Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain came down in thick, relentless sheets, drenching Tim to the bone long before he even reached the house. Wind howled through the trees, rattling the iron gate behind him, and each gust sent icy water running down the back of his neck. He could barely hear his own footsteps over the storm, but he didn’t need to—he knew where he was going.

Wayne Manor loomed ahead, dark against the night sky, its towering silhouette broken only by the faint glow of a few scattered lights in the windows. The massive oak doors stood at the top of the stone steps, intimidating and unmoving, just as they had always been.

He should have brought an umbrella. Anyone with half a brain would have.

But the moment he made up his mind, he hadn’t stopped to think. He had just run.

Out of Drake Manor, through the streets, over the bridge leading out to the other side of Bristol. His sneakers had slapped against wet pavement, his lungs had burned, and every freezing drop of rain had only pushed him forward.

Because this—this—was the only thing left.

Tim didn’t want to be here. He really didn’t.

But after months of watching, of planning, of desperately trying to find another way—any other way—to stop Gotham’s streets from being soaked in more unnecessary blood, this was the last option left. He had tried writing letters. He had gone to Blüdhaven, sat across from Nightwing, and begged for an answer that never came. He had spent weeks thinking of something, anything else.

And now here he was.

Standing in the rain, shivering, about to do something really stupid.

Tim swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and knocked.

The sound barely carried over the storm. After a second, he realized how useless it was and frantically searched for the doorbell, pressing it before he could think too hard about it.

Almost immediately, footsteps echoed from inside. The lock turned with a soft click, and the heavy door swung open to reveal a tall, elderly man.

Alfred Pennyworth.

Tim had known him for as long as he could remember, though mostly from a distance. He had seen him at galas, always composed, effortlessly keeping things running as smoothly as possible. He had watched him pick Jason up from school once or twice, had heard stories about him—stories that made him seem more like some kind of myth than an actual person.

And yet, looking at him now, all of that felt so far away.

Alfred had changed. A lot.

The last time Tim had seen him—at last year’s charity gala—he had been just like always: strong, despite his age, commanding the staff like an unshakable ruler, putting Gotham’s wealthiest snobs in their place with an effortless elegance that even Tim’s mother had envied.

But now?

Now, the energy that had once defined him was gone. The sharpness in his expression had dulled, and the weight of something unspoken—something heavy—had settled in his eyes. His once-kind but firm face held only quiet sorrow.

And yet, when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

If he was surprised to see an eleven-year-old standing in the pouring rain on a school night, he didn’t show it.

Tim hesitated for only a second before straightening his back and forcing himself to meet the butler’s gaze. “I’m here to talk to Bruce Wayne,” he said. Almost without stuttering. Almost.

Alfred studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a slight nod, he stepped aside.

“I see. Perhaps while I call for him, you might wait inside and dry off a bit, Master Timothy.”

Tim blinked. Master Timothy?

He hadn’t expected that. Sure, it made sense—Alfred had been around for years, and Tim had technically interacted with him plenty of times. But still. Hearing it aloud felt strange. Strange and… warm.

For the first time since he had started running here, some of the cold in his chest eased.

“I’d like that, Mr. Pennyworth. Thanks.”

He tried to make his voice sound normal, but now that he was inside—now that the warmth of the house was wrapping around him—he could feel himself shaking harder. His teeth clacked together despite his best efforts, and no matter how tightly he held his arms to his chest, he couldn’t stop shivering.

He was freezing.

“Call me Alfred, Master Timothy,” the butler said, his voice as steady as ever. He placed a light hand on Tim’s soaked jumper, a touch so gentle it almost startled him, before guiding him inside.

The warmth of the house hit Tim instantly, a stark contrast to the freezing rain clinging to his skin. But instead of relief, all he felt was embarrassment.

Droplets of water dripped from his clothes onto the polished wooden floors, forming small, dark puddles against the rich mahogany. He wished he could stop it, could do something to keep from making a mess, but there was nothing to be done now. The damage was already done—both to the floor and, possibly, to the situation he was walking straight into.

Alfred led him deeper into the house, and Tim followed, trying not to let his nerves show.

The manor was old—far older than his own home, older than any other house he had ever stepped foot in—and it felt it. The suffused lighting cast long shadows over antique furniture, their dark wood gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. The walls stretched high above him, disappearing into towering ceilings that made the entire space feel bigger than it already was, like a cathedral carved from stone and time.

And yet, despite its size, despite the quiet weight of history pressing down from every ornate molding and dustless bookshelf, it didn’t feel cold.

It should have.

A house this old, this empty—because for all its warmth, Tim could feel the emptiness pressing in at the edges—should have been hollow. Should have felt like every other Gotham mansion he had ever stepped into: big, silent, lifeless.

But it wasn’t.

Even now, walking through its dimly lit halls, Wayne Manor felt lived in.

Even in grief, it still breathed.

Tim’s own footsteps betrayed him, the aged floor groaning softly beneath his sneakers. He winced, suddenly aware of how out of place he was, but Alfred moved like a ghost, slipping through the halls without so much as a whisper of sound. He knows every creaking board, Tim realized, watching the way the butler stepped with absolute certainty, avoiding every noise without even thinking about it. He’s memorized them.

Tim felt an urge to memorize them too.

Finally, they reached a small, warmly lit tea room. Compared to the rest of the manor, it felt cozy—a fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering orange light across the deep red armchairs and worn bookshelves lining the walls. A tea set sat waiting on a low wooden table, as if someone had expected a late-night visitor.

Alfred gestured toward one of the chairs.

“If you would be so kind as to wait here, Master Tim, I’ll bring you some tea and then fetch Master Bruce,” he said gently.

Tim gave a small nod and lowered himself onto the seat, trying to ignore the way his damp clothes clung to him.

Alfred didn’t linger. He disappeared soundlessly, leaving Tim alone with his thoughts.

And none of them were good.

His hands curled into fists against his knees as he stared into the fire, watching the flames lick at the logs but barely feeling their warmth.

He was really doing this.

Seeing Alfred’s face had forced him to confront something he had been trying to ignore ever since he had stepped foot on the manor’s front steps—this was a bad idea. A terrible idea. He was standing in a house still drowning in grief, about to ask for something that no decent person would ever ask of a mourning man.

But Gotham needed Batman.

And if no one else was going to bring him back, then Tim would.

Because Gotham was his city too.

Because Jason—Jason—would have wanted this.

And even if what he was about to do wasn’t ethical, even if it was a little manipulative, Tim wasn’t going to let himself hesitate.

Because Gotham needed its Batman.

And Tim was willing to do anything to bring him back.

Tim’s head snapped when he heard a sound approaching. The footsteps were quiet but heavy, each one carrying a weight that made Tim’s stomach twist. He clenched his fists in his lap, forcing himself to breathe evenly. The air in the room was warm—Alfred had even left a blanket draped over the arm of the chair in silent invitation—but it did little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in Tim’s bones.

Just as he completes lifted his head, Bruce Wayne stepped into the doorway.

Even after years of watching him from rooftops and studying his every move, seeing him this close was… different. The sheer presence of him filled the room, a quiet but undeniable force that made Tim feel even smaller than he already was.

Bruce was as tall and imposing as ever—if not more so—but up close, the cracks were obvious. The past few months had carved themselves into his face, leaving behind exhaustion and something heavier, something that even the carefully constructed mask of “Brucie” couldn’t completely hide. His movements were precise but slower than they should have been, as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

Unlike Alfred, he actually looked surprised to see a kid dripping water onto his floors in the middle of the night.

“Timothy, my boy,” Bruce greeted, his voice warm but measured. “How can I help you? Is there a problem with Jack and Janet?”

The casual concern in his tone made Tim’s stomach twist again, but for an entirely different reason. To someone who didn’t know better, he might have seemed like the same charming billionaire everyone else saw on TV—gracious, effortlessly kind, a picture-perfect philanthropist.

But Tim knew better.

He knew that the slight furrow in Bruce’s brow meant his mind was already running through possible emergencies. That the way he stood, arms loose at his sides but weight subtly shifted forward, meant he was preparing for the worst. He knew, even in his civilian clothes, Bruce Wayne was still Batman in every way that mattered.

And Tim was about to throw something at him that even he might not expect.

He straightened his back, trying to push down the nerves crawling under his skin. “No, Mr. Wayne, my parents are perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern,” he said politely. He hesitated for only a second before forcing himself to continue, voice steady even as his fingers twisted in the fabric of his wet sweater. “I actually came here for a personal matter, Mr. Wayne.”

That made Bruce pause. His eyes sharpened, scanning Tim like a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“It must be important if it brought you here in this weather, Timothy,” he said, stepping fully into the room. The soft lamplight cast sharp shadows across his face, making him look even older than he should have. “Whatever you need, I’ll help however I can.”

Tim swallowed.

The warmth of the tea Alfred had given him had long since faded, leaving behind a cup half-drunk and forgotten on the table. He curled his fingers into the chair’s upholstery, grounding himself.

He could do this. He had to do this.

Tim closed his eyes for just a second, gathering every ounce of courage he had.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

“I want to be Robin.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the storm still raging outside.

And for the first time since he’d arrived, Bruce Wayne looked truly surprised.

Chapter Text

The fake smile Bruce had worn just moments ago vanished, wiped clean as if it had never been there. His expression darkened, and the air in the room seemed to shift—he wasn’t just Bruce Wayne anymore. He was Batman.

Even Alfred, standing quietly in the corner of the room, looked perturbed.

“You want to be Robin?” Bruce’s voice was dangerously low, each word measured, controlled—but only barely. “Timothy, I don’t know what you think you’re talking about.”

Here it comes.

Tim had expected this. He had prepared for this. He had spent weeks playing out every possible scenario in his head, testing different angles, refining his argument, planning for contingencies. But even with all that preparation, his body betrayed him. His hands were clammy. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs like a warning drum.

But he couldn’t stop now.

“I know you’re Batman, Mr. Wayne,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. “I also know that your son is Nightwing, that Barbara Gordon is Oracle, and the identities of all the members of the Justice League.”

He hesitated only for a fraction of a second before delivering the final blow.

“And I have proof.”

Bruce’s entire body tensed. It wasn’t obvious, not to most people, but Tim had studied this man for years. He saw the way Bruce’s shoulders tightened, the way his breathing slowed, the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes—calculating, analyzing, dangerous.

Tim swallowed but pressed on.

“If I don’t walk out of this room, I’ve made sure that everyone will know.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

Tim curled his nails into his palm, grounding himself, trying to ignore the absolute terror crawling up his spine. Was he really doing this? Was he really standing here, blackmailing Batman?

The idea was insane. Completely reckless. And exactly what Jason would have done.

Of course, it was also a lie.

Tim would never expose them. He couldn’t—not just because it would put their lives at risk, but because these people were the heart of Gotham, the last thing standing between the city and complete ruin. He would never betray them.

But Bruce didn’t know that.

And right now, Tim needed him to believe it.

Because for all his faith in Batman’s morality, he also knew that Bruce Wayne—the grieving father, the broken man—might react very badly to this conversation.

Batman wouldn’t kill him.

But there were a lot of ways to make a person disappear.

And Bruce Wayne knew every single one of them.

“Timothy,” Bruce said, his voice low and edged with barely contained irritation. “I get it. You’re a bright young man with an interest in Gotham’s vigilantes. You’ve made some theories. But this is absurd, and I will not entertain it any longer.”

His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto Tim’s. “It’s far too late for you to be here. Go home. And forget this nonsense.”

The threat was unspoken but obvious. A smarter kid would have heard it, taken the out, and run.

Tim was not a smarter kid.

“Dick Grayson is the only person alive who can do a quadruple somersault.” His voice was steady, even as his hands curled into fists. “Four years ago, in his last few months as Robin, he pulled one off during a fight with Killer Croc. And I recorded it.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room did.

Tim’s stomach twisted, but he pressed on. “If you don’t want the world to see that recording, you have to give me the mantle.”

He was officially a dead kid.

Bruce didn’t react right away. He just stared down at the teacup in front of him, fingers tapping once against the ceramic. His face was unreadable, but Tim could feel the storm building beneath the surface.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I don’t care what you think you know,” he said, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “There will be no more Robins.”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Bruce continued, “but if you think you can walk into my house and order me around, you are a fool.” His voice was rising now, no longer restrained. “Go. Home.”

Tim flinched.

He had expected this. He had prepared for it. But it still hurt.

He clenched his fists tighter and forced himself to look Bruce in the eye. “You need a Robin,” he said, his voice stronger than he felt. “You’re becoming reckless. And cruel.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Tim took a shaky breath and pushed forward. “Last week, you caught a robber in Crime Alley—Tom Spear. He was stealing from a supermarket.” He swallowed. “Stealing food.”

Something flickered in Bruce’s expression.

“You beat him half to death.” Tim’s voice wavered, but he didn’t stop. “Now the doctors aren’t even sure if he’ll walk again.”

Silence.

Tim took a step forward, shaking but determined. “Where’s Batman’s justice in that?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “Where are your morals?”

And then—because he was reckless, because he was desperate, because he had spent months thinking about what Jason would say if he were here—he said it.

“This isn’t what Jason would have wanted—”

“DON’T YOU DARE.”

Bruce moved before Tim could react. A sharp step forward, shoulders tense, voice thunderous.

Tim jerked back instinctively, heart hammering in his chest.

For a split second, their faces were close—too close—and that was when Tim smelled it. The sharp, bitter scent of alcohol, clinging to Bruce’s breath, woven into the expensive fabric of his clothes.

Oh.

And suddenly, everything clicked.

The fights with Dick. The exhaustion in Alfred’s eyes. The reckless violence.

Bruce wasn’t just grieving. He was drowning.

Tim barely had time to process it before Alfred was suddenly there, moving faster than Tim thought possible, stepping between them and—holy hell, how was this old, lean man yanking Bruce Wayne back?

“I think that is quite enough.”

His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

Tim had never been more grateful that it wasn’t directed at him.

Bruce froze.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, still terrifyingly calm, “I think you should return to your study and compose yourself.” There was no room for argument. “We will continue this conversation tomorrow, after Master Timothy is finished with school.”

He turned to Tim, voice gentler but still firm. “Come, Master Timothy. I will take you home.”

Tim hesitated, his chest tight, his pulse roaring in his ears. But Alfred was already steering him toward the door with a hand on his shoulder, his touch steady and sure.

Behind them, the silence stretched.

Then—soft, barely audible—

“I’m sorry, Timothy.”

Tim stopped.

“I didn’t mean—”

But when he turned, Bruce wasn’t looking at him. Just at the floor, shoulders hunched, face unreadable.

Tim didn’t wait for him to finish.

He had nothing left to say.

And, apparently, neither did Bruce.

~~~

Alfred was walking faster now, his usual composed grace stiffened by something unspoken. It was the only real sign that he was shaken—no sharp words, no outbursts, just the quiet urgency of a man holding himself together.

“Mr. Pennyworth, there’s no reason for you to drive me home. I can just walk back,” Tim said, keeping his voice even.

Honestly, he didn’t know if he could survive another second trapped in the aftermath of what he’d just done. He needed to be alone, to think, to plan—to figure out what the hell came next. He hadn’t actually thought beyond this conversation, probably because some part of him hadn’t expected to make it out alive.

But maybe he was being dramatic.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Master Timothy,” Alfred said briskly. “There’s a storm pouring outside, and you’re already soaked through. I would offer you a place to stay the night, but I imagine that would cause your parents a great deal of worry.”

Tim didn’t correct him.

Didn’t tell him that his parents weren’t home.

That they wouldn’t be back until Christmas—three months from now.

Instead, he just followed as Alfred led him down a different hall, this one colder, more industrial. A few turns later, they stepped into what was possibly the biggest garage Tim had ever seen.

He wasn’t exactly a car guy. If it wasn’t the Batmobile, he didn’t usually care.

But even he could appreciate this.

The collection was insane. The Lamborghini Murciélago caught his eye first—sleek, aggressive, absolutely ridiculous. But then he saw the Mercedes Vision Gran Turismo right next to it, looking like something straight out of the future, and—okay. He could admit it. That was the most impressive car in the room.

Which was why, when Alfred led him past all of those works of art and stopped beside a vintage Mustang, Tim felt the tiniest twinge of disappointment.

Which was stupid.

He was eleven years old. His parents could easily buy him one of these cars for his sixteenth birthday—if they managed to remember his birthday. Or his existence.

They got into the car, and Alfred gave him a pointed look.

“Seatbelt, please.”

Tim hurried to obey, and Alfred pulled out onto the driveway.

The first few seconds of the drive were silent.

Then Alfred spoke.

“You know, Master Timothy,” he said, voice calm but distant, “in his last few months, he talked about you.”

Tim stiffened.

“It was surprising,” Alfred continued, hands steady on the wheel. “At that point, he didn’t talk about much at all. He was angry at Master Bruce, and as a result, he was angry at everyone else as well. But the few times he came home from school in good spirits, he always had a story to tell about—” a small, fleeting smile crossed his face—“the genius kid of Gotham Academy.”

Tim swallowed hard.

There was a lump in his throat, sudden and sharp.

Part of him wanted to snap, You can say his name, you know. But when he looked at Alfred—at the sadness creased into his face, at the way his fingers had tightened ever so slightly on the wheel—he let it go.

Instead, he forced out the words that felt the truest. “He was the best person I’ve ever known,” he murmured.

Silence.

Then Tim took a breath, steadying himself. “And he wouldn’t have wanted Batman to end up like this.”

At that, Alfred turned his head slightly, meeting his eyes. For the first time that night, Tim saw something raw in them—something deep and unspoken and pleading.

“Timothy,” he said softly, “I know you think becoming Robin is the answer to making him better, but it isn’t. It is no one’s responsibility but his to find his way back.” A pause. “And it certainly isn’t the burden of a child.”

Tim had expected that argument.

And he already had his answer.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pennyworth,” he said, voice firm. “But I’ve made my choice. Whether he accepts it or not doesn’t matter.” He swallowed. “Batman needs a Robin.”

He looked out the window.

“I can be that.”

Before Alfred could say anything else, the car pulled up in front of Drake Manor.

Tim didn’t wait.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said quickly, pushing the door open before Alfred could respond.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t look back at the sadness—the worry—on the old man’s face.

Because if he did, he might not be able to keep going.

And stopping wasn’t an option.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tim almost drowned in his cereal.

Twice.

The first time, he jerked awake just as his chin nearly hit the rim of the bowl, blinking blearily at the soggy mess in front of him. His spoon was still clutched in his hand, halfway to his mouth, but his fingers felt stiff, and his brain was swimming in static.

The second time, his forehead did hit the table.

It wasn’t a hard impact, just a dull thud against the cold marble, but it was enough to jolt him back to reality. Tim groaned, lifting his head, and wiped a bit of milk off his cheek with his sleeve.

God, he was wrecked.

His whole body felt like lead, the muscles in his legs and arms aching from exhaustion. Every blink lasted a second too long, the edges of his vision dimming. The kitchen lights were too bright, the quiet hum of the refrigerator too loud.

He had barely slept.

After Alfred dropped him off the night before, he had spent hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding from everything that had happened. The fight with Bruce kept replaying in his mind, over and over again, every word, every movement, every mistake.

It had gone about as badly as he expected.

But that didn’t mean he was giving up.

Tim grabbed his spoon again, forcing himself to take another bite, even as his stomach twisted. He hadn’t planned much beyond that first conversation—hadn’t thought he’d make it out alive, if he was being dramatic—but now that he had, it was time to move to Plan B.

If words weren’t enough to convince Bruce, then Tim would just have to show him.

Tonight, he’d follow Batman on patrol. He had already done it plenty of times before, trailing him through the city, tracking his movements, staying just out of reach. The only difference was that tonight, when the moment was right—when Batman was cornered, outnumbered, or distracted—Tim would step in.

Not just as a kid with a camera. Not just as some random Gothamite who knew too much.

As Robin.

And then Bruce would have no choice but to see it.

Tim smirked a little to himself, leaning back in his chair.

It was a perfect plan. After all, he had spent years following the Bats on their nightly adventures, and this couldn’t be much different.

Four Years Back

Tim had been taking gymnastics lessons since he was three years old—the moment he saw Dick Grayson fly through the air under the big top at Haly’s Circus, something inside him had clicked. He wanted to move like that, to soar, to flip, to be weightless. And he was good at it, too. His instructors said he had an unnatural talent for balance and body control, that he was picking up skills far faster than the other kids his age.

But no matter how much he trained, how hard he pushed himself, it was never enough.

Because keeping up with them—with him—was impossible.

Tim had tried. Night after night, whenever his parents were out of town (which was often enough that their house barely felt lived in), he would sneak out, take the bus downtown, and climb onto the best vantage points in Gotham. He had spent months tracking their patrol routes, memorizing where Batman and Robin tended to go, which rooftops they used to cross the city.

Even from a distance, Tim could see how different they were. Batman moved like a shadow, blending into the dark, silent, impossible to follow. Robin—Dick—was the opposite. He was fast, fluid, graceful. He flipped and twisted in the air with effortless ease, like gravity had never been a problem for him in the first place.

Tim had tried to chase them once. It hadn’t gone well.

They were too fast, their movements too unpredictable. He barely made it half a block before they were gone, leaving him breathless and frustrated on a rooftop.

So instead of trying to follow them, Tim did what he did best. He watched.

He learned.

And tonight, he got lucky.

Crouched low against the cold concrete, Tim gripped his camera tightly, hardly daring to breathe.

Batman and Nightwing had landed on his rooftop.

Not for long—just a quick stop, a moment to breathe. But that was all Tim needed.

Except—something was wrong.

They weren’t just taking a break. They were arguing.

“You should be dead.” Batman’s voice was sharp, colder than the wind cutting through the city.

Tim flinched.

Dick, standing just a few feet away, crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He looked… bad. Tim had seen him take hits before, seen him get knocked around in fights, but this was different. Even from this distance, he could see the bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs, the bruises blooming across his cheek.

Tim had read the news. He knew what had happened. Joker. An abandoned circus. A hospital stay that non of the bats wanted to talk about.

And now, here they were.

“You don’t think I know that?” Dick shot back, voice low, tight. “You don’t think I felt it? Every second of it?”

Batman was silent.

“I’ve been doing this since I was twelve, Bruce,” Dick continued, stepping closer. “You trained me for this.”

Batman’s fists clenched at his sides. “And that was my mistake.”

There was something dark in his voice, something Tim had never heard before.

“There will be no more children.”

Tim felt his breath catch.

Dick scoffed. “I’m not a child anymore, and you know it.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

“I never said I was.” Dick’s voice softened, like he was trying to reason with him. “But you can’t stop me. I learned from the best, remember?”

Batman turned away, staring out over the city. His cape shifted slightly in the wind, the only movement he made.

Dick hesitated, then sighed.

“You’re making a mistake.”

Still, no reaction.

Dick shook his head, and then, softer, almost like he wasn’t even speaking to Batman anymore, he said—

“Batman will always need a Robin.”

Tim’s fingers tightened around his camera.

Something about those words stuck.

Before he could process why, before he could even think, the two of them were gone, vanishing into the night like they had never been there.

Tim stayed frozen in place long after they had disappeared, his little heart hammering against his ribs.

Batman will always need a Robin.

The words echoed in his head the entire way home.

Now

Tim rocketed down the perfectly manicured streets of Bristol, his skateboard practically screaming beneath him as he raced to catch the bus. Missing it wasn’t an option—not in this neighborhood, where public transportation was an afterthought for all the rich people with private drivers, and the next bus wouldn’t come for hours. And if he missed school entirely? That meant a two-hour phone call from his parents, filled with disappointed sighs and sharp words about how he was failing to be a responsible young man.

So he pushed harder, ignoring the burn in his legs and the wind whipping against his face. His heart only slowed when he saw the bus pulling up to the stop, its doors hissing open. He made it just in time, hopping on with barely a second to spare.

The moment he collapsed into a seat, exhaustion hit him like a freight train. The bus ride blurred by in a haze of half-sleep, his body desperately trying to reclaim the hours he had lost to restless nights and too many plans. He had been running on empty for years—since he was seven , really—and at this point, catching up on sleep felt like a lost cause.

The sharp jolt of the bus coming to a stop yanked him back to reality.

Gotham City.

Tim rubbed his eyes, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk. From here, it was just a short walk to Gotham Academy—the most prestigious, most ridiculously expensive school in the city.

It loomed ahead of him, a towering Gothic structure that could have passed for an old-world castle if not for the freshly polished brass lettering above its grand entrance. The stone façade was pristine, every archway and column meticulously maintained, as if to remind anyone who stepped foot on its grounds that they were standing in a place meant for legacies. The wrought-iron gates—tall, imposing, and more decorative than actually functional—stood open, welcoming the latest generation of Gotham’s elite into its halls.

The students outside were a perfect match for the setting: preppy, polished, and privileged. Designer shoes barely touched the pavement as they idly chatted in small groups, their voices a mix of bored drawls and hushed gossip. Expensive cars pulled up in a steady stream, chauffeured town cars and sleek sports models alike dropping off kids who had never once worried about catching a bus.

Tim stuck out.

Not because of his clothes—his uniform was just as pressed and perfect as everyone else’s—but because of the way he moved. He wasn’t strolling in like he owned the place, like most of these kids did. He wasn’t lingering to talk or sneering at the scholarship students.

Tim had skipped a ridiculous amounts of grades thanks to being a gifted kid and  to the amount of money his parents were willing to give to the principle for accepting a ten year old. Thanks to all of this, he was now a Sophomore and completely out of place.

He just kept walking, slipping through the crowd like a shadow, already planning his next move.

Chapter Text

The moment Tim stepped foot into the building, he could feel every pair of eyes settle on him. That was to be expected. After last year, he’d earned quite the… reputation.

When he first arrived at Gotham Academy, the place had been a battlefield—not academically, but socially. The bullying problem was at an all-time high. You were either in a baby gang with a designer uniform and family lawyers on speed dial, or you were getting shoved into lockers and called names that would never make it into a school report. For scholarship kids—whose parents couldn’t afford to raise hell—things were even worse. You were either invisible or a convenient punching bag.

Tim wasn’t planning to spend four years like that.

One thing he’d always been good at was knowing things he wasn’t supposed to know. Combine that with sharp ears at every gala his parents dragged him to, an increasingly “active” nightlife, and some steadily improving hacking skills (if he could say so himself), and Tim had gathered enough ammunition to start tipping the scales. Quietly. Effectively.

Within a few months, half the school had been… encouraged to change their behavior. He never asked for much—just that they leave people alone. Be decent. Or at least tolerable.

Naturally, Tim had been careful to cover his tracks. Almost no one could trace anything back to him. Almost. There was that one time—just one—when Jason had caught wind of something. But that had been enough. Enough for rumors to start circulating. Enough for people to look at the smallest, skinniest kid in school and wonder if he might be the reason their dirty secrets never saw daylight.

No one said anything out loud, of course. Admitting you’d been blackmailed wasn’t exactly great for your social standing, and blaming it on a scrawny eleven-year-old? Ridiculous. Laughable.

Unless, of course, it was true.

One year ago

Tim wasn’t scared. Not anymore. Maybe, in those first few weeks, he’d felt a flicker of nervousness—wide-eyed in the giant, echoing halls of Gotham Academy, surrounded by kids who were all older, taller, and louder. But that had passed quickly. He had grown used to the looks, the muttered jabs about his age or size. Especially since his… reformation plan for the school had started working.

Since then, the whispers had faded. So had the casual insults. People didn’t talk about him like they used to, and that was a major improvement in Tim’s book.

Still, none of that was on his mind today.

Today, all he could think about was Jason Todd.

Robin.

His Robin.

It still felt surreal. Not only was Jason in the same school as him, but they actually shared a class together: math. Tim was a freshman, Jason a junior, but they had both been placed in the same sophomore-level course. Jason, it turned out, was a genius when it came to the humanities—especially literature—but math clearly wasn’t his strong suit.

Tim wanted to talk to him. Badly. But every time he thought about it, he imagined himself stumbling over his words, sounding ridiculous, and making a complete fool of himself. Jason was just… cool . Not in the polished, parent-funded, yacht-club way the other kids pretended to be. Jason didn’t cater to the preppy crowd, but he didn’t submit to them either, the way most of the scholarship kids did.

No—Jason stood apart.

If he caught someone landing a hit or going too far with an insult, he stepped in. And when Jason Todd threw punches, he knew exactly what he was doing. He never started fights on school grounds—too smart for that—but the spoiled bullies still went crying to the principal after getting what they deserved. Rumor had it the administration was looking for any excuse to expel him, though no one believed they actually would. The school wasn’t stupid enough to risk losing the Wayne Foundation’s funding.

So, when Tim walked into math class that day and saw that the only empty seat was the one next to Jason, he wasn’t exactly surprised, but his heart still skipped a beat.

He hesitated.

It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was more like reverence. After all, this was Jason . Robin . His Robin. The very same boy who leapt across rooftops with ease, who fought Gotham’s worst criminals side by side with Batman . To the rest of the class, Jason Todd might just be Bruce Wayne’s new charity case, a kid with a temper and a chip on his shoulder. But to Tim? He was a legend in the making.

And now Tim had to sit next to him.

Jason caught the pause and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Scared of the Crime Alley kid?”

His tone was light, teasing, but there was something underneath it—something sharp. It was the kind of defensiveness that comes from hearing a comment one too many times. A reflex.

Tim straightened his shoulders immediately, shaking his head. “No, not at all. Just didn’t want to trip over your bag,” he added, trying to sound casual. He dropped into the seat before he could second-guess himself, heart hammering against his ribs.

Jason snorted, seemingly satisfied, and looked away just as the teacher walked in and started scribbling equations across the board. For a few minutes, the room fell into a quiet rhythm: chalk against slate, pages turning, pencils scratching.

Then Jason leaned over and whispered, “You’re, like, seven. What’s a kid doing in high school?”

Tim blinked. He hadn’t expected Jason to start a conversation.

“I’m ten,” he corrected, trying not to grin. “I skipped a couple grades.”

Jason tilted his head, studying him with new interest. “Seriously? Huh. Guess that explains the little genius vibe. You some kind of Doogie Howser or what?”

Tim gave a half-shrug, trying not to smile too hard. “I don’t do surgery. Yet.”

Jason chuckled. “Yeah, okay, that’s kinda cool. Most kids your age are still figuring out how to do long division, and here you are, surviving high school.”

“Surviving is the word,” Tim said, glancing around at the classroom full of bored rich kids and crumpled worksheets. “It’s not exactly a social paradise when you’re a foot shorter than everyone else.”

“Tell me about it,” Jason muttered. “Only reason I don’t deck half the kids here is because Bruce would kill me. Well, and because I already got warned once.”

Tim nodded. “I heard about that. They say you’re a menace.”

Jason gave him a smug little grin. “Yeah? What do you say?”

“I think you’ve got excellent aim,” Tim said evenly. “Especially with fists.”

Jason actually laughed at that, a loud, full sound that made a couple of the students nearby glance over. “Okay, now I like you, little dude.”

Tim felt warmth rise to his cheeks, but he pushed forward, seizing the moment. “If math’s not your thing, I could help. I mean, if you want.”

Jason leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head like he owned the room. “Yeah? You’d do that?”

“Sure,” Tim said, a little breathlessly. “It could be fun.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Alright, cool. But maybe we meet at the school library or your place? Not home-home. Bruce and Dick are going at it again. It’s like Cold War in there, and I’m not trying to get nuked.”

Tim tried to play it cool, but internally he was screaming. “School library works,” he said, as casually as possible. “Or my place. Either one.”

Jason grinned and extended a fist. Tim blinked at it before bumping it with his own, his hand barely bigger than Jason’s knuckles. The bell rang a moment later, and everyone started packing up.

Tim floated through the next few classes.

All day, he replayed that brief conversation in his head—Jason’s grin, his voice, that fist bump. His hero had spoken to him, joked with him, agreed to hang out. Not just in the vague way people did, but actually set a plan . He was going to tutor Robin .

By lunch, Tim was buzzing. He dropped into his usual seat in the far corner of the cafeteria, too excited to eat. He reached into his bag to grab his notes, maybe skim over a few things to prep for tutoring, but then froze.

In his hands wasn’t his notebook.

It was Jason’s.

“Crap.”

Tim shoved everything back in his bag and bolted from the lunchroom, scanning the halls. He checked their math classroom, the library, the quad—nothing. Jason seemed to have vanished.

Finally, he spotted movement near the side exit of the school—a less-patrolled area used by kids trying to avoid staff.

Tim’s heart dropped.

Jason was cornered by three older boys, all towering over him. Two were already shoving him against the brick wall, while the third was yelling something Tim couldn’t hear. Jason wasn’t fighting back—just shielding his face and stomach, body tensed, jaw clenched. He could’ve taken them easily, but… he wasn’t. He was holding back.

Tim didn’t think. He just moved .

He ran forward and launched his backpack at the biggest guy’s head. It hit with a thud , startling all three of them enough to pause.

“Hey!” Tim yelled, panting. “Get off him.”

Jason looked over, eyes wide. “Kid—Tim—go. This isn’t your fight.”

“No,” Tim said firmly, stepping forward. He pointed at the one who had caught his bag. “Ian Keller, right?”

The guy blinked. “What?”

“I know your dad’s running guns through the Tricorner docks. Specifically for the Hayashi Syndicate. What do you think the GCPD or the Yakuza themselves would do if that name made its way into the wrong hands?” Tim smiled coldly. “Or worse—into the media .”

Ian’s face paled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tim tilted his head. “Try me.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then, without another word, Ian grabbed his friends and stormed off, shoving Tim’s bag to the ground as he went.

Jason stared at Tim like he was seeing him for the first time. “You just scared off three guys twice your size with blackmail .”

Tim shrugged, trying not to blush. “I do my research.”

Jason burst out laughing and threw an arm around Tim’s shoulder, pulling him in. “That was the best thing I’ve seen all week. You, this tiny genius gremlin, just— bam! —tore that guy to pieces. I owe you.”

Tim blinked up at him, overwhelmed by the warmth and pride in Jason’s voice. He tried to find something clever to say, but his throat was dry and his heart felt like it was trying to take flight.

Instead, he just smiled, wide and genuine, practically glowing under the weight of Jason’s arm.

Now

The first period was literature—Tim’s least favorite subject by a long shot. Jason used to tease him relentlessly about it, always tossing jokes his way and calling him a “science nerd with a Shakespeare allergy.” Despite the teasing, Jason had made it his personal mission to get Tim to appreciate the classics. They didn’t make much progress before… well, before Jason was gone. After that, something shifted in Tim. He found himself drawn to the books Jason used to love, obsessively reading through old annotations, trying to see the stories the way Jason did. It didn’t help him pass the class, though—Tim had to retake the freshman literature course, and he was still struggling through every metaphor and prose analysis.

As he stepped into the classroom, Tim’s eyes were immediately drawn to a head of bright blonde hair near the middle row. Stephanie Brown spotted him too and waved enthusiastically, motioning for him to sit beside her. Tim allowed a small smile and headed her way.

Stephanie Brown was, in every possible sense, a force of nature. Thirteen years old and already a freshman, she was the youngest student in the school besides him, having skipped a grade. That alone seemed like reason enough for her to latch onto Tim at the beginning of the year and declare them best friends. “Two kids against a sea of hormonal giants,” she had said with dramatic flair before dragging him to sit with her at lunch.

If Tim was honest, Stephanie could be a bit… much. Loud, relentless, sarcastic, and never short of an opinion, she had a talent for turning even the most boring school event into a chaotic adventure. But she was also smart, brave, and kind in a way that didn’t ask anything in return. And maybe, just maybe, Tim liked having someone who talked enough for the both of them—especially on days like today, when his thoughts were still half-caught in the past.

As soon as Tim slid into the seat beside her, Stephanie leaned over and whispered, “T-minus thirty seconds until Miss Penshaw starts reciting ‘Macbeth’ like it’s slam poetry night at a coffee shop in the Narrows.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, setting down his bag with a soft sigh. “You do know we’re supposed to actually pay attention in this class, right?”

Steph shrugged, her grin wide and unapologetic. “Please. I read the play last night. Guy kills king, goes crazy, everyone dies. Spoiler alert. I just saved you a week of suffering.”

Tim stifled a snort and pulled out his copy of the textbook. “You’re a menace.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” she said, flipping to the same page he had without even looking. “And Thursdays. And occasionally Wednesdays if there’s caffeine involved.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking…”

Tim tensed slightly. That was never a good sign when it came from Steph.

“…you know how we’re both, like, social pariahs here?” she said, clearly unfazed by her own statement.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tim muttered, eyes scanning the text even though he wasn’t really reading. “I think you’re… moderately tolerated.”

“Aww, Timmy, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day,” she whispered, clutching her chest with exaggerated emotion. “But seriously. We need a plan. A real one. I’m talking, like, end-of-high-school-legacy kind of plan.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Are you planning a coup?”

“Not yet,” she said, smiling mischievously. “But don’t tempt me.”

Miss Penshaw cleared her throat at the front of the room, beginning her lecture in a voice that managed to sound both bored and overly dramatic. Tim heard the name “Lady Macbeth” and tuned most of it out, already familiar with the scene. Stephanie, meanwhile, kept going, her voice low but constant.

“I mean, think about it. You’re the quiet genius with a shady reputation, and I’m the snarky misfit with a God complex—together we could rule this place.”

“I don’t think high school works like that,” Tim mumbled, still trying to act like he was paying attention.

“It could,” she shot back. “We just need to be more… deliberate. Calculated. Strategic. Which is where you come in, obviously.”

“I’m not helping you start a high school empire.”

“Who said anything about starting? I’m already five steps in,” she said proudly. “But I need my Guy In The Chair. My second in command. My… weirdly over-prepared best friend who knows how to break into the principal’s email.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I did that once. For you.”

“And I was honored,” she said sincerely. “Still am. You’re a national treasure, Timothy Drake.”

There was a beat of silence, then Tim muttered, “You’re going to get us expelled one day.”

Steph grinned. “Only if we get caught. And I’ve got you on my side, so… pretty good odds.”

Tim actually smiled at that. It was impossible not to with her around.

As Miss Penshaw moved on to assigning roles for reading, Steph leaned over again and whispered, “Hey. You okay? You look like you got maybe four minutes of sleep last night.”

Tim hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He glanced at her and saw genuine concern in her eyes, even behind the usual mischief.

“I… didn’t sleep much,” he admitted. “Had stuff on my mind.”

Steph nodded, not pushing. “Batman stuff?”

He blinked. “What?”

She smirked. “Please. You think I haven’t noticed the late-night bruises, the fact you know way too much about police scanners, and your suspicious obsession with black hoodies? I’m not stupid.”

Tim was speechless for a moment. “…You think I’m Batman?”

“Pfft. No.I think you’re an insomniac who spends a bit too much time photographing Gotham’s streets in the dead of night.”

He looked at her then, a little stunned. “You’re not going to demand answers?”

She shrugged. “Nah. I’m your friend, not your stalker. Well. Not a weird stalker, anyway.”

Tim laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep sitting next to me,” she said triumphantly, as Miss Penshaw called on her to read Lady Macbeth’s lines.

Steph stood up with dramatic flair, clearing her throat, and launched into the monologue with such over-the-top gusto that half the class turned to look at her in disbelief. Tim just leaned back in his seat and let himself enjoy the moment. For all her chaos, Stephanie Brown had a way of making everything feel a little less heavy.

And right now, that was exactly what he needed.

