's head. "Yes," he said. "I will be there. Every step of the way. And it's never too late to back out. At any time tonight, before or after we get to the restaurant, if you decide you don't want to be there anymore, I will remove you from the situation and take you home. You have my word."

The corner of Tim's mouth turned up. "Should we have a secret signal?"

Bruce chuckled. "We could do that, if you like. But honestly, you can just say it. Say, 'Bruce, I want to go home,' at any point, and I will make sure it happens."

"Okay." Tim sighed. "I guess that works."

Bruce rubbed his arm, up and down. "Are you ready to go now? Or do you want to give the signal?"

Tim's stomach was settling now, and he felt much less like throwing up. But he didn’t want to move, not yet. "No, that’s all right. Can we just...can we just sit here? For a little bit longer?"

"Of course, baby." Bruce squeezed him tighter. "As long as you want."

So they sat there, for just a little bit longer.

Chapter Text

They arrived at Ristorante Preferito, the upscale Italian restaurant the Drakes had agreed to meet them at. Bruce held the door for Tim while he struggled with his crutches. He badly wanted to just scoop the boy into his arms and carry him. But on the way over, Tim had requested, in his serious little voice that both made Bruce melt and made him sit up straighter, that Bruce not assist him with his mobility. He wanted the dignity of providing his own locomotion, and Bruce could see the sense in that.

He just hated seeing his youngest boy moving so awkwardly, the flush rising in his cheeks when he bumped the door jamb with his crutch for the third time as he tried to maneuver his way inside. They should make these doors wider anyway. Didn't they care about accessibility? Bruce made a mental note to speak with the manager later.

Finally they got in, and Bruce rested a hand lightly on the back of Tim's shoulder as they made their way to the private room where the meeting was set. The court observer was already there, Aaron Reed, a spindly man in his early thirties with a serious expression and tired eyes. He nodded gravely to Bruce, already sitting with a legal pad and a tape recorder. He would not be eating this meal.

Tim looked around, just a touch of hope in his face. It faded quickly when he realized his parents weren't there. Bruce squeezed his shoulder and nudged him toward the table. "Let's sit, kiddo."

Tim nodded and crutched his way over, then awkwardly lowered himself to sit. Bruce took his crutches and leaned them against the wall, then sat next to him. Tim sat with his shoulders hunched, his hands clutching the edge of his seat on either side of his legs, and stared at the table dully.

A minute passed. Five. Bruce scooted his chair closer to Tim's and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Tim leaned into his side. Nobody spoke.

Another ten minutes passed. At last, fifteen minutes after the agreed upon meeting time, Jack and Janet Drake arrived. Like Bruce, they were dressed appropriately for the restaurant, but not in their finest gala attire. Janet was frowning, and Jack had a studiously casual look about him, affecting a carelessness he didn't truly feel.

Tim sat upright, moving away from Bruce's side as his back went ramrod straight. He folded his hands in his lap and clenched them tightly together. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," he said quietly.

Janet's eyes flicked over him with a brief nod of acknowledgment before she fixated on Bruce. Jack gave his son a tiny smile, barely there and then gone, before he focused on Bruce as well. Bruce read fondness there, at least. Janet was harder to read. She had the iron look of a statue. Or a gargoyle. Seeing much and revealing little.

"Mr. Wayne," Janet rapped out. "A pleasure."

Bruce gave a genteel nod, aware of the line he was riding. The Brucie persona was well-known enough that even the Drakes were probably aware of it despite the small amount of time they'd spent in Gotham, so he needed to keep that up. But he also needed to show them how serious he was about caring for Tim and keeping him safe.

If he had his druthers, of course, he would lay into them immediately for the massive harm they had done to their child. He wouldn't, though. He could it keep under control. Unlike Dick, who had been forced to remain at home despite his protestations that he was practically Tim's guardian, too, and he ought to be involved.

"Please, Janet," Bruce said smoothly. "There's no need for such formality. We should be on a first name basis, don't you think?"

Janet's eyes narrowed, but Jack smiled affably, though his shoulders were tense. "Of course." The strain showed in his voice. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"I'd like to be," Bruce said. "Please, let's sit and chat."

Jack and Janet took their places at the table across from Tim and Bruce, the court observer sitting on the side of the table between them.

Once they were settled, Tim spoke, though his voice was a little shaky. "How was your trip? Did you find what you were looking for?"

Finally, Janet looked at him. Her eyes softened, and she managed a smile that almost looked motherly. "It was lovely, Tim. I'd love to discuss our findings with you when this is all over."

Tim somehow sat up even straighter. "I'd like that." The eagerness in his voice was adorable, if not a little heartbreaking. Bruce wondered how often Janet had voiced thoughts like this before, promising to spend time with her son in the future. He wondered how often she kept those promises.

After that brief interaction, Janet focused on Bruce again. Bruce could literally feel Tim deflate. But he didn't protest. He didn't try to get her attention back. He just sat there.

Bruce had to take three deep breaths to dispel his anger.

Jack seemed to sense the awkwardness. He fidgeted, then stood up. "The waiter should have been here by now. I'm gonna go track one down."

Janet nodded curtly, and he strode off. Janet glanced at Mr. Reed, who gave her a bland smile. Then she looked back at Bruce and leaned over the table toward him. "Let's cut to the chase. What do you want?"

Bruce blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"To give Tim back to us and dismiss these foolish lawsuits. What do you want? Jack and I have been discussing it, and we can't figure out what you're getting out of this. Do you want a pay off? Do you want to take over Drake Industries? What is it?"

Bruce could barely breathe. At his side, Tim was stiff. He had stopped clenching his hands in his lap and had reached over to grab the fabric of Bruce's trousers, his knuckles white. Bruce looked at Mr. Reed, who gave him the same bland smile. Wasn’t he hearing this?

Janet waved her hand in dismissal. "Don't worry, he's already been bought off. We can talk freely. Now, please. Let's have a discussion like adults. What. Do. You. Want."

Bruce's jaw clenched, and his hand rose of its own volition and wrapped around Tim's shoulder, holding him steady. He was so angry that his ears felt hollow, echoing with far-away noises. It wasn't a reaction he experienced often, and he had to work for a few moments to bring it under control.

"Janet." He tried to hold to the Brucie persona, but he couldn't. The Batman growl was sneaking in underneath, adding a ringing timbre to his words. "I want nothing from you. I want nothing from Jack. I am here for Tim, as his foster father, not as the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I neither need nor want your money, and I have no use for Drake Industries. I want Tim to be safe, and healthy, and cared for, and loved. Nothing more, nothing less."

Janet scoffed and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "Please. You must be joking."

Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "Janet. Be reasonable. Where did you get the idea that I want something from you? Everything I've done since Tim came into my care has been to protect him from those who would harm him. I've sent you no demands, not even a hint of such. I can't imagine where you got the impression that I'm somehow...extorting you by fostering your son and seeking permanent custody of him."

"Bruce." He'd never heard his name pronounced so mockingly, not even by Catwoman at the height of their rivalry. Janet gestured at Tim, who was sitting frozen and silent. "What else could you possibly want him for?"

Bruce couldn't speak. This was so cruel and so heartless, spoken by a mother in the presence of her child, that it left him utterly speechless. He had a sudden glimpse of what Tim's life had been like up until that fateful day last June, the empty rooms, the silent house, the parents who passed in and out of his life like ghosts. His life must have felt so cold, so barren and bereft.

Janet Drake saw her son as an accessory. As a bargaining chip. That worldview was so deeply engrained in her psyche that she couldn't imagine a reason for Bruce to want him except as a possession. She couldn't fathom that Bruce wanted Tim for himself.

She had no idea how precious her little boy was. How innately valuable and worthy. She hadn't spent enough time with him to know. She didn't know about his courage, his intelligence, his creativity, his tender little heart. All the time and thought he put into making plans, the care and effort he put into showing his love for others, his self-sacrifice and heroism. She had no idea. She didn't care to.

"Janet..." He couldn't put it into words. It was too much. The hollowness in his voice startled even him, and Tim looked up at him surprise. His little face was so worried. Bruce hated to see him look like that.

He wrapped his arm around Tim's shoulders and pulled him into his side, holding him as he had done before Janet and Jack arrived. He never should have stopped. Tim held stiff for a few more seconds, then melted into him.

"What else could I possibly want him for?" Bruce repeated faintly. "I don't even know how to tell you. You...you have no idea. I don't think you even have the capacity to understand."

A spasm of anger and offense crossed Janet's face, but just as she opened her mouth to speak, Jack returned to the table. He glanced over them, taking in the body language between his wife and Bruce Wayne. "I ordered salad for the table," he announced a little too loudly. "The waiter will come soon to take our orders for entrees."

Janet took a careful breath and nodded, relaxing marginally as Jack sat next to her. She took a sip of her water, and Bruce did the same. Tim still leaned against his side and said nothing. It was like he had given up on trying to interact with his parents. He knew there was no point.

A few moments passed in uneasy silence. Bruce knew he should leave, just take Tim and get out of here. The court observer had been compromised, so this entire meeting was useless.

But Tim had not said the words. He hadn't asked Bruce to take him home, despite how obviously disconsolate and uncomfortable he was. There was still something he was hoping to get out of this, and Bruce had to give him that chance.

Eventually, once he was certain he had himself completely under control, Bruce spoke again. He spoke evenly and calmly, trying to treat this like the business meeting Janet and Jack thought it was. "Janet, what makes you think I would be able to make all of this go away for you? I was not the one who removed Tim from your custody. It was the state. Likewise, I have no control over the child neglect case. Yes, I am suing you for permanent custody based on abandonment and negligence, but even if I dropped my suit, the state's case would go forward."

"Oh, we've already taken care of that," Jack said.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. He knew Gotham was corrupt, but he hadn't thought that money could buy off the family court system as well as the criminal one. Somehow he had presumed that even corrupt officals still cared about the welfare of children. Apparently he'd been wrong, and Batman had even more work to do than he'd thought to save this city.

"Once they gather enough evidence, our innocence will be obvious," Janet said confidently.

Bruce blinked. "You left him alone without proper supervision for weeks and months on end," he said slowly.

"We hired help," Jack said. "It's not our fault they didn't do their jobs."

So they were throwing their housekeeper under the bus and blaming her for their own neglect? Or they had falsified records of a dedicated caretaker they could blame? Bruce was disgusted but somehow not surprised.

Bruce's free hand clenched into a fist under the table, his other arm still wrapped around Tim's shoulders holding him close. "You didn't even notice when he went missing. Tim was kidnapped for months, and you never said a word to the police. You never informed the school that he wasn't coming. You were absent from his life, and Tim suffered greatly for it."

Jack's lip curled. "All easily explainable. We're not going to justify our decisions to you."

"You should." Bruce's jaw clenched. "You asked what I want? I told you. I want Tim to be healthy and happy and safe. If you truly want me to drop the custody case, you're going to have to convince me that you actually care about your son and you will make an effort to improve your treatment of him in the future."

The Drakes were silent, staring at him in surprise. They had never imagined that he would make such a demand, and they didn't know how to respond.

Tim spoke up, his voice small and shaky. "Why didn't you report me missing?"

His voice was small, but it was intense. This was what he wanted. This was why he had come. The question must have been troubling him for a long, long time.

Bruce should have realized. Jason had told them about this, after all. How when Tim realized his parents weren't going to report him missing, he had cried for hours. It had been the final nail in the coffin for Jason, and obviously Tim, too: the final evidence that Tim's parents did not love him and never had. Jason had already thought of Tim as his little brother before that moment, but after that, nothing could tear him away from Tim's side. Ever.

Moreover, it was something that the Drakes could not deny. They never reported their child missing after he was kidnapped by a serial killer, and no amount of falsifying records or bribing officials or paying off witnesses could make that fact disappear. Most of all, it could not disappear from Tim's memory.

Jack and Janet looked at Tim. Jack looked grim, but Janet's expression was gentler.

"Timothy, darling, you don't think we forgot about you, did you? Never. Of course we took steps to find you when we realized you were missing. We did everything we could."

Tim blinked rapidly, his breath coming short in his throat. "What...what do you mean?"

"We hired a private detective, the best in Gotham," Jack said. "We gave him unlimited resources. He was doing everything possible. We're sorry he didn't find you, buddy, but we never gave up on you."

Bruce's mind reeled. Hiring a private detective was something you did when all else failed. When the police and the FBI were out of leads and could no longer devote resources to a cold case. It wasn't a first resort. Not unless your top concern was keeping your private affairs out of the headlines.

Yet Jack and Janet truly seemed to think that they had done everything necessary. They had thrown money at the problem, after all, and that should fix it. It was such a shallow and short-sighted view that Bruce could barely fathom it.

"What was his name?" Bruce asked.

Janet smiled proudly. "Jason Bard. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Bruce had heard of Jason Bard, yes, mostly through Barbara Gordon. He was a good guy, as far as he knew. A good detective. But he couldn't possibly have all of the resources of a city police force, let alone the FBI.

This was definitely another thing that Batman would need to follow up on.

"When?" Tim asked, still in that tiny, hesitant voice. "When did you hire him? When did you realize I was missing?"

"Oh, I hardly think that matters," Janet said briskly. She looked around as if searching for something to distract him.

Tim's mouth curled in a small, tight frown. It did matter. It mattered a lot. It was the difference between his parents actually caring about him, noticing something was wrong and doing something about it no matter how inefficient and perfunctory, or just reacting to a bad situation when they had no choice.

"Ah, here comes the waiter with our salad," Janet said with relief. "Let's whet our appetites, shall we? Then we can discuss what we want for entrees."

The discussion was shut down. For now.

Chapter Text

Tim didn't want salad. He didn't want to eat. He didn't really want to do anything. He kind of just wanted to fall asleep on Bruce so he would be forced to carry him out to the car and then they would go home and Bruce would tuck him in bed and Jason would crawl in next to him and hug him and Dick would hover in the doorway and ask Bruce in his voice that he thought was a whisper but really wasn't what was going on and then Bruce would tell him and Dick would come in and hug him too and Tim could just stay asleep and it would be fine it would all be fine and when he woke up the next morning he would still be in Wayne Manor and he would still be Bruce's foster son and Dick's foster brother and Jason's of-course-for-real-no-matter-what brother and none of this would matter and everything would be fine.