~~~

The rest of the day passed relatively calmly, and before Tim knew it, he was already on his way home. He sat on the bus, his mind still swirling with thoughts about the day and last evening. Just as he was starting to zone out, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Tim pulled it out to see a message from an unknown number.

“Master Timothy, this is Alfred Pennyworth. If you agree to it, I will be coming to collect you at 6:30 sharp for a dinner at Wayne Manor. After doing some… research, I learned that your parents are currently out of town, and so I ask that you have your nanny’s approval before accepting the invitation. Though I must say, I do believe you shouldn’t accept it. But, if you insist, you could tell your nanny that the old butler from the neighborhood is just seeking company for tea and gossip about the other butlers of Bristol.”

Tim stared at the message, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Alfred, with his dry humor, was nothing if not persistent. Tim quickly typed out a response.

“I accept the invite.”

He didn’t bother to clarify that, in reality, there was absolutely no nanny to consult. It didn’t seem necessary. Instead, he simply hit send and leaned back against the bus seat, a sense of excitement building inside him. Dinner at Wayne Manor? With Batman? And the possibility of enraging Bruce again, but it was Tim’s best shot.

Chapter Text

Tim paced back and forth, the minutes stretching endlessly in front of him. His nerves were on edge, every second feeling like an eternity. He should calm down—he knew he should—but as the clock inched closer to 6:30, the weight of what he was about to do pressed heavier on him. He couldn’t help it; this moment meant more than he was willing to admit.

The moment the clock hit 6:30, Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He could hear Alfred’s Mustang pulling into the driveway, its engine purring like a cat stalking its prey. It was time.

He bolted from the house, practically tripping over his own feet as he slid into the passenger seat of the car. Alfred was already waiting for him, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Tim settled in.

“Good evening, Mr. Pennyworth,” Tim greeted with forced formality, his attempt to mask his nerves.

Alfred’s smile widened slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Good evening to you as well, Master Timothy. But please, call me Alfred.”

Tim couldn’t help but grin back, despite the anxiety bubbling inside him. “I’ll do that if you stop calling me Timothy. I go by Tim.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained warm as he started the car and pulled out of the driveway. “Very well, Master Tim. I trust you had a good day at school? I must admit, I had hoped you wouldn’t accept the invitation and simply forget all about this. But I should’ve known better. Something tells me you’re quite stubborn, aren’t you?”

Tim shrugged—he couldn’t help it, but the action felt like a betrayal of his mother’s rules. She had always hated when he shrugged; it was like an admission of apathy. Still, he kept his mouth shut, ignoring the pang of guilt that shot through him.

Alfred sighed, glancing over at Tim with a more serious expression. “I’m afraid Master Bruce is in a rather bad mood tonight, so I would really appreciate it if you could present your request in a more… measured way, so as not to stir any more tension.”

Tim felt a flicker of defiance in his chest. He wasn’t going to soften his approach—not this time. But he wasn’t about to say that to Alfred. The older man was just trying to protect him, to smooth things over with Bruce, but Tim had his own mission tonight.

He wasn’t here to apologize or ask for permission. His goal was simple: to get into the Batcave, to see the computers, to examine the Robins’ costumes up close. He had only caught glimpses of them before, always in the shadows or the dim light of the night. The details had always been elusive, and now, soon enough, he’ll need them.

For his own costume. For his own place in the streets of Gotham.
And besides, there was just no way he was going to run around in those horrible shorts.

As Tim lost himself in thought, the drive seemed to drag on, the road slowly bringing them closer to Wayne Manor. The late September light bathed the mansion in a warm glow, casting long shadows and highlighting the grandeur of the estate. The house looked even more majestic than usual, its towering columns and sprawling wings taking on an almost ethereal quality in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon.

They arrived at the front steps, and Alfred escorted Tim inside, the air inside the manor cool and fragrant with a touch of old wood and polished leather. The foyer was vast and imposing, with a sweeping staircase that led to the second floor, flanked by large oil paintings of long-departed Wayne ancestors. Tim followed Alfred through the grand halls, the high ceilings echoing their footsteps, until they reached a magnificent dining room.

The room was nothing short of opulent. A massive chandelier hung from the center, casting a soft, sparkling light over the polished mahogany table, which was set for two. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of historic battles, their rich colors contrasting with the deep wood of the furniture. The floor was covered in an intricate rug, its patterns of red, gold, and navy blue providing a burst of warmth to the otherwise formal atmosphere. The table itself was set with fine china, crystal glasses, and silverware that gleamed in the light. Tim barely had time to take it all in before Bruce entered the room.

Bruce looked a bit better than the previous night—though not by much. His expression was still guarded, but his posture was slightly less tense. He extended his hand to Tim, and despite the knot in his stomach, Tim took it, shaking it firmly. There was a trace of hesitation in Bruce’s grip, but he quickly masked it.

“Timothy, thank you for coming,” Bruce said, his voice low but steady. “I want to truly apologize for my outburst last evening. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that.”

Bruce led Tim to the table, guiding him to the seat across from him. As Tim settled in, Bruce took his own seat, his gaze calm, almost too calm. “So, tell me,” he said, his voice taking on a polite, almost rehearsed tone, “how was school today?”

The dinner that followed was a quiet, almost surreal affair. Alfred had outdone himself. The meal began with a delicate first course: a smooth, creamy soup made from roasted butternut squash, garnished with a touch of fresh thyme and a dollop of crème fraîche. Next came a perfectly seared chicken breast, its skin crispy and golden, served with a side of buttery mashed potatoes and a medley of roasted vegetables—carrots, Brussels sprouts, and a sprinkle of sea salt. For dessert, Alfred had prepared a rich chocolate mousse, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a dusting of cocoa powder. Each bite was heavenly, the flavors expertly balanced, but Tim barely noticed.

Throughout the meal, Bruce continued his questions, his tone soft and polite, but there was an edge to the formality that Tim couldn’t ignore. He asked about Tim’s school, his grades, his extracurricular activities, and even his piano skills.

“Oh, you play the piano?” Bruce asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “My mother used to play as well. She was quite good.”

Tim nodded, offering a polite smile in return, but his mind was elsewhere. The whole evening had the air of a well-practiced performance, a façade that Bruce was expertly maintaining. He was perfectly calm, perfectly polite, and—Tim couldn’t help but feel—perfectly fake. It was clear that Bruce was trying to smooth over the tension from the night before, but Tim wasn’t fooled. He could see through it all, the practiced words, the forced pleasantries.

Tim wasn’t going to let himself be distracted by the illusion. He knew exactly what Bruce was doing—and he wasn’t going to let himself be swept up in it. Not tonight.

As the last spoonful of chocolate mousse lingered on Tim’s tongue, he couldn’t shake the weight of the conversation that needed to happen. He had been preparing himself for this moment ever since last night, when Bruce had dismissed his desire to become Robin. Tim’s mind had been racing ever since—Bruce was becoming increasingly reckless in his pursuit of justice, taking on even the smallest criminals with a fury that left them broken and barely alive. Gotham needed a Robin to balance out Batman’s violence.

Now, sitting across from the man who had been his hero for so long, Tim knew there was no other choice. It was time to make his next move.

Taking a slow breath, he set his fork down with quiet precision. His heart pounded in his chest, but his expression remained steady, unwavering.

“Mr. Wayne,” Tim began, his voice cutting through the silence of the room, “I know what you’re thinking about taking on a new Robin. I know you don’t want anyone to replace Jason. But Gotham—Gotham needs its Batman back. And for that to happen, Batman needs a Robin.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered with something—recognition, maybe—before his gaze hardened. Tim could already see the walls going up, the mask falling back into place. But he couldn’t stop now. He had made up his mind, and he needed Bruce to hear it.

“I’ll take the mantle, sir,” Tim continued, meeting Bruce’s gaze unflinchingly. “With or without your approval.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and Tim held his breath as he waited for Bruce’s reaction. He had braced himself for anger, for a blowback, but what he saw on Bruce’s face was something much colder. It was like a mask of indifference had slipped over the deep, raw pain that Tim bet was there ever since Jason’s death. Bruce’s eyes went steely, his jaw clenched tight. His hand gripped his silverware harder, the muscles in his arm visibly tensing, as though he was trying to suppress the fury that was bubbling beneath the surface.

“Timothy…” Bruce’s voice was low and dangerously calm. “You think you know what’s best for this city, but you don’t. You can’t. You’re just a child.”

Tim didn’t flinch at the insult. This wasn’t about him. This was about Gotham—about the city that Bruce was slowly suffocating under the weight of his grief. His recklessness had only grown worse in the past few months. Tim had seen the reports—the news stories about criminals who barely survived encounters with Batman, the bruises, the broken bones, the rage in Bruce’s every punch. Gotham didn’t need a Batman who was willing to destroy himself and anyone who stood in his way.

“I’m not a child,” Tim replied, his voice firm. “And Gotham is dying, Mr. Wayne. You’re becoming a part of the problem, not the solution. You’re getting reckless. I’ve seen it. You’re hitting criminals with everything you have, and you’re leaving them broken. They might not be the ones who matter to you, but Gotham needs you—in control.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened at the words, his anger rising quickly. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the polished marble floor as he locked eyes with Tim. His face was a mask of cold fury, but Tim could see it—the tremor of grief beneath the facade. Bruce was losing control. His grief, his guilt over Jason’s death, was turning into something more dangerous, more destructive.

“Enough,” Bruce spat, his voice cracking with unspoken pain. “You have no idea what you’re asking. You think this is some kind of game, that putting on the mask will make everything better. It won’t. You’ll be a target. You’ll die just like Jason did.”

Bruce’s words hit like a physical blow, but Tim stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated by the man in front of him. He could see the grief in Bruce’s eyes, the same pain that haunted him in every quiet moment, but Tim wasn’t going to let it stop him. Gotham couldn’t wait any longer for Bruce to get over his past. Jason was gone. But Gotham still needed its protector.

“I’m not Jason,” Tim said quietly, his voice softening for a moment. “But Gotham still needs a Robin. You can’t keep going down this path, Mr. Wayne. You’re too angry, too lost. If you won’t let me help you, then I’ll do it on my own.”

For a moment, Bruce was silent, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire body radiating fury. But then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he stood even straighter, his face hardening like stone.

“That’s the problem, Timothy,” he said, his voice cold and final. “You think you’re the answer. You think wearing the mask will change everything. But you’re wrong. There will be no more Robins. Not now, not ever.”

The finality in his tone cut through the air like a knife. And before Tim could say another word, Bruce turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The heavy sound of his footsteps echoed through the hallway, each step a reminder that Bruce was pulling further away, consumed by grief and anger, unwilling to see the truth of what Tim was saying.

Tim sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of Bruce’s rejection settling deep in his chest. He already knew that this would have been the outcome of the conversation. His heart was heavy, but his resolve didn’t waver.

He glanced at Alfred, who seemed uneasy at Bruce’s abrupt exit. “Alfred, you should go after him. My nanny will be here soon, and I know my way out. Also, thanks for the dinner—it was amazing.”

The butler hesitated for a moment, concern flickering across his face, but eventually, he nodded. With a soft “Goodbye, Master Timothy,” Alfred turned and followed the path Bruce had stormed off down.

Now, it was time for Tim to do what he had come here for.

He took a deep breath, forcing the adrenaline pumping through his veins into focus. He had to be quick, but thankfully, he had spent weeks preparing for this very moment. Storming through the Wayne mansion, Tim navigated the hallways with precision, his memory serving him well. His eyes darted back and forth, knowing that if he made even the slightest mistake, he’d be caught.

He had spent countless hours memorizing every nook and cranny of Wayne Manor, thanks to a detailed Vogue house tour on YouTube. If there were ever a competition for memorizing the layout of a mansion, Tim would have been at the top of the class. Every turn, every corridor was etched into his mind. His feet moved swiftly, keeping time with the rapid beating of his heart.

Another turn, and there it was—right in front of him—the door to Bruce’s study. Tim paused for a fraction of a second, weighing his options. If the door were locked, this entire plan would fall apart. But to his relief, it wasn’t. He took a breath and pushed the door open with careful silence.

The study was grand, just as he had imagined. Bruce’s study, but once Thomas Wayne’s. Tim could practically feel the weight of the history in the air, the legacy of the family, thick like a lingering scent. The room was a mixture of classic elegance and understated luxury. The walls were lined with dark mahogany shelves filled with well-maintained books, some old, some new, but all neatly organized. A large fireplace sat on the far wall, unlit but ready for use. A desk—imposing, dark wood with clean lines—sat at the center of the room. Behind it, there were tall windows, framed by heavy curtains that let in just the right amount of light from outside. The room radiated an air of quiet power, as if it had seen decades of important decisions made in its space.

Tim could tell that the room had been meticulously preserved, every inch of it. Bruce’s personal touches, a few gadgets here and there, weren’t enough to mask the fact that this room belonged to a different era. Tim swallowed, heart racing as he tried to push away the awe that was beginning to creep up on him.

But there wasn’t time to marvel.

He quickly set his eyes on the large grandfather clock against the far wall. He had learned about it from the conversations he had overheard from the Bats. This wasn’t just any clock—it was the entry to the Batcave. Tim steeled himself, walking toward it as his mind raced. He knew that if he was too slow, it might not open. He had one shot at this.

With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure he hadn’t been followed, Tim pressed against the side of the clock with all the strength he could muster. His fingers found the hidden lever, and with a soft mechanical click, the clock swung open to reveal a narrow, dark passageway.

Tim’s heart surged with excitement, and he quickly stepped through, making sure the door didn’t slam behind him. He hurried down the tunnel, adrenaline making his legs move faster, his thoughts sharper. As the passage twisted and turned, the only light was the faint glow from the opening of the clock, but Tim’s eyes adjusted quickly. This was it.

Then, it happened.

Tim stepped into the Batcave.

The Batcave was everything he had imagined—and more. The moment he entered, he felt the weight of it all. This was where it all happened, where Gotham’s dark protector plotted, trained, and strategized. It was vast, stretching out in front of him, the ceiling high above, so high it felt like it went on forever. The entire cave was bathed in a soft, ethereal glow from the overhead lights, casting shadows that seemed to dance across the dark walls.

The centerpiece of the Batcave was the Batmobile, sleek and black, sitting in the center like an immense predator waiting for its next chase. Tim couldn’t help but marvel at its beauty, its menace. The car looked like it could melt into the darkness itself and emerge as something out of a nightmare.

Alongside the Batmobile, there were other vehicles—motorcycles, the Batcycle, and various gadgets that Tim couldn’t even name. His eyes swept over them, but there wasn’t time to linger. He had seen the footage before, but seeing it in person was something entirely different.

Across from him, a massive computer system sat in the center of the cavernous space. Huge screens lined the walls, all displaying surveillance footage from around Gotham. The Batcomputer. Tim had seen it in action before, on those rare occasions when he would hack into their comms, but nothing compared to this. The hum of the machines, the buzz of information being processed—it was like an electric pulse running through the cave. It felt alive, like it had a mind of its own.

Tim moved forward cautiously, taking in every detail. He wasn’t sure how long he would be allowed to remain here, but for now, he let himself feel the awe. He wanted to remember this moment, to drink it in.

Tim’s footsteps echoed softly through the Batcave as he moved deeper into the shadows, away from the Batcomputer. The glow of the massive computer screen faded behind him, replaced by the dim, almost eerie glow of the cavernous space. The cave was vast, but it was also strangely personal, filled with relics of a past Tim could only ever dream of. As he walked, his eyes scanned the various items scattered around, each one a monument to the heroes.

And then, he saw it.

A row of mannequins stood in the far corner, each one draped in the iconic garb of the Robins. Tim felt a twinge of excitement, mixed with a little bit of reverence, as he approached the collection. This was the kind of thing he’d only ever read about on reddit forums or seen in fleeting glimpses during the times he’d hacked into Batman’s files. But now, here it was, in front of him—real, tangible. The suits of the former Robins, each a testament to the legacy of the Dark Knight’s sidekicks.

He stopped in front of the first suit: the classic green, red, and yellow of Dick Grayson’s Robin. Tim couldn’t help but laugh to himself. “Shorts,” he muttered under his breath, his voice filled with disbelief. Shorts. On a hero. He snapped a photo with his phone. “Really, Dick?” Tim chuckled as he zoomed in on the tiny green briefs. “Not even pants.” It was hard not to mock the outfit, given the more modern, tactical costumes the current heroes wore. Tim had to admit, though, that there was something about the simplicity of it that was iconic. Dick’s bright red tunic and yellow cape—distinct, recognizable, and undeniably nostalgic.

Next to Dick’s costume was Jason Todd’s. Tim’s fingers hesitated over the camera, the lightness of his mocking smile fading into something softer, more contemplative. Jason’s suit was… different. It wasn’t the bright, flamboyant Robin costume Tim had seen in his first nights out or pictures. No, Jason’s had been darker, more practical, with a deep crimson red replacing the vibrant color of Dick’s. The green of the pants was gone, replaced by black leather, and the yellow cape, once so easily identified with Robin, was now replaced with a much more tactical look— functional. Even the domino mask was more angular, as if to reflect the harder edge Jason had carried with him as Robin. It was still colorful, but in a completely different way. Tim had seen it before more times than he could count, but standing right in front of it, there was a weight to it. A certain gravity.

Jason’s last suit—before everything had gone wrong—had been the one Tim had always wanted to emulate. It wasn’t flashy, like Dick’s, but it held something else. Something real.

Tim took a deep breath, setting his phone aside for a moment. He stared at the suit in front of him, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts.

As he stood there, staring at Jason’s last suit, something stirred inside him—a mix of awe and something else, something more personal.

They had become friends at school, of all places—Tim, the young genius, the new kid who didn’t quite fit in, and Jason, the older, brooding presence with a chip on his shoulder. There were no capes or masks, no Batcave or patrols. Just two boys, trying to make sense of the world in their own ways. Tim knew Jason was far from perfect, but there was something about him that Tim admired—his confidence, his willingness to stand up for what he believed in, even when it meant going against the flow. The way Jason could always hold his ground in the face of anyone—rich bullies, obnoxious classmates, or even the teachers who didn’t quite understand him.

But what Tim didn’t see at the time, what he hadn’t realized, was that Jason had started to see him differently, too. It was subtle at first—a quick word of encouragement when Tim helped him with math, a rare smile after one of their many sarcastic exchanges in the hallways. It was when Jason started to let his guard down around him, ever so slightly, that Tim missed the shift. Jason had always been a protector, a warrior. But in school, when they spent time together, Jason had started to think of Tim as something more. Not just a friend, but a little brother—someone to look out for in this twisted city that seemed to take more than it gave.

Tim, in his usual way, hadn’t noticed it. He was too wrapped up in his own world, too focused on the Bats, resolving cases and send anonymous tips at GCPD, doing everything for the city. And Jason had seen it. Maybe not in a perfect way, after all he didn’t know what Tim was doing every night, or that Tim knew, but he’d seen it. Jason saw something in Tim that no one else did—not yet, at least. He saw potential, someone who had something to prove.

Standing in front of Jason’s suit now, Tim couldn’t help but feel that strange connection. His mind wandered to the small moments they’d shared at school: laughing at Jason ’s outlandish jokes, exchanging glances when they both rolled their eyes at the same obnoxious rich kid, or the way Jason would sometimes watch over him like a big brother who was always just a little bit too protective.

Tim didn’t know why, but it hit him then. He wasn’t just the kid who wanted to be Robin. He wasn’t just trying to fill Jason’s shoes. No, something deeper had been growing between them, something Tim hadn’t fully understood. Maybe Jason had been preparing him for this, even if in his own way. Maybe Jason had seen something in him that Tim couldn’t yet see in himself.

A feeling of sadness washed over him as he stepped back from the suit. Jason was gone, but his legacy wasn’t just in this suit or in the Batcave. It was in the connection they had shared, the quiet bond formed in the halls of Gotham Academy, the unspoken understanding between two people who had never quite been able to fit in, but had managed to carve their own place anyway.

He lingered there for a moment longer, just watching the suit. The worn-out fabric. The frayed edges of the cape. The bloodstains that had been meticulously cleaned, but still somehow left behind a shadow of what had happened.

Finally, Tim snapped a few photos, just as he had with the others, though this time, he paused longer before moving on. Jason’s suit was the one that hit hardest, the one that made Tim think about what it meant to be Robin—and what it meant to carry that mantle.

Stepping back, he made a note to himself: No more shorts.

Then, with a final look at the row of costumes, Tim turned and walked toward the next part of the Batcave, and soon enough he stood in front of the Batcomputer, his fingers trembling slightly with both excitement and nerves. The cave was silent except for the hum of the machines around him, an eerie reminder of just how powerful this system was. He had studied it for months, analyzing footage, memorizing details of the technology, but now that he was standing here, it felt different.

This wasn’t just a machine—it was the Bat’s lifeline. Every move, every investigation, every strategy to keep Gotham safe was stored in here. It was the Batcave’s brain. He was standing in front of it, about to tap into it.

Tim had done his homework. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that if he pushed too far, he’d get caught. There were layers and layers of encryption in the Batcomputer that not even he could easily crack—at least, not without attracting attention. And the last thing he needed was for Barbara Gordon, the genius hacker herself, to trace his moves.

She would catch him. She always did.

He swallowed, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He had one shot. No deep dives, no going off-script—just enough to gather some intel, and then get out.

He plugged in his own small device, a modified USB he had assembled himself, right into the port on the side of the Batcomputer. The connection lit up for a split second, and he felt his pulse quicken. A few seconds passed, and then the system hummed to life, giving him access to the interface.

He quickly navigated through the clean, minimalistic design of the Batcomputer’s main menu, avoiding any files that looked too important. No high-security files, no leads on Bruce’s personal missions. Tim wasn’t interested in that anyway. He just needed to get some basic intel, a little something to satisfy his curiosity without pushing things too far.

His eyes darted over the available files. Surveillance footage. Crime reports. Notes on Gotham’s ongoing cases. Tim was good at this. He knew how to move fast, and even more importantly, how to stay under the radar. So, he avoided anything that even remotely resembled anything that might have been classified, especially if it had any kind of encryption attached. Barbara would definitely notice if he tried to mess with any of those.

Tim clicked on a few reports, nothing too detailed—just basic updates on crime activity in Gotham. He quickly skimmed through them, mentally noting a few things he had already suspected. The same players were involved, a lot of the same syndicates still pulling the strings. Gotham was a mess, as always. It was what he expected.

He was about to pull away when his eyes caught a small, nondescript folder buried in the lower corner of the screen. It didn’t have a name, just a string of numbers. That made Tim suspicious. Normally, Bruce would label everything. Everything. Nothing was left unlabeled.

But curiosity got the best of him.

Tim clicked on it, just a quick look. No deeper than that. He was only going to view the file’s contents for a few seconds.

As soon as he clicked, the file began to open, but just as quickly, a warning popped up: “Access Unauthorized: Protocol Level 3”

His heart stopped for a split second, and the room felt colder.

Shit. He froze, staring at the screen, willing the machine not to react. He immediately yanked the USB out, praying it didn’t trigger any kind of security protocol. But the screen didn’t change—it just sat there, waiting.

Tim’s breath hitched as he heard the faintest beep—a warning of some sort. A breach. Barbara would know. She would know.

His mind raced. No time to waste. He quickly slid the device back into his pocket and turned to leave. The Batcomputer’s soft hum filled the cave, as if it had noticed his little intrusion, but he hadn’t triggered any major alarms… yet.

He slowly backed away from the terminal, avoiding the screen’s glare, and with one last glance at the Batcomputer, Tim moved back toward the entrance to the cave.

That was enough. No more. He wasn’t going to push his luck. If he went any deeper, he’d be caught.

He needed to get out of here before Barbara could track what he’d done, or worse—before Bruce realized someone had been in his system.

With a slight sense of victory, and his heart still racing, Tim slipped back into the shadows of the cave, feeling the weight of the moment. He had gotten what he needed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

For now, anyway.

Chapter Text

Tim sat perched on one of the highest rooftops in Gotham, his hood pulled tight against the wind, eyes scanning the streets far below. His breath curled into the cold night air as he knelt behind the ledge, camera in hand, earpiece tucked snugly into place. He was ready to move the second he saw even a shadow of the Bat.

The police scanner crackled softly in his ear, cutting through the silence. He had hacked into it months ago — not that anyone ever noticed a new signal flicker into the feed. Tim was careful. Very careful.

And then he heard it.

“All units, 10-54, officer down. Repeat, officer down. Location: corner of 39th and Bledsoe, residence of Officer K. Martinez. Confirmed fatality. Scene secured.”

Tim tensed, the metal of his camera briefly forgotten between his fingers. Another one. That made two dead officers in just under two weeks.

His brain kicked into overdrive. He’d already been tracking the pattern, loose as it was. This wasn’t just crime — this was something worse. The last victim, Officer Granger, had been shot in his bed. No break-in, no robbery, no struggle. Just… a bullet through the skull, while he slept. Just like tonight.

The scanner continued, a detective giving a low-voiced rundown from the crime scene: no signs of forced entry, nothing stolen, wife and kids untouched in the next room. Just like last time.

Tim swallowed hard. He knew Batman was on this. He’d seen the pattern, too — had to. Tim had cross-checked every news feed, pieced together articles, cross-referenced maps and timestamps. He even hacked into a few GCPD files just to be sure.

But what bothered him most was the randomness of it. There was no motive. No demands. No manifesto. And the killer? A ghost.

Two weeks earlier, on the same day as the first officer’s murder, the world had watched in horror as “Danny and Dawn,” the chart-topping sibling rock duo, were gunned down mid-performance. Fifty thousand people in the audience. Cameras everywhere. And yet no suspect. No ballistic match. No message.

There was no link between a pair of pop stars and two GCPD officers. Different lives. Different worlds. But the method — sudden, brutal, clean — was eerily similar. A perfect, emotionless kind of violence.

Nobody had any leads. Not the police. Not Batman. Not even Tim.

The murders had been random, clean, impossible to trace. There were no fingerprints, no shell casings, no witnesses. Just bodies. Tim had scoured every article, every interview, every blurred photo of the crime scenes — and come up empty. It was like chasing smoke.

That was true up until five days ago.

It had come from an anonymous tip. A shaky voice phoning in to the GCPD, passed along to Detective Gordon. The caller never gave a name, just whispered a single word before hanging up:

Ravager.

The moment Tim heard it, something clicked.

He hadn’t even meant to find it — the tip was buried deep in the GCPD systems, and he’d only stumbled across it while skimming through recent dispatch recordings. The department’s network security was basically nonexistent, something that still surprised Tim in a city like Gotham.

He’d almost missed it. But once he heard that name, everything changed.

Ravager.
A mercenary. An assassin. Real name: Grant Wilson — the son of the infamous Slade Wilson, better known as Deathstroke. Like his father, Ravager was trained in military tactics, hand-to-hand combat, and advanced weaponry from a terrifyingly young age. He was faster than most, smarter than some, and ruthless beyond reason. The few files Tim could dig up said he worked freelance, usually for whoever had the most zeroes in their offer. No morals. No loyalties. No mercy.

And now, apparently, he was in Gotham.

From that moment on, things started to fall into place — almost too easily. Sightings. Rumors. An arms dealer in the Bowery who had heard a familiar name whispered during a drop. A corrupt security guard at the GCPD lock-up found dead in his apartment, files on Wilson wiped clean. One breadcrumb after another, unfolding like a blooming flower.

Every new piece made the picture clearer.

And yet… something felt off.

Tim leaned back against the ledge of the roof, fingers tight around his camera as he stared out at the Gotham skyline. It was all coming together far too neatly — like the killer wanted to be found. Or at least, wanted to be seen. For someone like Ravager, who was trained to disappear, this kind of sloppiness made no sense.

Which meant it wasn’t sloppiness. It was intentional.

A setup. A trail.

Tim’s gut twisted.

Tim knew Batman — and therefore, the GCPD — had found the trail. The police had asked him to stand down, to let them handle Ravager’s capture. They’d insisted this was their jurisdiction, their responsibility. Maybe in a different city, in a different world, that would have worked. But this was Gotham, and Batman was never one to sit idle while people died.

That had been five days ago.

Now there was another dead man.

Tim didn’t need to hear it confirmed. He knew what this meant. Batman was back in the game. And if Tim wanted to keep up — if he wanted to be there, to help — he’d have to find them both.

He had a lead. A good one.

From his research, the dam on the outskirts of Gotham had come up one too many times. Whispered deals, power rerouted for short bursts, grainy surveillance footage with shapes that looked a little too much like a man with a sword strapped to his back. Ravager was hiding out there. And if Ravager was there, Batman would come.

Tim had to be there too.

He ran down the fire escape and onto a dimly lit side street. His eyes landed on a parked motorbike, half-hidden behind a dumpster, worn but solid. He recognized it instantly — it belonged to one of the local night-shift delivery drivers. The guy always left it there for a few hours between shifts.

Tim didn’t hesitate.

He’d done this before — not often, and never recklessly — but enough to know how to hotwire the thing quickly. A little trick he’d picked up for those nights when he missed the last bus to Bristol and needed to get home before his absence raised questions. He always brought the bikes back. Eventually.

He jumped on, flipped the kill switch, and crossed the wires with his multitool. The engine sputtered, coughed, then roared to life.

Within minutes, he was out of the city’s heart, weaving through the cracked roads that led to the dam. The wind whipped at his face, sharp and cold. He barely felt it.

As he neared the dam, he cut the engine and ditched the bike behind a wall of jagged rocks. From there, he moved low and fast, climbing up a steel maintenance ladder and slipping into the shadows cast by the massive concrete walls.

And then he saw them.

They were already fighting — two figures locked in violent, brutal movement near the edge of the spillway. The night around them was filled with the sound of fists striking flesh, boots scraping against the ground, and the low, controlled growl of Batman’s breath. Ravager’s mask was cracked down the center, his blade slick with rain and blood.

The fight was vicious, more a brawl than anything elegant. Ravager fought like a soldier — calculated, sharp, deadly — but Batman was something else entirely. He was rage and control wrapped into one. Every move was precise, punishing. He caught Ravager’s sword arm mid-swing, twisting it until the blade clattered to the concrete. A second later, a knee slammed into Ravager’s gut, and the mercenary crumpled back with a grunt.

But Batman didn’t stop.

Tim’s heart pounded as he watched the Dark Knight drive his fists into Ravager’s ribs, his face, his stomach — again and again. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t calculated anymore. It was relentless.

Ravager hit the ground. He wasn’t fighting back now — he was shielding his head, trying to curl into himself. But Batman didn’t slow. His cape swept around him like a shadow as he raised a fist one more time—

Without thinking, Tim ran toward them, boots skidding against the wet concrete. “Stop!” he yelled, his voice sharper than he thought possible, cracking through the chaos of rain and heavy breath.

Batman froze.

Just for a second. Just long enough.

Ravager, dazed and bleeding, took that brief moment to push back. But the concrete beneath his boots was slick with water and blood. His foot slid out from under him — and he teetered on the edge of the dam.

Tim didn’t hesitate.

He launched himself forward, grabbing a handful of the mercenary’s armor and dragging him backward with all the strength his small frame could muster. The two of them collapsed onto the ground with a wet thud, Ravager unconscious and heavy against him.

Tim sat up, chest heaving. His scarf had slipped down slightly, but he didn’t care. His eyes locked onto Batman, who was still staring at his own fists like they belonged to someone else. Like he didn’t know what he’d just done.

“You see now?” Tim said, his voice lower but no less firm. “I was right.”

Batman’s head snapped toward him.

“You were about to kill him,” Tim continued, standing up. “You need someone to stop you when you go too far. You need someone who sees you losing control and pulls you back. You need a Robin.”

Batman didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes — not anger, not even surprise. Fear. Fear of what he had almost become.

Before either of them could say anything more, red and blue lights flared across the dam as two GCPD cruisers skidded to a halt at the edge. Uniformed officers poured out, along with Gordon, trench coat flapping behind him as he surveyed the scene. His sharp gaze moved from Ravager’s bloodied, unconscious form to Batman’s still-clenched fists.

“What the hell was that?” Gordon barked. “We told you to stand down. We said we had it handled.”

Batman said nothing, his jaw locked.

The commissioner stepped forward and gave the vigilante a once-over, but it was the smaller figure in the scarf that caught his eye. Tim shifted instinctively, pulling the fabric tighter across his face.

“And who’s that?” Gordon asked, tone biting. “Is he the new one?”

Batman’s fists tightened.

“No,” he said, voice flat and furious. “He’s not.”

Gordon didn’t look convinced, but he held up a hand, signaling the officers to secure Ravager. “Then keep him out of this,” he muttered. “Before he ends up like the last one.”

Tim flinched, but didn’t let it show.

Batman turned away sharply. “Come with me,” he told Tim.

They moved quickly, descending the back path away from the cruisers and toward a hidden access road, where the Batmobile sat parked in the shadows like a coiled beast.

Tim’s breath caught the second he saw it up close, since he didn’t had enough time to really take a look back in the bat cave.

It was sleeker than any version he had ever seen on the news — all curves and sharp edges, black as a moonless night with matte armor plating and a glowing red engine hum pulsing from its rear. The cockpit was set low, almost like a jet, and the Bat symbol gleamed faintly across the hood like something branded into myth.

Tim’s entire body buzzed with adrenaline and awe.

He couldn’t help it. “Oh my god. This is the actual Batmobile.”

Batman gave him a side-eye glance that might have passed for amusement in a less serious moment. He slid into the driver’s seat and, after a brief pause, reached over to hit a button on the passenger side. The door hissed open.

Tim climbed in, still a little stunned. The interior was just as wild — screens glowing with unreadable data, buttons lit up like a spaceship dashboard, the subtle scent of engine grease and leather all around him.

He couldn’t help but grin.

This was really happening.

He was in the Batmobile.

Next to Batman.

~~~

The Batmobile moved through Gotham like a ghost — silent, fluid, untraceable. Rain slid across the windshield in shimmering sheets as the city lights flickered past in a blur of neon and shadow.

Inside the cockpit, the silence was thick.

Tim didn’t dare speak at first. Batman kept his eyes forward, one gloved hand resting tensely on the wheel, the other twitching every now and then, as if still half-locked in the fight. His jaw was set, shoulders tight. But more than anything else, he looked… tired. Not physically, necessarily, but in the way that sank deeper. Like something old had broken inside him and never healed right.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than Tim expected. Rough around the edges. Hollow.

“I don’t need a Robin.”

The words hung in the air, cold and blunt. Tim swallowed, but he didn’t hesitate.

“I can handle myself.”

Batman’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp under the cowl. He didn’t interrupt, though, so Tim kept going.

“I’ve been training for this for years. Gymnastics since I was three. Judo since I was six. And I’ve been out on the streets, on rooftops, every night my parents were out of town — which is basically always. Since I was seven.”

That got a reaction.

Batman’s head snapped toward him fully now, eyes narrowing. “You did what?”

Tim didn’t back down. “I know Gotham better than half the cops in this city. I’ve studied your patterns, memorized escape routes, tracked your cases. I’ve been preparing for this my entire life. You don’t have to give me the title — just give me a chance.”

Silence again.

Tim’s breath fogged the window. The city kept flowing by.

“Two weeks,” he said. “Give me two weeks to prove myself. Let me show you what I can do. Then you decide if I’m worth it — if I can be Robin.”

Bruce didn’t say anything right away. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on every word, fighting every instinct. The weight of Jason’s death hung in the air like a storm cloud between them.

Tim knew what that name meant to him. Knew how it broke him. But that’s exactly why he was here. Because Batman couldn’t do this alone. Not anymore.

Finally, Bruce exhaled — a long, slow breath that sounded like it came from somewhere deep beneath the armor.

When he spoke again, his voice was old. Not with age, but with grief. With history.

“If you do become Robin… outside the cape, you’re nothing to me. You’re not part of my family. You’re just the neighbors kid. Got it?”

Tim nodded without missing a beat. “Got it.”

And he meant it.

He didn’t need a father. He didn’t need a family.

He just needed a way to keep his city safe — and he’d found it.

Chapter Text

Tim was sprawled across his bed, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. It was finally Saturday, but at 6 a.m., despite being physically exhausted from the intense sparring sessions with Bruce over the past few days, his mind was racing. He could feel every ache and bruise from the training, each sore muscle reminding him just how much he had been pushed. Even so, sleep wouldn’t come.

He tossed and turned, hoping that a change in position would help. But it was useless. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. His whole body ached from the sparring. Bruce had been relentless. Despite his best efforts, Tim was no match for the man. Bruce was just too fast, too strong. And he wasn’t holding back, not even for a second. On more than one occasion, Tim thought he might actually break something. One misstep and his arm or leg could be twisted in a way that it wasn’t meant to go. The old man had no mercy in training, and there were times when Tim genuinely feared he might have pushed his body past its limit.

Every time they sparred, Bruce was cold, precise, and almost… indifferent to Tim’s struggles. There was no praise. No encouragement. Just feedback, delivered with the sharp sting of irony. “You’re slow,” Bruce would say, his voice void of emotion. “Your form’s off.” Or worse: “If you keep this up, you’ll get yourself killed.” But Tim kept pushing through it, biting his tongue and refusing to show weakness. He wouldn’t give Bruce the satisfaction of seeing him exhausted, no matter how close he came to it.

It had been like that for the past few days, ever since Bruce had agreed to let Tim train under him. Tim had been doing his best to keep up, trying to show that he was worthy of being the next Robin. But despite his efforts, Bruce didn’t seem to care much for him as a potential partner. It was all about work, about results. That’s how Bruce operated, and Tim understood that. But it didn’t make it easier. After every sparring session, Tim would find himself lying in bed at night, aching and frustrated, unable to sleep, replaying the events over and over in his mind.

The rest of Tim’s communication with Bruce had been sparse at best. Every day, Bruce would send him cases to look over—cold cases from Gotham’s criminal underworld. He would email them to Tim with no context, leaving the young boy to figure out the details. Tim had taken to reviewing them, finding connections, forming theories. It was all Tim could do for now, given Bruce’s clear stance on him not being ready to go out into the field. And the one time Tim had asked about going on patrol, Bruce had shot him down almost immediately. “Not yet,” Bruce had said. “You’re not ready.”

So, Tim spent his days analyzing Gotham’s cases, writing emails to Bruce with his theories, and hoping for some kind of acknowledgment. But the responses were always brief, cold, and to the point. At least it was communication, Tim reminded himself. It was something, even if it wasn’t much.

The only other person from the world of vigilantes who had reached out to him was Barbara Gordon. Tim had hacked into the Batcomputer—something he knew was risky—but he couldn’t resist. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had uncovered a few details about Gotham’s darker corners that even Batman hadn’t yet discovered. But Barbara had figured out that he was the one who accessed the system. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it. Alfred had been the one to inform her, and in turn, Barbara had sent him an email. It had been a short message, but encouraging nonetheless.

“Impressive work, Timothy,” she’d written. “You have talent. If you’re still around by the time I return, I’d be happy to help you improve your skills.”

Tim had practically beamed when he read that. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged his skills in such a positive way, and Barbara was a legend in the vigilante world. Her respect meant something. It made him believe that maybe—just maybe—he was cut out for this life.

But now, as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop thinking about everything. The training, the cold cases, the mysterious happenings in Gotham. He couldn’t help but feel that there was something bigger going on—something he had to figure out. And then there was Ravager.

Ravager had been on his mind ever since that night on the dam. Tim had been sure there was more to the assassin’s story. The killing spree didn’t make sense. Why was Ravager targeting Gotham’s police officers? And why had Batman gone so far to hunt him down?

His mind raced, and sleep still wouldn’t come.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed beside him, interrupting his thoughts. Tim groaned, reaching over to grab it. It was a message from Alfred.

“Master Timothy, I would like to invite you to brunch at Wayne Manor at 11 a.m. this morning. I do hope you will join us.”

Tim rubbed his eyes, trying to get his bearings. He wasn’t exactly surprised; Alfred had been more than kind to him since that first dinner. Tim didn’t even question it anymore. Alfred was a man of routine, and he had a way of making everyone around him feel like they were part of the family, even if Tim wasn’t exactly one of Bruce’s closest allies.

He quickly typed out a response.

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Alfred.”

Tim didn’t think too much about it after that. He was still wide awake and restless, so he decided to get up. There was no point in lying around when he was already thinking about what to do next. He walked over to his desk, pulled up his computer, and opened the browser. The cases Bruce had sent him were still open on his screen, but there was something else Tim had been meaning to look into.

He clicked on a few links, researching the latest cold cases. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then his eyes caught something. A series of suspicious transactions that led him to a company with a name that sounded oddly familiar.

“Dent Holdings.”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. Two-Face? Why would Harvey Dent’s former enterprise be involved in something like this? Tim clicked on the link, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. The page loaded, and Tim scanned through the information. It didn’t take long for him to find the connection. There were several large deposits, all from various sources. The names listed seemed like nothing special at first, but then he noticed one of them. A name he recognized from his research on Gotham’s criminal underworld.

“Tobin Calloway.”

The name seemed to trigger something in Tim’s mind. He had heard it before, though he couldn’t quite remember where. He clicked on the name, digging deeper. As he read, the pieces started to fall into place. Calloway was a known associate of Two-Face. But why would he be making payments to a shell company ? Tim had a few suspects.

He dug further into the finances, uncovering more details. These payments weren’t just small transfers. They were big—big enough to warrant further investigation. Tim pulled up the file on Two-Face, rereading everything he could about Harvey Dent and his rise to power. He remembered that Two-Face had been a prosecutor before becoming a villain, and the tragedy that had turned him into the monster he was. He was also one of Bruce’s closest friend once, and maybe that had something to do about the fact that seven months back Batman had basically let Two-Face out of Gotham unharmed.

Since then, Two-Face had been lying low, likely not even in Gotham anymore. The notorious villain had disappeared from the streets for months, slipping under the radar as Gotham shifted its focus to newer threats. But now he was back, and this time, he was moving around enough money to orchestrate hits—perhaps more than one.

Two policemen. Two siblings.

Tim had to tell Bruce.

Chapter Text

Alfred had offered to come and pick him up, but Tim much preferred the twenty-minute walk that separated his house from Wayne Manor. With his skateboard under his feet and earphones blasting the loudest playlist he had, it gave him a moment of rare silence—at least in his mind. For once, he didn’t have to think. No theories to chase, no Gotham cold cases keeping him up, no Bat-shaped shadows dragging behind his every step. Just pavement, motion, and noise.

The crisp morning air stung a little on his face, but he liked it. It reminded him that he was awake, alive, and—despite what Bruce might think—still standing. His legs were sore from training, his ribs ached with every twist, and his knuckles had scabbed over from the last round Bruce didn’t pull punches in. But he was getting better. Stronger. Closer.

Soon enough, the gray towers of Wayne Manor appeared beyond the iron-wrought gates, half-lost in the fog that still hung over the city outskirts. He hopped off the board, letting it roll to a stop against the fence, and rang the bell.

Alfred opened the door not a minute later. “Master Timothy,” he greeted, looking far too awake for a man who’d likely been cleaning blood out of kevlar six hours ago.

“Morning, Alfred,” Tim said, brushing past him with a lopsided smile. “Thanks for the invite.”

“In truth, it was less of an invitation and more of a subtle insistence. You haven’t eaten a proper meal all week.”

“I eat!”

“Half a protein bar and two mouthfuls of cold cereal does not make a breakfast,” Alfred said dryly, but there was warmth in his voice.

Tim didn’t argue. Instead, he beelined for the kitchen, which in the last few days had become his favorite room in the house.

Wayne Manor’s kitchen wasn’t at all what you’d expect from a gothic mansion that had its own wine cellar and ballroom. It was surprisingly normal. A long oak table dominated the center, scarred from years of use. The counters were black marble, lined with gadgets that looked like they’d come from a cooking show set, but the room still had the worn, lived-in feel of a place people actually used. Copper pots hung from a rack over the island, and an old coffee machine sputtered in the corner like it had seen some things. The morning light filtered through wide windows, illuminating the faint scratches on the wooden floor from where chairs had been dragged countless times.

It was warm. It was quiet. It felt real.

Bruce was already there, slouched at the table in gray sweatpants and a worn black t-shirt, looking only halfway conscious. He had a coffee mug cradled in one hand, the newspaper spread open in front of him. His hair was a mess, stubble visible on his jaw, and if Tim didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he looked almost… human.

At Tim’s usual storming-in pace, Bruce looked up—though slower than usual, his eyes faintly red-rimmed, his expression unreadable. The paper rustled slightly as he lowered it.

“I know who ordered those hits to Ravager!”

That got his attention.

Bruce straightened in his seat. He didn’t speak right away, just stared at Tim with the kind of quiet intensity that made most people shut up or forget what they were saying. Tim wasn’t most people.

“I’ve been going through those payment trails all morning,” Tim continued, already dropping his bag onto one of the chairs and pulling out his tablet. “The anonymous tips, the weird timing of the hits, the funding—it wasn’t random. The money was laundered through three shell corporations, but they all trace back to the same alias. I didn’t catch it at first because the name was subtle—Janus Holdings—but it started to feel familiar. And then it clicked.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening slightly around the mug.

Tim tapped the tablet, turning the screen toward Bruce. “Janus, as in the Roman god with two faces. As in Harvey Dent. Two-Face.”

~~~

The rest of the day blurred into a mess of data streams, cross-referenced files, scribbled notes, and coffee-fueled silence. Bruce had retreated fully into work mode the moment Tim dropped the Two-Face theory, and Tim had matched his pace step for step. The Cave echoed with the soft hum of computers, the distant sound of dripping water, and the occasional low grumble from Bruce whenever a lead didn’t pan out.

They worked side by side for hours, the Batcomputer lighting up both their faces in a sharp blue glow. At one point, Bruce had Tim organize a string of financial transactions while he focused on building a web of connections between known Two-Face associates. They didn’t talk much—not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because their minds were too busy solving the puzzle in front of them.

And as the afternoon wore into early evening, the puzzle started to solve itself.

“That’s another one,” Tim said, pointing at the screen, stifling a yawn. “Same account, different name, but the signature routing number matches the last two shell companies. He’s been moving funds through offshore accounts disguised as legal grants for ex-con rehabilitation programs.”

Bruce leaned in slightly, skimming the data. “He’s paying them to keep their mouths shut. Or for something worse.”

“Could be both,” Tim muttered. “But it’s the same pattern. Every time one of these transactions hits, someone ends up dead within forty-eight hours.”

Bruce was quiet for a moment, eyes on the screen. Then, without looking at him, he said, “You did good work, Tim.”

Tim blinked, startled out of his laser focus. “Wait—was that a compliment?”

Bruce gave him a side glance. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Tim grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, I’ve been working on these kinds of things for a while now. Alone. I mean, yeah, I’ve made mistakes. But… this is the first time someone told me I actually did something right.”

Bruce’s face didn’t change much, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. After a moment, he said, “You’ve got potential. With the right training… discipline… you could be one of the best detectives this city’s ever seen.”

Tim looked at him, surprised at how much that actually meant to hear. “Thanks. Really.”

Bruce turned back to the screen. “But potential isn’t enough. You make rookie mistakes. You act on instinct when you should be cautious. You don’t think three steps ahead. Not always.”

“I know,” Tim said quietly. “But I can learn. I am learning.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. He stood, moving to another monitor, arms crossed over his chest. “There’s enough here,” he said finally. “This evidence—combined with the timeline you put together—it’ll be enough to take to Gordon.”

Tim perked up. “You mean like… go see him?”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll talk to him Monday. Hand everything over.”

Tim frowned. “Wait. No. I should go too.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because I’m the one who found all this,” Tim said. “I followed the trail, I made the connections. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know Two-Face was involved. I earned a seat at the table.”

“You’re a kid,” Bruce said bluntly.

“So were you when you started.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not,” Tim said, refusing to back down. “You told me I’ve got potential. So let me prove it. Gordon already saw me once, and you covered for me. But if I keep hiding behind you, he’ll never take me seriously. You won’t either.”

Bruce was silent for a long moment, his gaze weighing Tim like a threat profile.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he said, “Fine. After school on Monday. Come straight here. We’ll go together.”

Tim nodded, trying to hide the flash of victory on his face. “Thanks.”

Bruce looked at him more closely now, and for a second his expression softened. “You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. You’re barely standing straight. And if I’m not mistaken, your wrist is still sore from Tuesday.”

Tim tried to casually cover the wrist in question. “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

Bruce turned and picked up the tablet again, already shifting gears. “Go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

Tim hesitated, half-expecting more, but that seemed to be it. Then, as he was gathering his things, Bruce spoke again—his voice colder this time.

“And I mean real sleep. Not staying up following me across rooftops, or monitoring police chatter until 3AM.”

Tim opened his mouth to object, but Bruce cut him off.

“You’re still not where you need to be, physically or mentally. You’ve got heart. But if you want to be Robin, that’s not enough. You need control. Endurance. Skill.”

Tim looked at him, the sting of those words sharp, but not unfamiliar.

“And if you walk into tomorrow’s sparring match moving like that again,” Bruce added, “I won’t hold back.”

“You didn’t hold back last time.”

“Exactly.”

For a second, Tim wanted to say something cutting—some clever comeback that would let him have the last word. But then he saw the faintest trace of concern behind Bruce’s usual iron wall. It was there, hidden under layers of armor, but it was real.

He nodded. “Alright. I’ll get some rest.”

Bruce didn’t respond, just turned back to the monitors.

And Tim, aching and exhausted but holding on to a strange flicker of pride, grabbed his bag and made for the stairs.

~~~

The window creaked open without a sound. A figure cloaked in black stepped silently into the Commissioner’s office. Behind him, a smaller, quicker silhouette dropped from the ledge and landed with ease, his hood pulled low, scarf tucked up to his eyes, and a slim domino mask covering the rest.

James Gordon barely looked up from his desk at first — just flicked his eyes to the clock. “You’re early.”

Batman didn’t respond. He rarely did.

But the smaller one stepped forward, his voice steady and quiet. “Commissioner. We think we’ve identified who ordered the hits.”

Gordon put down his coffee and gave the boy a sharper look now. He was still—what? Twelve? Thirteen maybe? But the way he carried himself—focused, measured—it wasn’t the way kids usually walked into crime briefings.

The boy continued. “It wasn’t random. The cop killings. The musicians. I traced the funding for the contract that was put out on them. It was routed through a couple of dummy shell companies, but I dug back far enough and found a payment that went out six weeks ago from an account under the name Janus Holdings.”

Gordon frowned. “That name rings a bell…”

“It should,” the kid said. “It’s one of Harvey Dent’s old aliases. He used it years ago during his DA campaign. Low profile stuff—extra travel expenses, private meetings, that kind of thing. I found a record in city archives—he donated to the GCPD’s Emerald Hall benefit under that name.”

That made Gordon sit up straighter. “That was ten years ago.”

“March 16th,” the boy confirmed. “The night Danny and Dawn performed, and both of the cops who were killed last week were on the attendance roster.”

Batman stood silently at his side, arms crossed, letting the boy talk.

Tim went on. “They were all there that night. That’s the pattern. It wasn’t about the victims’ jobs. It wasn’t about their fame. It was personal. A grudge. The hitman didn’t even know why he was hired—he was just doing a list.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow, rubbing at his jaw as he looked at the kid. “You dug this up yourself?”

The boy nodded once.

“You know…” Gordon began slowly, standing and walking around to the front of his desk, “there’s been someone feeding tips into GCPD’s crime tip system for the past year. Smart ones. Untraceable IPs. Stuff we’d never catch on our own. Penguin’s dock shipments. False alarms from Firefly’s arson diversions. Even the Clock King’s schedules.”

Tim didn’t answer, but his hands stiffened slightly at his sides.

Gordon stopped in front of him. “That you?”

The boy hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. “Yeah. That was me.”

Gordon smiled just a little, more curious than anything else. “Never thought I’d meet you in person. Some of my guys call you ‘the Shadow.’ We thought you were some shut-in with a surveillance hobby.”

“Not a shut-in,” Tim muttered, a little awkwardly.

Batman finally broke his silence. “He’s been watching the city for years. I only just started training him.”

Gordon gave the kid another long look. “Well, you’ve got brains, I’ll give you that. The kind of brains that make everyone else feel two steps behind.”

Tim didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything.

Gordon turned to Batman. “You believe all this?”

“I checked the accounts myself. He’s right.”

Gordon rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn. That explains the silence. We haven’t heard a peep from Dent in months, and now this? Thought he skipped town again.”

“Looks like he didn’t,” the boy said. “He’s planning something. The hits were a warning. There’ll be more.”

There was a heavy pause as Gordon absorbed the information. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“You did good,” he said, looking at the kid. “You did real good. You ever get tired of the shadows, let me know. The department could use a mind like yours.”

The boy blinked beneath the scarf. Then gave a small, proud nod.

Batman turned toward the window. “We’ll follow the money trail from here. If Dent’s still in Gotham, we’ll find him.”

Gordon walked them back to the ledge. “Just make sure the next time you break into my office, it’s with good news.”

And with that, the boy followed the Bat back out into the night, heart hammering not from nerves, but from the small spark of something he hadn’t felt in a while—being seen.

Chapter Text

The Batcave was quieter than usual, the hum of the computer screens and the occasional mechanical click echoing off the stone walls. The cave smelled faintly of oil, metal, and the ever-present cool damp of the underground. Tim was already at the main console, legs bouncing anxiously while his fingers tapped against the edge of the desk. He was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Bruce had called him down with a simple message: “Something’s come up. Be ready.”

Now, Batman was standing beside the Batcomputer, cowl down, arms crossed. He was staring at the large monitor, his jaw tense and unreadable. The satellite feed had just gone dark, but not before showing the unmistakable footage: two children, twins, tied to a support column under the South Narrows Bridge. Bombs strapped to their small bodies. And a timer.

Next to the video feed was another update. Two-Face. Casino. Downtown Gotham. He was making his move, and everything about this screamed trap.

Tim took a step closer. “He knows you work alone. He’s splitting your focus.”

Bruce said nothing. He just stared at the images, the flickering timer, the feed of chaos beginning to stir near the casino.

A crackle came through the comms. A warm, confident voice filtered in, one Tim immediately recognized from the encrypted messages she’d sent him before.

“Bruce, I’ve got full satellite coverage of the Narrows and two sweep drones on the way. The casino’s security feed is already on my secondary screen. Oh, and—” the voice turned slightly playful, “—hello there, Little Hacker. This is Oracle. I guess it’s time we properly met.”

Tim’s mouth fell open, and for a moment he just stood there, stunned. “You’re online today?”

“I make exceptions,” Barbara said smoothly. “Especially when someone hacks the Batcomputer without tripping my failsafes. That caught my attention.”

Tim’s heart thudded with pride. She remembered. “I—I didn’t mean to, I mean, I did mean to, but just a light skim, I didn’t go deep. I knew you’d catch me—”

Barbara laughed gently. “Relax. It was impressive, and it was cautious. You’ve got instincts. If Bruce lets you stick around, I’d be happy to give you a few tips sometime. Show you how to really bend Gotham’s data to your will.”

Tim grinned so hard his face hurt. “Seriously? You would?”

“Cross my heart. But only if you live long enough to earn the cape,” she teased. “Deal?”

“Deal!” Tim said immediately, before catching himself and adding more composedly, “Thank you. I’d really like that.”

Bruce glanced sideways at the boy, then back to the screen. “Focus.”

Tim’s expression sobered. “Right. Sorry.”

Bruce turned back to the screens and began analyzing the map again. “It’s a setup. Two targets. He wants to prove I can’t be everywhere. He’s not even hiding it.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Tim said, stepping forward now, more serious. “But he’s wrong.”

Bruce finally turned to look at him fully. His expression was unreadable. “What are you suggesting?”

Tim didn’t hesitate. “You go to the casino. I’ll go to the bridge.”

“No.”

Tim expected that. But he kept going. “You said it yourself. Two-Face is making a point. He wants you to pick. If you go to the kids, he gets away with everything at the casino. If you go to the casino, the kids die. He wants you to fail. And the only way to beat him is to not play by his rules.”

“That’s not a mission for someone still sparring like a rookie,” Bruce said, voice low. “You’ve been training for what, a week?”

“I’ve been training for years,” Tim shot back. “Just not with you. I’ve been running the streets, mapping the city, learning escape routes and patrol paths since I was seven. I know how to move in Gotham. I’ve studied every major rescue op Batman and Robin ever did. I can do this. You don’t have to believe in me. But believe in this plan — with Oracle’s help I’ll manage just fine, and you’ll get Two-Face.”

Bruce’s silence was heavy.

Barbara’s voice cut in again, quieter this time. “Bruce, the timer’s real. The kids don’t have time to stall. If you go after them, Harvey walks. If you don’t, they die.”

Bruce took a deep breath. He looked at the countdown again. Then at Tim. “You screw this up, they die.”

“I won’t,” Tim said. His voice didn’t shake.

“You don’t engage anyone. You defuse the bombs, get the kids out. That’s it.”

Tim nodded.

“You’re still not Robin,” Bruce said sharply. “This isn’t a rite of passage.”

“I know,” Tim said. “But let me prove I can be.”

Another pause. Then Bruce reached over to the worktable, picked up a slim black comm earpiece, and handed it to Tim. “Keep your hood up. Stay in contact with Barbara the whole time. She’s your lifeline. You do nothing without checking in.” With it, he also handles the black domino mask that Tim had used to visit Gordon.

“Yes, sir.”

Bruce turned away and stalked toward the Batmobile, cape flaring behind him.

“Go now,” he ordered. “We’re running out of time.”

And just like that, Tim was gone—sprinting toward the secondary bike vault, his heart hammering, the sound of Barbara’s voice steady in his ear as she guided him toward his first true test.

~~~

The South Narrows Bridge loomed against the skyline like a sleeping metal giant, the dark steel glinting under the cold, grayish light of early evening. Gotham’s sky was bruised with the kind of stormy overcast that felt like it might never lift—oppressive, heavy, and somehow fitting for what Tim found waiting beneath it.

He approached the bridge on foot, having ditched the cycle a few blocks away to avoid drawing attention. The air smelled like rust, salt, and exhaust, the wind gusting just enough to make the loose pieces of metal around the under-structure creak and clatter.

Tim pulled his hood tighter, scarf secured across the lower half of his face, the Bat-issued comm in his ear. He was crouched low, moving silently across the narrow catwalk that lined the bridge’s support system. Below him, the water churned and frothed with winter fury—dark, cold, and unforgiving.

“Oracle,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I’m in position. I see them.”

“Copy that, Birdboy,” Barbara responded gently, her tone steady and calm, grounding. “Feed coming through on the drone. We’ve got eyes.”

Tim didn’t respond immediately. His stomach twisted at the sight before him.

Two kids. A boy and a girl—twins, maybe eight or nine, seated back-to-back against a thick steel column just above the lower strut of the bridge. Duct tape secured their arms and legs. Their clothes were mismatched and wet, hair disheveled, and faces pale with terror. But the worst part—the part that made Tim’s breath catch in his throat—were the explosives.

Crude, but real. Two devices strapped to their small chests, blinking with a slow, red pulse. Thick wires curled around their shoulders like serpents, and a single receiver between them flickered with a green LED: waiting, armed, watching.

The boy was trying not to cry, jaw clenched, tears streaking his cheeks in spite of the effort. The girl had her eyes shut tight, whispering something over and over, like a prayer. Both of them were shaking.

“They’re scared out of their minds,” Tim said softly.

“I see it,” Barbara replied. “Timers are motion-activated, and there’s a vibration trigger. Approach from the right. Step wrong and it could trigger early. Easy.”

Tim swallowed. “Nothing about this is easy.”

But he moved anyway.

He made his way slowly along the edge of the girder, crouching low, calculating every step. His boots landed with barely a sound, each movement deliberate and careful. The wind picked up, tugging at his scarf and hoodie. The bridge creaked again under its own weight.

When he was close enough to speak without shouting, he stopped and knelt, keeping his hands where the kids could see them.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “Hi there.”

The girl flinched. The boy’s eyes snapped to him.

“I know you’re scared,” Tim continued. “But I’m here to help. My name’s… it doesn’t matter right now. I’m with Batman. He sent me. He’s handling the bad guy while I help you.”

“No… no, no,” the boy said, shaking his head violently. “You’re just a kid.”

“So are you,” Tim replied gently. “But I know what I’m doing. I promise.”

“You’re gonna get us killed,” the girl whispered.

Tim took a breath. “You know what? That’s fair. This situation is terrifying. You’ve been through hell. But I’m not going to lie to you—I trained for this. I’m not just some kid who got lucky. And the best hacker in Gotham is in my ear right now, walking me through every wire and trigger. You know Oracle?”

The boy blinked. The girl opened her eyes, surprised.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “That Oracle. She’s with us. You’re not alone.”

There was a pause. Then the boy asked, voice cracking, “Where’s Batman?”

“Stopping the guy who did this. He couldn’t be in two places at once,” Tim said honestly. “So he picked me to be here. That means something, right?”

The girl bit her lip, nodding slowly.

“You’re doing great already,” Tim said, voice still calm and low. “Now I need you both to help me out. I’m going to get closer, okay? I’m going to check the devices. I won’t touch anything yet. Just look. I need you to stay as still as possible.”

“What if it goes off?” the boy asked, voice small.

“Then I’ll be right here with you,” Tim said without hesitation.

That seemed to settle something in both of them.

He moved in.

Crouching close now, Tim’s eyes scanned the devices. His heart pounded, but he kept his breath steady, just like he’d practiced in sparring and field drills. Barbara’s voice came through again, more technical this time.

“I’ve isolated the frequency. Manual trigger possible, but there’s no remote detonation signal active—likely set to motion or timed. I’m patching in to see if I can jam the receiver.”

Tim nodded. “Starting visual inspection.”

He carefully peeled back the outer edge of the boy’s jacket with two fingers, eyes narrowing.

“Two plastic explosives, homemade wiring, soldering’s rough. Receiver box looks… modular, definitely Two-Face’s style. This wasn’t meant to be efficient. It was meant to scare.”

“Probably works better than he expected,” Barbara muttered grimly. “Okay, good news: I’ve got a signal match. I’m going to put the receiver into a loop so it thinks it’s still active. Should buy you time.”

Tim glanced up at the kids. “Hear that? Oracle’s got your back too. We’re going to do this together.”

The girl sniffled. “What if we mess it up?”

“Then I’ll fix it,” Tim said, with a small smile behind his scarf. “I’m really annoying that way.”

Both of them gave a tiny, watery laugh.

And for the first time since he’d arrived, the tension in their tiny bodies eased—just a little.

But that was enough.

Tim turned his focus fully to the device now, moving carefully, heart pounding. The wind howled through the girders like a warning, but he was already locked in—this was his mission, and he wasn’t going to let anyone down.

Not them.

Not Barbara.

Not Bruce.

Not himself.

The signal blocker Oracle deployed had held steady for nearly five minutes. But Tim knew that time was running out. The looping signal keeping the receiver “asleep” was clever, but not foolproof—any signal bounce, any wrong touch, and the whole thing could go south in a blink.

Tim exhaled slowly. His fingers hovered just above the wires, eyes scanning each solder point, each blink of the lights, trying to thread together the crude logic behind the setup. Two-Face didn’t build his own bombs, Tim knew that much. He hired people. The sloppiness was actually a blessing—ugly wiring meant easier decoding.

“All right,” he whispered through his comm. “Oracle, I think I see the trigger mechanism. It’s a pressure coil wrapped around the receiver housing. If I remove the charge without offsetting the pressure… it trips.”

“Correct,” Barbara responded. “You’re going to have to brace the casing before you move anything. You practiced this with dummy circuits, right?”

Tim nodded reflexively, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. But not with actual kids watching me.”