But none of that was possible, so when the waiter came over to the table and served Tim some salad from the big bowl he was carrying, Tim sat up, forcing himself away from the warmth of Bruce's side, and looked at it.

Bruce and his parents were still talking, but Tim wasn't really paying attention anymore. None of it mattered. He'd gotten his answer.

He knew the truth. They hadn't hired the private detective until the school called and asked why Tim never came. Or maybe even later. Even then, they only did it in a desperate attempt to save face. It was all about them, protecting themselves and their careers.

It was just like he and Jason had figured out that last day when Jason watched the news and told him there was nothing about him being missing. Tim's parents didn't love him. Or if they did, it wasn't as much as they loved themselves, and that was practically the same thing.

He hadn't expected his 5% hope to be fulfilled. Really, he hadn't. But still, it hurt to feel it die. That tiny little flame of hope burned down to the end like a matchstick in his fingers, and the touch of it was hot and sharp and awful, right at the end. Then the flame went out, and there was nothing left but smoke.

Tim stared at his salad. The lettuce leaves were dark green, torn in chunks instead of cut with a knife, piled with croutons and short, curly threads of parmesan cheese, all of it covered in a thin, milky film of dressing with sprinkles of black pepper. Tim picked up his fork and poked at the whole black olive on the edge of the bowl, watching it rock against the rim.

His stomach growled faintly. He'd been too anxious to eat all day, but now that anxiety was gone. His worst fears had proven true already, so there was no point in being scared anymore.

Tim felt hollow all through his gut and his chest, a gaping empty hole where his heart used to be. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it would be better, at least a little bit, if he ate something.

Tim poked the olive with the tines of his fork. At first it rolled off, slippery smooth sides slipping away from the metal spikes, but he stabbed harder. This time it stuck. He put the olive in his mouth and chewed, slowly.

It tasted good. A rich, ripe, earthy, almost meaty flavor. Tim wasn't a fan of green olives, but the black ones were better. They tasted substantial and nourishing. He poked through the rest of his salad bowl looking for another one. He found another black olive and ate that one, too. His stomach started to perk up, with an almost inquiring grumble. More?

Tim sighed and speared a big forkful of salad, trying to get bits of everything. He felt the tines of the fork meet different kinds of resistance as he stabbed through different ingredients: The leaf of the lettuce, the stem, maybe a tomato or something. All slathered in dressing and cheese and little specks of pepper. He even managed to get a crouton to balance in the middle of the pile.

He stuck it in his mouth. It tasted pretty good. Kind of too much. He probably shouldn't have taken such a big mouthful. A lot of flavors were in there, mixing and mashing around as he gnawed his way through it like a cow with a cud.

And then it hit him. Or hit his tongue, to be more accurate, but the sensation raced through his entire body and mowed him down like a cement mixer. The taste of hard-boiled egg.

Suddenly, Tim couldn't see the table in front of him. He couldn't feel the chair he was sitting on. The fork fell from his hand, but he couldn't hear it clatter down. All he tasted was the egg. All he saw was darkness. All he could smell was his own fear, his own stale sweat and eggy breath.

He was back in that closet again. He wanted to scream, but his throat had closed up, choking him, as if he was having an allergic reaction. Every muscle in his body was taut and straining. He wanted to punch the wall down. Jason was on the other side, Jay, his brother, and that man was there, and he was hurting him, he was hurting him, and Tim couldn't do anything. He could never do anything, he was trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped and helpless and weak and useless, and all he could do was pretend not to know, because Jason didn't want him to know, he never wanted him to know...

Tim slammed his eyes shut, even though everything was already dark, and clapped his hands over his ears. He hunched over where he sat, though he banged his head on some kind of surface. He wasn't supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. Jason didn't want him to.

He did, though, he always did. From the very first day, from hearing the man's voice when he approached Jay in the alley, and then later, in the van, when he touched Tim, the feeling of his hands over his clothes, the dark look in his eyes. And when the man dragged him out of the closet to take a shower once every couple of weeks, the way he looked at him, the way he watched him bathe, the way he "inspected" him afterward with the excuse of making sure he'd been thorough in cleaning himself. Tim had always known. He just pretended, for Jason's sake, that he didn't.

There was a big hand touching Tim's hand, cupped over it where it clamped over his ear. Tim tried to jerk away, but he was hemmed by something that felt like bars. He was curled up on the floor, now, breathing frantically. Tears were leaking out of his eyes. His stomach hurt, it hurt so bad.

A muffled voice filtered through. It sounded like it was saying his name. It was deep and bassy and rich. "Tim. Tim, can you hear me? I'm right here, sweetheart. I'm right here with you."

It didn't sound like the man from the apartment, from the van, the closet, the alley. That man had a more average voice, closer to the tenor range, nothing like this low, resonating rumble. A hint of reality began to filter back in, though Tim continued to pant like a runner after a sprint. His stomach churned, and he pressed his lips together, determined not to throw up. His breath whistled through his nose. All he could taste was hard-boiled egg.

"Tim, baby, please look at me. Please talk to me, kiddo." The deep voice was pleading now, and it was close, so close. Somehow, though, Tim wasn't afraid, even knowing that a man was right in front of him, probably leaning over his curled-up body. That voice made him feel safe, despite everything.

"Timmy. Timbit. It's me. It's Bruce. I'm here."

Bruce. It was Bruce. Tim took three frantic breaths in a row. Bruce was with him. Batman. Batman had come to rescue him. Again? For the first time? Tim wasn't sure.

Slowly, slowly, sensation returned, though it still felt muddy and distant. He was sitting on the floor, curled up with his hands over his ears and his eyes shut. There was carpet underneath him. He'd jammed himself between the leg of the table and the legs of a chair, instinctively seeking somewhere small and dark and safe. Bruce was with him. Bruce was here.

Tim relaxed, just a fraction. He started to uncurl. His fingers loosened their rigid cage over his ears.

"That's it." Bruce's voice encouraged him, sonorous and rich and so, so pleased. "That's it, honey, you're coming back to me now. That's good, Timbit, that's so good. You're doing great. It's okay, sweetheart, everything's okay."

Bit by bit, fraction by fraction, Tim loosened his hold on his ears, and his eyes began to open. Everything was blurry and dim and muffled, but that was Bruce. He was crouching in front of Tim in his nice suit, a big, encouraging smile on his face. He'd gotten down on the floor with him, hiding under the table.

Tim felt clammy and shaky, his face damp with sweat and tears. But he knew where he was now. The restaurant. His parents. The mortification was intense. He swallowed convulsively against the taste of egg, trying to force the vomit down.

"Okay, great. I can see your eyes. Do you feel like talking yet?"

Tim shook his head. He couldn't open his mouth, or he would puke all over the suit Alfred picked for him.

"That's fine. Do you know where you are?"

Tim nodded.

"Do you understand what just happened?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. A few tears trickled down his cheeks.

Bruce rested his big hand over Tim's knee and gave him a gentle squeeze. "I think you were triggered by something, and you had a trauma reaction. Maybe the way your parents and I were talking to each other? I'm sorry, I know this whole situation is very stressful for you."

Triggered... Dr. Thacker had talked about triggers. That was one of the things she'd said Tim might want to journal about, if it happened, so he could analyze it later.

Tim opened his eyes and looked at Bruce, still swallowing hard. He pointed at his mouth, then wrapped his arms around his stomach.

"Something you ate?" Understanding lit in Bruce's eyes. "The salad. Was there hard-boiled egg in it?"

Tim nodded. Vomit surged even harder against his throat, and he pressed both hands over his mouth and groaned.

"Okay, I understand." Bruce squeezed his knee again. "Should we abort mission now?"

Tim nodded, sniffing hard at the tears. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home.

"No problem. I'll get you out of here." Bruce gave him one last squeeze, then laboriously began to unfold himself from underneath the table. Tim became aware of his parents' voices above, talking to each other in low, agitated murmurs. It made his stomach hurt even more, and he squeezed his belly against his legs.

"Bruce!" Mom said as soon as Bruce appeared above the table. "What the hell was that?"

"Tim had a trauma reaction," Bruce said calmly. "He was triggered by the hard-boiled egg in the salad. We should have watched out for that. He told me, soon after I started taking care of him, that the man who hurt him only allowed him three foods every single day. That was one of them. It's no wonder it caused a reaction now."

"Triggered!" Dad exclaimed. "What, like...a soldier? By salad? That doesn't sound right."

"Tim is...traumatized?" Mom asked in a softer voice.

"He's quite severely traumatized, yes," Bruce said matter-of-factly. "He was imprisoned in a closet by a predator for five months. His only human contact was talking through the walls with another kidnapped boy, who was being horrifically abused the entire time. Of course he's traumatized. It's completely natural and expected. It will take a long time, probably years, before he'll be fully healed from that experience."

"I didn't think..." Mom's voice was soft.

"I know you didn't," Bruce said solemnly. "But you need to be prepared. If you regain custody of Tim, you will need to be ready to care for him. He will need therapy, and he will need support from his family. He may have nightmares and flashbacks for the rest of his life. You will need to learn how to help him through a dissociative episode, at the very least. This is the second one I've witnessed him go through."

"The second one? When was the first time?" Dad demanded.

"That's not important right now," Bruce said. "I need to get Tim home." Tim heard him get out his phone. "I'm just letting you know what's going on as a courtesy."

Bruce started talking on the phone, summoning a car to pick them up. Tim wanted to get out from under the table, but he couldn't move. He heard his parents get up, their chairs scraping back. He watched their legs move as they walked toward the door. He saw them framed in the doorway of the private room, side by side with their backs to him.

And then they left. They didn't even look back. They didn't say good-bye.

Tim choked on a sob. And then he threw up.

Now he was sobbing and shaking and apologizing, and Bruce was under the table again, trying to clean him up, and there was someone else, too, with a handful of towels. The waiter? He was being so much trouble. Making such a mess. The air stank of vomit, and it was all down his front and in his lap, and still he could taste the egg.

"I'm sorry," he babbled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shh, Timbit, shhhh," Bruce murmured, mopping at his front. "Here, let's just get this shirt off you, okay? You can wear my jacket. Everything's okay, baby. It wasn't your fault. Please stop apologizing."

He couldn't stop, though, not until he was stripped of his vomit-soaked clothes and bundled into Bruce's lap, wrapped up in his huge jacket that should have felt scratchy but instead felt soft as silk. Tim was shivering with exhaustion, just his head and shins poking out of the jacket, his arms wrapped around his body and his head nestled on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce held a glass of water to his lips, encouraging him to take it, sip by sip.

Alfred would be there soon, Bruce kept promising. He was going to bring the car and a change of clothes. Tim's suit had been bundled up into a plastic bag by someone on the restaurant staff. They could get it laundered. He hadn't ruined anything. Everything was okay. They would be home soon.

Tim drank some water and tried not to choke. It helped to get rid of the taste of vomit and egg, which still lingered. He was starting to feel hungry again, too, which he was pretty sure was a good sign, and his stomach only ached a little bit. He wanted to go home and eat some of Alfred's chicken veggie soup with toast points, or a bowl of porridge, or a fruit smoothie. Even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, as long as it was on wheat bread instead of white.

"Mr. Wayne."

Both Bruce and Tim went still. They had forgotten someone else was in the room. They looked over in tandem and saw him still sitting there, Aaron Reed, the court observer, with his notepad and tape recorder still in front of him on the table.

Bruce frowned, his eyes sparking with anger, but Mr. Reed spoke first.

"They didn't buy me off. They tried. I never told them I accepted."

Bruce closed his mouth and frowned in a different way.

"I just wanted to say that if you'd like to call on me as a witness for your custody case, I will gladly come."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. "Thank you," he said slowly. "Were you recording this?"

Mr. Reed smiled and nodded, tapping the tape recorder on the table. "They never noticed me start it."

"And the neglect case?"

"It will go forward." Mr. Reed wrinkled his nose. "Those people...they have a lot of strange assumptions about what money can buy."

Bruce let out a breath. Tim could feel his body slowly relax. He hadn't realized how tense Bruce was until he felt it let go, and the solid chest he rested against became much more pliable. "Thank you," he said again. "I'm glad to find at least one part of the criminal system in Gotham that isn't fully corrupted."

Mr. Reed chuckled gently as he got to his feet and gathered his equipment. "Like I said, strange assumptions." He looked straight at Bruce, then at Tim. He gave him an odd, gentle smile that Tim could only blink at. "I don't do this job for money."

He left. Tim nestled his head back into Bruce's shoulder and closed his eyes. They were going home. And maybe, just maybe, he would get to stay there.

Chapter Text

Jason and Dick were waiting at the garage door when Alfred came back with Bruce and Tim. Tim had left the house two hours ago dressed in a nice suit and using his crutches to stump along under his own power. He came back dressed in comfy sweats, carried in Bruce's arms like a toddler who’d had a too-long day. Bruce and Alfred both looked grim, while Tim was pale and exhausted, eyes drooping and head resting heavily on Bruce's shoulder. Alfred was carrying Tim's crutches and a plastic bag that was twisted tightly shut at the top.

"What happened?" Dick demanded before they'd even crossed the threshold.

Jason jerked forward, his arms twitching toward Bruce. He wanted to take Tim out of his arms and carry the kid himself. But he knew he wasn't strong enough. Tim was small and slight, but Jason still basically had noodle arms, despite his rapid improvement over the past few weeks. His lip curled in impatience with his own weakness.

Bruce opened his mouth to answer Dick, then looked at Jason, his face going soft. "You want your little brother?"

Jason nodded. Give him to me, he wanted to demand. His hands were twitching again. He hadn't felt this strongly about dragging Tim away from someone else and holding him himself since that first night in the hospital when he’d almost gone ballistic just from seeing Tim sleeping in Bruce's lap.

Bruce tipped his head toward the family lounge. "Let's get Tim settled. Then we can talk."

Jason led the way almost at a trot, glancing back frequently to make sure Bruce was following. Tim still hadn't spoken, though his eyes were open. He must be barely awake, poor kid. Whatever had happened with his parents really wrung it out of him.

In the lounge, Jason plopped down on the comfiest sofa and held out his arms to Bruce, fingers curling toward himself insistently. "Gimme."

The corner of Bruce's mouth turned up, and he gently lowered Tim down into Jason's arms. Jason instantly curled around him, holding onto him with both legs and one arm while he reached over to the other side of the sofa and grabbed a loose throw blanket. Bruce helped him wrap the blanket around both Tim and himself, then stood to face Dick.

Dick was bouncing on his toes, unable to be still, though his eyes kept darting to Jason and Tim cuddled on the couch, revealing his longing to join them. He just couldn't, not while he was so full of nervous energy. "Bruce, what happened?" he asked again, only a touch more calmly than before.

Jason looked at Bruce too, listening intently. All they knew was that Bruce had called Alfred and told him to send a driver, hours before they thought one would be needed, then called back like two minutes later and told him to come himself and to bring a comfortable change of clothes for Tim. So something bad had happened at the meeting with Tim's parents, and then immediately after it had gotten much worse. But that was all they knew. Jason and Dick had been on tenterhooks, waiting for them to return, and seeing Tim in this state had not reassured them at all.

Bruce heaved a sigh and rubbed his forehead, his eyes closing briefly. Now Jason could see just how exhausted Bruce looked, too. Whatever happened had been draining and stressful for him as well as Timmy.

"Well, Jack and Janet Drake lived up to my expectations," he drawled. "By which I mean they were absolutely terrible. They barely paid attention to Tim, preferring to focus on me. They were under the impression that I was...extorting them by fostering their son and seeking custody of him. Janet kept demanding to know what I wanted, while I told her that I just wanted Tim to be safe and happy."

Jason scowled and held Tim tighter. He had known that Timmy’s parents were awful, but it was still ugly to hear the words coming from Bruce's mouth. Tim sighed into Jason's shoulder, lying bonelessly against him.

"That was bad enough," Bruce went on. "I would have been perfectly happy calling an end to that farce of a meeting right then. But then things got even worse when they brought out the salad."

He looked at Tim with such deep sympathy that Jason, caught in a corner of it like a beam of sunlight, could barely breathe. "Is it okay if I tell them, Timbit?"

Tim nodded limply. He seemed to barely have the energy even for that small movement. Alfred appeared in the doorway, having gotten rid of the crutches and the plastic bag, and Bruce looked at him, too.

"Tim was triggered by the hard-boiled egg in the salad. He'll have to tell us himself what exactly happened when he's ready, but at the very least he panicked and hid under the table. I suspect he had a flashback, too."

Dick frowned, and Alfred nodded in understanding, his normally austere face even more like a cliff face at the ocean's edge. "I will make absolutely certain that that food item is never served to either Master Tim or Master Jason again. At least, not until they are both certain that it will no longer trigger them."

Jason opened his mouth to protest the assumption that he had a problem, too... But then he closed his mouth. Just imagining eating a hard-boiled egg made his stomach turn over. It might not trigger him bad enough to cause a panic attack or a flashback, but if just thinking about eating one made him feel like this, he wasn't sure what the actual experience would be like.

He was pretty sure he knew, now, why Tim had needed a change of clothes. He hugged the kid even tighter against himself and murmured in his ear. "Did ya throw up, Timmy?"

Tim nodded and swallowed, hard. He looked sick at the thought. Jason, disturbed, wondered what he would do if Tim threw up again. This close, it would get all over him, too.

But holding Tim close was worth the risk.

Dick gave them a worried glance before focusing on Bruce again. "What did the Drakes do?"

Bruce's jaw worked like he was tasting something bad. "They...left."

Dick blinked. Jason's arms tightened around Tim.

"What, just like that?" Dick asked incredulously.

"Once Tim's panic seemed under control, I got out from under the table to call for a car, and I explained to Jack and Janet what had happened, in as few words as possible. I explained that Tim was traumatized and had a reaction to the egg in his salad. I also said that they would need to be prepared, if they regained custody of Tim, to help him in the future."

"And then they just...left?" Dick asked softly, his voice aching.

Bruce huffed. "Janet seemed sympathetic, if unsure. Jack was a bit more incredulous. But yes, after I explained that, then started talking on my phone, they just got up and walked out the door. They didn't even say good-bye. I'm not sure what they were thinking, if they were thinking at all."

"They were thinking that they couldn't deal with that," Tim said. His voice was tired and rough and so, so small, yet it seemed to ring in the room. "Just like they couldn't deal with me having nightmares when I was little about seeing Dick’s parents fall. They could never deal with me when I was difficult. When I was a problem. This is the same thing they always do. They leave."

Dick stood still for a few seconds, stricken. He looked straight at Jason and Tim. "I'm sorry, boys," he said in a strangled voice. "But I need to be excused."

He walked out, his feet stomping down the hall. Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "He's going to go destroy a training dummy or two."

Jason was holding Tim so tightly now that he had to be hurting him, but Tim didn't seem to care. He just leaned into Jason and let himself be held.

Bruce and Alfred looked disturbed, too, though not as apoplectic as Dick. Alfred took his leave, muttering something about Tim needing food. Bruce moved over to the couch where Jason and Tim were sitting and hovered there for a moment, looking like he wanted to just scoop them both up. Jason felt his shoulders rising, hunching around his ears, without really meaning them to. Bruce sighed and sat in a recliner nearby instead, leaning back with his hands holding tight to the plush arms. After a moment, he started to hum.

It was nice. It was always nice when Bruce hummed or sang. Jason felt himself relaxing, bit by bit. Tim was already as relaxed as a sleeping kitten.

After a while, Tim shifted so his head was higher on Jason's shoulder. He spoke, so low and quiet that Jason knew Bruce couldn't hear him over his humming. "Jay, I want to tell you something. I don't wanna have secrets anymore."

Jason blinked. "Okay. You can tell me anything. You know that."

Tim nodded gently. "It's about the bastard. I know you don't want to talk about him. Is it still okay if I tell you?"

He felt himself go stiff. No, he still didn't want to talk about Pittman. He never wanted to talk about him. But if it was something Tim needed to say, then Jason needed to hear it. He had a really bad feeling, though, and his stomach turned over again.

"I..." Jason swallowed. "Yes. I want you to tell me."

Tim was quiet for a long time. "It's...about the thing you didn't want me to know about."

Jason sat there, absolutely still, absolutely silent. He felt locked in place like a statue, frozen and distant. Only the warm, breathing body of his little brother in his arms connected him to real life.

Tim sniffled, suddenly close to tears. When he spoke, it sounded like there was a lump in his throat. "I know you didn't want me to know. And I did always cover my ears, like you wanted me to. I promise I did. I didn't listen. But I still knew. Not exactly, but I knew."

Jason tried to swallow, but even that felt impossible.

"I know what he was doing to you, at least enough. You wanted it to be a secret, Jay, but I'm sorry, I always knew the secret. From the very first day, I knew. I didn't let you know that I knew because I wanted you to have...I don't know, some dignity? You wanted it to be a secret, and I wanted to let you have that secret, but it was never a secret at all."

For a long, long moment, they were both silent. Jason couldn't speak. Tim sniffled into his chest. Finally, Jason felt himself unthaw. Not all the way, but enough that he could move a little, and he could feel his lips again. He tightened his arms around Tim.

"What...what brought this on?" he asked hoarsely. He wasn't angry. Honestly, he'd always known that Tim knew. He just tried to pretend that he didn't. He wasn't upset at Tim for telling him what they both knew, breaking that last thin shell of distance. He just felt numb and tired.

The sniffles slowed, but didn't stop. "I think Bruce is right. I think I had a flashback at the restaurant, after eating the egg."

Jason closed his eyes. He knew what flashbacks were, vaguely. He knew they were memories that came back when you didn't want them to. By that definition, he was pretty sure he had flashbacks, too. "What did you remember?"

Tim trembled. "I remembered being in the closet. I had my eyes closed and my hands over my ears, but I knew you were on the other side of the wall. I knew the bastard was hurting you, and I couldn't do anything. That w-was always the worst part, Jay. That I couldn't do anything. I hated it so much. I still hate it."

"Okay." The words came out flat. There was really nothing else to say about this. "It's okay."

"Are you sure? I really am sorry. Is it okay that I told you?"

"Yeah." This might not be strictly true, but Jason had to say it, for Tim's sake. "Of course it's okay. You can tell me anything. I don't want us to have any secrets, either."

"I know you didn't want me to know. I'm sorry I knew anyway."

Jason shook his head. Tim was repeating himself now, the way he did when he was too worked up. He felt exhausted, suddenly, all of his energy drained away. The anxiety and restlessness he'd felt while Tim was gone had disappeared, as well as the outrage he'd felt at Tim's parents for the way they treated him. It just didn't feel worthwhile to be upset anymore. It wasn't doing either of them any good.

He sighed and rested his cheek against Tim's hair. "No more secrets," he echoed. "It's better."

Tim was silent for a while. Jason felt himself drifting, worn out by the stress of the day. He didn't want to think about this anymore. He just wanted to feel safe and relaxed and warm with his little brother.

"There's one more thing," Tim said quietly.

Jason blinked and rocked his head, shaking himself out of his light doze. "Yeah?"

"He touched me, too. After he'd let me out to take a shower. It was like he was...checking. To see if I was old enough yet. I know it wasn't as bad as what happened to you. It wasn't anywhere near as bad. And I feel stupid because it still bothers me, anyway. I'm sorry."

Well, Jason wasn't tired anymore. His eyes were wide open, though he wasn't seeing anything. His ears were full of buzzing, his mind full of cotton. "The bastard touched you, too?"

That wasn't a whisper. It wasn't a whisper at all.

Bruce stopped humming. Tim went still. Suddenly, everywhere he was touching Jason felt too hot. Too stifling, too close, too overwhelming. Jason couldn't stand it. It was all too much.

Tim stuttered, and then he started apologizing again. For telling him, for talking about it, for being a bother, for not keeping it to himself, for not protecting Jason like he said he would... It was all too much. Jason couldn't stand it.

He threw off the blanket that covered them both and squirmed his way out from underneath Tim. He ended up kneeling on the sofa, both hands holding Tim's shoulders as if to fend him off. Vaguely, through a sheen of panic, he could see that Tim was crying again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his face was screwed up in pain. Jason hated it, especially because he knew he was the cause, but he couldn't take it. He just couldn't.

He wanted to hug the kid. He wanted to tell him it was okay. He wanted to go back in time and stop all of this from happening in the first place. He wanted to not be a victim of one of Gotham's top all-time creeps, and he wanted Tim not to be one either. He wanted a thousand things, all of them impossible.

Instead, all he did was yell. "Stop! Goddammit, stop crying!"

Tim cried harder. His hands fumbled out, trying to grab at his arms. Jason snatched his hands away from Tim's shoulders and stood up. He felt dizzy and numb, tingling all over. "I can't do this," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't. I can't."

"Jaylad..." Bruce. He had stood up from his chair and was slowly approaching, both hands outstretched. His face was full of anguish.

Jason jerked away from him, full-alarm panic seizing him from head to toe. Bruce stood still and raised his hands in surrender. Tim sat on the couch, sobbing.

Jason ran away. He didn't want to do it, and he cursed himself for a coward even as it happened. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop himself.

He turned on his heel and fled.

Chapter Text

Dick didn't suit up, though someone ought to be on patrol. Batgirl could handle it. Batman and Nightwing were occupied tonight.

He didn't bother with his escrima sticks. He barely took the time to strip down to his undershirt and a pair of sweatpants. He didn't wrap his hands or find any gloves.

He just set himself against a training dummy, empty face on a blank torso, and started punching.

Dick was sweat-soaked and panting some indeterminate time later when he was startled by the chime of the intercom. Alfred's voice filled the cave. "Master Dick, you are needed."

Dick straightened, breathing hard. His hands, still clenched into fists, ached and burned, and sweaty hair flopped in his eyes. "Alf? What's going on?" He had rarely heard the old gentleman's voice sound so urgent.

"Master Jason had a distressing revelation and unfortunately has run off. Master Bruce is busy comforting Master Tim, so he was unable to pursue. He hasn't left the manor, but I haven't been able to find him. I need you to join the hunt immediately."

"Oh. Crap." Dick stood back from the dummy. He shook with the release of adrenaline as he tried to force himself out of fighting mode. "Where have you checked so far?"

"He is not in his bedroom, nor Master Tim's, nor the library. I'm checking the spare rooms now, but as you can imagine, it is not a quick or simple task."

Dick took a deep breath. "Gotcha." He bounced on his toes as he shook his arms out. "I'm on my way."

The stairs would take too long, though Dick sorely wanted the excuse to run off some of his adrenaline. He headed to the elevator instead, mind already focusing down on places Jason would be likely to hide. Alfred hadn't mentioned checking Dick's bedroom, which he knew could sometimes be a sanctuary for both of the little boys. Maybe he should try there first, then join Alfred in searching the spare rooms.

When he reached the elevator, though, he was startled to see that the light was already on. Then the door opened, revealing Jason. The kid was a mess, face blotchy and fists clenched. When he saw Dick, his face screwed up in a silent sob. He threw himself out of the elevator at a run.

He slammed into Dick, head hitting him at chest height, and wrapped his arms around his torso tightly enough that Dick lost his breath for moment. "Dick!" he wailed. The sound was high-pitched and heartbroken. He seemed on the edge of falling apart.

Dick sucked in a breath. "Jason! Kiddo, I was just coming to look for you."

His arms hovered around the boy uncertainly. He wanted to hug him back, but he didn't know if he should. This was the first time Jason had initiated any kind of contact with any of the adults in the house, let alone a full-blown hug. If Dick hugged him back, would it make him feel trapped, even more panicked?

He wanted to, though. God, he wanted to hold him. What the hell had happened here?

"Dick!" Jason pressed his face into Dick's chest. He leaned on Dick so heavily that he had to step back with one foot for balance. Jason was still far underweight, but he was gangly and long-limbed. "Tim... He hurt Tim! He hurt him! And then I did too!"