“You’re doing fine. Just focus on the wires, not the stakes.”

Easier said than done.

He reached into his utility pouch—something he’d assembled himself from scavenged army surplus and camping gear—and pulled out a small curved piece of hardened foam. He gently slid it into the gap between the receiver and the mount, holding the pressure coil steady.

He held his breath.

Snip.

The first wire came free with a gentle spark. No sound, no alarm. The red blink of the light continued, slow and steady.

He did the same on the other side, isolating the receiver now from its primary charge. The seconds stretched like hours. The wind was cruel here, buffeting his hoodie, but Tim didn’t feel it. Every nerve in his body was trained on the final wire.

“I’m about to lift the receiver,” he said.

“Loop is holding. Do it.”

Tim grasped the cheap plastic casing in one gloved hand and—gently—tilted it upward, letting the foam wedge take the full pressure. It held.

Nothing beeped. Nothing clicked.

He pulled the receiver away and dropped it into a lead-lined pouch he’d brought for exactly this. The charges were disarmed.

He looked up. The boy was staring at him, mouth hanging open.

“You’re… really good at this,” the kid said quietly.

Tim gave a breathless smile. “You better not be telling Batman that. He’ll never let me live it down.”

He moved quickly to the girl’s harness, now confident in how the bombs were wired. Each device was identical. In less than two minutes, the second set of charges were neutralized and sealed away.

“It’s over,” he said. “You’re safe.”

The girl started crying again, but this time it was from relief.

“You did it,” she whispered.

“Not alone,” he said, glancing up to the night sky. “I had help.”

Tim cut the duct tape with a multitool and helped the kids to their feet. They were shaky, legs wobbly from fear and being bound so long, but they held onto him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

“Okay, we’re gonna walk,” he said. “Slow. I’ve got you.”

He led them across the metal scaffolding of the bridge, arms steady around their shoulders, keeping them from looking down at the raging water below. Oracle guided him toward an emergency ladder tucked against the main pillar of the bridge—old, rusted, but secure.

As they climbed, Tim went last, steadying them with quiet encouragements.

“You’re almost there.”

“You’re stronger than you think.”

“You’re going to get through this.”

When they reached the street level, the police were already there—red and blue lights flashing like alarm bells across the cement. A few uniformed officers had their guns half-drawn, pointing toward the ladder. Tim raised his hands slightly, stepping out first.

“They’re okay,” he said. “They’re safe.”

The kids emerged behind him, and the officers rushed forward, swarming them with blankets and questions. The boy looked back once, locking eyes with Tim.

“Thank you,” he said, voice shaking. “You saved us.”

Tim gave him a small nod, swallowing the lump in his throat.

But his moment of quiet pride didn’t last.

“Hey, you,” one officer barked. “Step over here. You’re not cleared. Hands behind your head.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“You’re not a licensed responder or GCPD. We’ve got questions about how you got here, what you were doing with a pair of bomb-strapped kids—”

A firm voice cut through the crowd. “That won’t be necessary, Officer Donnelly.”

Commissioner Gordon stepped forward, his coat flapping slightly in the wind, his expression unreadable.

“But sir—”

“I know who he is,” Gordon said. “And I’m satisfied with his explanation.”

The officers hesitated. Tim stood frozen.

“Dismissed,” Gordon said more firmly. “Get those kids medical and trauma support. That’s your priority.”

The uniforms backed off. Gordon stepped closer, hands in his coat pockets, looking Tim up and down like he was trying to see through the scarf.

“Nice work,” he said finally.

Tim shifted, awkward in the compliment. “Thanks.”

“You know, yesterday I’ve realized I had heard your voice before,” Gordon said, almost to himself. “Used to come through on our tip line. You were the one feeding the cold case division all that data a few years back, you’ve been doing this for way longer than a year.”

Tim said nothing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Gordon added. “But I want you to know—you did good. And I’m going to make sure the department knows it.”

Tim’s throat tightened slightly. That… meant more than he expected.

Gordon gestured to his unmarked car waiting at the curb. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. Batman’s still on-site at the tower casino. You’ve earned a reunion.”

Tim nodded, glancing back once toward the bridge. The kids were safe now, tucked into a medical van, wrapped in blankets. They were alive.

He followed Gordon, steps quiet, heart still racing, but with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the scarf.

He’d done it.

He’d really done it.

~~~

The leather of the passenger seat was cold against Tim’s back as he slid into the unmarked car. Gordon gave the boy a glance—neutral, but not unkind—before starting the engine with a low rumble. Outside, the wind howled between the buildings and carried with it the fading echoes of police sirens. The bridge disappeared behind them, swallowed by the fog and the quiet.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Gordon drove like he thought, carefully, with deliberate pauses. Finally, after two turns and a sigh, he broke the silence.

“Batman got him,” he said simply, keeping his eyes on the road.

Tim looked up. “Two-Face?”

Gordon nodded. “He hit the twin tower casino right on schedule. Cleared out nearly the whole vault, left his guys to do the dirty work while he played the part of chaos incarnate upstairs. But Batman was waiting for him. He took down the whole operation in under six minutes.” Another pause. “Two-Face is in GCPD custody. He’ll be transferred to Blackgate by morning.”

Tim stared at the road ahead, trying to picture it. Trying to imagine Bruce tearing through a dozen armed men on his own—furious, sharp, relentless. That was the Batman he’d come to know over the past weeks. A man on the edge. A man who might’ve let someone fall if Tim hadn’t screamed stop.

“You should know,” Gordon continued, glancing at him, “if you hadn’t been on that bridge tonight… there’s no way we would’ve pulled it all off. We didn’t have enough time. Batman didn’t have enough time.”

Tim’s shoulders rose slightly. “It wasn’t just me. I had help. Oracle—”

“I know,” Gordon said, with a faint smirk. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know when a hand is reaching through the wires. But even with her in your ear, it’s not just anyone who could’ve done what you did. Those kids are alive because of you.”

Tim looked down, fingers loosely gripping the edge of his hoodie sleeve. He didn’t know what to say to that. It didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like anything had changed.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Gordon said. “I’ve never been in favor of him having a partner. Let alone a kid.”

Tim didn’t say anything. He waited.

“But,” Gordon continued, “I’ve also seen what grief does to people. And I’ve seen what it’s done to him. The Bat’s angrier now than he’s ever been. Angrier, and lonelier. He needs something to pull him back from that edge. And if being Robin is what it takes to do that…”

He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Tim watched the streetlights pass, one by one. Pale golden glows blinking against the windows, flickering like distant signals. He wondered what it would’ve been like to hear this conversation from someone else’s perspective—Dick’s, maybe. Or Jason’s. Would they have nodded? Would they have laughed?

“You’re smart,” Gordon said, quieter now. “Probably smarter than the other two were. And don’t let that leave this car. I’ll deny it until I’m dead.”

Tim actually cracked a smile.

“But smarts alone don’t make a Robin,” Gordon went on. “You know that, don’t you?”

Tim nodded once. “Yeah. I know.”

But he didn’t say the rest. He didn’t tell Gordon what he really thought, what sat low in his chest every night he sat awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what kind of hole he was trying to fill.

He didn’t tell him that, deep down, he knew he’d never have what they had.

Not Dick’s ease, his light, his charisma—the way he turned pain into laughter and tragedy into flight. Dick had been born to carry people, to keep them safe while he smiled through it all.

And not Jason’s fire. That wild, unrelenting need to make something right, even if it meant getting hurt. Jason had always worn his heart on his knuckles, fists first, bleeding second. The world had never given him mercy, so he learned to take it for others.

They both had something. A kind of magic. And Tim didn’t. Not like that.

He wasn’t trying to be that kind of Robin.

He didn’t want to be.

He was here to hold the line. To keep the cape from falling into darkness. If Bruce was going to stand again, someone needed to brace the foundation while he got his balance back. That’s what Tim was for. A placeholder. A safeguard. Nothing more.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just stared ahead, letting the quiet blanket them again.

Gordon studied him a moment longer, then sighed and shifted in his seat. “I like you, kid,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. You’ve got guts. Maybe even the stuff it takes to make it through this hell with your soul intact. But the truth is, the smartest thing you could do right now is walk away.”

Tim’s eyes didn’t move. “I can’t.”

The answer came quicker than he expected, and heavier.

Gordon exhaled, like he’d known that was coming, but hoped he’d be wrong.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Didn’t think so.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

~~~

Tim barely had time to step out of Gordon’s car before the familiar shape of the Bat loomed from the shadows.

He stood just beyond the edge of the rooftop, where Gordon had parked—the long black cape shifting slightly with the breeze, cowl still firmly in place, unreadable as ever. Tim’s boots clicked softly against the concrete as he approached. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe a nod. Maybe a lecture.

But Bruce just looked at him.

For a long, still moment.

The city buzzed below them, the tail end of chaos drifting into memory. But up here, it was quiet. Just the two of them, the echo of everything they’d each just done hanging in the space between.

“You handled it,” Bruce finally said.

His voice was low. Not quite approving. Not quite surprised.

Tim nodded. “They’re safe. The kids.”

“I know. I listened to the police band.”

Bruce turned without another word, cape snapping behind him, and walked toward the edge of the rooftop. Tim hesitated—just a second—before following. The Batmobile waited in the alley below, sleek and growling softly in idle. They descended in silence.

Tim was almost vibrating when they got in.

He didn’t show it. Not too much. He kept his hood up, the domino mask still snug over his eyes, but his fingers were tight in his lap and his sneakers bounced slightly on the floorboard of the passenger side.

He could feel Bruce watching him, even without turning his head.

“You’re tired,” Bruce said, finally.

Tim blinked. “A little.”

Bruce looked back at the road as they pulled out of the alley, winding through the midnight streets like a shadow. The dashboard readouts reflected off the sharp lines of his jaw.

“You shouldn’t be. You’ve been training.”

Tim frowned. “I have. I—”

“You should be stronger than this. Faster.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “I’m getting there.”

They drove for another block in silence.

“You could’ve gotten hurt,” Bruce said.

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I made the call. I saw what needed to be done. And I was right,” Tim said. “If you had gone to the bridge, Two-Face would’ve gotten away. If I’d gone, those kids might’ve died.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Not right away. His fingers curled a little tighter around the wheel.

“And you knew it,” Tim added, quieter. “You knew you had to let me handle it.”

Another pause. Then—

“I didn’t like it.”

That made Tim glance at him.

“I know,” Tim said. “But you did it anyway.”

Bruce didn’t confirm or deny. He just drove.

By the time they reached the manor grounds, the stars were beginning to fade. The horizon was a deep violet, the faintest whisper of morning curling around the city’s jagged silhouette.

The Batmobile descended into the cave in eerie silence, the hydraulic platform humming beneath them as the lights automatically flickered on, casting long shadows over the jagged rock walls and dark platforms. The interior glow faded as Bruce killed the engine. The moment the vehicle settled, the air between him and Tim shifted.

Tim stepped out first, rolling his shoulder and stretching his aching legs. He was still buzzing a little from the mission—part adrenaline, part exhaustion—but something about the way Bruce expression had shifted began to gnaw at him.

He turned to say something. Anything.

But Bruce was already stepping away, cape billowing behind him. His movements were suddenly sharper, colder. When he reached the far wall of the cave—where the compact bar Alfred kept stocked for emergencies or diplomatic guests—he opened the cabinet with the smooth efficiency of muscle memory and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

Tim froze, watching him twist the cap off and pour two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. No words. No look back.

Bruce took the drink and walked away from the main chamber, deeper into one of the smaller side rooms carved into the cave. The door clicked shut behind him.

Tim just stood there, the buzz of the mission now hollow in his chest.

Alfred had seen it all from the upper level. He descended the iron staircase slowly, the soft tread of his shoes echoing through the cave. When he reached Tim, he gave a gentle sigh and looked toward the sealed door where Bruce had vanished.

“He hasn’t been the same,” Alfred said, voice low, tinged with something like weariness. “Not since Jason.”

Tim glanced at the floor. “Was it something I did?”

“Quite the opposite, I’d imagine. You reminded him that there are still people out there who can get hurt.” Alfred offered a small, tired smile. “That, I think, frightens him more than he’ll ever admit.”

Tim didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Then Alfred gently clapped his hands together, shifting the mood with practiced grace.

“Well, then. Would you care for some tea before heading home?”

Tim blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good. Come, we’ll use the kitchen upstairs. It’s warmer.”

Wayne Manor’s kitchen was the butler’s reign. Alfred moved around the space with the ease of someone who had spent half his life here, gathering a teapot, two mismatched mugs, and a small tray of biscuits.

Tim sat at the table, scarf now pulled loose around his neck, mask tucked in his pocket.

“Milk or lemon?” Alfred asked, holding the kettle with one hand.

“Milk, please.”

Alfred nodded and prepared it just so before placing the mug in front of him. “Here you are. Proper English style.”

Tim took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the mug. The tea smelled faintly of honey and citrus.

“Thank you… for this,” he said.

“Of course, Master Tim. After saving two children from a bridge rigged with explosives, I daresay you’ve earned it.”

Tim ducked his head a little, smiling. “Just did what needed to be done.”

“Quite like a Robin would.”

That made Tim look up sharply.

Alfred smiled into his own tea, not quite meeting his eyes. “Don’t get too excited. That wasn’t a promotion. Merely an observation.”

Tim laughed under his breath. “Right.”

The warmth of the tea and the kitchen began to seep into his muscles, slowly undoing the tension that had wound through him since they left the bridge.

Alfred watched him a moment, then set his cup down gently.

“Would you like to hear how Master Dick’s first solo mission as Robin went?” he asked.

Tim perked up. “Absolutely.”

Alfred nodded gravely. “He was supposed to be observing a warehouse drop in the Narrows. Simple recon. In and out. Instead, he decided to do a bit of ‘creative problem-solving’—his words, not mine.”

“What happened?”

“He fell through a skylight onto a crate of powdered detergent,” Alfred said, straight-faced. “Set off the fire sprinklers, blinded half the men with soap, and accidentally sent a very important ledger out a sewer grate.”

Tim blinked, then broke into a surprised laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I assure you, I am not. Master Bruce was so angry he didn’t speak for a full forty-eight hours. And Master Dick, to this day, insists the whole thing was ‘a valuable lesson in improvisation.’”

Tim grinned wide, leaning back in his chair. “I love that.”

Alfred sipped his tea, his expression softening. “And then there was Master Jason…”

Tim’s smile faded a little, but he nodded. “I’d like to hear.”

“Well, his first mission involved tailing a gang of street racers. He was supposed to plant a tracker on one of the bikes. Instead, he decided to join the race to ‘blend in.’”

“Oh no.”

“Indeed. He won the race, mind you. But not before totaling the Batcycle and getting a dislocated shoulder.”

Tim laughed again despite himself. “That’s actually kind of amazing.”

“It was something, certainly.” Alfred’s voice grew gentler. “They both made plenty of mistakes. But each had their own kind of brilliance.”

“Yeah,” Tim said softly. “I know I’m not like them.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, “you’re not. And that’s a good thing.”

Tim looked up.

“They each had their strengths, Master Tim. But so do you. You think before you act. You analyze. You plan. Tonight wasn’t a victory of strength or speed. It was a victory of insight, courage, and compassion.”

Tim felt his chest warm, deeper than the tea.

“I think Master Bruce sees that too,” Alfred added, glancing toward the cave below.

“I hope so,” Tim said.

Alfred stood and gathered the tray. “Get some rest. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Tim nodded, rising slowly. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Anytime, my boy.”

~~~

Tim stepped out into the chill of the evening, pulling the hood of his jacket back over his head as the manor door shut behind him with a soft click. The stars were bright tonight, scattered across the Gotham sky like a handful of glass shards. For a brief second, it felt like he could breathe again—truly breathe.

His boots crunched lightly on the gravel path as he headed toward the gate, skateboard under one arm. But then he felt it.

The light weight of the domino mask in his pocket.

He froze.

He hadn’t meant to keep it.

He pulled it out, turning the black mask over in his fingers. It still smelled faintly of the cave—metal, old stone, and oil. It was just a piece of reinforced polymer, but somehow it felt heavier now. Not his. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Tim hesitated. He could leave it with Alfred tomorrow… but something about that felt wrong. Like leaving a door half-open. He glanced back toward the looming manor behind him, silhouetted against the hill, and sighed.

He turned around.

The Batcave was quiet when he stepped back in, its cavernous belly glowing faintly with blue light from the computer systems. The sound of dripping water echoed somewhere in the distance. At first, it looked like the place was empty—until he heard it. A clink of glass.

Tim turned toward the far side of the cave, near the old training platform. There, partially cloaked in shadow, stood Bruce.

He was slouched slightly, one hand resting on the counter, the other holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. There were two more already opened, one spilled onto the stone. His cowl was off, hanging loose around his neck, revealing tired, storm-dark eyes. His tie was undone. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

Tim opened his mouth. “I—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bruce said, his voice low, almost slurred.

Tim stepped forward, slowly pulling the domino from his pocket. “I just—I forgot to return this. I didn’t want to—”

“I said you shouldn’t be here!” Bruce’s voice cracked like a whip, sudden and sharp.

Tim flinched.

Bruce turned fully toward him now, and there was something wild in his eyes, something lost. He stepped forward, bottle clenched tightly in his hand.

“You think you can just walk into this life and fix everything?” he growled. “You think you’re gonna come in here, say the right things, solve a few cases and—what—replace him?”

Tim froze, words caught in his throat.

“You’ll never be Jason!” Bruce roared.

And then he threw the bottle.

Tim barely had time to duck. The glass shattered against the stone wall behind him, the sound ricocheting off the cave like a gunshot. Tiny shards rained down around his feet, catching the light like cruel stars.

For a second, everything froze.

And then the air collapsed in on him.

Tim’s lungs locked. His chest tightened as though a steel band had snapped around it. The dark around him started to twist, cave walls warping like they were breathing. The sharp smell of alcohol mixed with shattered glass was too familiar—too close.

His vision blurred, and suddenly he wasn’t in the cave anymore.

He was nine.

Back in the hallway of his house. Back outside his father’s study. The door slamming. The yelling. The sound of things breaking. His mother’s silent, useless presence, doing nothing more than watch. That one night when the bottle had landed too close. When the shouting had turned into hitting.

Tim staggered backward.

He tried to breathe but it was like his body had forgotten how.

He was drowning. Right there in the middle of the Batcave.

He clutched his chest and collapsed to one knee, head bowed, fingers digging into the stone floor like it could somehow anchor him.

Focus. You’ve done this before. You’re not nine. You’re not there.

He forced his breath in—ragged, raw.

In for four. Hold. Out for six.

Again.

And again.

Until finally, like something unclenching inside him, the world settled back into place.

He raised his head.

Bruce was standing a few feet away, breathing heavily. The rage had faded from his face now, replaced by something much quieter. The glassy film in his eyes was still there, but it looked like he was seeing Tim for the first time.

The silence between them was sharp.

Tim stood, slowly, his knees trembling under him. He said nothing. He didn’t want to hear another word. Not right now. Not like this.

He turned, tucked the domino mask into Bruce’s desk as he passed it, and walked out.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t see the way Bruce just stood there, still and strangely hollow, staring at the place where Tim had been.

He didn’t hear the whisper of his name, spoken too late to catch him.

He just ran.

Out the door.

And into the night.

Chapter Text

Tim was about to reach the gate of Wayne Manor, skateboard tucked under his arm and the wind gently tugging at his hoodie. The air still smelled like wet leaves and cold concrete—the remnants of a rainy Gotham day. His legs were sore, his eyelids heavy, and there was a fresh bruise blooming just under his ribs, but none of it mattered. His chest still buzzed with the kind of thrill that no exhaustion could quite dull.

It had been two days since the Two-Face case was closed.

Two days since the night Bruce had thrown a bottle at him.

They hadn’t talked about it.

Not once.

In fact, they hadn’t talked about anything that wasn’t directly related to training, tactics, or cases. Bruce hadn’t apologized, hadn’t even hinted that he remembered. At first, Tim had convinced himself it was deliberate avoidance. But by now, he was pretty sure the man genuinely had no memory of the outburst. Not because he didn’t care—but because that version of Bruce, the one with whiskey in his veins and grief drowning his eyes, was someone even Bruce didn’t want to face.

Tim wasn’t okay with it, not really. But he understood. He always understood.

And he didn’t want to waste any more time proving that he belonged here.

Because last night—last night had changed everything.

He had gone on patrol. Officially.

Bruce hadn’t said much, just tossed a comm in his direction and told him, “Keep up.” That was it. No congratulations, no speech. Just a nod. But Tim had seen the small shift in his posture. The acceptance, the silent trust.

And that was enough.

He didn’t get to do much on patrol—technically, he was only there to observe—but it was the first time he wasn’t hiding behind rooftops or ducking down alleys to avoid being seen. No longer the invisible shadow behind the Bat. He was with him.

Moving through the city at night with Batman at his side wasn’t like anything Tim had ever experienced. Gotham was a living thing after dark—a breathing, growling, aching giant—and from above, the streets looked like veins glowing with life and danger and the kind of electricity that never shut off. Tim had always loved his city, loved her crooked streets and damp alleys, the way she never apologized for being broken and brutal. But last night… last night was the first time he felt like she loved him back.

There was a different kind of silence when you were beside Batman. Not the oppressive kind. Not lonely. More like the stillness of a storm before it hits—purposeful, watchful, constant. He didn’t fill the silence with questions like he wanted to, didn’t try to impress him with quick deductions or stray facts. He just followed. He watched. He listened. And when Bruce had said, “You’re quiet,” halfway through the night, there hadn’t been disapproval in it. Just observation. Maybe even a touch of curiosity.

And when they’d come back to the cave, Bruce had handed him a protein bar without a word, taken off the cowl, and walked past him like it was all routine.

For Tim, it was anything but.

Also—there was one other thing that had changed since that night.

People were noticing.

Not just Bruce. Not just Gordon.

Everyone.

The city had caught wind of the new shadow flitting across rooftops. It wasn’t like Tim was headlining the news every night—he hadn’t stopped a Joker rampage or wrestled Killer Croc into submission—but Gotham was a city that watched, always. And even if the Bat hadn’t said anything out loud, the streets knew.

The tabloids were already buzzing with theories.

“BATMAN’S NEW PARTNER? WHO IS THE HOODED KID?”
“ANOTHER SIDEKICK, OR JUST A VERY DEDICATED FAN?”
“ROBIN RETURNS? OUR BREAKDOWN OF THE CAPE, THE BOOTS, AND THE IDENTITY OF THE MYSTERY BOY”

He wasn’t “Robin,” not officially. Not yet. But already, the rumors were spiraling.

Some of the theories were… passable.
Some were wild.
And others were completely, gloriously unhinged.

One article claimed he was Batman’s illegitimate son, finally trained enough to be brought into the family business. Another insisted he was a government experiment—part of a secret metahuman program designed to enhance urban vigilantes.

Some people thought he was a runaway circus kid.
Others were convinced he was three raccoons in a trench coat.

And then there were the conspiracy blogs.

Oh, the blogs.

They went hard.

There was one that theorized the boy in black was actually a reprogrammed android originally designed by the League of Shadows, now turned good by Batman’s moral code and a rigorous detox program involving kale smoothies. Another believed he was Batman’s own younger clone, created in a secret lab beneath the Gotham Zoo.

Tim screenshot that one.

Steph thought it was hilarious.

Every morning at school now, she brought a new theory printed and highlighted. The two of them sat in the back of their shared first period (which neither of them paid much attention to) and rated the articles from “most plausible” to “would be a better plot than half the soap operas my mom watches.”

They gave stars, too.

5 stars: Believable, solid logic. A few actual facts.
3 stars: Good joke. Entertaining, even if completely wrong.
1 star: Offensively dumb.
0 stars: “This article claims you’re actually a Wayne, the lost grandchild of Ras al Ghul and son of Talia, raised by wolves in a hidden League compound.”
“…Okay that one gets half a star. For effort.”

Steph also—of course—had her own theory.

“I’m telling you, this new guy is a student from Gotham Academy,” she said with a grin, leaning across the table with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Nerdy type. Probably good at computers. Skinny, but scrappy. Secretly athletic. The kind of guy who brings teachers apples and then vanishes from class to punch muggers.”

Tim gave her his best neutral face.

“Mmhmm. Interesting theory,” he said, flipping a page in his textbook and very deliberately not reacting.

Steph squinted at him.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That face thing. When you’re trying not to react but also desperately want to react. Which, by the way, is extremely suspicious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. And I’m not saying it’s you—but if it were you, I’d demand at least a partial cut of the street cred. Sidekick’s sidekick, you know?”

Tim rolled his eyes and shoved a highlighter toward her.

“Focus on your notes, Napolean of Gotham.”

“I’m just saying,” she sing-songed, poking him in the arm with the butt of her pen. “If I ever find out for sure, I’m going to make you autograph my combat boots.”

He tried not to grin. Failed.

Steph wasn’t just the smartest person he knew—she was also the most annoying. But in the best way. And truth be told, reading the theories with her made things easier. Gave him space to laugh at all of it before going back to the intensity of the cave, the bruises, the training, the cold silence that followed Bruce around like a second cape.

~~~

He reached the manor’s long front drive now, boots crunching over the gravel. Alfred had said they were going to train a little later today, which gave Tim some time to patch up a bit before Bruce decided to throw him around again. The old man had been brutal in sparring—maybe even more so lately—but he was also teaching him a lot. It was starting to make sense. His body was catching up to his mind. And each time he fell, each time Bruce sent him crashing to the mat, he got up faster. Pushed harder.

Tim stepped into Wayne Manor, boots quiet against the polished floors, the front door shutting gently behind him. He was planning to head straight for the cave—maybe sneak in a bit of warm-up before Bruce came down—but as he walked through the foyer, the low hum of raised voices stopped him in his tracks.

No, not raised. Screaming.

It was coming from deeper in the house, echoing from the east hallway, the one that led to Bruce’s study.

Tim tensed.

He moved carefully, soundlessly, instincts sharpened by months of following Batman through the streets. The anger in the voices wasn’t the usual growl of a disagreement—it was heated, sharp, old. Something deep-rooted that had been festering for a long time.

He recognized one of the voices instantly.

Bruce.

The other—

It took him a second, but then his stomach tightened.

Dick Grayson.

Tim had only heard his voice in passing, muffled in old recordings or under the synthetic modulator of the Nightwing mask when they crossed paths briefly in Blüdhaven. But now—now it was raw and human and furious.

“…you’re replacing him!” Dick’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “You think putting another kid in that costume is going to fix what happened? You think you can just keep going like nothing happened?”

“I’m not replacing him,” Bruce growled. “And he’s not Robin.”

“Oh, but he wants to be, doesn’t he? And you’re letting him inch closer and closer. Domino mask, sparring drills, night rides—don’t pretend this isn’t what you always do.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about!” Dick’s voice cracked with emotion. “You’re dragging another kid into this life because you don’t know how to grieve like a human being! Jason is dead, Bruce! You can’t just patch over that with another cape!”

And then—

“Don’t you dare say that!”

Bruce’s voice hit like a thunderclap. Deep. Final. It wasn’t just a shout—it was pain. The kind that stopped you mid-step. The kind that made your breath catch.

Tim froze, heart pounding. He hadn’t meant to hear this. Any of this.

He edged forward anyway.

He didn’t know why—curiosity, guilt, instinct. A little of all three. He took another careful step toward the open doorway, his hand brushing against the wooden banister that ran the length of the hall. The manor creaked beneath his weight—one of the floorboards near the archway gave a long, slow crack.

Both voices stopped instantly.

Dead silence.

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

Then, slowly, like shadows moving through light, the two figures inside the room turned to look at him.

Tim didn’t know where to look first.

Bruce was standing near the fireplace, jaw clenched, face pale, anger still flickering like a storm behind his eyes.

And Dick—

Tim’s eyes widened.

It was the first time he’d seen Dick Grayson like this—not the distant blur of a costume zipping through the Gotham skyline, not the shadow covered hero of Blüdhaven, and not the memory he’d clung to since he was three years old, sitting in the audience at Haly’s Circus.

No—this was him. In the flesh.

Older than the boy Tim had seen perform all those years ago, but still magnetic, still tall and sharp-eyed, his black hair tousled from the fight, his face flushed with frustration. There was something about him that seemed realer than life—like he stepped out of a memory and added color to it.

Tim remembered that night clearly. The Flying Graysons soaring through the air with impossible grace. And the little boy, Dick, standing center ring, hand raised in triumph. Tim had clutched his mother ’s hand so tight that night, heart thudding with awe, and he knew he would have been screamed at for it at home, but he hadn’t cared at all.

And then years later—when Tim had followed Nightwing across rooftops in Blüdhaven, trying to talk to him, trying to make him listen. Begging him to come back to Gotham, to come back to Bruce. And getting turned away every time.

Now, all three of them were in the same room. Bruce. Dick. Tim.

None of them said anything.

Tim straightened, trying not to shrink under the weight of their stares. He didn’t even know what they saw—a skinny kid in worn boots and a hoodie, hair tousled from the wind, dark circles under his eyes from nights spent hunched over police reports and rooftop stakeouts.

He opened his mouth.

“Uh…”

Dick was the first to speak.

“This him?” he asked Bruce, though his eyes stayed locked on Tim.

Bruce didn’t answer.

Tim took a cautious step forward. His throat felt dry.

“I wasn’t trying to listen,” he said quickly. “I just… I heard yelling.”

More silence.

Then Dick crossed the room toward him, slow but measured. He wasn’t angry now—just studying him.

“You’re the kid,” Dick said. “From the emails. All those case tips Gordon talked about. The one who figured out the Two-Face split. The one who followed me in Blüdhaven”

Tim blinked, unsure what to say.

“You’re younger than I expected,” Dick added, eyes narrowing, tone unreadable.

Tim cleared his throat. “I’m—uh—Tim. Tim Drake.”

“Yeah,” Dick muttered, looking him over again. “That tracks.”

He turned back to Bruce.

“Is he staying?” he asked flatly.

“He’s not Robin,” Bruce said again, jaw still tight.

“But he’s in the Cave. He’s training. He’s on rooftops. How long are you going to lie to yourself?”

Tim wanted to disappear.

“I should…” he started to say, voice trailing off.

But Bruce’s voice—low, rough—stopped him.

“Stay.”

Dick looked surprised. So was Tim.

Bruce didn’t look at either of them. He turned, stalked over to the heavy liquor cabinet tucked against the side wall, and pulled out a bottle. Whiskey.

He didn’t say another word.

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “This place hasn’t changed at all,” he muttered. Then, to Tim: “You okay, kid?”

Tim nodded stiffly, though he wasn’t sure he was.

The two of them descended into the Cave in silence.

Tim trailed a few steps behind Dick, feeling the weight of every footfall. The quiet between them wasn’t comfortable—it was tense, brittle, edged with something sharp. Tim didn’t know what to say, and Dick clearly wasn’t interested in small talk. The vast, echoing space of the Batcave didn’t help; the shadows seemed deeper today, and the soft hum of the computer monitors only amplified the quiet.

Dick walked with a practiced ease, like every inch of the cave still remembered him. Tim moved with cautious reverence, careful not to touch anything he wasn’t supposed to. This was still Bruce’s world, and Tim was only… maybe a guest.

Dick went straight to the main terminal and tapped a few keys. Tim noticed how fluid the motion was, how naturally Dick moved in this environment. Like muscle memory. Like coming home, whether he liked it or not.

“So,” Dick said, not turning around. His tone was calm, but distant—clipped. “You figured out Harvey’s trail.”

Tim blinked. “Yeah.”

“Guess that’s why Bruce is letting you follow him around.”

Tim didn’t respond.

Dick finally turned, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. “You’re smart,” he said, almost like it was a challenge. “I’ll give you that.”

Tim nodded slowly, unsure if that was a compliment or just a statement.

The silence stretched between them again until Dick’s brow furrowed, something clicking into place. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he really looked at Tim.

“Wait a second… You’re that kid, aren’t you?”

Tim blinked. “What kid?”

“You live in the neighborhood. You go to Gotham Academy. You were friends with Jason.”

Tim flinched, just slightly. “Yeah. We… We used to talk, sometimes. I helped him out with maths.”

Dick let out a humorless breath. “Of course you were. Bruce really knows how to pick them.”

There was something bitter in his voice—exhaustion, grief, maybe even guilt.

Tim didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look away either.

Dick shook his head and sat down heavily in the chair by the computer. “Jason…” He paused, his voice softening just a little. “He was reckless. Stubborn. But he cared. People forget that. He used to pretend like he didn’t, but it always came through.”

Tim smiled faintly. “Yeah. I know.”

Dick looked at him for a long moment, and then said, “You’ll never be like him.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t said to hurt.

It was just true.

And Tim nodded. “I know.”

Dick watched him for a second longer, then looked away—just in time for the shrill ping of an alert slicing through the silence.

The Batcave’s lights shifted—red flashing along the edges of the ceiling, warning sirens low and pulsing.

Tim snapped his head toward the main screen.

Dick was already on his feet, reading the feed. His posture changed immediately—his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“What the hell—”

Heavy footsteps echoed from the back of the cave.

Bruce emerged from the shadows, cape swaying behind him, and crossed the floor in seconds. His expression was tight and focused, eyes glued to the incoming data on the monitor.

“What happened?” Tim asked quickly, stepping closer.

Bruce didn’t look at him. “Two-Face escaped police custody. During transport to Blackgate.”

Tim’s heart dropped. “How?”

“Gordon doesn’t know yet. The convoy was hit ten minutes ago outside the Narrows. Multiple casualties.”

“Anyone dead?” Dick asked, voice grim.

Bruce shook his head. “Three officers injured. No fatalities—yet.”

The monitor flicked to surveillance footage: a black van flipped on its side, police cruisers disabled, smoke still curling upward in the cold air. Then another angle: a blurry shot of Two-Face walking away from the wreckage in broad daylight, trench coat flapping behind him, gun in one hand, something clutched in the other.

Tim leaned closer. “That’s… a detonator.”

Dick cursed under his breath.

Bruce stepped back from the terminal, the shadows thick around him now. “He’s making a statement.”

“Another trap?” Tim asked.

Bruce’s eyes finally flicked to him, and something in his expression changed. Just for a second.

Tim didn’t flinch this time.

Bruce turned back toward the armor display wall—toward the Batsuit.

“We leave in five.”