His breath was coming faster, moist and frantic, almost sobbing. Dick huffed and finally wrapped his arms around him, with the hysterical thought that Jason was going to fly to pieces if Dick didn't hold him together somehow. Far from flinching back from the contact, Jason squeezed him even tighter. He seemed to be trying to burrow into Dick's body to hide.

"Okay," Dick said, his voice a little strangled. His brain was racing, trying to figure out what was happening, what he should do. "It's okay, Jaybird. It's gonna be okay. Whatever happened, I'm sure we can fix it."

Jason shook his head into Dick's chest, pressing so hard that it was almost painful. Dick had too much adrenaline in his system to feel much pain at the moment, though. "No! No, we can't! I can't fix it! I can't fix anything."

Then Jason's last shred of control crumbled, and he started bawling.

It was awful. Somehow it was much worse than when Timmy cried, and that was terrible too. At least when Timmy cried, Dick knew what to do. He could hold him and rock him and whisper reassurances until the child was able to calm down. Timmy was always heartbreakingly grateful for the comfort, melting into Dick's arms and snuggling with him like a sweet little cat. Holding him was soft and warm and one of the best sensations Dick had ever felt in his life.

Jason wasn't soft, and he wasn't sweet. He was all hard edges and sharp angles, and holding him was like trying to hug a bag of rocks and broken glass. His sobs were harsh and broken and tore like nails. It hurt to be near him.

But Dick didn't let go. He walked them backwards, step by painful step, until they reached the training mats. He managed to tug Jason down to sit with him, and they huddled there on the thick foam padding. Jason clutched Dick desperately, as if afraid he would disappear if he let go. Dick held him back just as hard, his heart pounding and mind aflame.

Dick didn't know what to say. "It's okay," was obviously not going to help. Whatever had happened, whatever dark place Jason had found himself in, he seemed to be beyond platitudes. Dick really wished that he had something besides platitudes to offer.

He sat there on the training mats, holding his little brother and resisting the urge to drag him into his lap the way he would with Tim. They were sitting more or less side by side, Jason wrapped around Dick's middle in a balled-up pretzel of unhappy boy. Dick kept his arms wrapped around him in return and concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, letting the adrenaline run out.

After a while, Jason calmed down enough that the sobs were no longer incessant. His body still hitched convulsively, muffled whimpers escaping, and his grip on Dick's body was still tight. His fingers dug into the back of Dick's tank top, almost wringing the fabric between them. Dick had a brief, inconsequential worry that the fabric would tear.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asked.

Jason shook his head. It seemed instinctive, no thought behind it.

"That's okay. But it had something to do with Timmy?"

Jason held rock solid still for a second. It was like he was rebooting. Then he suddenly let go of Dick and scrambled back on the mat so they could see each other, his fists raised and almost clenched. His face was twisted in distress, damp with tears, swollen and patched with red from his crying jag. "Tim... Tim..." He panted, trying to get the words out.

Dick sat still, his arms hanging loosely in the air after Jason tore away from them. He wanted to reach out, but instead he very carefully lowered his hands into his lap and just sat there, listening. Jason seemed to be on the edge of something, and he didn't know if it was something good or something bad. All he could do was open his body language as much as possible and show Jason that he was here, he was available, he wanted to help.

Jason sucked in a sob, and then something broke. "He hurt Tim! He hurt him! I couldn't stop it! I could never stop it! I could never do anything. Anything! And then Tim told me, and I hurt him, too. I hate it! I hate myself! I hate everything!" His fists curled up into balls, trembling with impotent rage, and his eyes squeezed shut as he fought for air.

Dick could barely breathe. "Who? Who hurt Tim?"

Jason looked at him incredulously, like this should be obvious. "The bastard!"

Oh, right. Of course. Dick tried a nod, but it came out shaky. "Right. Yeah, I knew that. He beat him up and threatened to kill him and kept him locked in a closet. He hurt him really bad."

"No! I mean, yeah, that too." Jason's hands rose and clenched in his hair, and he curled over himself, trying to control everything that was rushing through him. "But there was more. There was more!"

Dick had never heard such misery in a youngster's voice. It made him want to cry. But he just sat there, waiting.

After a few seconds to master himself, Jason raised his head and looked at Dick again. Tears were flowing down his cheeks in a hot, steady trickle. "He hurt him the way he hurt me."

Oh. Oh.

For a few seconds, Dick couldn't breathe. When he could speak again, his voice was strained and raw. Every syllable hurt. "I didn't know that."

Jason shook his head. "Me neither. Not until tonight. Tim told me, while Bruce was humming. First he told me that he knew, and that was sort of okay, because I kind of already knew that he knew? I just didn't want myself to know, because I wanted him not to know. Because I wanted to protect him from something, you know? All those months locked up, it was only the thing I could save Timmy from, just that one little thing, if he just didn't know... But he did know. He knew all along, every single day, but he pretended he didn't because he wanted to let me have that."

Dick tried his best to fathom this tangle of words and thoughts without interrupting Jason's flow. He nodded along, his heart in his throat. "Okay. Timmy knew the whole time. About how the bastard hurt you?"

"Yeah." Jason nodded miserably. More tears leaked out. "I couldn't stop him from knowing. But he was able to stop me from knowing that the bastard...the bastard..."

Dick swallowed. He felt like throwing up. "He touched Tim, too."

Another sob broke free, and Jason threw himself into Dick's arms again. One hand gripped Dick's shirt, tight enough that the fabric would never be the same. The other balled into a fist and pounded ineffectually at Dick's side, once, twice, a third time.

Dick didn't flinch. He felt it, but it barely hurt. It meant nothing next to Jason's agony.

"It's not fair!" Jason wailed. "It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair! Why did this have to happen? What did we ever do to deserve this?"

"Nothing," Dick murmured. He wrapped himself around Jason and held on tight. "You didn't deserve this. Timmy didn't deserve this. Never. You're completely right. It isn't fair. It isn't just. It isn't right. What happened to you both is a tragedy and...and a horror. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to lash out."

"I hate him," Jason seethed through clenched teeth. "I hate him so much. I used to dream about killing him. I wanted to take his knife, the one he threatened Tim with, and plunge it down into his throat. I wanted to watch the blood spurt out. I wanted to watch him die. I want him dead."

Dick swallowed, but he could not judge. He couldn't even disagree. "That's understandable. He deserves to die for what he did to you, and to Tim."

Jason shuddered in his arms. "But I can't kill him," he said hoarsely. "He's in jail. Batman put him there. Batman is gonna make sure he stays there. I can't do anything to him."

Dick closed his eyes. "True enough," he admitted. "There's nothing you can do to Pittman. All you can do is take care of yourself. And Timmy. All you can do is heal and get stronger and grow up and become the man you were always meant to be."

Jason was still in his arms, heaving for breath. "I hurt Timmy, too," he said in a tiny voice.

For a second Dick could only blink, trying to parse this. "What do you mean?"

"I yelled at him. He told me about the bastard, and he was crying, and I screamed at him to stop. And then I ran away." Jason sobbed. "Just like his parents ran away. I'm just like them." The loathing in his voice was overpowering.

"Oh, baby. No." As reluctant as he was to give up this unprecedented opportunity to hold Jason in his arms, Dick carefully gripped the boy's shoulders and pushed him back so he could look in his face. "Pumpkin, no. You had to step away for a bit to deal with your emotions. Taking a break is not the same thing as abandonment. Did you think I was abandoning Timmy when I excused myself to come down here and work out my anger on a training dummy?"

Jason shook his head, scrubbing at his tear-streaked face with one fist. It was so cute and sad at the same time that Dick wanted to die.

"Well, there you go," he said, faux-cheerfully. "You needed a break." And what a break it had been. "And that's okay. As for yelling at him, I'm sure Timmy will forgive you. You can go and apologize as soon as you're feeling a little more right in the head, okay? But there's no rush. You can take as long as you need to cool down and work out your feelings. Timmy will understand."

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He seemed to be mirroring Dick, who had been deliberately breathing deeply and steadily since Jason ran out of the elevator. At least when he could breathe at all. Dick rubbed his shoulders in commiseration, and Jason did not flinch away.

For a few moments they sat there, just breathing together. When Jason opened his eyes and looked at Dick, he seemed much calmer, and his light blue eyes were steady. "Will you teach me to fight?"

Dick's eyebrows rose. He hadn't been expecting that. "Bruce has been planning to give you boys lessons in self-defense when you were ready..."

Jason shook his head and rubbed his eye with his fist again. "I wanna learn from you. You're Nightwing. You were Robin. You're...a hero. I want that."

Dick smiled, though his heart was aching. "Bruce doesn't want Robin anymore. He thinks that the streets have gotten too dangerous since I used to run around behind him in pixie boots. It was part of the reason he wanted me to quit the life and go to college."

Jason shook his head stubbornly. "I don't care what Bruce wants. I want to be like Robin. I wanna be like you. You fought bad guys all the time, and they were scared of you, almost as much as they were scared of Batman."

Dick hesitated.

"And don't give me any bullshit about how I'm a hero just for surviving what the bastard did to me," Jason said fiercely. "I want more than that. I want more than survival."

And well, Dick couldn't argue with him there. He managed a smile, though it seemed to stretch his face in odd places. "Okay," he said softly. "I will do everything in my power to give you that."

Jason smiled back. Then he lunged forward and hugged him again, three times a miracle.

This time they didn't let go for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Dick and Jason had their first training session right away.

It didn't take long for Jason to get worn out. Before twenty minutes were up, he was sweating and panting, gritting his teeth in frustration. Dick was a great teacher, very patient and skilled and good at giving instructions, and he kept reminding Jason of how far he'd come already.

They started with blocks, which was something Jason had never practiced before. They moved slowly, Dick constantly correcting Jason's form. Then they went through them over and over until Jason's arms felt like rubber bands and his legs wouldn't stop shaking.

"You're doing great," Dick told him. He was less careful not to touch Jason now, since Jason had come and tackle-hugged him for like fifteen minutes straight. He patted Jason's shoulder and ruffled his hair, and Jason felt only the slightest little heart flutter of unease. Hardly worth noticing at all.

Then Dick showed him where the showers were, because of course the Batcave had showers, and ran upstairs to get him a set of sweats to change into. Jason still locked the door. It was pretty neat that the shower even had a door to lock. If he'd ever thought about Batman having showers, he might have expected it to be like a locker room, all out in the open with barely a curtain, but no, these were separate stalls. And the floor was made of these wooden slats that actually felt nice to stand on instead of cold, hard tile. Jason leaned into the warm water and closed his eyes and stood there for an endless age, just enjoying it.

It wasn’t that late, much earlier than Jason usually went to sleep. But he was ready for bed. By the time he'd showered and dressed and finally followed Dick to the elevator to go upstairs, he was completely worn out. Dick had to wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep him up, and Jason leaned into his side, his eyes drooping and brain fuzzing in and out. He felt warm and content and totally at peace for the first time in...ages. It didn't bear thinking about how long it had been. So he didn't. He didn't really think about anything.

It was a really nice break.

Then they got to Jason's room, and Tim was waiting there, sitting tensely against his headboard in his jammies and hugging Zitka against his side, and everything rushed back.

Jason froze in the doorway with his hand on the frame, Dick standing behind him like he was ready to catch him if he fell. His heart was suddenly in his throat, and all of his peace was trickling away like sand through an hourglass. Tim smiled sheepishly and started to shift toward the edge of the bed.

"It's okay, I can go. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed..."

"No," Jason blurted. "Stay there. I don't want you to leave."

He spun around and looked up at Dick, still waiting there quietly. "I'm fine. You can go. Thank you for the training session."

Dick blinked, but nodded readily. "Sure, buddy. Anytime. Just say the word."

Jason closed the door in his face, then turned around to look at Tim. Only much later he would realize that that had probably been rude. In the moment, all he cared about was his little brother.

Tim pulled the stuffed elephant around to his front so he could hug it with both arms. His face was set and pale, and his eyes were way too big. Sometimes Jason kind of forgot how little Tim was, since his personality and his brain seemed to be so big, big enough for the world. But right now he was very, very aware that Timothy Drake was small. He was dwarfed by the massive bed, the luxurious room, everything about his surroundings. Only the plushie toy in his arms seemed remotely proportional.

Jason shook his head, then determinedly marched to the bed and climbed in to sit next to Tim. The kid stared at him apprehensively as Jason wriggled closer, until their sides were almost touching. This close, he could see how tense the muscles of Tim's arms were, how his fingers were digging into the plushie.

"I'm sorry," Jason said, just as Tim opened his mouth and said the exact same thing. They stared at each other, then both laughed. And just like that, the tension was broken.

Tim slid down under the covers and settled his head on the pillow, staring at Jason with a smile. "Did you have a nice talk with Dick?"

"Yeah." Jason slid down, too, looking back at him. "Well, more like I bawled on him for a while. He said some good things, though."

Like the stuff about how it was okay to need a break, and he hadn't abandoned Tim by leaving the room when he got overwhelmed. He still felt bad about it, though. It must have felt like rejection and abandonment to Tim, even though Jason hadn't meant it that way.

"I'm sorry I ran out on you," Jason said, voice trembling.

Tim shook his head vigorously, eyes wide. "No, no. It's okay. I know... Well, Bruce explained to me. That you just needed a break. And honestly, I should have seen that. I shouldn't have pushed so hard."

It was Jason's turn to shake his head. "No, I told you that you could tell me. And I wanted you to tell me, honest. I don't wanna have any secrets. I mean that. It just got to be...too much. Like you with the egg, probably."

Tim grimaced, looking faintly nauseated. "Yeah... I guess that counted as a trigger for you. We'll have to try to avoid it in the future."

Jason wrinkled his nose. "I dunno if it's the kind of thing that will come up again, though. I mean, unless you have several more horrible things to tell me."

"No, I think that was it."

"No nasty nannies in your childhood? No creep on the street when you were wandering around taking pictures? No teacher at school who kept you after class and then touched you in a bad place?"

Tim looked thoughtful, like he was seriously considering it. After a few moments, he shook his head. "I can't think of anyone."

"Okay, good." Jason turned over on his back with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. "I really am sorry I yelled at you, though. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have told you to stop crying. Crying is good."

"It's okay," Tim said softly.

"It really isn't. A lot of people have treated you bad in your life, Timmy. I don't want to be one of them."

Tim was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. Then he sighed and rolled over on his back to stare up at the ceiling with Jason. The light was still on. One of them was going to have to get up and turn it off. Jason didn't want to move, though. He was so tired his eyes kept closing on their own. Tim must be pretty worn out, too, from the thing at the restaurant.

"I forgive you," Tim said after a while. "There, is that better?"

It really was. Jason huffed out through his nose and let his eyes drift shut. "Yeah. Thank you."

"And do you forgive me for making you upset in the first place?"

Jason rocked his head back and forth on the pillow. "I told you, it wasn't your fault. There's nothing to forgive. But if it makes you feel better, then yes, I forgive you."

Tim made a content noise and rolled over toward Jason, cuddling Zitka to his chest as he moved. He wiggled closer to Jason and let his head rest against his shoulder. Not full contact, not demanding more than Jason was ready to give. Just...resting there, nice and close.

"Do you think Dick will come in and say good night?" Tim murmured.

Jason forced his eyes open. "I guess. Probably. He didn't really get a chance to spend any time with you when you got back. I took up all of his time instead."

He hadn't even thought about that. And now he felt guilty. Dick had been so eager to see Tim and talk about his parents and all that stuff, and then he had to leave to deal with his anger, and then Jason chased him down and wouldn't let go. At least Tim had Bruce to take care of him, though.

Tim sighed. "I really want a hug from Dick."

"Yeah, Dick's hugs are really nice."

Tim went still, then pulled his head back, his eyes wide. "You got a hug from Dick? Or...you let him hug you?"

Jason blinked. "I mean, yeah. Well, more like I hugged him. I was really upset. Dick was awesome, though."

Tim broke into a wide, joyful grin. "Jay! That's great! You finally got a hug! I'm so glad!"

Jason frowned. "I hug you all the time."

"You know what I mean." Tim waved a hand in the air. "Are you gonna let Bruce hug you, too? He really wants to, you know. Like, all the time. Dick's hugs are great, but Bruce's hugs are the best. It's like getting hugged by a tree. A really old, really big, really strong tree."

Jason's sleep-muddled mind could not handle this at all. "A tree?"

“Yeah! It's great. You should totally try it."

Jason shifted his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Oh." Tim backed down instantly. "You're still scared."

Jason frowned. Tim wasn't wrong, but he didn't like hearing it phrased so bluntly.

Tim seemed to realize and immediately tried again. "I mean...nervous. You're nervous because Bruce is so big and tough, right? But I mean, for real. He's nothing like...you know."

Jason sighed. "You mean Pittman."

Tim went still and silent for a long moment, which was a startling change from how animated and delighted he'd been. "Are you ready to talk about him now?"

"Not exactly." Jason sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm just...tired of pussyfooting around it, I guess. Pittman is a bastard, and he hurt me, and he hurt you, and it sucks, and I hate it. I hate it so, so much. But I can't... I can't live the rest of my life trying not to think about him. It's not gonna work, for one thing. I think about him whether I want to or not. And just...yeah. I don't wanna run away anymore. No secrets, right? Not even from ourselves."

"That's really good, Jay," Tim said softly.

The corner of Jason's mouth turned up. "I don't wanna run. I wanna fight. Dick promised to teach me. We had our first training session down in the basement. You know, after the whole hugging and crying fest."

"You're training with Dick?" Tim's voice was awed.

"Yeah. I asked him to. I told him I don't want to just be a survivor. I want to be like Nightwing. Or Robin, at least."

The idea seemed to boot Tim's mind on tilt. He got up on one elbow, staring down at Jason with big eyes, his mouth agape. "You want to be Robin?"

Jason frowned up at him. "I didn't say that. I want to be like Robin. I want to be someone the criminals are scared of, not the other way around."

"That's so cool," Tim breathed. "I never even thought about there being another Robin. But I mean...why not? Other superhero names have been passed down. That one could be too. Oh gosh, Jason, are you gonna still have the yellow cape? That thing is like...way too bright. I could spot it from blocks away."

Jason made a noise of exasperation and lunged up to tackle Tim and pin him down on the bed. "Shut up," he growled, half in play and half serious. "I'm not gonna be Robin. I'm just training with Dickiebird so I can fight."

"But you could be Robin," Tim said in his bright little voice, only slightly muffled by Jason's weight on top of him. "You could totally be a superhero. You can do anything."

"Maybe you should be Robin," Jason retorted. "You care about it way more than I do. Batman and Robin are, like, your life."

Tim was quiet for long enough that Jason started to worry that he'd done something wrong or hurt him. He finally pushed himself up off his little brother and looked down at him. "Tim? You okay?"

Tim still had that wide-eyed, sparkly expression. "Do you really think I could be Robin?" he asked in a near-whisper.

Jason huffed in mingled amusement and exasperation, then fell onto his side next to him. He wrapped his arms around Tim and pulled him close, rubbing his nose into his hair. "Of course you can. You're amazing. If you want to be Robin, no one could stop you."

"Maybe we could both be Robin."

"Maybe. I don't care." Jason yawned, his brief burst of energy worn away. "I'm fine with anything, as long as I get to stay with you and be your big brother."

"Yeah." Tim turned in his arms and snuggled into his chest, under his chin.

They were quiet for a while, just breathing together. Jason began to drift, warm and at peace.

"Jason?" Tim murmured, just before he fell off the cliff into sleep.

"Mmyeah," Jason mumbled.

"The first custody hearing is gonna be in a few days. For the civil suit, the abandonment thing."

Jason blinked himself a little more awake. "With your parents?"

"Yeah. I don't… I really don't want them to take me back."

Jason sighed. "I know." He held him harder.

"Before tonight I guess I was kind of...ambivalent? I knew Bruce wanted to keep me, and he showed me all his plans and everything and said he would run away with me and all that, but there was still this part of me that... I dunno. Somehow I just kinda assumed that they were gonna win anyway. Because they're...my parents. You know how when you're little, you think your parents are all-powerful? Because they are, to you. They control everything, they have all the resources, they make all the decisions. Despite everything, I still hadn't really grown past that, so I kind of thought none of it mattered and they were always gonna get me back anyway. I wanted to believe differently, but there was still that...certainty. Inside me."

Jason hummed. He was trying to follow Tim's thought process, but sometimes it could be a little difficult even when he was wide awake. He knew what Tim was saying was important to him, though, so he tried to hold onto a sliver of awareness to deal with it. "But...you changed your mind?"

"I guess. I think it kind of...died. I just... Like, I thought they were going to get me back, and I was going to go home, and it was all going to be like it was before. And I was sort of numb to the idea, like yeah, that's how it is, that's how it always will be. I'm always gonna be alone in a big house, always gonna have to deal with everything by myself, that's just the way it is. That's just the way it is for me. I don't get to have people I can depend on and go to when I have problems. That's not how life works for me."

"You do, though," Jason said, trying not to slur his words. "You have me now. And Bruce and Dick and Alfred and...the police."

That Bullock guy had been nice, Jason remembered. If he'd known a guy like Bullock back when he was living in his mom's old apartment after she died, digging food out of dumpsters and just trying to get by, maybe he would have gone to him for help. Maybe he would have gotten a new life. Maybe he wouldn't have been kidnapped by a pedo.

"I know," Tim said patiently. "I have all of you now. But I thought it was gonna go away, and I just kind of accepted it. But after tonight..." He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe it was because there was such a big difference between my parents and Bruce, and I could see it so clearly. Mom and Dad barely said a word to me. They weren't interested in anything I had to say. They didn't even ask if I was okay after being kidnapped. And then when I started being disruptive, they just...left.

"But Bruce wasn't like that at all. He was so, so concerned about me. He paid attention to me and did everything he could to make sure I had what I needed. And when things got bad, he didn't care about anything except making sure that I would be okay. I knew that he would never, never leave me, not voluntarily, and just...

"I don't want to go back. I never want to go back to my parents." Tim sounded ashamed, which was silly.

Jason hummed low in his throat and held him tighter. "You're never goin' back, Timmy," he murmured in the most reassuring voice he could muster. "Never, never, never."

"I hope not." Tim was quiet for a moment. "But I can't help being scared. I wasn't scared before, but now I am. What if they win?"

Jason wanted to answer, but before he could, he fell asleep.

Sometime later, he was vaguely aware of someone coming in and turning off the lights, tucking them both in, giving Tim his hug. It might have been Dick. Might have been Bruce. Either way, he didn't even open his eyes, and when the person left, he fell right back to sleep and didn't wake till morning.

Chapter Text

Dick insisted on going to the hearing with Bruce. He also insisted that Timmy and Jason stay at home. If the judge asked why Tim wasn't there, they could tell him he was sick. (Almost literally true: the poor kid had thrown up after breakfast, and the only egg was in the pancakes. At least he made it to the toilet.) Timmy had made some half-hearted noises about how he was expected, even while Jason glowered at him for being an idiot. But he gave in so easily when Dick told him firmly not to come that it was clear he really didn't want to.

The courtroom was strangely empty when they got there. At first Dick couldn't figure out why it felt so empty. It wasn't like there was usually a huge crowd for family court hearings. There were a few reporters sitting in the bench seats, just because of the publicity this story had been getting (and yes, Dick was still mad about that), but other than that it was just the judge, the lawyers, Bruce and Dick...

And then Dick realized. The Drakes weren't there.

They waited. Bruce said the Drakes had been late to their dinner, too, so it wasn't entirely unexpected that they would be careless about this as well. It certainly didn't speak well to how seriously they were taking the welfare of their son, though. Dick hoped Judge Hoskins was noticing that.

Judge Hoskins kept glancing at the clock, looking bored and disgruntled. By the way he kept squinting at the reporters, it was clear that he didn't appreciate having a case that had received even a small amount of attention in the press. And still the Drakes didn't show.

They had done so much prep work. This was just the initial hearing, meant for the judge to determine whether this case needed to go further, or if he should return the child to his parents' custody immediately. Bruce and Dick were both confident that Judge Hoskins would decide in their favor, at least for this first hearing. The case clearly merited more investigation. Bruce's lawyers were certain of that much, as well.

But they had a lot of evidence to bring out once things got further down the line. There were testimonies from Aaron Reed and Tim's therapist, of course, as well as the boys' social worker, who had been by the manor twice already to talk to them. Plus, there was Jason Bard. Holy guacamole, the Drakes had chosen poorly when they hired him. Not that Bard was a bad detective. Far from it.

Bard had twigged immediately that there was something off about his new clients. He took the job, and then he started working it, but not the way Jack and Janet Drake expected him to. From the first day, he was gathering evidence against them. They gave him access to their records, schedules, bills, even the surveillance footage from their home security system. And Bard took full advantage.

He had a big, thick file full of evidence of how the Drakes had neglected their child for practically his entire life, and how that neglect had endangered him. He had footage of Tim leaving the house at night then coming home early in the morning, not once but many times. He had employment records showing that Tim hadn't had a dedicated caretaker since the age of six and was nearly always home alone during school breaks and vacations. He had the receipts from Tim shopping, buying food for himself as well as other necessities. At the age of nine.

He had reams and reams of evidence. It was quite a bounty, and it was irrefutable. Jason Bard had been a cop before he was permanently injured and turned to private detective work instead. He knew how to collate and catalog evidence so it could be used in court. He knew the dangers of childhood neglect and emotional abuse, and he was incensed on Tim's behalf.

He had showed the file to Bruce, when the Batman came over to visit him the very night of the debacle at the restaurant. He'd had a few dealings with their set, mostly through Batgirl, so he wasn't all that surprised when the Bat showed up on his widowsill. He just about ranted Batman's ear off about the case, to be more accurate.

Another unexpected ally was Mrs. Mac, the housekeeper that Timmy was so sure didn't like him. It turned out that Mrs. Mac actually did like Tim quite a bit. She had noticed that the boy wasn't in the house when she came in for Saturday cleanings all the way back in mid-July. She had immediately tried to get hold of the Drakes, but never succeeded in reaching them. She wanted to believe that he'd been sent to a summer camp or gone to visit a friend or relative, but they never told her. Without any concrete information, she couldn't go to the police herself, but she worried.

When she finally found out what had happened to Tim, she was devastated. So when Jason Bard came into the picture, she told him everything. And a lot more besides. She was also very upset to learn that the Drakes were planning to blame her for their own neglect, and she was ready to defend herself vigorously.

All in all, Dick felt like this case should be a slam dunk. He knew that the legal system moved slowly, and it would take a long time for the court to come to the same conclusion. But it felt inevitable, and he was already bracing himself to harness his own impatience.

And then the Drakes were late to the first custody hearing. And then later still. And later still.

At half past the hour, Judge Hoskins sighed and looked at the bailliff. "Any sign of the defendants?"

The bailliff shook her head. The judge looked over at Bruce and Dick, raising his eyebrows, then to the defendant table where a single lawyer was sitting, looking stoic. "Anything to say on your clients' behalf, Mr. Elroy?"

Elroy stood up and smoothed down the front of his suit. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but no. I have nothing to say."

Then he picked up his briefcase and walked out of the courtroom. That was when the penny dropped for Dick.

Jack and Janet Drake weren't coming. Ever. They had sent their lawyer to stall, nothing more. They knew the jig was up, and they had fled the country. They were probably at the airport right now, or in the air.

Judge Hoskins seemed to have come to the same conclusion. He pulled a face like he was sucking a lemon, then looked straight at Bruce. "In the absence of the defendants to plead their case, I am awarding temporary custody of Timothy Drake to Bruce Wayne. The hearing will be rescheduled. If they don't show up for that one, either, we'll start the process of terminating their parental rights."

Dick's heart thumped in his chest. He wanted to cheer. Instead, he just sat there, though his breath hitched. Bruce gave the judge a simple, steady nod, his face as solemn as Dick had ever seen it. He was accepting the weight of the burden Judge Hoskins was giving him, the care and protection of a precious child, with all the gravity it deserved.