Dick pulled on his suit with practiced ease. The familiar blue ‘V’ of the Nightwing symbol gleamed under the cold lights of the Batcave. He adjusted the gloves as he stepped behind Bruce, who was already standing by the Batcomputer, checking last-minute coordinates and camera feeds. The two stood side by side, silent but united by the looming threat that had returned to their city.

Tim took a step forward, heart pounding. “I’ll get my gear.”

Bruce didn’t turn around. “No.”

Tim stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Bruce finally turned to face him, the cowl in one hand. “You’re not coming.”

Tim stared. “But I helped track him. You said yourself that—”

“He’s too big a threat,” Bruce said, tone clipped, final. “You’re not ready for this. Not yet.”

“But I—”

“You’ll only slow us down.” The words landed like a blow.

Tim flinched, barely, but he caught it before it showed on his face. He stood a little straighter. “I can handle myself. I’ve been training—”

“This isn’t training,” Bruce cut in, voice like stone. “This is war. Go home.”

Dick said nothing. He didn’t look at Tim. Just secured the last piece of his suit and walked toward the Batmobile.

Tim stood frozen as the engine roared to life. The shadows of the cave danced across the walls, stretching with the pulse of red taillights as the Batmobile rolled toward the exit ramp. Bruce didn’t look back. Dick didn’t either.

Tim watched until they disappeared into the night.

Then he turned, slow and heavy, and started up the steps to the manor.

Wayne Manor was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came when all the ghosts were sleeping.

Tim stepped into the main hall, still in his all-black hoodie and boots, the domino mask tucked into his pocket. His breath still hadn’t completely leveled out. Every muscle in his body felt tight—tighter than after any sparring session. It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that came from running or fighting. It was the kind that settled deep in your chest and didn’t go away.

The warm smell of something sweet baking pulled him toward the kitchen.

Alfred stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, calmly whisking something in a large glass bowl. When he saw Tim in the doorway, he didn’t stop. He simply nodded toward the other stool.

“Master Timothy. Just in time.”

Tim blinked, confused. “Time for what?”

“To help.” Alfred gestured with the wooden spoon. “Lemon poppy seed muffins. You look like you could use one—or six.”

Tim gave a dry little chuckle but didn’t move.

“I can’t cook to save my life,” he said, slouching against the doorway. “Seriously. I’ve messed up cereal before.”

Alfred smiled faintly. “Good. This is baking, not cooking. Entirely different disciplines.”

Tim squinted. “Is that true?”

“Of course not. But you believed me, didn’t you?”

Tim snorted, and finally crossed the room to sit at the counter. “Manipulative.”

“Compassionate,” Alfred corrected with a small tilt of the head.

Tim picked up a measuring spoon and began scooping flour into a second bowl. “You’re the only person who makes this place feel normal.”

“That is a heavy burden to place on a man with limited cartilage in his knees.”

Tim cracked a smile at that, then stirred in silence for a while.

Alfred didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen like he always did: calm, efficient, precise. And eventually, the silence softened, stretched into something warm rather than empty.

Tim spoke first.

“Dick’s not happy about me being here.”

Alfred sighed gently, not surprised. “Master Richard has been… tense for quite some time. Master Jason’s death reopened wounds that never fully healed. And he and Master Bruce have never had what one would call a peaceful rapport.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. I know. Jason used to complain about their fights all the time.”

Alfred glanced over, expression fond. “Did he, now?”

“Yeah. He always pretended he didn’t care, but he did. He said their shouting matches were so loud he could hear them from his locked room, even with music blasting in his headphones.”

“That sounds… about right,” Alfred said, lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “There was a time when the manor felt too full, too loud. I find myself missing the noise.”

For a few minutes, they baked without talking. Tim sifted sugar. Alfred zested lemons. There was the occasional clatter of utensils, the sound of oven knobs turning, the quiet hum of the timer.

Alfred poured the batter into the muffin tins, and without looking up, said, “He was wrong, you know. About you slowing them down.”

Tim’s hands stilled.

“You’ve already proven more than once that you belong in this fight,” Alfred continued gently. “It’s simply taking some of us longer to admit it.”

Tim looked down at his flour-covered fingers. “I don’t need him to say it.”

Alfred glanced up. “But it would help, wouldn’t it?”

Tim didn’t answer.

The timer went off. Alfred took out a tray of golden muffins, the scent filling the kitchen like sunlight. He set them on the counter and handed Tim the first one.

Tim broke it in half, steam curling up from the center. He took a bite and blinked in surprise.

“Okay. That’s actually good.”

Alfred gave him a dry look. “Of course it is.”

They shared a quiet laugh, and for the first time that night, the weight on Tim’s chest lifted—just a little.

Outside, Gotham simmered. Danger loomed. Two-Face was back, and the city would need all the defenders it could get.

But for now, in the heart of Wayne Manor, there was warmth, and flour-dusted fingers, and lemon muffins.

And for a few minutes, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Two-Face’s escape.

Long, exhausting, and ultimately fruitless days.

Tim had stopped counting the hours he spent sitting in front of a screen or pacing through alleyways, hitting up every contact he had in Gotham. Kids in Crime Alley, street-level hustlers, and washed-up informants with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands—all of them said the same thing: they hadn’t seen a thing. Two-Face had vanished into the city like fog dissolving at dawn.

Even Barbara, who Tim had been working with almost every night online, digging through shell companies, hacked bank transfers, and shipments flagged for potential arms trafficking, had come up with nothing. Every lead withered in his hands.

And time was almost up.

The two weeks he had demanded—offered, really—were almost over, and what did he have to show for them? One major mission, sure. But since then, Bruce hadn’t let him leave the cave. No patrol. No fieldwork. Not even an overnight shadowing mission. And worse, Bruce wouldn’t say anything about it. Just silence. Orders. Training. Silence again.

Dick, for his part, didn’t help. If anything, he made everything worse.

The first few nights, Tim had thought that maybe the older vigilante was just cold with him out of some misplaced grief or suspicion. But now, multiple days in, it was clear that Dick just didn’t want him there. He pointed out flaws in Tim’s theories that weren’t really flaws at all—minuscule leaps of logic that had no bearing on the conclusions. When Tim solved a case faster than expected, Dick claimed he must’ve had help. When Tim put together a timeline, Dick would go through it looking for mistakes like he was grading a paper he wanted to fail.

And sparring…

Bruce had always been rough, never pulling punches unless it looked like Tim might actually break something. But ever since Two-Face escaped, and the tension between Bruce and Dick got more acidic, Bruce had been outright brutal. Tim left each session sore, bruised, and drenched in sweat. Still, he said nothing. Just bit down on the pain and pushed harder.

The only thing keeping him grounded through the whirlwind was Alfred.

Alfred, who waited with a pot of tea every time Tim limped back from training. Alfred, who would cut Dick off mid-sentence the second his corrections turned into insults. Alfred, who offered quiet encouragement and steady glances that said, You’re doing well. Don’t quit.

Also, the man seemed to have made it his personal mission to fatten Tim up like a holiday goose.

Every time Tim came to the manor, Alfred had something waiting for him—a sandwich, a plate of roast beef, even a full English breakfast at 9 PM. And though Tim liked to pretend he didn’t need it, the truth was… he was always hungry. Years of microwave noodles, vending machine dinners, and forgotten breakfasts had left his stomach with a short memory. But his body was starting to remember. To trust that there would be something warm waiting after the mission, or after the spar.

He didn’t say thank you often, but Alfred knew. He always knew.

Today, Tim rolled up to the manor earlier than usual, just as the clouds started bleeding into dusk. His legs ached from gym class, and his ribs still stung from a particularly mean jab Bruce had landed the night before. He’d barely gotten any sleep—his mind too busy replaying cold cases and what-ifs like an obsessive highlight reel. He walked up the familiar steps and entered the manor through the side door, slipping off his shoes before Alfred could remind him.

Wayne Manor had never felt so tense.

He tossed his hoodie onto the coat rack and made his way through the silent halls. The manor was as grand as ever, all towering ceilings and expensive silence, but lately the place had felt colder than usual, even if one more person was in it.

Tim took the shortcut through the old study and descended into the cave. The sound of angry voices reached him before he even made it halfway down the stairs.

Bruce and Dick.

Again.

Tim hesitated at the bottom step, just out of sight. Their voices echoed off the rocky walls, loud and sharp.

“You don’t have a plan,” Dick snapped, pacing in front of the Batcomputer. “You’re acting on impulse. That’s exactly what got Jason—”

Bruce slammed a gloved hand against the console, silencing him with a glare. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Tim’s heart clenched.

He waited a few more beats, then stepped out into the light.

“What’s going on?” he asked carefully.

Both men turned. Bruce looked like stone. Dick looked like he was ready to punch it.

“We have a lead on Two-Face,” Bruce said. “We’re heading out.”

“I want in,” Tim said immediately. “I’ve been training. I’ve been helping Barbara with intel. I’ve—”

“You’re not ready,” Bruce interrupted.

Tim frowned. “I know the case better than anyone. I’ve been the one sifting through surveillance, coordinating with Babs, questioning people in Crime Alley—”

“And that’s all helpful,” Dick cut in, arms crossed. “But this isn’t just a lead. It’s a competition. Harvey and Bruce have been at it for years. Trust me when I say I know how messy it gets. And you are not coming.”

“It’s not your call,” Tim said, glaring at Dick before turning back to Bruce. “Let me help.”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment. The silence stretched.

“You’re staying here. That’s final.”

Tim clenched his fists, trying not to explode. “Why? Because I don’t wear the right colors yet? Because I haven’t ‘earned’ it?”

“Because I won’t send another child to die, especially one who is still limping after every sparring session” Bruce growled. Then, quieter, “Stay in the cave.”

And just like that, they were gone.

Tim stood in the empty Batcave, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The Batmobile’s engine roared through the cave’s tunnels as it sped into the city, leaving him in the dim glow of the computer monitors and the hum of disappointment.

He didn’t move for a while. Then, He started pacing back and forth, the smooth floors of the bat cave were almost slippery under his gymnastics shoes, and the sound they made did nothing but make him even more anxious.Then he threw himself into the chair at the Batcomputer, fingers flying across the keyboard. He needed to see what they saw.
Maybe he could—

A new comm line lit up.

“—Tim, Alfred, can you hear me?”

It was Barbara. Her voice was clipped, urgent.

Tim clicked into the channel. “I’m here.”

“I’ve been monitoring Bruce and Dick’s tracker frequencies. Both just dropped off. Gone. No signal, no visuals. They were lured to the South Point Dry Docks, but the warehouse there wasn’t abandoned. I pulled up an old layout—there are gas mains all throughout the foundation. If they’re unconscious in there—”

“They’re going to get hurt badly,” Tim said, heart thudding.

Barbara didn’t deny it. “Yes. Unless someone gets to them fast.”

Alfred, who had just entered the cave carrying a tray of tea, paled and set it down slowly. “Good lord…”

“I’m going,” Tim said, already rising.

“Absolutely not,” Alfred snapped, louder than Tim had ever heard him. “Bruce said—”

“I don’t care what Bruce said!” Tim shouted back, eyes wide, chest heaving. “He’s wrong! He and Dick are out there, and they need help, and we both know I’m the only one left who can do anything about it.”

Alfred looked at him. Really looked. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed—but Tim could see the recognition in his eyes. He wasn’t speaking to a scared eleven year old, all nervous smiles and shaking hands. He was speaking to the boy who knew this city better than most. The boy who’d tracked Batman across rooftops for weeks. The boy who had saved lives.

Finally, Alfred exhaled slowly and walked to a locked cabinet behind the weapons wall.

“If you’re going,” he said, voice quieter, “then you need the proper tools.”

He keyed in a code, and the steel doors hissed open.

Inside was a mannequin draped in black and deep red—a variant of the Robin suit. Sleeker, made for shadows. Built for silence. No yellow, no cape. Tactical armor. Stealth tech woven into the very fibers of the fabric.

Tim stared.

“This isn’t…” he began.

“It’s not Jason’s,” Alfred said quickly, understanding. “It’s something Bruce began developing shortly after… well. After. A stealth field variant. Reinforced for urban infiltration.”

Tim stepped closer and touched the fabric. It felt cool, like the night itself.

He swallowed.

“This wasn’t how I imagined it. My first time in the suit.”

“No,” Alfred said. “It never is.”

Tim changed quickly, fingers fumbling only once. The armor felt heavier than he expected. Not in weight—but in meaning. In what it stood for. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the locker. The domino mask. The stylized red ‘R’. The gloves. The boy in the reflection looked so different from the one who used to crouch on rooftops with a camera and a dream.

He wasn’t Robin yet. Not officially. But he was something now.

As he climbed onto the Batcycle, Alfred came up beside him, holding out a compact comm piece.

“I’ll patch Barbara through. If anything goes wrong—anything—you turn around and come back. Understand?”

Tim nodded, then paused.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred gave him a tight nod. “Bring them home, Master Timothy.”

The Batcycle roared to life beneath him. The cave’s doors opened into the night.

And with one final breath, Tim Drake went into the night.

~~~

The Gotham City docks lay shrouded in a dense, oppressive fog, the kind that muffled sound and distorted shapes. The South Point Dry Docks, once bustling with maritime activity, now stood as decaying relics of a bygone era. Warehouses with broken windows and sagging roofs lined the waterfront, their skeletal frames casting eerie shadows under the dim glow of distant streetlights.

Tim Drake, clad in the stealth variant of the Robin suit—a sleek ensemble of matte black and deep crimson, devoid of the traditional cape—navigated his motorcycle through the labyrinthine alleys leading to the docks. The suit’s lightweight design allowed for maximum agility, and its reinforced armor provided essential protection without compromising movement. As he approached the designated warehouse, he parked the bike behind a stack of abandoned shipping containers, ensuring it remained concealed.

Dismounting, Tim activated the suit’s integrated communication system. “Oracle,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the harbor’s waters.

Barbara’s voice came through crisp but tight. “Still picking up no external signals from inside. He’s not broadcasting. Not jamming either. It’s like the building doesn’t exist.”

“Then I’m going in.”

“I don’t like this, Tim,” she said. “The trap was specifically designed for Bruce and Dick. You don’t even know what you’re walking into.”

“That’s why I’m going in.”

He stepped forward, boots silent on the cracked pavement. The metal door he approached was new. Reinforced hinges. Industrial lock, recently installed. Two-Face had put real effort into this place. He didn’t want anyone getting in—or out.

Tim produced a short blade from his belt and peeled back the casing on the lock’s wiring. Fingers worked quickly, guided by training and a whisper of instructions from Barbara. There—green wire to red port, pulse once, wait three seconds—

Click.

The door creaked open into thick, oily darkness.

Tim paused at the threshold. The smell hit him first: rust, oil, concrete soaked in something old and bitter. The warehouse beyond was silent in a way that felt intentional. Like it was holding its breath.

He stepped inside.

The darkness swallowed him. The visor adjusted automatically, switching to low-light mode. Everything turned grayscale, with outlines of walls and objects flickering faintly. The first hallway was narrow, the walls lined with strange metal piping that hadn’t been part of the original structure. They glinted in the faint light, covered in a thin, greasy residue. Each step Tim took echoed slightly, despite the soft soles of his boots.

Ahead, the corridor split. On the right, an open space—the remnants of old factory machinery. On the left, a winding passage that led deeper into the belly of the building.

“I’m going left,” Tim murmured.

“I’m tracking,” Barbara confirmed. “Be careful. I’ve just picked up a power source—small, steady current. Probably running through the hallway ahead. Could be sensors.”

“Got it.”

The corridor began to narrow. As he stepped forward, a faint red light flickered into view overhead. Then another. Then another. He froze.

Trip lasers.

The visor adjusted again. A lattice of red beams shimmered into focus, some horizontal, some vertical, some tilted just slightly—designed to catch someone assuming uniformity.

“Looks like a web,” he murmured.

“Can you bypass it?” Barbara asked.

Tim didn’t answer immediately. He moved instead, sinking into a crouch. With slow, measured grace, he stepped between the first two beams, holding his arms close, letting instinct and training guide him. A slight shift of weight here, a tiny duck of the head there. The next stretch forced him to flatten to the ground, sliding across the cold concrete on his stomach like a snake.

Every breath was measured. Every movement calculated. The suit’s fabric whispered against the floor. One wrong nudge, one misplaced foot, and the silent alarm would scream through the walls.

It took six minutes to get through. And Tim was short and skinny. He didn’t want to think how Bruce and Dick had managed to get through it, if they did at all.

Tim stood on the far end, heart thudding but steady, body trembling slightly with the adrenaline he wouldn’t admit was excitement.

“You’re through,” Barbara said quietly. “Good work.”

“Moving on.”

The next chamber he entered was massive—an old assembly floor once used for industrial machinery. Now it was rearranged. Tables had been overturned into barricades. Spotlights had been installed above, angled and clearly wired into motion sensors. A grid of tripplates was embedded into the floor like a minefield.

Tim didn’t step forward immediately. Instead, he climbed.

Using the shadows, he scaled the metal support beams that ran up the wall, grabbing onto rusted bolts and crossbeams. When he reached the top, he hooked his leg around a pipe and braced himself to crawl, spider-like, across the ceiling. Beneath him, the beams creaked ever so slightly, and he slowed his movements.

Down below, some kind of mechanized turret twitched once, as if testing its range of motion.

He didn’t breathe for five full seconds.

Once across, Tim dropped silently behind the final barricade and slipped into the service tunnel beyond.

The air grew thicker. Moist. The faint metallic tang of blood wafted from deeper in the building. Tim’s stomach clenched.

“Barbara,” he whispered. “You still there?”

“Loud and clear. Almost there, Tim. I’m tracking Bruce and Dick’s signals now—bioscans are weak, but stable.”

“How far?”

“Next room.”

Tim reached a heavy iron door, the kind that looked like it belonged in an old vault. Worn from age but freshly welded around the edges. A panel to the side glowed dimly, waiting for an input code. He looked it over, then knelt. The panel had been retrofitted sloppily—he popped off the casing and tapped into the wiring.

“Oracle?”

“I see it. There’s a lockout sequence—if you don’t get this right on the first try, it trips a lockdown. You’ve got about fifteen seconds to override it. Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

Guided by Barbara’s instructions, Tim fed a narrow cable from his gauntlet into the panel and began to type a custom override string. The lights flashed red once—then yellow—then green.

Hiss.

The lock released.

Tim stood, steadying himself, and pushed the door open.

The smell hit him instantly. Blood. Sweat. Burned metal.

Batman was bound to a massive, upright coin—an ironic nod to Two-Face’s obsession with duality. Heavy chains secured his wrists and ankles, and electrodes were attached to his temples, likely linked to some nefarious device. Nightwing was suspended upside-down from a complex pulley system, his body swaying gently, indicating he was either unconscious or barely conscious.

Two-Face stood at the center of this macabre stage, his scarred visage illuminated by the flickering flames of industrial torches. He paced methodically, flipping his signature coin, the metallic clink echoing through the vast space.

“Fate is a fickle mistress,” Two-Face mused aloud, his voice a gravelly blend of bitterness and amusement. “One side offers salvation,” he flipped the coin, catching it deftly, “the other, damnation.”

Tim’s mind raced. Direct confrontation was out of the question; the myriad traps ensured that. He needed a strategy, a way to neutralize the threats systematically.

He activated the suit’s augmented reality mode, causing the environment to be overlaid with data points. Motion sensors were marked in pulsing red, pressure plates in cautionary yellow, and the automated turrets in ominous purple. The complexity was staggering, a testament to Two-Face’s meticulous planning.

“Oracle,” Tim murmured, “I need control of those turrets.”

“I’m on it,” Barbara responded. “But it’ll take a few minutes to bypass their encryption.”

“Time we might not have,” Tim replied, noting Two-Face’s increasing agitation.

Descending silently onto a narrow steel beam, Tim began his approach. He moved with feline grace, every step calculated to avoid detection. Reaching the first motion sensor, he deployed a signal jammer, causing the device’s indicator light to dim—a temporary but necessary measure.

He repeated this process, weaving through the web of security measures, each success bolstering his confidence. As he neared the captives, Two-Face’s voice rang out, halting him mid-step.

“Justice is about balance,” the villain intoned, addressing the bound Batman. “But what happens when the scales are irrevocably tipped?”

Batman, ever the stoic, remained silent, his piercing gaze locked onto his captor.

Two-Face sneered. “No witty retort? No pearls of wisdom?”

Seizing the distraction, Tim closed the remaining distance to Nightwing. Producing a compact laser cutter from his utility belt, he began slicing through the ropes binding the man’s ankles.

Nightwing’s eyes fluttered open, disoriented but aware. Recognizing Tim, he offered a weak smile. “Took you long enough.”

Tim smirked. “Traffic was murder.”

As the final strand gave way, Nightwing dropped silently to the ground, Tim steadying him. “Can you move?” Tim inquired.

“Give me a sec,” Nightwing replied, shaking off the residual dizziness. “Focus on Bruce.”

Nodding, Tim turned his attention to Batman. The chains were formidable, but the real concern was the electrodes. Removing them without understanding their function could be disastrous.

“Oracle,” Tim whispered, “any insights on these devices attached to Batman?”

Barbara’s fingers flew over her keyboard, accessing schematics and cross-referencing data. “They’re linked to a biofeedback loop. Removing them improperly could trigger a fatal surge.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “Suggestions?”

“There’s a control panel near Two-Face. You’ll need to disable the system from there.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to the villain, who continued his monologue, oblivious to the unfolding rescue. “Of course there is,” Tim muttered.

Nightwing, now steadier, placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I’ll create a diversion. You get to that panel.”

Before Tim could protest, Nightwing grabbed a discarded metal pipe and hurled it across the room. The resulting clatter drew Two-Face’s attention.

“What?!” the villain snarled, spinning toward the noise.

Nightwing stepped into the dim light, arms raised in mock surrender. “Looking for me?”

Two-Face’s eyes narrowed. “You should be incapacitated.”

“Yeah, well,” Nightwing shrugged, “I’m full of surprises.”

With Two-Face’s focus diverted, Tim darted toward the control panel. The interface was archaic, a jumble of wires and switches. Trusting his instincts, he began the shutdown sequence.

Meanwhile, Two-Face advanced on Nightwing, coin dancing between his fingers. “Your luck has run out, Bird Boy.”

Nightwing smirked, feigning nonchalance. “Funny, I was about to say the same to you.”

Two-Face’s patience snapped. He raised a pistol, aiming directly at Nightwing’s chest. “Let’s see what fate decides.”

He flipped the coin.

Time seemed to slow. The coin spun, glinting in the dim light. As it reached its apex, a batarang whizzed through the air, striking the coin and sending it clattering to the ground.

Two-Face’s eyes widened in shock. “No!”

Batman, now free from his bonds, stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. “It’s over, Harvey.”

Two-Face’s gaze darted between the heroes, calculating his odds. With a guttural growl, he lunged at Batman like a coiled viper, fueled by desperation and chaos. The warehouse echoed with the screech of metal and boots slamming against concrete as the two men collided with brutal force. Batman met the charge head-on, lowering his center of gravity and grappling Harvey Dent mid-stride. They crashed into a stack of rusting oil drums, sending them clattering across the floor.

Two-Face was strong—stronger than he looked, madness lending him a savage edge—but Bruce had fought monsters with way more muscle and madness. He pivoted, striking with precise jabs aimed at pressure points. A blow to the shoulder. A jab to the ribs. A sweep that took Two-Face’s legs from under him.

But Harvey was nothing if not unpredictable.

As Batman moved to restrain him, Two-Face rolled, producing a small device from beneath his coat—a flashbang grenade. He jammed it into Batman’s chest with both hands, hissing, “Let’s even the odds!”

Bruce’s instincts kicked in, and he twisted away, but the device activated with a sharp crack. Light exploded, searing and deafening.

Batman staggered, momentarily blind, reeling backward as Two-Face surged toward him with a length of broken rebar in hand, jagged and rusting. He raised it above his head, ready to strike.

From the scaffolding above, Tim saw the weapon gleam in the flickering torchlight. His heart froze.

“Behind you!” he shouted, voice cracking through the chaos. “Bruce—he’s got a rebar!”

Batman didn’t hesitate.

Even in the disorienting aftermath of the flashbang, Tim’s warning gave him the extra second he needed. He ducked under the swing, feeling the air slice above his head. The rebar crashed against the ground with a metallic clang that echoed like thunder.

Recovering in a blink, Batman drove his fist into Two-Face’s gut, then spun and elbowed him across the jaw. Harvey stumbled back, dazed.

“You always cheat,” Two-Face growled, blood in his mouth.

“I don’t play games,” Bruce replied coldly, before sending one final punch straight to Harvey’s face. The man crumpled like a rag doll.

Silence fell.

Tim remained frozen on the catwalk, his chest heaving, his ears still ringing from the blast. Bruce stood over Dent, breathing heavily, the rebar lying at his feet. Nightwing approached from the far end of the warehouse, now recovered, and looked at the scene with tight-lipped relief.

He glanced up and saw Tim still lingering on the scaffolding. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning with a tilt of his head.

Tim hesitated, watching Bruce silently cuff Harvey with reinforced restraints. He swallowed and followed Dick down the metal steps.

Outside, the flashing red and blue lights of GCPD patrol cars lit up the docks like a carnival. Sirens wailed as officers poured in, securing the perimeter. Two-Face was dragged away, now unconscious, by a team of cops wearing reinforced armor, their expressions grim. A stretcher was being prepped nearby, just in case.

As Dent was loaded into the back of a reinforced police van, Batman walked over to the nearest officer—one Tim recognized as Montoya.

“Make sure he doesn’t escape this time,” Bruce said, his voice a low command. “He got out once. That’s on you. Don’t let it happen again.”

Montoya nodded, solemn. “We won’t, Batman. You have my word.”

Dick gave Bruce a glance but said nothing, simply resting a hand on Tim’s shoulder as the three of them watched the van pull away into the Gotham night, the sounds of chaos slowly fading behind it.

~~~

The ride back was silent, but it wasn’t the same kind of silence that had followed Tim and Bruce’s others car rides. This one felt… softer. There wasn’t tension crackling in the air, no unsaid arguments waiting to explode. Just quiet. Maybe a little heavy, but not unbearable. The kind of silence that meant something had changed—subtly, but deeply.

Tim sat stiffly at first, body still humming from the adrenaline crash, but then he felt it—an arm draping around his shoulders. He looked sideways, just slightly, and saw Dick sitting next to him in the backseat of the black vehicle. His arm wasn’t tight or clingy—just there, steady, warm.

Part of Tim bristled out of instinct. Affection like this wasn’t something he was used to. But the other part—the quieter, hungrier part of him that had gone without genuine human comfort for so long—melted into it.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Dick.

But the older boy gave his shoulder a brief squeeze, almost like he knew.

And for the first time since donning the stealth suit, Tim allowed himself a breath he didn’t have to measure.

The cave was dim, shadows long across the stone floor as they arrived. The Batcomputer cast a soft glow against the far wall, monitors still flickering with feeds and data from the night’s mission. Alfred was already at the foot of the stairs, a tea tray balanced in one hand, but his usual formal stance had a spark of something more— approval, maybe.

He didn’t wait for an explanation.

He just looked at Tim with a knowing smile, the corners of his eyes creasing.

“Master Tim,” Alfred said, a hint of warmth tucked beneath the impeccable British tone, “thank you for taking them back home safe.”

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce—who had already tossed his cowl to the side and was halfway to the equipment lockers—grunted low and sharp.

“We’ll talk later,” he said without turning around. His voice was hoarse, tired, but not angry. Just… distant.

“Now go shower.”

There was no room for argument in his voice. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like dismissal.

It felt like acknowledgment.

Tim was back from the showers as soon as humanly possible, towel still hanging around his neck, hair damp and sticking up at odd angles. The stealth suit had been neatly folded and left on a bench in the locker area—he was already aching to have it back on already. Or at least, a version of the suit that was truly his.

He padded into the main part of the cave and found Alfred by the med station, carefully laying out fresh supplies and gauze. The butler glanced up, and something soft flickered in his expression.

“Feeling more human, Master Tim?”

Tim gave a tired smile and dropped onto a stool nearby, rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah. Mostly.”
There was a pause, quiet but comfortable. Then—
“Why did you give me the suit, when you always told me you would prefer if I just went home?”

Alfred didn’t look up right away. He carefully capped a bottle of antiseptic, then finally met Tim’s gaze.

“Because I’ve gotten to know you,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Even if only for a short while.”

Tim blinked, not sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t… that.

“And?”

Alfred stepped around the counter, folding his hands in front of him.

“And I can see it now—clear as day. You’re just like the others. Just like Master Dick, just like Master Jason. The same fire. The same determination. If I sent you home, truly home, do you know what you’d do?”

Tim swallowed, already knowing the answer.

Alfred gave a faint smile. “You’d be out there. In the shadows. In the alleys. Looking for danger before it could find anyone else.”
He paused. “With or without the Bat’s approval. Or help.”

Tim didn’t argue. Because it was true.

“So,” Alfred continued, reaching over to gently press a hand to Tim’s shoulder, “I’d much rather keep you here. Under watch. With someone making sure you eat more than dry cereal and vending machine dinners. With a proper supply chain. A comm link. And, when necessary…”

He squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“A mentor.”

Tim looked at him, and for a second, didn’t know what to say. But he didn’t need to.

Alfred gave a small nod, and then his expression shifted back to professional efficiency.

“Now then, if you’ll excuse me—Master Bruce and Master Dick are likely pretending not to bleed.”
He picked up the tray of supplies and moved off toward the medical bay, shoes soft against the stone floor.

Tim sat there, a little stunned, a little warm.

And, for the first time in years, not alone.

Soon enough, the others emerged from the far side of the Batcave—Dick, limping slightly but still composed, Alfred at his side with a medkit tucked under one arm, and Bruce… walking with purpose. Toward him.

Tim’s heart hammered in his chest. This was it.

The moment everything he’d been working toward—plotting for, training for, sacrificing for—either fell into place or shattered entirely. If Bruce said no… if Bruce told him to go home for good… then Tim would simply have to find another way. Another angle. Another plan.

But he didn’t want to. For the first time, he didn’t want to fight the current. He wanted this. He wanted to be Robin.

Bruce stopped in front of him, silent. The air in the cave felt dense. Tim held his breath.

Then Bruce finally spoke, voice low and hard:
“If I thought that sending you home would mean you’d never cross Gotham streets again, I would do it immediately, Tim.”
A pause.
“But I know that isn’t the case.”

Tim’s fingers clenched at his sides.

“What you did today was…” Bruce’s jaw tightened, as though the words pained him, “passable. For a Robin.”

Before Tim could even process what that meant, Alfred stepped forward, expression level but warm.
“Master Bruce, you should thank heaven Timothy helped free you.”
He turned slightly, addressing Dick, who stood watching in silence.
“Surely, you and Master Dick would have managed in time, but I daresay with more damage done—and considerably more injuries sustained. Timothy’s instincts for detective work are astounding, and his acrobatic ability is quite remarkable.”
Then Alfred added, with a note of pride, “And while I may not have seen it firsthand, I would wager that the boy is more silent than even you, Master Bruce.”

That earned a flicker of something from Bruce—surprise, maybe even reluctant curiosity.

But then his brows furrowed, and his voice turned sharp.
“Alfred… what are you trying to do?”
His tone rose, edged in pain.
“One boy died wearing that costume. We said— I said—I’d never take that risk again.”

That was when Tim finally stepped forward.

“I’ve already told you, Bruce.”
His voice didn’t shake, though his stomach twisted with nerves.
“I’m going to be Robin. With or without your approval.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Batman doesn’t need a Robin.”

“And there’s no need for there to be a Batman, either,” Alfred added quietly.

Tim took a deep breath, then another. His voice came soft but sure.

“Bruce… ever since Jason died, you’ve been crueler. Harsher. I know you haven’t crossed your line, not yet, but… you’ve gotten close. Too close.”
He took a step toward Bruce, eyes meeting his squarely.
“You’re reckless. You don’t slow down anymore. You charge into things like you want something to hit back. And how many times have you been hurt in the last few months?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“You need someone there,” Tim continued, “someone who can make you stop. Think. Ask: what happens next? What’s the cost? Not for you—but for the people you protect. For the ones who still believe in Batman.”
His voice steadied even more as he said the next part.
“The people of Gotham don’t just need a warrior. They need a symbol. Something to believe in. That’s what Robin is. That’s what Batman is. And you’re not the only one who carries that weight. When a police officer is killed, another takes their place. Because justice doesn’t end when someone dies.”

A silence fell then, thick and taut as wire. Tim could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Batman needs a Robin,” he said again. “Even if you don’t think you want one.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, finally, Bruce exhaled. A long, tired sound.

He turned his face away for a second, just a heartbeat—and when he looked back, the decision was made.

“Very well, then.”
His voice was low, unreadable.
“The mantle is yours.”

And with that, Bruce turned on his heel and stormed deeper into the cave, disappearing into shadow.

Tim stood frozen.

He’d done it. After everything—he had done it.

He was Robin. Really, truly Robin.

A grin broke across his face, sudden and almost disbelieving. He caught Alfred’s gaze across the cave. The old butler gave him the smallest of nods.

From behind him, Dick let out a quiet, almost amused huff of air.

“Guess I better go dig out the spare training gear,” he muttered.

And Tim Drake—now Robin—let out a breath he’d been holding for years.

~~~

The cave had gone quiet again, the whirring machinery dimmed, the hum of the Batcomputer reduced to background noise. Tim and Alfred had just finished putting the last of the medical supplies back into place when Tim grabbed his jacket, preparing to head out. He was halfway to the stairs when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Hey,” Dick called.

Tim stopped, turning to see Dick standing by the med bay, arms crossed, a hesitant look on his face.

“I wanted to say something before you go.”

Tim nodded, waiting.

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks. For saving us. I mean, really. You didn’t have to come running into a deathtrap like that. But you did.”

Tim shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I figured someone had to.”

Dick let out a quiet laugh. Then his expression sobered. “And… I’m sorry.”

That caught Tim off guard.

Dick went on, his voice quieter now. “For the way I’ve treated you these past weeks. I was… angry. Scared, honestly. I thought Bruce was trying to replace Jason with you, and I just—” He cut himself off, exhaling hard. “I didn’t want to watch that happen again. But I see it now. That’s not what this is.”

Tim nodded slowly. “Jason told me. About how when he first came around, you thought Bruce was trying to replace you as well.”

Dick looked down, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. I thought that. I was hurt, and petty, and too wrapped up in myself to see that Jason was just a kid who needed a home. I didn’t step up when I should have.” He looked up again. “I don’t want to make that mistake twice.”

Tim hesitated, then said, “Bruce and I… we have an agreement. I’m not trying to be Jason. Or you. Or a Wayne. I’ve got my own family.” His voice was firm. “Even if I’m Robin, I’m not going to be a part of your family.”

Dick was quiet for a moment, just studying him. Then he smiled, soft and genuine. “Tim… it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter what you and Bruce are, or aren’t.”

He took a step forward.

“You’re Robin. And Nightwing and Robin? We’re brothers. Always.”

Tim’s breath caught. Something warm and overwhelming bloomed in his chest—acceptance, belonging, something he hadn’t dared hope for. Not from Dick.

“I… thanks,” he said, voice small.

Dick grinned and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I’m heading back to Blüdhaven in a couple of hours. But this weekend, you’re coming down. We’ll hang out. Get some food, beat up a mugger or two. No Bruce.”

Tim blinked, then laughed. “Deal.”

They started to part, but then Tim awkwardly extended his hand for a shake.

Dick looked at it, rolled his eyes, and pulled Tim into a full-body hug.

Tim stiffened for a second, unsure, and then melted into it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him like that. Maybe never.

He felt like the happiest he’d ever been.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Bruce handed him the mantle of Robin, and Tim was still riding the high of it.

Well— mostly . Not everything was perfect. Bruce hadn’t suddenly turned into the warm mentor Tim sometimes imagined during sleepless nights. If anything, he was still colder than Gotham rooftops in December, barking orders and pushing Tim to his limits during training, and barely speaking a word beyond necessary commands during patrols. But that didn’t matter—not really . Because he had the right to be on the rooftops, to move through the alleys, to walk alongside Batman.

And Tim had his own suit now.

It was the suit he had imagined for himself—the one he’d designed in notebooks late at night, half-daydreaming, half-strategizing. But now…now it was real.

The torso was a deep crimson, tight across his chest and shoulders, broken only by the black side panels and the unmistakable yellow “R” on his left breast—subtle, but proud. The green armored pads on his shoulders were sleek, functional, with just enough color to honor the legacy without compromising stealth. It wasn’t the circus-bright costume of Dick’s era, or the brawler-ready gear Jason had tried to make his own. It was tactical. Clean. Modern. And it was his —for now, at least.

Black pants molded to his legs, reinforced at the knees and shins, matte but flexible. The green of his gloves and boots had a metallic sheen under the light, like emerald steel. His gauntlets were fitted with thin ridges—grapnel hooks, throwing compartments, pressure triggers. Alfred hadn’t skimped on tech.

And then there was the cape. Yellow on the inside, black on the out, draped down like a shadow caught in mid-movement. It swayed slightly with each breath he took, a soft whisper of fabric that felt heavier than it looked.

The mask—it still felt a little strange. It clung just above his cheekbones, wrapping behind his ears, perfectly molded. It narrowed his vision just a bit, but it focused him too.  And of course the utility belt. That same bold gold, clipped around his waist, pouches perfectly spaced, filled with gear Bruce had insisted he memorize.

He was Robin.

And nothing, not even Bruce’s signature gruff silence, could take that away from him.

The city had been quiet—suspiciously so, honestly. A few muggings, some breaking and entering, a scattered gang scuffle or two, but no big players making waves. For now, it seemed like Gotham was holding its breath.

Tim, meanwhile, was getting the hang of it. The patrols, the routine, the fights—at least the smaller ones. He still hadn’t faced anything remotely close to what Bruce and Dick had taken on in their early days, but every time he took down a mugger, stopped a car theft, or helped someone lost in Crime Alley get home safe, he felt like he belonged just a little more.

The only thing that threw him off was moving without a camera. He’d been documenting Gotham for so long—from rooftops, street corners, fire escapes, pressed flat against cold brick in the shadows—that he felt almost naked without his lens. On one of their rare mid-patrol conversations, he’d offhandedly mentioned it to Bruce.

“Try a bo staff,” the man had said, without even looking his way.

That was it.

Tim had gone home, spent hours reading up on bo staff techniques, watching martial arts videos, even pulling out old fight footage from Nightwing and Jason. Then he begged Alfred to clear a section of the cave for practice, and he’d been training ever since. His arms ached, but the motion was starting to feel natural. It wouldn’t replace his camera, but maybe it could become just as much a part of him.

What Tim hadn’t been expecting, though, was Gotham’s reaction to him.

He remembered what it was like when Jason had first taken up the mantle. The city hadn’t accepted him—not at first. People muttered about how the “new Robin” was too brash, too outgoing, not like the real one. And though Jason had never let it show (not often, at least), Tim had seen it gnaw at him, especially in the early days.

But with him —Tim—it was different. People were ready this time.

Maybe it was the guilt. The knowledge, even if unspoken, that the last Robin hadn’t just left . That he’d been killed. It wasn’t official, but it didn’t need to be—Gotham always knew . Rumors and whispers filled the cracks official reports left behind.

And Gotham wasn’t about to let that happen again.

Tim first noticed it a few nights in, when he’d stopped a mugger in the Narrows and the victim, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, had grabbed his hands after and said, “You’re just a kid. Please be careful out here, okay?”

Another time, during a car chase down Crown Street, a few bystanders had actually thrown trash cans and crates into the street to slow down the getaway vehicle— helping him. Helping Robin .

Even the thugs were acting weird. One night he dropped in on a couple of guys ransacking a convenience store, and they straight-up raised their hands before he even landed. “Nah, man,” one of them had said, backing away, “we ain’t touching the kid. You hear what happened to the last one?”

Another actually muttered “stay safe” as they cuffed themselves.

It was… bizarre. Sweet. Kinda unsettling. But mostly, Tim was just trying to soak it in while it lasted.

Because it wouldn’t last. Not in Gotham.

Eventually, someone would test him. Someone would stop seeing him as a kid in need of protection, and start seeing him as the threat he was trying to be. But until then?

He’d enjoy this strange little window of being Gotham’s beloved Robin. The city had lost its last symbol of innocence, and now it was doing everything it could to preserve the new one.

Even if that symbol wasn’t perfect. Even if it was still figuring out how to spin a bo staff and land cleanly on its feet. Even if he still flinched a little when Bruce raised his voice.

But he had to admit—being Robin wasn’t all rooftop thrills and adrenaline-fueled nights. It came with a cost, one that wasn’t written into any handbook. One that tugged at him even now, under the proud weight of the “R” on his chest.

Because Tim Drake , the kid with a camera and too much time in the alleys, had disappeared.

He hadn’t had time to visit the people who used to know him—not by name, but by presence. By what he did for them when no one else would. He had built a web over the years, one thread at a time, across every forgotten corner of Gotham.

Crime Alley had always been his starting point. The air was thicker there, likely because it was the residential part of Gotham closer to the industrial district, and the streets were almost always dirty and covered in various liquids that Tim never questioned. But Tim liked it, and in the years had started knowing many people in the Alley. Especially between the younger kids an teenagers: Tim had found a loose-knit group of street kids who had started recognizing him. They’d seen him slink between buildings, balancing on crumbling rooftops with a camera slung across his chest, keeping watch like a ghost. He’d never spoken directly to them at first—just left things behind. Food. Old phones. Schoolbooks. Then, slowly, he intervened more. Found ways to push the right forms into the right hands, gave tips to the right shelters. Made deals he could keep. One by one, he helped them find foster homes, real education, second chances. And they knew. They knew it was him. They were fiercely loyal now, like a dozen siblings spread out through Gotham’s cracks. But Tim didn’t just go around Crime Alley.

In East End, there was Mari , an older woman who ran a tiny diner that barely stayed open through the years. She didn’t ask questions when Tim left her extra cash after closing, or when he passed along lists of suspicious deliveries to report. She just smiled at him and always had a hot chocolate ready, even when he didn’t order it.

In the Narrows, Keela , a former streetwalker, had taken it upon herself to look after others when she got out of the life. Tim helped her secure the building she turned into a halfway home. Brought donated furniture when he could, made sure no thugs lingered around the girls on bad nights. She called him Scout , said he moved like someone searching for a better world.

There was Gordo , a grizzled mechanic from The Cauldron who let Tim use his garage as a crash spot more than once. Gordo said nothing when tools disappeared or when Tim asked too many questions about shady clients. In return, Tim made sure Gordo’s missing parts were replaced, even when Gordo hadn’t asked.

Downtown, there was a once-beautiful bookstore called Ash & Quill , run by a blind woman named Mrs. Holloway , who believed someone was keeping her accounts from being buried. Tim had gotten the paperwork right under the noses of gentrifying landlords. She said her guardian angel wore sneakers and smelled faintly of camera film.

These were just some of the people Tim had met through the years.

He had built something. Not a network. Not really. More like… a heartbeat of the city. Quiet. Steady. His.

And now that he was Robin… that part of him had to fade. His face couldn’t risk being recognized. His presence would be noticed.

But Tim couldn’t just leave.

So he was planning it— one last outing . A quiet, winding path across Gotham. No cape. No mask. Just him, and maybe a backpack full of goodbye letters and hand-delivered gestures. An explanation that would never say the word “Robin,” but might give them peace.

He owed them that much. Maybe more.

After all, the city may have gained a new symbol in Robin—but it was losing one too. And Tim Drake didn’t want to become a ghost in the lives he’d helped mend.

Not without saying goodbye.

But that outing would have to wait a bit longer.

Tim’s schedule had become a constant blur—school during the day, patrols at night, training, research, patching up bruises, catching sleep in broken intervals. His life wasn’t his own anymore, and although he didn’t exactly mind , not everyone around him shared that sentiment.

Especially not Stephanie Brown.

She dropped into the seat beside him with all the energy of a human hurricane, flinging her backpack onto the table with a dramatic groan. “Okay, I swear, if the Principal adds one more hallway camera, I’m just gonna start wearing a mask to class on principle.”

Tim glanced sideways, smirking. “That might not help your whole ‘stealth leader of the anti-surveillance student movement’ vibe.”

“Pfft, please,” Steph said, already digging into her binder. “It’d make me a legend. Anyway , I need you to start showing up. This revolution’s got, like, six people right now. Two of them think Bigfoot is real and one tried to unionize the cafeteria workers without actually asking them first.”

Tim’s smile faltered just slightly as he looked down at his notes, then back up. “Steph…”

“Nope,” she said quickly, not even letting him finish. “Don’t you ‘Steph’ me, Tim Drake. You’ve bailed three times this week. I don’t even know what you’re doing after school anymore. It’s like you vanish.”

Tim hesitated. His pencil spun slowly between his fingers. “I’ve just… had some family stuff. Kind of intense. And it’s not gonna stop. Not for a while.”

Steph gave him a look, arms crossed. “Okay. You’re allowed to have your secret mysterious life or whatever. But next week—next week you’re mine. Revolution planning. Posters. Maybe a dramatic student council confrontation.”

Tim laughed softly. “Deal. Next week, I’m all yours.”

“That’s more like it,” she grinned, satisfied. Then she jabbed his side with her elbow. “Now—entertain me, human database. 1815.”

“Congress of Vienna. Napoleon’s exile. Restoration of monarchies in Europe.”

“1969?”

“Moon landing. Woodstock. Nixon’s presidency starts.”

“Okay, showoff—1974.”

“Watergate scandal. Nixon resigns. Dungeons & Dragons first published.”

Steph whistled low. “I don’t know how your brain isn’t constantly overheating.”

Tim shrugged, almost shy. “Perks of the photographic memory. It’s… useful.”

They kept at it for the rest of the class—Steph lobbing random years, Tim catching them with clean precision. For a while, it felt normal. Easy.

But as the final bell neared, Tim’s fingers started tapping restlessly against the desk.

Because today was different.

Dick was picking him up. Dick Grayson. And they had plans.

“Bonding time,” as he’d called it.

Tim wasn’t sure what that meant. Video games? Patrol? Awkward silences? Or worse—heartfelt speeches?

He tried to hide the tension in his shoulders as he packed up his stuff. Steph didn’t miss it.

“Hey,” she said softly, bumping his arm. “Whatever’s waiting for you out there… it’s gonna be okay.”

He managed a grateful smile, shouldering his bag. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Tim really had no idea what to expect from Dick Grayson.

One Year Ago

Gotham was freezing, the kind of December night that clawed through every layer of clothing and settled in your bones. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, coating the rooftops and sidewalks in a thin layer of slush. The streetlights glowed hazy through the fog of winter, and the city had its usual mixture of distant sirens, sputtering cars, and the occasional bellow of someone arguing in a back alley.

And yet, Tim Drake was walking through the Bowery with a chocolate-dipped vanilla cone in his gloved hand, quietly contemplating his life choices.

“I still don’t get it,” he said, eyes narrowed as he took a reluctant lick. “It’s December. Why ice cream?”

Jason Todd, beside him, snorted and gestured with his own melting cone like it was gospel. “Because, young padawan, ice cream is not seasonal. Ice cream is eternal. Ice cream is the Force.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “That’s not how the Force works.”

Jason grinned around his bite, chocolate smudged at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe not. But Obi-Wan would agree with me.”

That, of course, was the spark that lit the latest in a long string of debates between them. Star Wars had become neutral ground—something they could geek out over without any of the Wayne baggage, without masks or missions or Bruce looming like a stormcloud.

“They’re clearly in a parental dynamic,” Tim insisted, gesturing animatedly with his cone. “Obi-Wan was like a father to Anakin. He raised him.”

Jason scoffed. “Okay, first of all—Obi-Wan literally says he failed him as a brother , not a dad. Second, your take is weak. Probably because your parents suck.”

Tim froze mid-step.

Jason didn’t even realize it at first. He kept walking, licking his cone, until he noticed the silence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

Tim was standing still, his expression shuttered. “That’s not fair.”

Jason’s smirk faded. “T—”

“No, seriously. That’s not fair.” Tim’s voice was tight. “You don’t get to say that just because I think Obi-Wan is a father figure .”

Jason turned, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Okay, okay, bad joke. My bad.”

Tim was still tense, fists clenched even around his cone. “I’m an only child, yeah. But if I did have a sibling… I’d know what it’s like. I’ve seen it. You and Dick? You bicker all the time, sure. But there’s still something there. Obi-Wan and Anakin fight, they fall apart—there’s that tension…. It’s messy. Complicated. Definitely parental.”

Jason blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Look at you. Pulling out the big words.”

Tim shrugged, his cheeks red—and not just from the cold. “Shut up, it’s not like you are an expert just cause you have an older brother.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what is means” Jason said while grinning down at Tim.

“Must be kind of cool,” Tim added quietly, “having Dick as a brother.”

Jason huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah. Cool and infuriating . Guy’s perfect most of the time. And when he’s not, he still thinks he is.”

Tim smiled at that.

Jason kept walking for a moment before continuing, this time more thoughtful. “When I first came into the manor, Dick and I couldn’t stand each other. I thought he looked down on me. Maybe he did. But after a while… I started getting it. He was just scared. Scared Bruce was trying to replace him.”

Tim nodded. “I kinda see that.”

“Yeah?” Jason glanced sideways at him.

They walked for a bit in silence after that, the snow crunching beneath their boots. Jason leaned a little closer, nudging him with a shoulder.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “when we first met, I couldn’t stand you.”

“Believe me, I noticed.”

Jason chuckled. “Thought you were this nosy little trust-found kid who thought he knew everything.”

“Well,” Tim smirked, “you weren’t wrong.”

“But you did prove me wrong, didn’t you?” Jason said, more serious now. “You’re annoying as hell sometimes, but… you’ve got guts. You do the work. You care. And despite all your weird photo-surveillance and encyclopedic memory of Wayne Enterprises quarterly meetings… you kinda grow on people.”

Tim raised a brow. “Was that a compliment? Are you okay?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “My point is… I used to think I didn’t want a brother. Now I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have two.”

Tim’s breath caught. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at the sidewalk, his fingers tightening slightly around his ice cream cone.

The night felt colder again, but Jason’s arm—slung casually across Tim’s shoulders—was warm. Grounding. Even as Jason rambled on about how terrible the prequels were and how Darth Maul was underrated, Tim didn’t stop him.

He just walked beside him, matching his stride, letting that quiet warmth settle into his chest.

And even though he didn’t say it out loud, part of him thought:

Maybe I could have a brother.

Now

The purr of the engine hit first—low, smooth, and unmistakably expensive. Tim turned just in time to see the sleek, obsidian Aston Martin pulling up to the curb in front of his school, the kind of car that looked more at home in a spy film than in front of Gotham Academy.

The tinted window rolled down, and Dick leaned over the steering wheel, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You getting in, or do I have to pop the ejector seat?”

Tim blinked, then hurried to the passenger door, trying to hide his amazement. “This thing is ridiculous.”

“Bruce gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday,” Dick said, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Had to get my license the next day just to drive it legally.”

Tim slid into the passenger seat, immediately engulfed in buttery leather and the clean, expensive scent of polish and just a hint of pine. “He gave you an Aston Martin when you turned sixteen? I thought Bruce’s love language was just a scowl each time he looks at you.”

Dick laughed as he eased the car away from the curb and into the stream of Gotham traffic. “Hey, don’t knock the scowl. That’s, like, actually his main love language.”

They drove in companionable silence for a few blocks, then Dick asked, “So… one week in. How’s it feel? Being Robin.”

Tim took a deep breath, still a little surprised that it was real. “Honestly? Amazing. I mean, I know it’s dangerous and kind of insane, and Bruce is the worst to work with sometimes—but still… when I’m out there, when it’s just me and the city, it feels right. Like I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.”

Dick smiled at that. “Yeah. I remember that feeling. There’s something kind of addicting about it, isn’t there? The cape. The mission. That moment where you step out of the shadows and people know they’re safe.”

“Exactly,” Tim nodded. “Even when it’s quiet, like this past week… petty thefts, gangs roughing people up, the usual Gotham chaos—it still feels like it matters. Even if Bruce doesn’t always say it.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “He being his usual grumpy self?”

“Grumpier than usual, even,” Tim said, making a face. “He’s still cold. Demanding. We barely talk, and when we do it’s usually about what I did wrong. But… I dunno. I think he’s still afraid. About what happened to Jason.”

Dick’s smile faded slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. I get that. He doesn’t know how to grieve in a healthy way. Never did. But give him time. He’ll come around. He always does… in his own way.”

Tim looked out the window for a moment, watching Gotham blur by before the buildings started thinning. “I hope so.”

They drove on in silence for a beat, until Dick glanced sideways and grinned again. “Alright. Enough about the cape and cowl. How’s civilian life? School? Friends?”

“Well,” Tim smirked, “me and a friend—Stephanie—are planning a revolution.”

Dick blinked. “A what now?”

“A school revolution,” Tim clarified. “Mostly in protest of our cafeteria’s fascist seating rules and the ridiculous dress code. Steph’s idea, but I’m apparently her co-conspirator.”

Dick laughed so hard he nearly missed the exit. “You’re telling me Robin’s fighting injustice and the tyranny of high school dress codes? Truly a double life.”

“I aim for balance.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly from there—stories about teachers, weird classmates, the occasional prank Stephanie pulled off that left Tim simultaneously mortified and impressed. They laughed, joked, argued about movies and favorite gadgets. Dick shared some stories about his own early days as Robin—chasing down purse snatchers, falling through a skylight during a stakeout, Bruce grunting his approval when he made a gala end early.

By the time they crossed into Blüdhaven city limits nearly two hours later, Tim was surprised to realize how easy it had been. How natural. For all the legacy and weight behind the Robin mantle, sitting in that car with Dick felt… light.

Like maybe, just maybe, he really was part of something. Part of a family, at least with Dick.

Dick pulled into a small, unassuming parking lot tucked between two faded apartment buildings. Tim blinked, adjusting in his seat as he looked up at the modest brick structure. “Wait… this is it?”

Dick smirked as he cut the engine. “Not what you expected, huh?”

Tim shook his head slightly. “I dunno. I mean, you’re Nightwing . I figured… penthouse, rooftop access, maybe a Batmobile-shaped jacuzzi.”

That earned a laugh. “Please, that’s Bruce’s vibe, not mine. Besides, I like keeping it simple.” He opened the door and stepped out, tossing Tim a casual glance over the roof. “I do have the top floor, though. Perks of being the only tenant willing to hike six flights of stairs every day.”

“There’s no elevator?” Tim groaned as he got out.

“None,” Dick said cheerfully, already heading for the front entrance. “Consider it tonight’s warm-up.”

Tim dragged his feet slightly behind him as they started the climb. About halfway up, he considered just going full Robin and parkouring the rest of the way to save the effort. But he trudged on, determined not to look like a total wimp. By the time they finally reached the sixth floor, Tim was red-faced, a little sweaty, and trying not to wheeze. “This building is huge ,” he muttered.

Dick glanced back with a grin. “Come on, you survived an encounter with Two-Face, but six flights is what takes you out?”

“I didn’t say I was dying, ” Tim huffed. “Just… appreciating oxygen. A lot.”

Dick chuckled and unlocked the door at the very end of the hallway, pushing it open and stepping aside to let Tim in first. “Welcome to my fortress of solitude.”

Tim stepped inside and took it in.

The apartment was… kind of a mess. Not in a gross way, but in the way that suggested someone who lived fully and often forgot where they’d left their keys or laundry. There were dishes in the sink, a pair of running shoes kicked off near the door, stacks of comic books and training manuals spread across the coffee table, and one too many mugs with some variation of “World’s Okayest Gymnast” printed on them.

But it was also warm. Cozy. The soft glow of amber lighting cast a golden hue on the mismatched but well-loved furniture. There were a few framed pictures on the walls—some of the Flying Graysons, some of him and Bruce back in the early days, and one of him and Wally West mid-laugh, arms flung around each other’s shoulders. A few more sat crookedly on a bookshelf: one of Dick and Donna, one of the Titans all piled together on a beach, and even one with Dick, Bruce, Alfred, and a younger Jason all pretending not to smile at the camera.

Tim let out a small, honest smile. “I love it.”

Dick blinked, mid-way through tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. “Really? I mean, sorry about the mess. I haven’t exactly had time to do a proper clean-up.”

“No, I mean it,” Tim said, stepping further into the space and glancing around. “It’s got personality. Feels… real. Lived-in. Like someone actually lives here. That’s kind of rare for people in the vigilante business.”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck and smiled. “Thanks. I guess I’ve never been into all that Wayne Manor formality. It’s nice to have a place that’s actually mine, you know?”

Tim nodded, settling onto the arm of the couch. “Makes sense. It’s just… cool. You have a life here. Not just the superhero thing, but, like, a real life.”

“Don’t let Bruce hear you say that,” Dick said with a laugh, flopping onto the couch beside him. “He’ll assume I’m slacking off.”

Tim laughed quietly, letting himself relax into the calm of the apartment. It felt good—comfortable in a way he hadn’t expected. Like maybe, here in this messy, top-floor apartment with its crooked pictures and squeaky floorboards, he could breathe a little easier.

The evening unfolded with the kind of comfort that Tim hadn’t known he’d been craving.

It started with a stack of takeout menus fanned out on Dick’s coffee table like a deck of cards. After some brief but passionate debate (Tim wanted sushi, Dick was all in for noodles), they settled on ordering from a Chinese place Dick swore by. “This place saved my life the week I first moved in,” he’d said while tapping away at the phone. “Three-dollar lo mein and spring rolls the size of your face.”

Soon enough, the apartment filled with the warm, spicy aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. In the meantime, Dick had turned on the console and was halfway through setting up a co-op game before Tim could even sit down properly.

They dove into an older, chaotic side-scroller—vintage co-op arcade style—and spent the next hour trying to outdo each other in both score and commentary. Tim, of course, was ruthlessly precise, barely taking damage, while Dick compensated with sheer chaos and shouting ridiculous battle cries every time he landed a punch.

“You button mash like a caveman,” Tim muttered, eyes never leaving the screen.

“And yet I have double your kills,” Dick grinned, jabbing the controller.

“Yeah, because you keep stealing mine after I wear them down, scavenger. ”

Dick barked a laugh. “Adapt and survive, my dude!”

They hit pause when the food finally arrived. While Dick cleared a few stray laundry items from the couch, Tim took it upon himself to make room on the table for their incoming takeout feast. He shifted aside a tangle of old receipts, a couple of half-full water bottles, and a stack of unopened mail. But what caught his attention was a worn paperback tucked beneath a pile of magazines and an old remote.

He pulled it out gently.

“Julius Caesar?” he said aloud, thumbing through the dog-eared pages, which had been marked with pencil notes in the margins and folded corners. “This looks… well-read.”

Dick glanced over from the kitchen counter, and for a second, the ever-present spark in his eyes dimmed. He ran a towel over his hands and walked over slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little softer than before. “It was Jason’s.”

Tim looked up quickly, a little unsure of what to say. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine,” Dick interrupted, his smile gentle but undeniably sad. He took the book from Tim’s hands and ran a thumb along the cracked spine. “He got really into Shakespeare at one point. Especially the tragedies. Said there was something honest about how messy people got when you stripped away the heroic nonsense. He made me read this one out loud with him once, doing voices and all. He always wanted to be Brutus, for some reason.”

“Because he stabs people?” Tim tried, offering a half-smile.

Dick huffed out a laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe because Brutus thought he was doing the right thing, even when it broke everything.” He set the book down carefully, as if it might shatter if handled too roughly. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

Tim didn’t say anything, just nodded. The silence was heavy, but not unbearable.

Then Dick brightened a little, clearly trying to shift the atmosphere back to where it had been. He leaned against the table and asked, casually, “So… did Caesar actually die on the Ides of March, or is that just some Shakespearean flair?”

Tim blinked, then grinned. “Okay, first of all—”

Dick raised both hands with a laugh. “Here we go.”

“—the whole thing is way more complicated than people think…”

And just like that, the warmth returned to the room, the shadows of memory fading into the background as laughter and history took their place.

“—that whole story is riddled with conflicting accounts. Plutarch and Suetonius both document it, but differently. And Cicero’s letters offer context, not specifics. Plus, don’t even get me started on the mythologizing of Caesar’s death after the fact to frame it as divine justice.”

“I regret everything,” Dick laughed.

“No, no, you brought this on yourself,” Tim said, scooping rice onto a plate like a man possessed. “We treat historical fonts like gospel, but they’re biased. They’re survivors of war, political enemies, or dramatists! Most of what we ‘know’ about history is just the version that made it to the right scroll at the right time.”

Dick stared at him, noodles halfway to his mouth. “Tim, calm down. You are scaring me.”

“I scare myself sometimes,” Tim said with a deadpan expression, then cracked a grin.

Once the rant faded and the food was spread out between them, the conversation turning lighter. Dick picked up a dumpling and smirked. “Do you want to hear the story of Lian’s first Chinese takeout?”

Tim perked up. “Lian Harper? Arsenal’s kid?”

“Yep. She was like, five. Roy got her a small plate of sesame chicken, and the kid immediately declared it tasted like sweet armor and that she would only eat ‘chicken magic’ from then on. Wouldn’t touch anything that wasn’t orange-colored for three months.”

Tim snorted, nearly choking on his rice. “Sweet armor?!”

“I swear on Wally’s life. The worst part? She still calls it that. Even in public.”

They laughed for a while after that, just basking in the comfort of full stomachs and warm lighting.

Eventually, the soft chime of the clock cut through the post-dinner haze. Dick stood up, stretching and yawning as he started clearing containers. “Alright, time to earn our capes.”

Tim nodded, already standing and reaching for his duffel. He changed quickly in the bathroom, slipping into the familiar fit of his Robin gear—his gear. When he stepped back into the main room, Nightwing was zipping up his boots, mask already in place, grinning like he had a secret.

“Let’s stick to the normal patrol route tonight,” he said, tossing Tim his comm. “And hope it stays quiet, because I’ve got a surprise for you later.”

Tim blinked. “A surprise?”

Dick only winked. “Trust me. You’re gonna love it.”

~~~

Just like Dick had hoped, the night was quiet. Not silent—Blüdhaven , just like Gotham, never really slep—but quiet in the way that meant nothing too world-ending was going on. Just enough to stretch your legs and not feel completely useless.

They moved from rooftop to rooftop, the wind tugging at the edges of their capes. Tim couldn’t help but notice how different the air felt here. It didn’t have the same heavy, smoky tension of Gotham. It was clearer, like even the crime here had room to breathe.

Dick was saying some nonsense on penguins stealing each other’s eggs.

“You always this chatty on patrol?” Tim asked, glancing sideways as Dick dropped into a crouch beside him on the ledge of an old printing building.

Dick grinned. “Only when I’m with someone I don’t have to babysit. You passed the test, Robin.”

Tim gave a dry laugh. “Lucky me.”

“I mean it,” Dick said, eyes scanning the streets below for any sign of trouble. “You’re sharp. Quiet as a shadow. You’ve got fire and enough  tact. It’s freaky.”

“I didn’t realize patrols could… feel like this,” Tim admitted. “Like, you’re actually talking to me.”

Dick gave him a look. “Bruce doesn’t talk on patrol?”

“He grunts. Sometimes growls. Occasionally, if I’m lucky, he gives a vague ‘hn.’”

Dick laughed, full and loud. “Oh yeah, that sounds like him. Honestly, don’t worry too much about it. Once he warms up to you, you’ll beg him to stay silent.”

They leapt to the next rooftop, boots landing in near perfect sync. Tim was surprised how well they moved together. It wasn’t like training with Bruce, where everything was rigid, where Tim always had to anticipate and adjust to someone who wouldn’t bend. With Dick, it felt like a rhythm, like sparring and patrolling was more a dance than a drill. And when one of the usual street-level gang members tried to get the jump on them in a side alley, that rhythm clicked into place.

Tim ducked low, letting his staff snap out in one swift, practiced motion. The thug’s weapon clattered to the ground with a yelp. Dick was already flipping down from a fire escape, landing behind the second guy and taking him out with a swift, elegant spin-kick.

“Nice one,” Dick said, dusting off his gloves.

Tim twirled his Bo staff instinctively, keeping it between himself and the last guy, who was suddenly rethinking his life choices. “I’m still getting used to the weight distribution. It’s lighter than I expected.”

Dick stepped in, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder and guiding his arm. “Try holding it a bit higher when you’re aiming for quick redirects. You’re precise, so that’ll make you faster. Don’t worry about strength—you’re not Batman. Use your speed.”

Tim nodded, adjusting his grip and giving it another small spin. “That… yeah, that feels better.”

“You’ll get it,” Dick said. “Staffs are fun. You ever try the escrima sticks?”

“Not yet.”

“We’ll add that to the list.” He clapped Tim on the back. “You’re doing great, kid.”

Tim blinked. He didn’t even realize how much he needed to hear that.

As the night stretched on, they kept moving, talking between quiet takedowns and city observations. Dick filled the air with jokes, old stories about his  days with Batman, stories about Titans missions that went completely sideways, and even a few embarrassing things about Bruce that Tim was definitely going to write down later.

“I think the best one,” Dick said as they perched atop a billboard overlooking the docks, “was when Bruce once tried to infiltrate a yacht party dressed as a waiter and Alfred was furious about the tux Bruce ‘borrowed.’”

Tim laughed. “Wait, Bruce pretended to be a waiter?”

“With zero training. Dropped a tray. Loudest thing you’ve ever heard. We were almost made in ten seconds.”

“That’s incredible.”

Dick grinned. “One of my favorite memories, honestly.”

The city glowed below them. Tim sat back, breathing in the cold night air, letting the calm soak in. The clock was ticking close to midnight when Dick steered them away from his usual patrol route. They weren’t far from the apartment, but instead of heading back to gear down, he led Tim toward the edge of the commercial district—toward the train tracks.

Tim raised an eyebrow as they approached the small, worn platform of Blüdhaven’s elevated train line. “Uh… this doesn’t look like a restaurant.”

Dick just grinned, hopping onto the platform. “It’s not. But it’s still dinner and a show, depending on how you look at it.”

Tim tilted his head, suspicious and intrigued. “What is this?”

Dick leaned casually against the railing, watching the horizon. “It was something I planned to do with Jason, just before… well, before everything changed. We never got the chance.”

Tim stood beside him, quiet.

“I figured,” Dick continued, “maybe you’d appreciate it too.”

Before Tim could ask what “it” was, Dick perked up. In the distance, the low hum of an approaching train started to rise. A second later, headlights carved through the darkness like twin comets. Tim squinted. “Wait… we’re not getting on the train, are we?”

Dick turned to him, smile stretching wider with a glint of mischief in his eye. “Not quite. We’re getting on top of it.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer the term ‘imaginative,’” Dick said, then suddenly stepped up onto the safety railing, balancing with ease. “Come on, Robin. Be ready to jump!”

Tim’s instincts screamed no , but the sight of Dick poised like a shadowed acrobat over the oncoming train jolted him into motion. Heart pounding, he climbed up beside him. The wind began to rise around them as the train neared, its thunderous growl filling the night.

“Now!” Dick shouted.

They jumped.

The impact was smoother than Tim expected, though it still rattled up through his legs. The metal roof clanged beneath their boots, the wind slamming into their faces like a sudden storm. Tim crouched low, adrenaline flooding his veins, a wild laugh bubbling in his throat. “You’re actually insane!”

Dick just whooped beside him. “Welcome to Blüdhaven airways, kid!”

The train hit a curve, and suddenly, the city unfolded around them like a living map. Blüdhaven, with its lights flickering like dying stars and windows glowing with lives they’d never know, stretched endlessly in every direction. The river glistened silver in the moonlight, and the cold air turned the world sharp and clear.

Tim found himself speechless. For all the grime and chaos of the city, from up here, it looked almost… beautiful.

“Yeah,” Dick said, quieter now, watching him. “I thought you’d like that.”

Tim didn’t answer—he just smiled, his breath misting in the wind.

The train began to slow slightly as it rolled into a more open stretch. Dick nudged him. “Come on, we’re not done.”

He stood up fully and pulled Tim with him. Tim swayed at first, uncertain, but Dick’s grip was steady. They started running, one footstep after another clanging on the metal roof. It was reckless. Dangerous. Stupid.

And it was incredible.

They sprinted from one cart to the next, and at one point, Dick tried to shoulder-check Tim, who ducked and jabbed back with a grin. “You want to start something, Grayson?”

“Oh, it’s already started!” Dick laughed, darting ahead. They play-fought their way across two more carts, their laughter mixing with the roar of the wind and the rhythmic clatter of the train below. Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this—freely, without restraint.