The judge sighed and stood up from his seat. "Gotta love it when they make it easy," he muttered as he stepped down. "Not even showing up for a hearing about child abandonment..."

And that was it. The hearing was done.

Dick almost couldn't believe it. His head felt light, almost dizzy. It seemed too easy.

The court room started to empty out, and Dick whirled to Bruce, eyes wide. "This was too easy, right? It seems like it's too easy. I'm almost certain that was too easy."

Bruce frowned, eyebrows lowering like gable eaves. "I don't know..." he said slowly. "Maybe it really is over, just like that. I know it's disconcerting. We did so much prep work, had so many plans in place and strategies to deal with whatever they could try, and then they didn't even show..."

Dick took a deep breath, then another. "It feels like being a boxer, spending months training for a prize fight, thinking it's going to last for twenty rounds...and then your opponent goes down on the first punch."

Bruce nodded. "Yes, it's...very strange. I suppose we'll have to see if they show up to the next hearing date."

A little bit of Dick's tension flowed back into his shoulders at that reminder. Right, it wasn’t quite over. Not yet.

But they stood up from the hard wooden bench where they'd been sitting, said good-bye to Bruce's lawyers, and went home.

Bruce stopped on the way back for cheeseburgers from Burger Castle, because he had promised Jason to bring some for him and Tim to eat. The boys were finally far enough along on their nutritional recovery that Alfred was allowing them to eat junk food occasionally. Just as they were leaving, Jason had taken Bruce aside and asked him to bring this specific food: cheeseburgers from Burger Castle.

Why, he wouldn't say, but he'd been very insistent, and Bruce was perfectly happy to acquiesce in any case. Bruce was willing to spoil the little boys every day, in every way they were willing to accept, but especially on this particular day.

When they got back to the manor, things took a turn for the even weirder. There was a big pile of belongings in the front foyer, looking like they had been dumped by a moving company with no sense of organization. Dick wandered around the pile in a daze, poking at this and that. It was mostly cardboard boxes, plus a double bed with the covers stripped off, a rather expansive desk and computer chair, a scratched-up table and a dresser with rings on the top from drinking vessels with condensation being set on it...

He opened the first box that came to hand, and it began to click. A backpack. A laptop. A jumble of LEGO pieces partially put together. The next box had Star Wars bedsheets.

These were Timmy's things, from his old room. His parents had sent them over before they fled the country. Dick hadn't expected such generosity from them, but this seemed to be his day for surprises.

Dick looked up at Alfred, who was watching him go through the pile of belongings with a stronger look of bemusement than usual. "Where are the boys?"

"I believe they retired to Master Tim's room," Alfred said. "Master Bruce has already gone to join them."

Dick nodded dazedly, then hurried up the stairs. They were in Timmy's room? Highly unusual. The boys usually spent their time in Jason's room, or the library, or even Dick's room.

Sure enough, the lights were on in Timmy's room. Dick knocked on the doorframe as he entered to announce his presence, but no one was paying attention. Tim was sitting on the head of his bed, staring down at a smartphone that was lying on the covers in front of him, hooked up to a charger. Bruce sat awkwardly half on and half off the bed next to him, ready to reach out if Tim needed support. Tim was staring at the phone, barely blinking, but Bruce was looking at Tim.

Jason was sitting cross-legged on the bed opposite Bruce, only inches away from Tim. The bag of Burger Castle was in his lap, and he was determinedly gnawing his way through a cheeseburger. Another cheeseburger, still in its wrapper, sat untouched on Tim's knee. Jason glared at nothing in particular, scowling as he ate his junk food.

Dick approached the foot of the bed and climbed on, sitting across from Tim. "Is that your old phone?" he asked softly.

Timmy nodded, not looking up. "It has my mom and dad's numbers on it," he said numbly. "I forgot... I forgot them. Or I didn't think of them. But when the stuff showed up... I remembered."

"Did Bruce tell you about the hearing?"

Timmy nodded. Jason growled. "They left. Again. Without saying good-bye."

Timmy blinked, and moisture filled his eyes. He didn't cry, though. His voice was steady, if distant. "I want to say good-bye."

He tapped the screen of the phone, and the battery symbol showed green. He lifted it in his hand, typed in a quick password to unlock the screen, then selected a number from his contacts. Dick waited with held breath, and he could feel Jason and Bruce doing the same. Jason had even stopped eating.

They could all hear the phone ringing, soft and muffled in the quiet room. Timmy started to put the phone to his ear, then glanced around at the three people sitting with him. He lowered the phone and hit the speaker button instead. The ringing became much louder.

It pierced. It felt almost painful on the ear. Four rings, five, six. Dick wondered if it would go to voicemail. Or if nothing would happen at all. He wondered if the Drakes were already in the air.

But then there was a click, and Janet Drake's voice sounded in the room. "Timothy? Is that you?"

Chapter Text

Tim swallowed, hard. "Mom." His voice wavered, though he was doing his best to remain calm. Getting hysterical wouldn't help anything. "Where are you? Why didn't you and Dad come to the hearing?"

He knew. At least, he was pretty sure. But he wanted to hear her say it.

Janet was quiet for a long moment. When she did speak, her voice was strangely gentle. "This is for the best."

Jason made a cut-off noise, like a dog choking on puke. Tim blinked rapidly. "You're leaving. You left."

"Yes." Silence on the line, faint crackling. Tim thought he heard the steady thump-thump-thump of a turbine. Were they on a private plane?

Janet took a short, swift breath, like she was bracing herself. "Your father and I decided to go back to what we're good at. So yes, we're on our way there. Did you get your belongings?"

"Yes." Tim could barely hear himself. "They were delivered by four men with a moving truck. The phone was in my desk drawer. You must have wanted me to get it."

Janet hummed. Neither of them spoke for a few breaths.

"Tim." Her voice was conciliatory, almost pleading. "You have to understand. Some people just aren't meant to be parents. And your father and I... We put a lot of thought into it, and we concluded that we're some of those people. You need more, you need better than what the two of us can give you. So we chose...the grace of a quiet exit."

"This is because of the restaurant. Because I was being a disturbance, and you didn't want to deal with me. So you decided to just leave. And now you're leaving me forever."

Janet hesitated. "It's not...just because of what happened at the restaurant, darling.” It seemed like she was trying to choose her words carefully, though Tim had no idea why. His mother had never been one to be careful with her words. She said what she thought, and that was that. It was part of the reason why she and Jack fought so much.

"That was... It was illuminating, is what it was. It showed us how much help you need. And we saw how Bruce Wayne was able to give you that help, and we couldn't. We...we want you to be happy, sweetheart. We want you to be cared for and loved. It's clear that Bruce cares for you and loves you a great deal. You'll be fine. You'll be better off with him."

Tim sniffed. There were tears trickling down his cheeks. He barely noticed. "You decided I'm too much trouble. You don't want a traumatized kid. You don't want me."

Janet hesitated just a moment too long. "No. No, dear, that's not it at all."

More tears came. "You didn't even come to the hearing. You could have come and just told the judge that you were giving up custody. You could have come to the manor and said good-bye. Why couldn't you even do that? Why couldn't you do one last thing for me?"

"We sent you your belongings," Janet said, an edge of helplessness in her voice. "It was just... We had an urgent flight, that's all. Important business."

Something snapped. "Your business is always important. It's always more important than me."

Tim felt unrestrained, reckless, saying things that had been lurking at the back of his mind for years. Before being kidnapped, before Pittman, he’d never dared to acknowledge their existence, much less say them aloud. Now he was bringing them to the light, one after the other, and flinging them at his mother. It wasn't fair of him. She was in no way prepared. But he couldn't stop himself. It all came out of him, a deluge of complaints, of pain and loneliness and the deep, dark feeling of rejection. Of being unwanted.

"You never cared about me," he raged quietly. "You never loved me. You always left. I was always too much trouble. Why did I think it would be any different this time? Why? What's so important? What was more important than taking care of your kid?"

"Timothy, darling, of course we love you, of course, that's why we're letting you go now, because we love you and we want you to be happy..." Janet's voice was frantic now, trying to convince him. The words washed over Tim, leaving no impression. They weren't true. They had never been true.

"I wish that were true. For so long, all I wanted was for you to love me. For you to pay attention to me. I used to sit by the window and watch for your car on days your schedule said you were coming home. And then I'd get an email, or a text, that you were delayed. Then I guess I grew up. I stopped watching at the window.

"But I always hoped you would surprise me. I always hoped that one day you really would come home when you said you would. That you would stay for a while instead of leaving for another big adventure without me. I wanted you to surprise me by keeping your word. And you never did.

"What is wrong with me, Mom? What was so disgusting, so abhorrent about me that you couldn't stand to be around me for more than a couple of weeks at a time? Was it because I had nightmares after seeing two people fall to their deaths? I thought that was why for a long time, you know. That you left because I was too noisy and too demanding. I tried to stop demanding things from you, or even asking. I tried to take care of myself so you wouldn't have to. But that didn't make you stay either. "

"Tim..." That almost sounded like real emotion in her voice. Real devastation. That almost sounded like tears.

There was rustling on the other side of the phone, and then Jack's voice came on. Stern, almost harsh. "Tim, you're upsetting your mother."

Tim blinked. Was he? He hadn't thought that was possible. "Hi, Dad. Was it your idea to just leave without telling anyone?"

Jack was quiet for a moment, thrown off-guard. When he spoke again, his voice was a touch gentler, almost conciliatory. "Kiddo, we really are sorry about the way this went down."

"Are you? Then turn around. Come back here and say good-bye in person, instead of over the phone. That's what this is, right? It's good-bye?"

Jack sighed. "I guess it is, yeah."

"And you're not even going to try to explain yourself? You're not even going to tell me why you're doing this?"

"Of course we are, Timbo. Your mom already explained. We decided you would be better off with Wayne than with us."

Tim felt Bruce's hand on his shoulder. It had probably been there for a while, but he hadn't noticed, completely focused on the phone he held flat in his hands. His entire body was rigid with tension, like he was fighting his way through snow or high water, trying to reach something, somewhere, some safe haven. Trying to win out over the elements that battered him.

"That's true," Tim conceded. "I will definitely be better off with a family who loves me rather than with you and Mom. But that still doesn't explain how you could give me up so easily. How you could not even try. Not even talk to me face to face. Did I ever mean anything to you at all?"

Jack did not say of course we love you instantly, the way Janet had. Instead, he was silent for a few moments, like he was deciding what to say. "You have to understand, sport. Your mother and I...we were never cut out for this. You...you were a surprise. We hadn't planned on having kids. And then you came along anyway, and it... Well, it threw our plans into sort of a jumble.

"I know we didn't do the best job of...integrating you into those plans. And maybe if things had gone a different way, we would have eventually been able to figure out a way to make it work. But as it is, it's become very clear to us that you deserve better. We're not equipped to help you. Bruce Wayne is. And he's not only willing to do it, he's downright eager. It just feels like the best solution for all parties involved. A win-win. Or a win-win-win, if you consider me and your mom, and Bruce, and you as separate parties."

Tim blinked. "I'm not a party," he murmured. "This isn't a contract. I'm your son."

"I know, buddy, but now... Now you'll be Bruce Wayne's son. That has to be a step up, right?"

Tim could barely breathe. His eyes were watery and blurry. Jason was sitting next to him now, pressed all along his left side, Bruce was holding his right shoulder, and Dick had crept closer, too, resting his hand gently on Tim's knee. Yes. Yes, it was a step up. But maybe not in the way Jack thought.

"Did you regret having me?" he asked. "Do you regret that I'm alive?"

"No," Jack said, almost swiftly enough that he could believe him. "No, Tim, you're a great kid. The world...the world is better off for having you. Really. We both feel that way. We just... We're not good parents. And you deserve good parents, or at least one good parent. That's all there is to it."

"Okay," Tim whispered. "Good-bye, Dad."

He ended the call. There was nothing else to say.

Someone took the phone from him. Tim couldn't see where it went. He couldn't see much of anything. The cheeseburger Jason had tried to get him to eat had already disappeared.

And then he was being held. At first he thought it was Bruce, the arms were holding him so tight, and he felt so safe, so all-encompassed, but then he realized it was Jason. Jason was, like, a third the size of Bruce, but he was still bigger than Tim. He was able to fold around him really nicely.

Tim was sobbing. He didn't know when it had started. He didn't know when it would end.

"What is wrong with me?" he asked, his voice high and hysterical. "What is wrong with me? Why couldn't they love me?"

There were fingers in his hair, elegant, graceful. Dick was petting him, sitting so close that Tim could feel him, too. "Nothing's wrong with you, baby," he said, and his voice was so firm and certain that it was impossible to doubt him. "You're perfect. You're wonderful. There's something wrong with them, not you. It's not your fault. It was never your fault."

"They're losers," Jason growled, and oh. He was still here. He hadn't left. He hadn't fled the room when Tim's emotions got to be too overwhelming. He was sticking it out instead of leaving Tim to Dick and Bruce's care.

"They're big, fat, stupid losers who don't know a good thing when they get it," Jason said. "They spend all their time chasing the past instead of looking at what's right in front of their faces. They don't know you. They don't know jack shit. If they did, they would know what a great thing they just missed out on. Being your family is so good, Timmy. It's my favorite thing. They lost out, and I'm not sad about it. They don't deserve you. They never did."

Tim went limp, leaning into Jason as the tears ran and ran. He felt Dick on the other side, wrapping around them both. Jason went stiff for barely a second, then relaxed.

Then Bruce's voice, near a whisper. "Jason, is it okay?"

Jason must have nodded or something. Then Bruce was there, too, holding all three of them.

Tim didn't know how long he cried. Too long. Not long enough. He felt stupid about it, a little, but Dr. Thacker had told him that emotions were never stupid, and he was trying to believe that. It was better to understand his emotions instead, analyze them and figure them out so he would know how to deal with them in the future, and he couldn't understand his emotions if he didn't let himself feel them. So he did. He let himself feel.

It hurt. So much. He hadn't wanted his parents to win. He hadn't wanted to go back to them. But the fact that they didn't even try, that they didn't fight at all... It made him feel so worthless. Used up and discarded. His parents didn't want him. They hadn't wanted him since before he was born. That felt really bad.

But having these three people hold him, all at once... That was the opposite. Two of these people were superheroes, Batman and Nightwing, and as far as Tim was concerned, Jason was pretty much Robin already. They were heroes, all three of them, and they wanted Tim. They had all said so, by words and actions. Far from rejecting him and abandoning him, they had sought him out. They had chased him down when he tried to hide. They had chosen him.

So how could he feel bad? How could he wallow in these awful feelings of rejection and loss? He missed his parents. He always would. He would always wonder if things could have been better, if they might have been able to be a real family someday. He would always regret the way things had ended with them.

But he had a new family now. He was wanted. He was chosen. He was loved. So how could he be sad?

He was though. He was still sad. So he cried.

Eventually it came to an end, as all things must. Tim leaned into his family, his body exhausted and wrung out. But he felt...good, all things considered. He was safe, and he knew that. One hand was clenched in Jason's shirt, and the other was trapped between Dick and Bruce. He squeezed Jason's shirt and wiggled his other fingers, and slowly, gradually, the ball of hugs began to break apart.

No one moved far. Jason kept his arm wrapped around Tim's shoulder, and Bruce rested his hand on top of his head. Dick smiled at him, a little wavery, one hand lingering on Tim's forearm. His face was wet, too.

"Thank you," Tim said, then coughed to get the phlegm out of his throat. "Thanks. I love you."

Jason kissed the side of his head with a resounding smack. "We love you, too, dingus."

Tim laughed, watery but sincere. He leaned into Jason's side. "Guess you're never gonna be Jason Drake now."

Jason sighed. "Sharing a last name woulda been cool. But it doesn't matter. You're still my brother, and you always will be."

Tim nodded. He knew that.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Uh...you still can."

Jason raised his head to blink at him. "Still can what?"

Bruce shifted awkwardly. "You can still have the same last name."

"What, with Timmy?" Jason sounded mystified. "I know, dude. Once we grow up, we can get our names legally changed or something. Or maybe...I can adopt him? I dunno how it works. But yeah, we could have the same last name if we wanted."

"Well...yes. But it could happen now. You could have the same last name as...me."

Jason went still, staring at him. Tim smiled into his chest. He'd been thinking about this ever since the hospital, when Bruce told him that he wanted to adopt both him and Jason. It had sounded too good to be true then, and Bruce hadn't brought it up again. But Tim hadn't forgotten. And apparently Bruce hadn't either.

"What are you saying?" Jason asked in a strangled voice.

Bruce shifted again, even more awkwardly. It was like he didn't know what to do with his big, hulking frame. It was kind of hilarious. "I want to adopt you. Both of you. I want you to be my sons. If that happens, then you'll both have the same last name. You'll be Waynes."

"Bruce!" Dick's voice sounded strangled too, though with outrage instead of confusion. "Not fair!"

Jason switched his gaze to Dick, his arm still tight around Tim's shoulders. "What are you talking about?"

Dick sat up straighter on the bed and thumped himself on the chest. "I want to adopt you! I told Bruce this myself, all the way back at the beginning. We decided not to bring it up because we didn't want to scare you, but Bruce knew all along it was what I wanted."

He glared at Bruce, something like true rage in his face. This wasn't a joke to him. He was completely sincere. "No fair poaching, you cheater! We were supposed to discuss this!"

"I..." Bruce gaped at him, at a loss.

Tim sat up, his smile fading away. He reached out and grabbed Bruce's sleeve with one hand, the other reaching for Dick. "Stop. Don't fight."

They both went still, looking at him. Tim gulped. His throat was dry.

"I don't understand," Jason said. He looked at Dick, then at Bruce. "You both want to adopt us?"

Both men nodded, strong and assured.

Jason blinked. "Okay then. I don't understand what the issue is. Bruce adopts me and Tim, and then Dick's our brother, right? So we're all family. It's done."

Dick deflated, looking at him sadly. "I told you, remember? Bruce never adopted me. I was his ward, not his son. It's not the same thing."

Jason frowned. "So the words on the paper matter to you? It's like I keep telling Tim. You're our brother. No matter what."

Dick stared at him, looking touched and defeated at the same time. Bruce cleared his throat yet again. "Or...we could fix that too."

Dick looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

Bruce shifted closer, holding out a hand to him. "I could adopt you, too. I've always wanted to."

Dick looked at Bruce's hand, then into his face. His mouth opened and closed. "You did?" The words were barely audible.

Bruce nodded adamantly. "I did."

"You never asked. Not once."

Bruce winced. "I wanted to," he insisted. "But you said... You didn't want new parents. You were raw, you were hurt, you were grieving. We weren't even sure if you were going to get to stay with me, back then, or if the state would find me unfit to be a foster father and move you to another home. And you told me, after a bad night. You didn't want new parents. So I said we could be partners instead. And you seemed happy with that."

"I was," Dick said faintly. "I loved being your partner."

"I loved being your partner, too, chum. I loved...I love you. You, Dick Grayson, not Robin, not Nightwing, nothing else. Just...you. I'm so sorry I didn't make that clear."

He looked at Tim and Jason, one after the other. "I love you boys. With all my heart. I want you to be my family. On paper, by our own choice. All of it. I want everything." He looked at Dick. "You too. I want you to be my son, too."

Fresh tears fell from Dick's eyes. Bruce moved closer still, holding out his arms. Dick fell into them. They held on to each other, as immovable as two mountains clasping together. Dick was trembling with sobs, and Bruce's eyes were squeezed shut.

Tim leaned into Jason again, wrapping his arms around his waist and watching them with a smile. "I guess that's it then," he murmured. "We're gonna be Waynes instead of Drakes."

Jason kissed the top of his head. "Yeah. Jason Wayne. Tim Wayne. I like the sound of that. And hey, once the crying stops, we still have Burger Castle to eat. It took six months, but we finally made it."

Tim laughed. Yeah. They really had.

Chapter Text

Six Months Later

They were back at the courthouse, this time for an entirely different reason. Somehow, Dick was much more nervous for this than he had been about the hearing with Timmy's parents. He had to keep wiping his hands on his pants. Jason and Tim were clinging together, Tim wrapped around Jason's arm and Jason leaning into him. Only Bruce seem calm and collected. He had an air of victory around him, if anything. He was getting everything he wanted.

They were getting adopted. All three of them on the same day. Technically, Dick's paperwork could have been finished months ago, and Jason's was ready a few weeks ago. But they had all wanted to wait for the severing of Jack and Janet's parental rights to go through, because they wanted to do it together. And finally, the day had arrived. A gorgeous day in May, not quite eleven months after the day Jason and Tim were kidnapped.

The actual adoption hearing, the "finalization," didn't take very long. If this were a standard infant adoption, with a birth parent giving up their parental rights voluntarily, this would be the birth parent's last chance to change their mind. But Jason and Dick's parents were long dead, and Tim's parents had already lost their rights due to the abandonment case.

They all got to be there to hear the judge declare it was done, and it felt really good in a way that Dick couldn't quite describe. Sort of final. No take-backs. Not that he thought Bruce would ever want to, but...yeah. This was it. This was his new family. They were all Waynes now. Dick had chosen to hyphenate, while the younger boys had decided to leave their old names behind. They didn't want any connections to their old lives anymore, and Dick couldn't blame them. Bruce Wayne, Richard Grayson-Wayne, Jason Wayne, Timothy Wayne. It felt wonderful.

Alfred took pictures of all of them in the hall, dressed in their nice suits with their arms wrapped around each other. The little boys were beaming like sunbeams, and Dick's face was starting to hurt from all the smiling, too. He just couldn't stop.

Tim was wearing a black suit very much like Bruce’s, while Jason had gone for a slightly more casual look that Dick hadn’t realized was imitating him until Alfred pointed it out. They were both astonishingly adorable. It was so good to see them filled out, no longer the starvling refugees Batman and Nightwing had rescued in November. Jason’s lank, brittle hair had fallen out and grown in black and glossy, except for a streak of white above the right side of his forehead. Stress, the doctors said, and who could blame him. Tim was still short and slight for his age, but no longer looked like a breeze would knock him over.

Bruce couldn't decide which of them to keep his arm wrapped around. He kept switching, holding Dick for a while, then switching to Timmy, which meant touching Jason as well. On the rare occasions when Timmy and Jay weren't holding onto each other, Bruce managed to put his arm Jason, too.

Jason didn't flinch away from Bruce anymore, hadn't for months. It had been a long process of learning to trust again, but he'd gotten there. Timmy didn't cling as desperately as he used to, either, though he was still grateful for touch and took any opportunity to cuddle and hold. They had both healed a great deal, though they had farther to go.

Jason still didn't like to talk about what had happened with Pittman. He deferred to Tim when possible, and Tim leaped in to do the talking for him whenever he could. There had been interviews with the police, all that kinds of stuff. Though Pittman had pleaded guilty, as Batman had demanded, the boys had still had to give their testimony. Those days were always rough, with Timmy being extra sensitive to food and sound triggers and Jay being extra jumpy and shying away from touch. But even the bad days had slowly improved as time passed.

Both boys had turned out to have some agoraphobia, but that was improving, too. They both worked as hard at therapy as their sensitivities allowed. Tim kept voluminous notebooks that he insisted on calling "case notes" rather than journals, and Jason always wanted to have a long, hard training session after therapy. Bruce and Dick did their best to accommodate him.

Tim was training, too, though not as hard as Jason. His ankle was still weak, so he had to go easier than Jay, but they could all see how much he longed to be doing more. He talked a lot about all of the things he wanted to learn once his body was a little stronger. He'd taken some martial arts before Pittman, and he wanted to continue that, and he was also fascinated by Dick's acrobatic skills. Jason mostly just wanted to punch, but he also had great aptitude for projectiles.

The boys trained with Bruce and Dick and even Batgirl, when she stopped by the Batcave, but they also trained on their own. One day a few months ago, Dick had come home early from a stint with the Titans and entered the cave to find them both dressed up in his old Robin costumes, which sagged on them like rags. Tim was wearing the smallest costume, which might have been a pretty good fit for Jason, but because that one was in use, Jason had to wear a bigger one. They looked very much like kids wearing their parents' clothes for dress-up.

Dick ducked behind one of the Batmobiles before he was caught and watched them laughing and chasing each other like little children. They were pretending to throw batarangs at criminals, capturing them for the police. Tim kept shouting out old catchphrases of Dick's that made him cringe in embarrassment. Jason kept reaching up to adjust the mask that didn't fit quite right across his face.

At one point, Jason played Robin and Timmy played the criminal, and Jason ran pell-mell after his little brother with his head down. Tim squealed and ran, though the delight in his voice made it clear that he knew this was in play. Jason caught him on the training mats and bore him down, and they sprawled over each other, laughing loud and breathless, their young, cheerful voices echoing in the depths of the cave.

It was so playful and innocent that Dick had to catch his breath in gratitude and love. Because they were still children. They could still play. After everything they'd been through, this was a grand sight, and Dick was intensely grateful to be here to see it.

"See, I told you," Timmy gasped out when he caught his breath. "I told you that you could be Robin."

"Of course I could," Jason said between pants. "I never said I couldn't be Robin. I said I didn't want to."

"Okay," Timmy said. "You still could be though. If you wanted to."

"I want to fight crime, sure. I want to save people and put bad guys in jail. But I don't have to be Robin to do that."

"Do you want to be a cop?"

"No!" The answer was so vigorous that Tim shut his mouth abruptly, staring at him.

Jason shook his head and levered himself up to sit next to Tim. He looked at the green glove on his hand as he curled it into fist. "It is a cool costume, though. I like the colors. Don't like the booty shorts."

"It's not booty shorts. It's a leotard. Dick was an acrobat. Still is, really."

"Whatever. If I was Robin, I would wear pants."

Timmy sat up, too, looking at himself. "It really is a good costume. I dunno, it feels..."

Jason nodded. "It feels good. It feels...magic."

Dick sat down on the ground with his back to the Batmobile, staring into the distance. Playing at being Robin made the boys feel good. It made them feel magical. They felt...safe. Because Robin was a hero, and he always won, and that was what they needed right now.

Dick had never thought about passing on the Robin name. That had always been his thing with Bruce. And then Bruce got all paranoid about him getting hurt and about the streets being too dangerous for a teenage hero. He tried to get Dick to quit being a vigilante and go to college and have a life and be...safe.

But the truth was that Dick had always felt safe when he was Robin, much more safe than he felt as Dick. Even when Robin got captured by criminals, when he got beat up or had a setback, he always won in the end. Batman came and saved him, or he saved himself. Robin had been Dick's revenge on the men who killed his parents, but over time it had come to mean much more than that.

He'd outgrown Robin, though. With a year of perspective under his belt, he could see that at the same time as Bruce was pushing him to give up the cape, Dick was already evolving beyond it. They had a fight and he quit, or was fired, either word would work, and then he'd created the Nightwing persona and joined the Titans full-time. It had been rough and had taken a lot of work, and it would have been easier if Bruce had been supportive. But he'd found his wings, almost literally, and he was happy with his life. Even more so now that he had reconciled with Bruce and had two adorable little brothers, of course.

But Robin still had magic. Dick remembered how it had felt to go out into the streets for the first time in the costume Bruce had designed for him. Being Robin was amazing, and he wanted to give that to Jason and Tim, too. They deserved all the amazing things that Dick could possibly give them.

Dick stood up from behind the Batmobile and walked around it. "Hey, kids!"

"Dickie!" Jason leaped up from his sprawl on the mats and sprinted for him, arms outstretched. He all but leaped into Dick's arms.

"Jaybird!" Dick laughed and wrapped his arms around his torso, swinging him around with the momentum of Jason's charge. Jason clung to him and laughed breathlessly until Dick set him down.

"I thought you weren't coming back till tomorrow!"

"Yeah, well, I couldn't stay away." Dick ruffled his hair, grinning.

Tim moved to greet him more slowly, holding one elbow with his opposite hand, a sheepish smile on his face. "Um...hi, Dick."