Eventually, the train hissed, brakes engaging as it neared a switching station. They dropped down between carts and leapt off just before it came to a full stop, landing in a roll that kicked up gravel and dust. Tim stumbled to his feet, breathing hard, heart still racing.

He turned to Dick, grinning like a madman. “Okay… that was worth it.”

“Told you.” Dick clapped him on the back. “Consider that your real welcome to Blüdhaven.”

They walked the rest of the way back through quiet streets, boots tapping softly against pavement. The adrenaline faded into a warm calm in Tim’s chest.

The apartment was quiet when they finally stepped inside again, the thrill of the night still humming under their skin like leftover static. Their boots came off with heavy thuds, and for a moment, Tim stood in the living room just soaking it in—the stillness, the warmth of shared laughter still hanging in the air.

“You take the first shower,” Dick said, stretching with a groan as he headed toward the kitchen to grab water. “You earned it.”

Tim didn’t argue. His muscles ached in ways he hadn’t realized until now, and his face still felt wind-chilled from the train ride. The shower was blissfully hot, steam rising in curls that fogged the mirror and loosened every knot in his shoulders. He stayed under the water longer than necessary, letting the memory of sprinting across train cars replay in his mind with a quiet grin.

By the time he stepped out, toweling his hair and drowning in the Gotham Knights T-shirt Dick had loaned him, he already felt half-asleep. He walked out with the intention of claiming the couch, but as soon as he turned toward it, Dick snapped his fingers.

“Absolutely not,” Dick said, pointing at him like an offended old man. “Couch is mine. You’re taking the bed.”

Tim blinked. “What? No, seriously, I’m fine—”

“I wasn’t asking,” Dick grinned. “Perks of being the new kid .”

Tim sighed but didn’t push further. Honestly, he was too tired to argue properly.

Dick’s bedroom was… surprisingly normal.

The walls were painted a soft blue, scuffed in places, and one corner was cluttered with a few half-unpacked boxes and some gym equipment. A small bookshelf stood crookedly by the bed, filled with novels, a few manuals, and random photos tucked between the pages. A pair of escrima sticks rested beside the nightstand. The bed itself was a mess of navy-blue sheets and an over-fluffed comforter, clearly thrown together in a rush—but it smelled clean and the mattress was heavenly compared to what Tim was used to.

He slid under the covers with a sigh that felt like it came from his soul.

A few minutes later, Dick poked his head in, now in sweats and a tank top, towel still looped around his neck. “You good in here?”

Tim nodded, already halfway sunken into the bed.

Dick leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Need me to tell you a bedtime story?”

Tim squinted at him through the dark and deadpanned, “Fuck off.”

Dick laughed. “That’s more like it.”

There was a brief pause. Then Tim muttered, “Thanks. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Dick said, pushing off the doorframe with a small smile. “I had fun too. You’re a cool kid.”

Tim snorted. “You’re cool sometimes too.”

Dick stopped, hand on the doorframe, giving him an exaggerated look of betrayal. “ Sometimes? That’s all I get?”

Tim just rolled to face the wall, smirking.

“Unbelievable,” Dick said, turning off the light. “Sleep tight,Tim.”

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

And for the first time in a long while, Tim fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

The cold November wind bit through the fabric of Tim’s suit as he crouched on the edge of a weathered fire escape, shadows cloaking him like a second cape. Down below, the alley was quiet, slick with recent rain, and wrapped in that eerie stillness Gotham got before something dangerous happened. Tim’s breath fogged in the air as he exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His fingers itched at the Bo staff folded on his back, more from anticipation than nerves.

He had memorized every pattern, every movement of the two men posted at the alley’s mouth. They were muscle, likely hired for the night to keep eyes away from the real transaction that was about to go down—an exchange of funds between two of the city’s most powerful crime families: the Maronis and the Iacovettis.

It had taken Bruce four days to dig into the information trail—and Tim had done it in two.

He wasn’t trying to compete. Not really. But it had been a quiet thrill to walk into the Cave, lay the evidence out cleanly, and have Bruce pause, look at him with one of those long, unreadable stares, then—pat his shoulder.

It had been brief. Barely more than a tap.

But for someone like Bruce Wayne, it might as well have been a bear hug and a parade.

And now here he was, in the field, alone. Not backup. Not a support in the shadows. Robin, trusted with his own lead.

Tim narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask as headlights sliced through the night at the other end of the alley. A sleek, black car rolled in slowly, deliberate in its motion. He tensed, watched carefully. There were four people inside. Two exited—a short, trim man with silver at his temples and a younger enforcer with a jacket two sizes too tight over his shoulders. Maroni’s nephew, if Tim had identified the grainy photo right.

He shifted slightly, keeping his profile low against the wind. The metal under his knees groaned faintly, but no one looked up. His heart hammered once, but he didn’t move.

Instead, his mind ticked through the plan. He’d calculated every entry point, every possible exit route, the timing it would take to incapacitate each of the guards before the real deal could be made. No guns spotted yet. Probably inside coats. Close range. That gave him more of a window.

He couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It was working. He had gotten it right. He had seen the patterns, tracked the whispers, followed the coded messages through corrupt ledger pages, and even deduced the meeting point before Bruce.

And Bruce had seen it.

A crate slammed shut below. Money cases were being hauled out now. The exchange was about to begin. He let two of them go inside into the building.

Tim tensed, then reached back and pulled the Bo staff free from its holster with a soft, practiced motion. It unfolded with a whisper of metal, a faint click as it locked into place.

Showtime.

He sprang from the fire escape with a precision born from hundreds of hours of drills—his body a shadow in motion, cape slicing through the cold air, boots landing silently on the rooftop adjacent to the alley’s edge.

The guards never saw him coming.

The first went down with a swift, silent blow to the back of the head—his body caught before it could even thump against the pavement. The second turned at the last second, confusion crossing his face just before Tim swept his legs out and pressed the staff to his throat with a warning hush. The man went out cold a moment later.

Tim took a steady breath. His heartbeat was loud in his ears now, but not panicked. Not frantic.

Focused.

He slipped into the shadows again, waiting. Watching. Ready to pounce the moment the handoff finished.

He stood still in the alley as the distant scream echoed off the wet brick walls — muffled, but unmistakable. A pained cry followed by a heavy thump. That was Bruce’s signal, in its own way: things had wrapped up inside.

Tim didn’t flinch. He just listened, calm and sharp-eyed, waiting as Batman emerged from the back of the building like a phantom materializing from shadow. The cape flared slightly as he stepped into the dull orange light of the streetlamps. Over one shoulder, Bruce carried the half-conscious Maroni nephew, and trailing behind him — dragged by the collar like a ragdoll — was Giovanni Iacovetti himself, blood trailing from a split lip. In Bruce’s other hand was the heavy black suitcase.

Tim came down from his perch then, dropping silently to the pavement and walking up to stand beside Batman. He couldn’t help the small flicker of pride in his chest. He’d done it — all of it. This entire operation was on his lead. And it had worked.

The faint wail of approaching sirens drifted into the alley, growing louder by the second.

Bruce didn’t say anything as they waited. He just stood, statuesque and grim, his form a looming shadow between the bodies and the city. Tim stood quietly at his side, shoulders straight, fingers still curled around his Bo staff. The moment stretched into the chill night air — full of the scent of rain and gasoline — and then—

The flashing red and blue lights rounded the corner.

Three squad cars screeched to a halt just outside the alley. Uniformed officers spilled out, weapons drawn, tense, until one of them recognized the shape of the Bat and lowered his gun with a muttered, “Stand down. It’s them.”

Detectives moved in quickly, collecting the battered mobsters. One officer tried to take the suitcase from Bruce — a reflex, probably — but a single withering glance from the cowl made the man’s hand freeze halfway.

“We wait for Commissioner Gordon,” Batman said, voice low and final.

Tim crossed his arms as they watched the scene unfold. Officers cuffed the men and read them their rights. A few reporters were starting to appear at the edges of the cordon, cameras clicking like the gnashing of mechanical teeth. But no one approached the two vigilantes. Not yet.

Ten minutes passed before Gordon arrived.

He stepped out of an unmarked black sedan, trench coat flapping around his ankles, tie half-loose like always. His mustache twitched slightly as he took in the scene, his eyes darting from the two unconscious mobsters, to the suitcase, and finally up to Batman.

He approached with a slow, measured step. “You’re early.”

“We were lucky,” Batman said. “They stuck to the original location.”

Gordon adjusted his glasses. “We’ve been watching both families for weeks and hadn’t seen so much as a cough between them. There were no leaks, no chatter, nothing. We had nothing on this deal. Not even a whisper.”

He nodded toward the suitcase. “How’d you even know it was going down tonight?”

There was a pause. The cape stirred slightly in the breeze.

“Robin,” Batman said simply.

Gordon turned then, raising an eyebrow behind his glasses as he focused on the boy beside him. Tim straightened a little under the weight of the look — not nervously, but more like he was surprised to be seen so directly. Most people still addressed Batman only, like Robin was some accessory to the cowl.

But not Gordon.

“Well,” the Commissioner said, folding his arms. “I’ll be damned. You tracked this on your own?”

Tim nodded. “Found inconsistencies in their shipping manifests, then traced the license plate of a delivery van through a shell company both families use. They’ve used this alley before too — back in ’05 and again in ’12. They just rotated their men so often it didn’t show up as a pattern.”

Gordon gave a low whistle, clearly impressed.

“Sharp eyes,” he said. “And a hell of a memory.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim said, shrugging slightly. “Someone’s gotta be the smart one in this partnership.”

That pulled the faintest chuckle out of Gordon. “You’re doing a great job, Robin. Honestly. Gotham’s lucky to have you.”

Tim blinked once, then looked down, trying not to grin. “Thanks, sir.”

Bruce passed the suitcase over finally, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. Gordon opened it just enough to glance at the contents, gave a low whistle, then closed it again.

“We’ll get this catalogued,” he said. “Some of it might tie to the other racketeering cases we’ve been building.”

As Bruce stepped away to talk to the detectives about the building search, Gordon stayed with Tim, his voice lower now, more personal.

“I meant what I said,” he told him. “You’re doing good work.”

Tim glanced up. “Thanks.”

Gordon studied him for a moment longer, then added, “You know, we’ve had a lot fewer… complications lately.”

Tim tilted his head. “Complications?”

Gordon raised a brow. “Cases that end with broken arms, collapsed lungs, suspects barely breathing when we get there. Noticed a drop ever since you put on the cape.”

“Oh,” Tim said, blinking. “I didn’t really do anything. Sometimes I have to say something if he’s—” He paused, eyes flicking toward where Batman was speaking to an officer. “If he’s going too far. But most of the time, it’s like… just being there’s enough. Like he’s pulling his punches more.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Or maybe it’s just that he’s not alone anymore.”

Gordon nodded slowly. “He’s got a tendency to disappear into the work. When he’s on his own, it’s like there’s nothing but the mission. No brakes. No balance.”

Tim looked down at his boots, his voice quieter. “I’m trying. To be that balance.”

“Well, it’s working,” Gordon said simply. “You’re good for him. For the city. And I’m grateful for it.”

Tim gave a small nod, trying to will away the flush rising in his cheeks. “Thanks, Commissioner.”

“Just be careful,” Gordon added, already starting to turn back toward the cars. “The good ones always go in too deep if they’re not careful.”

Tim watched him go, the words sitting heavy but not unwelcome in his chest. Something about them felt real. Felt earned.

He stood quietly for a while after that, listening to the rustle of paperwork, the low chatter of officers, and Bruce’s distant voice speaking in clipped tones. The suitcase was gone. The mobsters were in custody. Another piece of Gotham cleaned — for now.

~~~

The air inside the Batmobile was still heavy with the sharp bite of Gotham’s November chill, clinging to Tim’s cape and gloves like damp fog. Outside, the blinking red and blue of GCPD’s cruisers bathed the dark alley in a rotating wash of color, but inside the sleek interior of the car, it was dim, quiet—focused.

But not for long.

“It’s not about the money,” Tim said, leaning forward in his seat, eyes sharp beneath his domino mask. “Not directly. If it was, they’d have moved it quieter. This was a message.”

Bruce tapped a few commands into the center console, pulling up a satellite scan of the shipping yards. “To who?”

“The Falcones, maybe? Or even the Triad. It’s about territory. The Marconis have been trying to make a comeback since Zuko went down—and now with the Gallucci trial keeping half the feds busy, it’s the perfect time.”

Bruce gave a short nod. “But that doesn’t explain the East End chemical plant.”

Tim grinned. “I was getting to that.”

Bruce gave him a look—a small one, sideways, almost hidden behind the cowl—but it held the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re learning bad habits from Nightwing,” he muttered, dry.

Tim blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment”

Bruce didn’t answer, but the ghost of a smirk flickered and vanished.

“Go on,” Bruce said.

“Right. The plant. It was bought by a shell corporation last month. One that’s connected to biotech research. Low-level lab, but licensed to handle a range of mutagenic compounds. If someone were trying to synthesize something off the radar…”

Bruce nodded, his tone shifting, more engaged than Tim had ever seen him during one of these debriefs. “The money wasn’t for a product. It was for a facility.”

“Exactly. A manufacturing site. Probably to mass-produce something fast. I’ve got a list of possible targets, too. The CEO of Genatech has a daughter at Gotham Academy—I thought maybe—”

And then it happened.

Tim shifted in his seat, angling toward Bruce to pull up the digital files on his gauntlet, and as he did, his ribs grazed the cold metal frame of the door.

He winced, the pain flaring again, sharp and hot. “Shit,” he muttered, more surprised than anything.

Bruce’s head snapped around immediately. “What was that?”

Tim froze. “It’s nothing. Just—I caught something earlier. On a fire escape edge near the canal. It was rusted, probably barbed wire. I didn’t think it was deep.”

“How bad?”

“Not bad. Really.”

Bruce was quiet for a long beat, the tension wrapping around them like a cord tightening.

“You should’ve said something immediately.”

Tim’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t want to make a big deal. I was focused. It wasn’t bleeding through the suit or anything.”

“That’s not the point,” Bruce said, the earlier warmth vanished, voice clipped. “You took unnecessary risk.”

“I was doing recon—”

“You compromised yourself,” Bruce cut in, low but firm. “It doesn’t matter how small it seemed.”

Tim pulled back slightly, the excitement that had been buzzing in his chest minutes ago now dull and cold. “I was trying to do good work,” he said quietly.

“Get Alfred to look at it when we’re back in the cave,” Bruce said, already turning away.

The silence that filled the Batmobile now wasn’t the comfortable kind—the one that came with shared understanding or synchronized thinking. This was the silence of doors closing. Of walls going back up.

Tim turned to the window, ribs aching—not just from the cut.

Earlier, he’d felt like a partner. Like someone who could stand beside Batman and not be seen as a kid in a costume. They’d joked. They’d discussed real theories. And Bruce had listened.

But it had taken one misstep, one oversight, to remind Tim that no matter how close he got… there was always a line. And he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be allowed to cross it.

~~~

The Cave was quieter than usual, if only because Batman had stormed deeper into its darker recesses without a word.

Tim stood still for a moment, uncertain. The hum of the Batcomputer and the subtle echo of dripping water filled the silence left behind. He should’ve been used to this by now—Bruce’s cold shoulder, the abrupt withdrawal of warmth when emotions got too close to the surface. Still, it stung a little more than it used to.

He exhaled softly and turned toward the medical bay, the cut on his side a dull throb now that the adrenaline had faded.

Alfred was already there, impeccably put-together as always, sleeves rolled up with quiet efficiency.

“I was informed by Master Wayne’s very dramatic departure that something may require my attention,” he said, looking over his glasses as Tim approached.

Tim gave a tired little half-smile. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, well, forgive me if I prefer to make that determination myself.” Alfred gestured to the exam table. “Shirt off, if you would.”

Tim climbed up and peeled off the top half of his suit, wincing a little as the movement pulled at the wound. Alfred’s eyes flicked to the jagged gash running just along Tim’s right side—nothing life-threatening, but deep enough to need careful cleaning and some stitching.

Alfred didn’t comment on it immediately. He cleaned with steady hands, the antiseptic stinging slightly.

“Master Bruce was rather abrupt, I take it?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.

Tim snorted. “You could say that.”

A pause. The cool touch of gauze.

“He’s afraid, you know,” Alfred said eventually, dabbing at the wound with practiced care. “That’s what this is. What that was.”

Tim blinked. “Of what?”

“Of caring,” Alfred said simply. “Of losing someone he’s just begun to trust.”

Tim stayed quiet, not because he didn’t believe him—but because the words settled heavy in his chest.

“I’ve seen it before,” Alfred continued, voice softer now. “With Master Jason. With Master Dick. At the start the more he cares, the harder he fights to bury it under commands and coldness. He thinks if he keeps things controlled—distant—it’ll hurt less if something happens.”

Tim looked away, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Dick said something similar.”

“Did he now?” Alfred smiled faintly as he began preparing the stitches. “I’m glad the two of you are talking. Properly, I mean.”

Tim huffed, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “We’re talking a little too much. I’ve basically been FaceTiming him every day.”

“That sounds quite exhausting,” Alfred teased.

“Worse,” Tim muttered. “He’s been sending me, like, a thousands videos a day of puppies. All different breeds. Like he’s trying to convince me dogs are superior.”

“Is it working?”

“Absolutely not.” Tim gave him a look. “I’m a cat person. That’s never going to change.”

Alfred chuckled, stitching the wound with gentle precision. “Master Dick always did have a rather persistent nature. I suppose it’s reassuring he’s directing it toward puppy propaganda rather than high-speed rooftop chases.”

“He’s still doing those too,” Tim muttered. “But yeah. It’s… nice. I didn’t think we’d get along, not after how we started out, but now it’s like—” He trailed off, not sure how to explain the strange feeling of having someone in your corner without needing to ask for it.

Alfred patted his arm. “I’m very glad, Master Tim. He’s always needed someone who could challenge his stubbornness. And I daresay you’re doing a fine job.”

Tim looked up at him, a little startled by the fondness in Alfred’s tone. “Thanks.”

Alfred snipped the last thread, smoothing a bandage over the wound with care. “All done. I must say, it’s quite fortunate you’re not prone to whining like Master Dick was at your age.”

“He’s still prone to whining,” Tim said.

Alfred allowed himself a rare laugh.

As Tim reached for his suit top again, Alfred straightened his cuffs and gave him a once-over. “You’re welcome to stay in the manor tonight, of course. I can have your room prepared.”

Tim hesitated, the idea briefly tempting—but he shook his head. “Thanks, but I should head home. Got some files to review, and a paper due Monday.”

“As you wish.” Alfred gave a small, disapproving look, though his eyes were kind. “Should you change your mind, the door is always open.”

“I know,” Tim said quietly, tugging his suit back on.

The cave was still quiet. Bruce hadn’t come back yet. But somehow, Tim didn’t feel as small in the silence as he had before.

~~~

Tim was clean, suited, and almost out the door when the old manor betrayed him. Again.

A sharp creak echoed under his foot as he passed the threshold of the main hall. He froze, shoulders tensing at the sound.

From the parlor came a low, gravel-rough voice, slurred and sluggish.
“Jason…?”

Tim blinked, frowning. That voice wasn’t the carefully composed baritone of the Batman he patrolled with. It was softer, messier. Wrecked.

He stepped cautiously toward the room.

“No, Bruce… it’s just me,” he said, voice low and cautious, like approaching a sleeping animal.

The parlor was dimly lit by a single lamp, casting long shadows across the room. Bruce was slouched in the armchair by the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, collar open, two empty bottles of something strong glinting amber on the floor. His shirt was wrinkled, stained. His face unshaven. There were streaks of gray in the stubble Tim hadn’t noticed before, and his hair hung too long over tired eyes—eyes that looked straight through Tim, red-rimmed and wet.

“Jason…” Bruce repeated again, barely a whisper. And then, before Tim could react, he stood up and closed the distance between them in two long, unsteady strides.

The hug was sudden, clumsy. Powerful in its weight, even if Bruce was swaying with the liquor.

Tim froze.

The smell of alcohol clung to Bruce’s clothes. The hold wasn’t really for him, and he knew it. He knew it with sharp clarity. Bruce’s voice was low in his ear, murmuring things Tim couldn’t quite make out. Apologies. Regrets. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

For a split second, Tim wanted to stay there. Pretend. Pretend this embrace was for him, not a ghost. That this warmth was earned. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a placeholder in a cape.

But it wasn’t real. And pretending felt like stealing something sacred.

“Bruce,” he said softly. “Bruce, it’s not Jason. It’s Tim.”

No response. Just a murmur of breath against his hair and arms that wouldn’t let go.

It took a long minute, but Tim gently, carefully, loosened Bruce’s grip, guiding him back toward the sofa. The older man sank down with a weight that looked too heavy for one body. His head lolled back, eyes unfocused.

Then he passed out completely, a low, broken exhale escaping his lips as he sagged into the cushions.

Tim stood there in silence, looking down at him.

He found a folded blanket draped over the side of the couch and laid it carefully over Bruce’s chest. The man didn’t stir. In sleep, he looked younger. Softer. More haunted.

Tim stood there a moment longer, unmoving. A flicker of something—longing, jealousy, grief—rose unbidden in his chest. He didn’t have a name for it.

He would never be Jason. Never be Dick. He wasn’t family.

Just the one who filled in the cracks.

With a final glance, Tim turned from the room and walked out into the cold night.

The door closed quietly behind him.

Chapter Text

Tim had always known that avoiding Steph wasn’t an option. She was like a force of nature — persistent, loud, and absolutely convinced that the world would be a better place if she were in charge. This week, however, her particular brand of chaos had taken root in a plan so senseless, so utterly ridiculous, that Tim had been doing his best to hide from it.

But it was Monday morning, and his luck had officially run out.

He’d barely stepped into the hall when he heard her.

“Tim! Tim! Tim!”

The sound of combat boots slapping the polished tile floor approached like a stampede. Tim didn’t have to turn around to know what — or rather, who — was coming. He braced himself.

“There you are!” Stephanie Brown grinned, skidding to a stop beside him. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail that looked like it had survived both a tornado and a wrestling match, and her uniform tie had already been converted into a headband. “I need your help with the most important thing ever.”

Tim slowly closed his locker. “If this is about the vending machine you reprogrammed to only give out Pop-Tarts, I want nothing to do with it.”

“What? No! I mean, yes, that was me — genius, right? But no, this is bigger. This is huge.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s a revolution, Tim. A revolution!”

Tim stared at her. “Please tell me you’re not planning to lead an actual student uprising. Again.”

“I’m absolutely planning to lead an actual student uprising,” she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “And this time, we’re going after the Big Two: the dress code and the canteen.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting every life decision that had led him here. “Steph. No.”

Steph crossed her arms. “Steph. Yes.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m not getting involved.”

She poked him in the shoulder. “Too bad. You’re already involved.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “I am not—”

“You’re my best friend, you sit with me at lunch, you helped me build the Snack Heist Drone last month, and you’ve been side-eyeing that gray polyester blazer since the day you stepped into this school. You are so involved.”

He opened his mouth to argue, paused, then closed it again. Damn it. She wasn’t wrong.

She grinned like she’d won a battle — which, okay, she probably had — and shoved a folded piece of notebook paper into his hand. He opened it to see a disturbingly well-thought-out flowchart titled:

OPERATION: ACADEMIC LIBERATION.

Step One: Student Engagement (i.e., stirring the pot).
Step Two: Build a Coalition (aka, bribe the cool kids).
Step Three: Formal Protest Proposal (with data, Tim. Your thing!).
Step Four: Strategic Sabotage.
Step Five: WIN.

Tim blinked. “Step four just says ‘strategic sabotage’ with a little drawing of a bomb. Why is there a bomb?”

“That’s metaphorical. Probably.”

He looked at her over the top of the paper. “This is overkill.”

“It’s also necessary,” she shot back. “Have you seen the state of the cafeteria food? And don’t even get me started on how girls can’t wear pants but the boys’ uniforms are somehow ‘gender neutral.’”

Tim frowned. “Okay, yeah, that is unfair.”

“Right?” Steph threw her arms out like she’d just won an argument. “So you’re in?”

He hesitated. She noticed.

“Tim, you’re the smartest person in this school. You have spreadsheets for your lunch schedule. You once broke into the school records just to calculate the statistical probability of someone cheating on their exams.”

“That was one time,” he muttered.

“And besides,” she added, “you already have a reputation for knowing everything. People will trust you.”

Tim folded the paper again, slowly. “Steph, if this goes sideways, you could get suspended.”

She shrugged. “Then I’ll go out in a blaze of polyester-clad glory.”

Tim stared at her, caught between disbelief and reluctant admiration. Then, like some part of him just gave up resisting, he said, “Fine. But we do this my way.”

Steph beamed. “That’s all I ever wanted to hear.”

As they walked to first period, Tim let his mind spin out the possibilities. He had hacked the school’s system last year to stop the bullying that had gotten out of hand in the lower grades — something no one but Jason knew. He’d slipped anonymous reports into the administration’s inbox, rearranged the schedules to separate bullies from their targets, and used the threat of exposing a few particularly cruel students’ text histories to shut it all down.

It had worked. And he hadn’t felt guilty about it.

Maybe Steph had a point. Maybe this was worth it.

“I’ll need access to the lunch vendor’s contract,” he said quietly, as they entered the classroom. “And the school handbook. I want to find every loophole in the dress code.”

Steph turned to him, her smile almost fond. “You’re such a nerd, I love it.”

Tim shook his head. “You’re going to owe me so many lunches for this.”

“Oh, I plan to. Starting with the mystery-meat burrito replacement campaign. It’s time the people got options.”

Tim didn’t say it out loud, but a flicker of excitement sparked in his chest. He’d never admit it, but part of him — the part that liked puzzles, systems, and toppling outdated power structures with nothing but data and strategy — was kind of looking forward to this. It felt so normal, so in contrast with his Robin act.

And he had to admit, doing it with Steph?

That might be the most fun he’d had all semester.

~~~

Tuesday morning came with gray skies and that familiar Gotham chill that managed to seep through even the thickest of school blazers. Tim had barely made it past the front gates before he spotted Steph—perched on the steps like some kind of smug revolutionary general, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and an oversized binder in the other. The look on her face made him immediately regret not pretending to be sick.

“There he is!” she called, waving dramatically. “My second-in-command!”

Tim sighed and adjusted the strap of his backpack. “I’m not your second-in-command.”

“You’re right,” Steph said with a shrug, handing him a folder. “You’re the brains. I’m the charisma and questionable tactics.”

Tim opened the folder. It was color-coded. Of course it was. “What am I looking at?”

“The Coalition.” She grinned. “I spent all of last night gathering signatures. We’ve got half the sophomore class, most of the drama club, and—get this—half the cheerleading squad.”

Tim flipped through the pages. “You convinced cheerleaders to care about cafeteria nutrition and uniform oppression?”

Steph looked incredibly smug. “No, I told them I’d help rig the Spring Formal queen vote if they helped us. Turns out popular girls also like not sweating through wool skirts in gym class.”

He blinked. “Please tell me you’re not actually rigging the vote.”

“I didn’t say I would do it. I said I’d help. Very different.”

Tim muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “God help us all,” and kept reading. The coalition was real. And growing. Steph had organized it like a pro: spreadsheets, demographics, a list of student grievances, and even mood board clippings from fashion blogs showing “modernized school uniform alternatives.”

“Sheer audacity,” Tim muttered, flipping through the pages. “There’s a flowchart on how to stage a lunchtime sit-in.”

“Visual learners need love too,” Steph said sweetly.

They sat together at the back of the library, their self-proclaimed “command center.” Steph slouched dramatically in her chair while Tim pulled out his laptop, launching into the contract files he’d managed to dig up from the Gotham Unified School Board archives last night.

“Okay, so the school’s canteen is run by a private vendor called ArkFoods,” Tim explained, tapping a few keys. “They’ve had the contract for five years. There’s a clause here about ‘student satisfaction guarantees’ and some language about ‘nutritional quality standards.’”

Steph leaned over his shoulder. “So if the food sucks and we can prove it sucks…”

“They’re technically in breach of contract.”

Her eyes lit up. “And we can replace them with a better vendor?”

“If the board agrees to review it, yeah. But we’d need proof. Like, quantifiable student dissatisfaction, nutritional breakdowns of meals, maybe even samples of other vendor options.”

Steph rubbed her hands together. “This is beautiful. It’s like an Ocean’s Eleven heist, but for better fries.”

“Don’t say that so loudly,” Tim warned. “If anyone hears us, we’re going to get detention. Or assassinated by the PTA.”

Steph snorted. “Please. Gotham’s Academy PTA moms are way too scared of being seen at public rallies.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “That’s… probably not untrue.”

They spent most of the morning refining their plan. Steph had already bribed the AV club to help with filming a “documentary” about the cafeteria experience, and Tim, ever the quiet schemer, had written a script that sounded suspiciously like a hard-hitting investigative exposé. They scheduled interviews during lunch, catching upperclassmen between bites of questionable burritos and neon-green “vegetable medley.”

Meanwhile, Tim continued digging into the dress code. “Listen to this,” he said, scrolling through a PDF. “‘Uniforms must reflect the values of the institution and foster a climate of order and respect.’ That’s so vague it could mean literally anything.”

Steph grinned. “Which means we exploit the vagueness. Creative interpretations of the code. Slowly. Subtly. Enough to spark curiosity.”

That afternoon, she showed up to sixth period with her blazer sleeves cut off and a mock turtleneck under her shirt. She looked like a preppy revolutionary art student.

“It’s within regulation,” she said innocently when the teacher gave her a look. “Nothing says the blazer can’t be altered for climate adaptability.”

Tim tried very hard not to laugh as she sat down beside him, clearly proud of herself.

After school, they posted flyers disguised as “student health surveys” in bathroom stalls, bulletin boards, and the digital message board (hacked, courtesy of Tim), asking students to anonymously rate their satisfaction with cafeteria food and uniform policy. The results fed directly into a database Tim had built overnight. And it was growing fast.

Back in their library command center, Steph lay across two chairs like a victorious general while Tim crunched numbers on his laptop.

“Seventy-two percent say they’ve thrown out school lunch without eating it in the last week,” he muttered. “That’s actually insane. Twenty-three percent said they’d rather eat from the vending machine.”

“That’s because the vending machine has Pop-Tarts,” Steph said proudly.

“And sixty-one percent say they’d feel more comfortable with a more flexible dress code.”

Steph raised her head. “That’s enough to push the board. Right?”

Tim hesitated. “It’s a start. We’ll need to hit them with something more public by the end of the week. Maybe a public forum. Student testimonies. A presentation.”

She groaned. “I hate public speaking.”

Tim gave her a look. “Since when?”

“Since always. I just talk loud. It’s not the same.”

“Well,” Tim said, sitting back in his chair, “lucky for you, I don’t mind giving presentations.”

Steph blinked. “You? You hate people.”

“I don’t hate people,” he mumbled. “I just… prefer systems. And data. But if I can make the data speak, I’ll do it.”

She smiled. “See? You’re the perfect partner in crime.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but he didn’t disagree.

By the end of Tuesday, Tim was exhausted. His brain buzzed with data sets, and his phone was full of blurry photos of cafeteria meals that looked like radioactive leftovers. But as they parted ways at the gates, Steph grinned at him with all the sunshine energy in the world.

“You’re not hating this as much as you thought, huh?”

Tim paused, then gave a crooked little smile. “Not entirely.”

Steph beamed. “Tomorrow, we go after the school board.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated cheerfully, “we go after the board.”