"Hey, Timmy." Dick scooped him up in a hug, too, making Tim grunt with the force of his embrace. When he set him down, Tim was smiling, though his cheeks were still flushed with embarrassment.

"Um, sorry we got into your old costumes without asking." Tim tugged on the edge of his glove.

"Aw, that's okay, kiddo." Dick ruffled his hair, too. "I don't mind. You guys look great wearing my old stuff."

Timmy looked skeptically down at himself, then gave Dick a raised eyebrow. "You really think so?"

Dick chuckled. "Well, the fit could use some work. And really, you deserve your own suits, made to your own designs." He poked Jason's side, making him squeak and flinch away. "Like pants, for instance."

Jason grabbed his finger to make him stop poking his side and held on, and they started a bit of a wrestling match, shoving each other back and forth with the strength of their arms alone. Jason was no match for Dick, not yet, but Dick made no effort to end it. He was having too much fun.

Tim, though, had gone still, staring at Dick. He reached up and took off his sagging domino mask, and his eyes were huge. "Our own suits?" he murmured in awe.

Dick turned away from Jason, holding him off with one hand, and gave Tim a big smile. "Of course. You'll be a wonderful Robin, I have no doubt, but you should make it your own."

Jason went still, too, clinging to Dick's hand, and he turned back to see that the kid was staring at him with his mouth open. "You think we could be Robin? Really?"

"Jaybird, you'd be a fantastic Robin." Dick reached out and pulled away the mask, just so he could see the look on his face more clearly. His mouth twitched in amusement at the kid's expression. "What? Tim's right. You could totally be Robin if you wanted to."

Jason stood straight, looking at him seriously. "What if I don't want to?"

"Then you don't have to be." Dick looked between both boys, letting his face smooth into seriousness. "I'm not saying that you have to go out on the streets and fight crime. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. That's not your job or your responsibility. You're Bruce's sons, not Batman's employees.

“Now that I'm an adult, I can understand why Bruce has started objecting so strenuously to teenage kids going into danger to fight bad guys. Maybe back when I started, he was too young to see a problem with that, just like I was. We were both too passionate, too fierce, to see sense. All we wanted to do was stem the tide of crime that had taken our parents away from us.

“We’ve both grown up now. We both want you two to be safe more than anything else.”

He wrapped his arm around each of them and pulled them in. Jay and Timmy went to him willingly, leaning into his sides, and he smiled proudly down at both of them. "But I get it, you know? You're right, Jason. Robin is magic. And I want you to have that magic. You deserve all of the magic in the world.

"So let's talk to Bruce about making you your own suits, okay? I'm sure among the three of us, we can figure out how to explain it in a way that makes sense to him."

Jason nodded, close-mouthed and thoughtful, but Timmy grinned fit to bust. He looked at Jason across Dick's chest, sparkly-eyed and gleeful. "See? We can both be Robin. It's gonna be awesome."

And it was. Tim and Jason both had their own Robin costumes now. Tim's was very boyish in design, with short sleeves, a black cape with a yellow lining, and green leggings. Jason's design was closer to Dick's, but with leggings and double utility bandoliers crossing his chest. His cape was entirely yellow, suiting his more aggressive nature. He didn't want to hide in the shadows like Bruce and Tim. He wanted to stand out and draw attention.

Both of them were much more heavily armored than Dick had ever been, even though they weren't meant to leave the cave. Not yet. Not for years. Hopefully never. That had been one of Bruce's conditions in agreeing to make the suits for them. Both the heavy armor, and them not fighting crime until they were at least old enough to drive the Batmobile. Or never.

Bruce had other conditions, too, like a heavy training regimen, but Jason and Tim were both on board with that anyway. They both wanted to be able to defend themselves. They both wanted to be able to fight, even though they had multiple superheroes looking out for them now. They never wanted to be helpless and vulnerable again.

Now was not the time to think about darkness. This was a day of joy, and completion, and family. So Dick smiled at his adorable little brothers, grinned and winked at Alfred holding the camera as it flashed and flashed, and he was just happy to be here. So, so happy.

The only real trouble they had was leaving the building. Someone in the press had gotten wind about the Wayne family's special day, and reporters thronged thick on the steps of the courthouse. Not only because it was Bruce Wayne, but also because of the early stories about the Drakes trying to get their son back.

At least after the custody hearing, the headlines in the society pages had changed from Local industry leader and wife demand that Bruce Wayne return their son to Jet-setting industrialists flee country to avoid charges of child abandonment, so that was an improvement. The general attitude toward Bruce and his role as a foster father got a lot better after that.

And so far no one had connected Bruce's two new wards with the two anonymous victims of local monster Gregory Pittman, who had also gotten some sensational coverage in a different part of the paper. Everyone loved a horrific crime, especially in Gotham. Dick was convinced that half the city still lived here just because the newspapers were more luridly entertaining than any true crime novel. The other half couldn’t afford to leave.

Dick had no interest in talking to any of the reporters waiting for them, and neither did Bruce. He eyed the gauntlet with narrowed eyes, while Timmy stared in a surprise and Jason shrank back, practically hiding behind his freshly christened dad. Bruce grunted, then rested one hand on the top of Tim's head and the other on Jason's upper back and steered them back the way they'd come. "Let's see if we can slip out the back instead. Alfred?"

"I'll fetch the car and meet you there," Alfred said crisply, already moving.

Dick scowled, following Bruce back into the depths of the courthouse. Alfred was family, even if they couldn't adopt him, too. Dick thought of him like a grandfather, or even an actual parent. Alfred had certainly done as much or more to raise him as Bruce had after he came to the manor.

But to the world, Alfred Pennyworth was just the butler, or the driver. He could go out into the sea of reporters practically unmolested. Oh, a couple might try to get him to talk, but it was nowhere near the kind of attention he would get if they knew just how close, how indispensable, Alfred really was to their entire family.

So yeah, it was nice that he could go get the car without much trouble, but the reason that it worked made Dick's lip curl. On this day of connection and adoption, the consolidation of his new and forever family, he wanted the world to know that Alfred belonged to them, too. As they walked the halls, his mind was buzzing with ways they could show Alfred just how much he meant to them. He knew the little boys would be on board with any plans he came up with, and Bruce wouldn't be hard to talk into it, either. They all loved Alfred.

It almost looked like they were going to escape scot-free, but there was one reporter waiting at the obscure side entrance Bruce led them to: a stately woman with red hair, accompanied by a photographer. Vicki Vale. Unfortunately, the door didn't have a window, so they didn't see her until they were already outside. She smiled instantly at the sight of them, a satisfied, almost smug expression. It was the look she got when a hunch had paid off, Dick knew from experience.

Bruce went stock still at the sight of her, and Dick almost ran into his back. Tim and Jason huddled at Bruce's sides, not sure how to react. Bruce scowled, then set his shoulders and continued walking, continuing to shepherd the little boys with light touches to their shoulders and backs.

"No questions at this time, Ms. Vale," he growled.

"Oh, I don't have any questions for you, Mr. Wayne," she said lightly. Her eyes flicked away from him, down to the much shorter height of the boys. She was holding an audio recorder in one hand, and Dick assumed that it was running. "Actually, I was interested in talking to these handsome young men of yours. Tim Drake and Jason Todd, correct?"

Tim scowled in an almost perfect mirror of Bruce (though much smaller and much more adorable), and Jason skittered away to the opposite side of Bruce, hiding from her.

"It's Tim Wayne and Jason Wayne," Tim told her acerbically. "You're not much of a reporter if you don't even know why we're here."

Vale laughed, unexpectedly loudly, like he had both surprised and delighted her. She grinned broadly at him, eyes sparkling. "Oh, I think I'm going to like you."

Tim went still, flummoxed, and Bruce had to stop walking or lose his grip on his shoulder. He sighed. "Tim, let's go. You don't need to talk to the nice reporter lady. Let's go get ice cream." He grimaced at Vale in a way that reminded Dick of apes at the zoo showing their teeth in a threat display.

Tim glanced up at him, then back at Vale. "Leave us alone."

She spread her hands. "I don't mean any harm. I promise. I just...I had a hunch, and I wanted to follow through on it. Have you ever had a hunch?"

To Dick's surprise, she didn't sound condescending, like a typical adult talking down to a ten-year-old and underestimating his intelligence. She seemed honestly curious, like she was having a normal conversation with Tim instead of ambushing him with an unsanctioned interview. Tim spread his stance and faced her head-on, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes, I've had hunches in the past. I've followed through on them, too. What are you talking about?"

And oh no, Tim sounded curious, too. Vicki Vale had unknowingly laid the best trap she possibly could have for this particular kid. He wanted to know what she was going on about, and he wasn't going to budge until he found out.

Vale gave him a smile, small and sharp-edged. "It's a question of timing, really. I happened to notice..." Her eyes flicked to Bruce, then back to Tim. "It's pretty well-known that Batman trusts Bruce Wayne the way he trusts basically no other person in the city. And I just happened to notice that on the same day Batman rescued two children and put a certain perverted creep in prison, after breaking most of his bones... That very same day, Bruce Wayne somehow acquired a couple of new foster kids."

Jason caught his breath. Tim went stiff. Dick felt dizzy. And Bruce's face was thunderous.

Vale raised a hand. "I don't need a confirmation. You don't have to say anything you don't want to. I just want to put it out there... If you ever want to give an interview, if you ever want to tell what must be an extraordinary story of what happened to you, how you escaped, what it was like to meet Batman... Well. I'd be absolutely thrilled to get an exclusive."

She held out a business card. To Tim.

Timmy was trying so hard to keep a straight face. To be the tiny adult he'd been way back at the beginning, facing this new threat with the sole purpose of protecting his brother. He cast a glance at Jason, inadvertently proving all of Vale's assumptions correct. And Dick could see that she'd caught it by the way the corner of her mouth turned up.

So Dick made a disgusted noise and stepped forward himself, snatching the card from her hand. "How dare you?" he snapped. "He's a child. Any requests for an interview will go through his guardians. And I assure you, we refuse."

He tore the card in half, then in half again.

Vale backed away with her hands up. "Like I said," she said. "It's just a suggestion." She smirked at Tim. "After all, that would be the bravest thing you could possibly do. Tell us the story. Don't let that monster hide in the shadows anymore. Expose him as no one else can."

With the implication, of course, that Timmy would be a coward to stay silent. Dick wanted to punch her in the mouth. For a moment he could barely breathe, trying to master himself.

Tim pressed his lips tightly together, his face turning red. Bruce's hand was strong on his shoulder, tugging him away, as he stared in silent rage at the woman who had dared to intrude on their happy day. Jason still looked petrified.

Timmy wouldn't talk, of course. He couldn't. He had promised Jason. He just shook his head at her and silently walked away, letting Bruce lead him. Jason hurried around Bruce to throw his arms around him, holding him so tightly that both almost stumbled.

Dick stayed behind to glare at her. "I hope you know," he said in a low voice, "just what a scumbag move you pulled. On a kid."

"Anything for the story, Grayson," she said, arching one eyebrow. She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. Grayson-Wayne, right?"

Dick ground his teeth. "Right." He gave her one last glare, then turned sharply away to rejoin his family.

"Fuck her," Jason was saying fiercely to Tim when Dick caught up. His Gothamite accent was coming out strong with the force of his emotion. "She don't know shit. You're brave as hell."

"It's fine, Jay," Tim mumbled, scuffing his foot on the ground. "I know it doesn't mean anything. And anyway, I would never give her an interview. Even if you wanted to talk about it, which I know you don't, I'd rather we get interviewed by Clark Kent." He looked up at Bruce with a sideways smile. "'Cause he's your buddy, right?"

Bruce's mouth dropped open, and his feet stopped moving as he stared at him. "You know...who Clark is?"

Timmy nodded matter-of-factly. "It wasn't hard to figure out."

While Bruce was still standing there, trying to wrap his head around this, Vale and her photographer passed by, heading toward the news van parked on the back street behind the courthouse. "Last chance!" she called. And yep, there was the condescension. "Does anyone want to give me a quote? Anyone at all?"

Tim stared at his feet. Bruce shook his head. Dick curled his lip.

It was Jason who stood up straight, as if he'd been electrified. He turned to face her, his arm wrapping around Tim's shoulders and pulling him to his side. "Yeah, I'll give you a quote," he snarled.

Vale stopped, eyebrows raised, and waved for her photographer to come back, too. She held out her audio recorder and made a show of starting it. "Please do."

Jason squeezed Timmy fiercely. "I wanna tell ya about my little brother, Timmy. I wanna talk about the kindest, smartest, bravest kid you or anyone else has ever met."

Surprise flickered over Vicki's face, followed, strangely, by something almost like compassion. "Is that a confirmation?" she asked.

Jason hesitated, but then he nodded. Once, very firmly. "Yeah." He jabbed a finger at her. "But we're not talking about it to you."

She sighed, shoulders slumping. "No exclusive?"

Jason grinned ferociously. "Not for you."

"Then what's the quote you wanted to give me?"

Jason looked at her, then at the audio recorder in her hand. Then he looked at Tim. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. The camera flashed.

"Greg Pittman is a bastard, and Timothy Drake saved me from him. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. He's my brother, and today is pretty much the best day of my life, because now we have a piece of paper saying so. We were already brothers before that dumb paper, but now everyone else knows too."

He deflated slightly, starting to look anxious as the reality of what he'd just admitted hit him. "How's that?" he asked, a slight shake in his voice. "Good quote?"

Vale looked at him silently for a moment. Then she nodded, slow and solemn. "Excellent quote. Thank you." She turned off the audio recorder.

Dick grabbed Jason into a hug as he shakily let go of Tim. Jason clung to him, trembling all over. Dick watched over his shoulder as Vale and her photographer got into their van and drove off, just as Alfred came around the corner. Bruce wrapped his arms around Timmy from behind, holding him against his body.

"That's gonna be in the papers," Tim said softly.

"I know," Jason mumbled into Dick's chest.

"Are you okay with that?"

Jason gulped in a breath, then another one. He pulled back from Dick and looked at his little brother. And he smiled.

"Yeah." His voice was strong. As strong as Dick had ever heard it.

"I'm okay."

The End