He groaned. “I’m going to regret this.”

~~~

Wednesday at Gotham Academy was different. You could feel it in the air. There was a shift in how students walked the halls — like something was happening. It was in the glances exchanged between lockers, the quiet hum of gossip under the morning announcements, and the way three students in Steph’s “Coalition” wore slightly altered uniforms with just enough flair to be technically within dress code, but subversive enough to make a statement. Someone had sharpied fashion fascism ends today on their lunchbox.

Tim noticed it all.

And more than that, he noticed Steph, waiting for him by the water fountain, leaning against the wall like she was born to lead a revolution. Her braid was messy in that intentional way, and she was smiling like she had already won.

“I brought muffins,” she said by way of greeting, holding up a plastic bag full of baked goods.

“Are we bribing the school board?” Tim asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously.

“Tempting,” she said, “but no. These are for the student council. Today’s mission: infiltration.”

Tim blinked. “Infiltration?”

Steph grinned. “We need the board to listen to us Friday. That means a presentation. That means ten minutes of the Friday morning assembly. That means we need the student council president — Gideon Berkeley the Third — to give us his blessing.”

Tim internally sighed. Gideon was insufferable. His hair was perfect, his ties always matched the shade of his pocket square, and he carried himself with the kind of arrogant confidence only a sixteen-year-old raised on private jets could have.

Steph had already started walking. “Come on, soldier boy. Let’s bribe the aristocracy.”

“You’re way too happy about this,” Tim muttered, following her.

“We’re two for two,” Steph said. “By Friday, this whole school’s gonna be ours.”

**

The student council room looked more like a yacht club lounge than a school office — big windows, dark wood furniture, fresh flowers. Gideon sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by his carefully curated posse of equally polished teens. When Tim and Steph entered, the room went still.

Steph smiled brightly. “Hi there, future legislators of America. We bring… muffins.”

Gideon raised an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“We’d like five minutes on Friday’s assembly schedule to present a student petition for a uniform and cafeteria review,” Tim said, calm and direct, letting Steph take the lead on charm while he focused on strategy. “We’ve collected over 400 signatures, and the majority are from current Gotham Academy students.”

“Hmm,” Gideon said, adjusting his cufflinks like he was forty. “And what, exactly, are you hoping to achieve?”

“Transparency. Better food. Options that don’t feel like prison uniforms,” Steph said sweetly. “You know, the little things.”

Gideon gave her a long look. “And if we say no?”

Steph leaned in slightly. “Then I’d have to start circulating those photos of you and the Juilliard audition tape where you’re singing Taylor Swift at full volume.”

Gideon’s face turned a remarkable shade of crimson.

Tim didn’t even blink. “We can trim the speech to seven minutes.”

“You’ve got five,” Gideon grumbled. “And I want two muffins.”

**

By lunch, the whole school knew. Friday morning was officially Revolution Day, and students were buzzing with excitement. Steph and Tim spent their break filming more testimonials for the “cafeteria exposé,” asking questions like When was the last time you trusted the chicken? and How many pieces of your uniform have given you a rash? The answers were surprisingly dramatic.

“I once found a staple in my mashed potatoes,” said one kid solemnly.

“My skirt shrank in the rain. I had to walk home like a Victorian ghost,” said another.

Steph cackled after every interview. Tim just kept compiling data.

They sat at their usual spot in the back of the library after school, reviewing footage and cross-referencing nutrition standards.

“Did you know that our lunch pasta has 67% more sodium than the FDA recommends for a full day?” Tim muttered.

Steph flopped onto the table. “No wonder everyone’s so angry. They’re literally salty.”

He cracked a small smile. “That was terrible.”

“You laughed,” she said smugly.

“I smiled.”

“Same difference.”

They were quiet for a moment, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes when two people have spent way too much time around each other. Tim’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. His eyes flicked to her. She was chewing on the end of her pen and scrolling through her phone, probably texting someone about memes or lunch plans or mutiny.

“You’re really good at this,” he said, not looking at her. “The organizing. Rallying people. Getting them to care.”

Steph looked up. “Well, yeah. Of course. Even here at Gotham Academy, it’s full of people who’ve never had a voice. They just need someone to show them they have one.”

Tim glanced at her, then back at his screen. “Still. It’s kind of… impressive.”

She blinked. “Wow. Is that a compliment, Timothy?”

“I’m allowed to give one every three years. You’re welcome.”

She threw a pencil at him.

**

They were packing up to leave when Tim got the message: a reminder from the school IT department that there had been suspicious activity in the internal server traffic. He froze slightly. Steph caught the look.

“What?” she asked.

Tim hesitated. “They’re noticing the data scraping. I’ve been pulling statistics from the online lunch ordering system and attendance patterns during food service hours. It’s—technically—a breach of policy.”

Steph tilted her head. “And you were gonna tell me this when?”

“I didn’t want to freak you out,” he muttered. “And it’s fine. I’ve rerouted everything through a dummy IP. They won’t trace it.”

Steph stared at him. “Timothy Jackson Drake. You’ve been running a shadow surveillance op on the cafeteria?”

“I’m thorough,” he said.

She let out a slow, impressed whistle. “And here I thought I was the criminal mastermind.”

Tim gave her a tight smile, but didn’t say anything.

He was good at digging up dirt. At building systems and hiding behind firewalls. But Steph? Steph stood in front of the storm with a grin and dared it to hit her.

They were opposites in all the best and worst ways.

“You okay?” she asked, catching his silence.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… thinking.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Cool. Because tomorrow, we start filming our evidence montage. I want this thing to be cinematic, Tim. I’m talking dramatic lighting. Zooms. Music swelling in the background.”

“You can’t have music in a slideshow presentation.”

“You lack vision.”

Tim rolled his eyes. But he was smiling.

**

As they walked toward the gates, Steph suddenly bumped her shoulder into his.

“You know,” she said, casual, “I’m glad it’s you doing this with me. You’re the only person I trust not to screw it up.”

Tim blinked at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. His mouth opened, then closed, and he looked away quickly.

“I’ll try not to,” he mumbled.

Steph just grinned and skipped ahead.

“See you tomorrow, co-conspirator!”

He watched her go, backpack bouncing, braid swaying, and thought, God help me, I actually like this. He sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and muttered to himself.

“Revolution, day three: I’m in too deep.”

~~~

Thursday dawned over Gotham Academy with a crispness in the air that hinted at the impending shift of seasons. Tim arrived early, the weight of the revolution’s momentum pressing heavily on his shoulders. The corridors were unusually quiet, the usual morning chatter replaced by a palpable sense of anticipation. As he approached his locker, he noticed a folded note slipped through the vent. Unfolding it, he recognized Steph’s unmistakable scrawl: “Meet me in the art room. Urgent. -S.”

Curiosity piqued and a hint of apprehension stirring within him, Tim navigated the familiar hallways to the art room. Pushing open the door, he was met with a scene that stopped him in his tracks. The usually serene space was transformed into a bustling command center. Posters with bold slogans like “Freedom in Fashion!” and “Culinary Justice for All!” adorned the walls. A large whiteboard displayed a meticulously detailed timeline leading up to Friday’s assembly. In the midst of it all stood Steph, her energy electric, directing a group of students with the fervor of a seasoned general.

“Tim! Perfect timing,” she called out, her eyes alight with determination. “We’ve got a lot to cover today.”

He approached, taking in the organized chaos. “Steph, this is… impressive. But isn’t this a bit much? We’re drawing a lot of attention.”

She waved off his concern with a confident grin. “Attention is exactly what we need. If we’re going to make a change, we have to be seen and heard.”

Tim sighed, recognizing the point of no return had long passed. “Alright. What’s the plan for today?”

Steph’s grin widened. “Two main objectives. First, we need to finalize our presentation for tomorrow. Second, and more pressing, we have to address the… situation in the cafeteria.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Situation?”

She nodded, her expression turning serious. “There’s been talk that the administration is planning to shut down our protest by enforcing stricter rules during lunch. We need to get ahead of this.”

He rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar throb of an impending headache. “Steph, this is escalating quickly. Are we prepared for potential fallout?”

She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Tim, we’ve come this far. We can’t back down now. Trust me.”

Despite his reservations, Tim couldn’t deny the fire in her eyes was contagious. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The morning passed in a blur of activity. Tim and Steph, along with their dedicated team, refined their presentation, ensuring every statistic and argument was airtight. They practiced their delivery, anticipating potential questions and counterarguments. By the time the lunch bell rang, they felt as ready as they could be.

As they made their way to the cafeteria, the tension was palpable. Students whispered in hushed tones, casting furtive glances at the pair. The usual hum of lunchtime chatter was overshadowed by an undercurrent of expectancy.

Entering the cafeteria, they were met with an unexpected sight. Principal Stevenson stood near the entrance, flanked by two stern-looking faculty members. A large sign behind them read: “New Lunch Regulations in Effect Immediately.”

Steph’s jaw tightened. “They’re trying to silence us.”

Tim glanced at her, noting the determination etched on her face. “What’s the move?”

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “We stick to the plan. We show them that our voices won’t be drowned out by intimidation.”

They approached the serving line, trays in hand. The usual fare was even more unappetizing than usual—a clear attempt to dissuade any further complaints. Steph picked up a plate of what was labeled “meatloaf” but looked anything but. She turned to Tim, holding it up.

“This,” she declared loudly, ensuring those around could hear, “is exactly why we’re fighting. We deserve better.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Students began to nod, some even clapping softly.

Principal Stevenson stepped forward, his expression a mix of frustration and authority. “Miss Brown, Mr. Drake, a word, please.”

Sharing a glance, they set down their trays and followed him to a quieter corner of the cafeteria.

“Your recent activities have not gone unnoticed,” he began, his tone measured. “While we appreciate student involvement, there are proper channels to address grievances.”

Steph met his gaze head-on. “With all due respect, sir, we’ve tried those channels. We’ve been ignored. This is the only way to make our voices heard.”

Tim interjected, his voice calm but firm. “We’re scheduled to present our case at tomorrow’s assembly. All we’re asking for is a fair hearing.”

The principal studied them for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Very well. But understand this—there are boundaries. Cross them, and there will be consequences.”

As they left the cafeteria, the weight of the principal’s words hung over them.
Tim knew how much this mattered for Steph, and he also knew that the principal was never going to listen without a little… push in the right direction.

**

The sun had already dipped behind the Gotham skyline when Tim slipped quietly into the administrative building, the folder under his arm heavier than it should have been. The halls were empty, save for the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock and the smell of too much polish on the floors. He didn’t want to be doing this.

But Steph had worked so hard.

He wasn’t going to let her fall flat on her face because of some petty obstruction from the administration.

Principal Stevenson looked up from behind his desk when Tim knocked and stepped in. He seemed surprised, blinking behind his thick glasses.

“Mr. Drake. It’s after hours.”

“I know. I won’t take long,” Tim said, his tone composed, like he was discussing a math assignment. He placed the folder on the desk and slid it across slowly. “But I think we should talk.”

Stevenson opened the folder. His brow furrowed immediately as he scanned the contents: several screenshots of emails, scanned documents from the school board, and one rather damning reimbursement report regarding a catering company and a suspiciously inflated invoice. Nothing illegal, not exactly. But certainly enough to get him removed, or at least make for a very uncomfortable board meeting.

“I don’t want to use this,” Tim said quietly, evenly. “But I will if I have to.”

Stevenson looked up at him, face pale now. “You… you went through—how did you even get this?”

Tim just stared back.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t say it was easy. He couldn’t say that it had gotten it almost a year ago, that it had taken a week of watching patterns, two hours of focused hacking, and one late-night conversation with Jason, who had simply said: “Don’t use it unless you believe it’s the right thing. The man is an asshole, but the principal we had before was so much worse.”

“She’s not trying to burn the school down,” Tim said. “She just wants it to be fair. And honestly, she’s right. The code’s outdated. The cafeteria food is actively violating district regulations. She has data. She has witnesses. She just… she needs a fair shot.”

Stevenson leaned back, the lines on his face deeper now. “So this is blackmail.”

Tim’s jaw clenched slightly. “It’s a negotiation. But you can call it whatever makes you feel better.”

There was a long pause. The principal looked at the folder again, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If I agree to this—what, you expect me to give her the floor during the assembly? Let her drag the school through the mud?”

Tim shook his head. “I expect you to listen. And if what she says has merit—which it does—then consider her proposals seriously. That’s it.”

Stevenson studied him. “You’re an odd kid, Mr. Drake.”

Tim’s lips tugged in the smallest of smiles. “That’s what they tell me.”

He turned and walked out of the office without waiting for an answer.

**

Tim didn’t tell Steph.

He couldn’t. She’d be furious if she found out. This was her fight. Her victory. And Tim wanted her to have that—to believe that the world had listened just because she’d spoken up. Because she had earned it, all of it.

And if Tim had to do the quiet, messy thing in the background to make sure of it, then fine.

He’d always been good at shadows anyway.

~~~

Gotham Academy buzzed with a tension that reached all the way down to its foundations. Teachers walked the halls with tight expressions, students whispered in every corner, and somewhere above it all, the weight of the coming assembly seemed to press against the old bones of the building. There had always been student-led initiatives, yes—but never like this. Not led by them.

Tim stood by his locker, staring down at the finished speech tucked inside his folder. His tie was crooked—Steph had yanked it like a leash in greeting twenty minutes earlier—and his nerves were twisting into weird, quiet spirals inside his stomach.

Steph was late. Of course she was. She always made an entrance.

And like a summon conjured from thought alone, there she was. Charging down the hall in her regulation skirt—which, Tim noticed, had been “re-imagined” again. This time the hem sat about three inches higher than the code allowed, and she’d pinned a bright yellow flower to her collar, a sharp contrast to the uniform’s gloom.

“Drake,” she called, weaving through a group of underclassmen. “We ready to burn this place down with righteousness?”

He gave her a sideways look. “As long as ‘burning it down’ involves a USB stick, a slideshow, and a moderate amount of civil disobedience, then yeah. We’re ready.”

“Good,” she said, pulling him by the elbow as they headed toward the auditorium. “Because I’ve got a surprise.”

Tim paused. “Steph. No. No more surprises. Your surprises usually end in me giving a panicked excuse to the headmaster while you’re already halfway up a flagpole.”

She patted his arm. “Relax. No climbing today. Well, maybe later. But for now, just… trust me.”

“I hate that,” Tim muttered.

“I know.”

They slipped into the backstage area of the auditorium where the rest of their ragtag “Reform Committee” was already gathered—ten students, some clutching poster boards, others nervously flipping through speech cards. The lights buzzed faintly overhead. A couple teachers hovered by the door, clearly instructed to keep an eye on the revolutionaries.

Steph clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone. Deep breaths. Remember, we’re not here to overthrow Gotham Academy… just bend it dramatically into something better.”

“You should write slogans professionally,” Tim muttered as he opened his laptop and connected it to the projector. “You’d make a fortune.”

She winked. “I plan on it. Right after we win.”

Then the bell rang.

The auditorium filled quickly. Hundreds of students poured in, filling rows like waves rising behind a dam. A few curious parents were in the back. At the front sat Principal Stevenson, his face the epitome of forced neutrality. Tim scanned the room—Jason would be proud of the contingency plans he’d programmed into the slideshow just in case something crashed… literally or otherwise.

Then Steph stepped up to the podium.

Her voice rang loud and clear, no hesitation, no apology.

“Good morning, Gotham Academy. I know I’m not exactly the picture of tradition, but hear me out.”

She started by talking about the dress code. She didn’t yell. She didn’t mock. She just told them the truth—about how rules meant to create “equality” often ended up enforcing narrow expectations. How it punished individuality under the guise of unity. She showed slides: student quotes, photos of “infractions,” statistics on disciplinary actions that leaned unfairly against certain students.

Then Tim stepped up beside her.

He walked them through the cafeteria issue, with charts and graphs and data he’d pulled from the school’s own nutrition audits. The meals weren’t just bad—they were borderline violations of the district’s own policies. He ended with a slow, confident breath.

“We’re not trying to cause chaos. We’re trying to help you listen. Because we listened—to our classmates, to the staff, to the silence. And silence isn’t always good.”

The room was quiet for a moment too long.

And then the clapping started.

It began with a few students in the back. Then more. Then the teachers. Even a few of the parents stood up. It rolled forward like a wave, building into something loud and sincere. Steph beamed. Tim… felt like he’d been hit with a strange warmth he hadn’t expected.

Principal Stevenson stood, buttoned his blazer, and stepped forward.

“Thank you, Miss Brown. Mr. Drake. While I may disagree with some of your conclusions,” he paused, a bit stiff, “I admire the way you presented them. And as of today, we will begin a formal review of the dress code and cafeteria guidelines—with student input.”

Steph blinked. Tim thought he saw her eyes shine just a bit.

As the assembly ended, students flooded around them. Some asked for copies of their presentation. Others offered to help with the upcoming committee. And for once, Tim wasn’t the quiet, slightly odd kid in the background. He was the kid who helped change something. Even if just a little.

Later, when the school emptied and the sun started its slow descent over the city, Steph and Tim stood out by the gates, leaning on the stone arch.

“So,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “Revolution accomplished.”

Tim snorted. “More like… politely negotiated reform.”

She laughed. “Hey, I’ll take it. You did good, you know.”

He didn’t answer right away, guilt for his actions and for not telling Steph.

“…You too,” he said finally.

Steph smirked. “Obviously”

Chapter Text

It was early December when the realization settled into Tim’s chest with a quiet, steady certainty:

he loved being Robin.

Not in the way that people loved their favorite food or a new game or even a friend. This was deeper. It sat in his bones, in his blood, in the sharp cold that bit through his cape when he swung over the city and felt like every heartbeat in Gotham moved in time with his own.

Dick had been Robin because he needed strength—because tragedy had torn his world apart and Bruce had given him a path to take that pain and turn it into purpose. Jason had been Robin because he needed to fight for the forgotten, for the streets that raised him and the people that were left behind by every system meant to help them.

But Tim?

Tim was born into Gotham. He didn’t stumble into tragedy the way Dick had. He hadn’t grown up in it like Jason. He’d grown around Gotham. He’d watched it closely, lived in the in-between places—the penthouses and the alleyways, the private schools and the crime reports. He’d mapped it out before he ever wore a mask. He’d photographed its sharp edges and quiet aches. He’d seen it like a scientist. And then he felt it.

He knew it.

That made all the difference.

He wasn’t Robin because he was angry, or even because he needed to be. He was Robin because he wanted to be the bridge. Because someone had to listen.

Tim had used his web of contacts—built under the alias of a masked urban photographer—to widen his net. He transferred that network into Robin’s work without raising a single brow. The sudden presence of Robin in areas no Bat had ever really paid attention to hadn’t gone unnoticed, but no one questioned it. People just… welcomed it. And soon, people expected him.

He started small.

There was an electronics store in the Bowery—an older woman named Mara, who ran a one-woman shop under the raised railway. Someone had torched her place in a shake-down. Tim found her through a message board he used to monitor whispers in the underground art and street scene. He showed up as Robin the next night with the ID and location of the arsonist… and enough quietly transferred funds to help her rebuild the shop with better tools and full heat for the winter.

Then there was Micah, a trans teen from the Tricorner district who was kicked out and living in an abandoned building. Tim found him because one of his old photographer contacts had posted a blurred-out image of a young kid sleeping in a stairwell. It took him two nights to track him down. He got Micah temporary housing, used some of Bruce’s unused charity funds (and a very convincingly forged grant request) to secure him a full ride at Gotham U’s digital design program.

There was a quiet, tired woman named Lena who worked a corner near the narrows. She never asked for anything. But Tim watched her one night, watched the way she got in a car with a guy who didn’t look right—too jumpy, too high. He tailed them. Stopped it before it got bad. He didn’t say a word to her about it when he returned her to her spot. Just handed her a slip of paper with a free clinic’s address, and another one for an exit program. Next time he saw her, she’d dyed her hair and started over. She winked at him. “Appreciate it, bird boy.”

Robin was known now. But not in the way Batman was. Batman was the shadow. The fear. The myth.

Robin— this Robin—was the whisper of something else. Understanding, maybe. The knowledge that he was part of this city and Gotham knew it.

He’d started a quiet little program through one of his many dummy online accounts, setting up anonymous scholarships for kids from low-income areas. No big fanfare. Just a name on a list and tuition cleared. He made sure to funnel donations through shell charities Bruce never checked on.

Free healthcare, connections to underground safehouses, a steady presence at night in places that never saw a Bat signal. Tim had taken the legacy and bent it gently toward the places no one was looking. And people began to notice.

Not the cops. Not the press. But the people.

They knew.

In Chinatown, someone started leaving him tea and hand warmers in hidden spots along his usual patrol routes. In Burnside, an old street artist painted a mural on the back of a garage wall—Robin crouched with a light in his hand, not a weapon. A lantern. In the Narrows, people had started calling him “the quiet one.” The smart one. The one who asked questions, stayed to listen.

Tim never said anything about it to Bruce. Or even Dick. It wasn’t about that.

It was just… this was his Gotham.

And he was Gotham’s Robin.

No need to shout it. He was here. And people knew. Even in Crime Alley

A month ago

The wind was sharp in Gotham that night, the kind that scraped your skin and made even the shadows feel colder. Tim pulled his hood lower, tucking his hands into the pockets of the worn jacket he used when he came to the streets without the cape. It was a borrowed persona now—an echo of a boy who used to sneak into alleys and rooftop edges with a camera, pretending not to be afraid.

It had taken months to build the trust, to not be just another rich kid slumming it for some thrill. The kids—runaways, street performers, scavengers—had slowly opened up to the masked photographer who gave them prints of themselves like they were art.

But now, that boy had to disappear. He couldn’t be both anymore. Not now that Robin was known in the neighborhoods Tim had once slipped through unnoticed.

So he’d come to say goodbye.

The old warehouse lot off Franklin Street had been their unofficial spot—half shelter, half sanctuary. Some of the kids had already drifted out into the city, but a few remained, clustered around a rusted barrel that someone had lit with scrap wood and old newspapers.

“Wait—you’re really leaving the photo gig?” Ayla, one of the younger girls, asked, her voice caught between curiosity and concern. “I thought you loved it!”

Tim smiled softly. “I’ll still do it, just not as much. Besides, I’ve got… other things I need to do.”

There were groans and a few muttered complaints, but most of them nodded, even if reluctantly. They’d seen enough to know not to ask too many questions when someone said they had to leave.

All except one.

Mark stood at the edge of the light, older than the rest—maybe seventeen or eighteen—with a crooked jaw from a fight long past and eyes too sharp for someone who slept under bridges. When Tim turned to go, Mark followed.

“Hey.”

Tim paused. “Yeah?”

“Walk with me.”

They moved to the edge of the lot, past a stack of broken pallets and into the dark where the streetlight didn’t reach. The silence stretched between them for a beat, then another. Tim could feel the tension coming, but he didn’t speak.

Mark finally broke it. “You think we’re all stupid, huh?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“You think just ’cause we sleep on cardboard and hustle for laundry coins that we can’t put two and two together?” He crossed his arms. “You disappear. And then, like clockwork, Robin shows up. A new Robin. Smaller. Lean. Doesn’t talk much but moves like a whisper and hits like he’s been practicing in shadows since birth. Sound like anyone we know?”

Tim didn’t answer.

Mark took a step closer. “Look, I don’t care who you really are. And I ain’t gonna out you to anyone. Hell, most of ‘em wouldn’t believe me if I tried.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “But I ain’t stupid.”

Still, Tim stayed quiet. He met Mark’s gaze and held it, even though a thousand thoughts twisted behind his calm expression.

Mark sighed. “You do good, man. I see what you’ve been doin’ out there. Helping. Actually helping. Not just punching guys and running off. You think that goes unnoticed?”

Tim’s throat tightened slightly. He didn’t realize until that moment how much it meant to him—someone seeing it. Someone getting it.

“I know you ain’t from Crime Alley,” Mark continued, softer now. “You don’t got the accent or the beat-down rhythm we do. But you came back. You kept comin’ back. And that counts for somethin’.”

Another beat passed. Then Mark looked away, just for a second. “The last one… the last robin. He was one of us. Loudmouth. Kinda cocky. But he gave a damn. And then he was gone.”

Tim felt the words like a weight in his chest.

Mark looked back at him. “Don’t die like he did. I ain’t gonna pretend I knew him well, but I know what he meant around here. If you’re gonna wear that ‘R’, then you’ve got our protection too. You get that?”

Tim swallowed hard, his voice low. “Yeah. I get it.”

Mark gave him a firm nod. “Good. Then go be Robin. Just don’t forget who you’re being it for.”

Tim watched him walk back into the dark, into the warmth of the firelight. He stayed there for a moment, silent, the cold biting deeper than before.

He hadn’t planned on anyone figuring it out. Not them. Not him. But maybe it was okay. Maybe it was right.

He turned toward the city, toward the rooftops and the hum of Gotham waiting beneath him, and melted into the night.

Now

The snow had started falling heavy on the city, blanketing Gotham in a soft hush that only made the chaos more surreal. Tim was getting good at reading the difference in snowfall—when it was the quiet kind that muffled everything and made you forget the crime below, and when it was the kind that made the rooftops a death trap.

Tonight was the latter.

He gritted his teeth as his boots slid just an inch too far on the frost-covered edge of a rooftop, barely catching himself with a grapple before he could go tumbling. The wind bit through his suit. It was a bad night to be out. But then again, it was always a bad night in Gotham. That was kind of the point.

Still, he’d been preparing for this. After all, Dick had made sure of it.

A few weeks back, he’d spent the weekend in Blüdhaven, and Dick had dragged him out the second snow started falling.

“We’re going rooftop skating,” he’d declared, practically bouncing on his toes like a kid. “It’s a crucial part of your training.”

Tim had blinked at him like he’d grown another head. “Rooftop… skating?”

“Yep,” Dick said, already climbing out the window. “You need to know how to move on ice if you’re gonna patrol in winter. Come on, don’t make me call it ‘Bat-ballet.’”

Tim had groaned but followed, because no matter how much he rolled his eyes, he trusted Dick. Plus, if someone was going to teach him how to slide across a glassy rooftop without dying, it might as well be a former circus acrobat.

They’d spent hours sprinting, jumping, sliding, falling, and getting back up again—Dick laughing, Tim swearing, both of them daring each other into more ridiculous spins and stunts. At one point they’d gotten into a heated debate over whether anyone alive actually knew how to pronounce Latin properly.

“It’s a dead language, Tim,” Dick had argued while balancing on the ledge of an old water tower.

“Not in Vatican City,” Tim snapped back, nearly falling on his face while trying to prove a point mid-slide. “It’s still an official language there, technically still spoken .”

“Okay, but can anyone actually speak it? I feel like they just mumble holy stuff and pretend they’re fluent.”

“Are you implying the Pope is faking Latin fluency?” Tim huffed.

“I’m just saying… there’s probably a lot of confident guesswork happening.”

By the time they finally dragged themselves back to Dick’s apartment, Tim’s ankles ached, and he felt like he’d used muscles he didn’t even know existed. But he was warm, buzzing from laughter and adrenaline, and—though he wouldn’t admit it out loud—kind of proud of how quickly he’d picked it up.

They’d dumped their gear in a pile, collapsed on the couch, and Dick had, with a devious smile, queued up a Twilight marathon.

“This is revenge for the Latin thing, isn’t it?” Tim had muttered as the overly dramatic music started.

“You’re the one who said you never watched it. I’m just filling in cultural gaps.”

The two of them heckled the movies the entire way through—pausing to mock Edward’s stalker tendencies or Jacob’s consistent shirtlessness.

“Isn’t he, like, literally a hundred years old?” Tim groaned as Edward stared at Bella like a man at the brink of insanity. “And everyone just acts like that’s romantic?”

Dick threw popcorn at the screen. “Red flags. So many red flags.”

“And Jacob just casually has rage blackouts. Great romantic options, really.”

By the time the third movie started, their sarcasm had mellowed into soft comments, then mumbles, and eventually silence. Tim barely remembered falling asleep. One minute he was curled in a blanket with hot chocolate in his hand, and the next—

He was warm. Too warm.

He blinked, groggy, and realized the reason: he was curled up against Dick, who had one arm loosely slung around him like a big, unconscious heat pack.

Tim stiffened, unsure whether to move or just disintegrate from embarrassment. He could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of Dick’s chest against his shoulder, could hear his soft, even breathing. And despite the very loud, very rational voice in his brain saying move, idiot , Tim… didn’t.

He lay there a little longer, breathing quietly, strangely calm. Maybe it was just the safety. The warmth. Or the fact that, for once, he didn’t feel like he had to earn his place.

When he finally got up—slowly, carefully, trying not to wake Dick—he felt something new in his chest. A softness, maybe. Or the kind of quiet belonging he hadn’t really expected to find.

Tim didn’t know how much this would last, but probably not long knowing himself. Robin and Nightwing may be brothers, but he wasn’t enough of a fool to think it applied to Tim and Dick as well. Still, he will enjoy this while it lasts.

Back in Gotham, everything was colder—the wind sharper, the city more restless—but the silence that used to press in on Tim during patrols was gone. It had been gradual, like snow melting too slow to notice, but suddenly he realized that the long, empty stretches of silence between rooftops had turned into low, steady conversations. Bruce didn’t talk much, not like Dick or Steph or even Jason, but he talked enough now. Enough to make Tim feel like he was really there , not just tolerated.

They talked about cases mostly. Gotham’s patterns, criminal psychology, forensic tricks Bruce had picked up over decades. But sometimes it was about Tim himself—his form, the way he moved, the tightness in his landings, how to control the swing of the grapple line with a twist of his wrist.

“You’re compensating too much on your left shoulder when you launch,” Bruce had said one night, catching Tim mid-swing. He adjusted Tim’s arm himself, large gloved hands steady and precise. “You’ll lose momentum like that.”

Tim hadn’t even been annoyed. He just nodded, cheeks burning, and tried again. That night, his landings were sharper, and Bruce gave a short, approving grunt that might as well have been a gold star.

And grappling—God, grappling was cool . It was still dangerous as hell, and his ribs hated it when he caught a ledge wrong, but there was something exhilarating about it. Bruce had taken the time to go over it in detail: anchoring positions, arc trajectory, wind resistance. It had all clicked in Tim’s mind like a puzzle snapping together.

Some nights, Tim even let a joke slip. Quietly. Carefully. A dry little line about Penguin’s umbrella choices or how Bruce could probably scare people just by raising an eyebrow. Bruce never laughed, not really—but sometimes there was that slight twitch of his mouth. A smirk trying not to be a smirk.

Tim counted it. He counted everything. Wins like that were rare.

But even with those small changes—the quiet conversations, the subtle approval, the sense that Bruce was maybe starting to see him—it was always the same when the patrol ended.

The ride back in the Batmobile would be quiet, with Gotham’s orange haze bleeding across the windshield. Tim would fidget with his gloves, watch the blur of the city pass by, and brace himself for what came next.

Alfred would be waiting at the entrance to the cave, like always. A towel, a fresh change of clothes, and a pointed look that somehow communicated both disapproval of Bruce and infinite patience for Tim. “Master Timothy,” he’d say, “I do hope you’ll consider staying the night. It’s quite late, and the manor is considerably warmer than wherever you’re sneaking off to.”

Sometimes, Bruce added his voice too, in his own stiff way.

“You can stay. The guest room’s made up.”

Just once, Bruce had said it while handing Tim a steaming mug of tea, his cowl pulled back, the exhaustion written across his face in the quietest, human way. That night, Tim had paused. Hesitated.

But in the end, he’d still shaken his head.

“Thanks,” he muttered, “but I’ve got stuff to do.”

So he always went back. Back to his little room. Back to a house that was too big and too quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t break under conversation but just… hovered.

He didn’t really know why he kept doing it. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the part of him that knew he wasn’t supposed to stay.

Whatever the reason, he’d slip into his own bed, cold from the walk, suit hung neatly in the closet, and close his eyes thinking about how the Batmobile heater never quite worked right, how Bruce had corrected his grapple stance like it actually mattered, and how for one second, just one, Bruce had waited for him to say yes.

Drake Manor was a house that pretended to be a home.

From the outside, it had the kind of architectural brilliance that made real estate agents salivate: sleek angles, glass walls, a clean white facade that shimmered under the city’s winter light. It looked expensive—because it was—and modern—because it had to be. But inside, it was cold. Not just the temperature, though that too settled into the bones like a warning, but in the way the place felt . Impersonal. Lifeless. Tim always thought it felt more like a showroom than a home.

The heating system barely ever ran. Janet and Jack Drake didn’t see the point in wasting energy on a house that only had one occupant. Not when they were always gone—fundraisers, business trips, dig sites halfway across the world. They’d made it clear early on that Tim didn’t need much. And so he didn’t ask. Instead, he’d used part of the money he saved from photo gigs to buy himself a small, efficient space heater, tucked in the corner of his bedroom. It gave off a faint, steady hum as it worked to beat back the winter chill, casting the room in a weak orange glow.

But outside of that room, the house felt like a mausoleum.

The floors were pale hardwood that gleamed like mirrors and creaked ever so slightly when he walked across them—betraying him every time he dared to move. The furniture was minimalist, all cool grays and sterile whites, the kind of design that suggested people lived there, but never actually did. The walls were lined with artwork, sure, but not the kind that meant anything. Just expensive prints and sculptures, pieces chosen by designers rather than family. Things that were never touched, never moved.

Tim knew better than to touch anything anyway. He’d learned that early—four years old, a glass vase knocked over by accident during a fit of curiosity. That night he’d gone to bed with a split lip and bruises along his ribs, barely daring to breathe. After that, he’d made sure the untouched rooms stayed untouched . He knew how to walk carefully, how to leave no trace, how to disappear in a place where no one was looking for him.

But the worst part of it wasn’t the cold. It wasn’t the impersonal design or the untouched rooms. It was the silence.

Drake Manor didn’t breathe like Wayne Manor did. It didn’t creak with old wood or fill with the sounds of footsteps, voices, a crackling fireplace. There was no Alfred humming in the kitchen, no faint shuffle of papers in Bruce’s study, no echo of laughter drifting from the halls. It was empty. Soundless. The kind of silence that wrapped around you too tightly. That reminded you just how alone you were.

So when Tim was home—and it was rare that he was—he stayed in his room, door shut tight, curtains drawn. He’d press play on whatever playlist he could find, sometimes classical, sometimes punk, sometimes even terrible 2000s pop because the noise mattered more than the quality. Anything to drown out the silence. Anything to avoid the rest of the house.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, files spread out before him, heater humming at his feet, and music quietly playing from his laptop speakers. Gotham was out there, waiting. His real life. His chosen life. And this room—this little cocoon of warmth in the heart of a house that never wanted him—was just a pit stop. A holding cell between patrols and people who actually saw him.

And yet… no matter how many times he escaped it, Drake Manor was always here. Cold. Quiet. Waiting.

One year ago

It was a chilly, gray afternoon the first time Jason stepped into Drake Manor, and it hit him immediately: the place felt less like a house and more like an expensive hotel room no one had lived in for months.

The walls were pristine. Too pristine. Gleaming white, cool-toned artwork hung at mathematically precise angles. The foyer was lined with shining marble tiles that echoed underfoot, and Jason’s boots clicked as he followed Tim through the vast, echoing corridors. His eyes roamed the minimalist design — sleek furniture, untouched surfaces, not a smudge or a fingerprint anywhere. The kind of home that made you feel like you needed to take your shoes off, wear a suit, and not breathe too loud.

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets. “Damn. Cold enough in here to keep meat fresh.”

Tim turned around with an awkward half-smile, already walking backwards toward the stairwell. “Yeah, well. Don’t touch the thermostat, my parents would get a notification from halfway across the world and then I’d get a very long email.”

Jason blinked. “Wait, they can see if you touch the heat?”

Tim gave a helpless shrug. “It’s… on the system. They like to monitor things.”

“ Things, ” Jason muttered, eyes narrowing. “Like their kid maybe?”

Tim didn’t respond. Instead, he turned back around and led the way up the polished wooden staircase. Every step creaked faintly, like it was protesting their presence.

They passed by rooms with doors always left open — perfectly made beds, spotless desks, shelves lined with books and decor that screamed catalog. There was no smell of dinner cooking, no worn furniture, no sound except the distant hum of the house’s automated systems. Just sterile, glossy quiet.

Jason, trailing behind, shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “Dude… where is everybody?”

“There’s no one,” Tim replied, not even looking back. “My parents are in Zurich for some museum gala.”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Okay, sure, rich people stuff. But like… is there a nanny? A butler? Someone to check on you?”

Tim hesitated, already at the end of the hall. “We’ve got a housekeeper. She comes by three times a week. Leaves food sometimes.”

Jason stopped walking. “Wait. So—what, you’re just here? Alone? Like, all the time?”

Tim turned, arms crossed, leaning his shoulder against his bedroom doorframe. “I’m fine. I’ve been fine for years.”

“You’re, what,nine?”

“Ten,” Tim corrected automatically. Then, trying to lighten the mood, added: “I’m mature for my age.”

Jason wasn’t laughing. “That’s not funny. Ten-year-olds shouldn’t be living by themselves in a damn Bond villain lair.”

Tim looked down at his feet. “It’s not like I’m completely alone. I’ve got school, and piano and Chinese lessons. The housekeeper brings food. I’m not, like, feral. ”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Tim huffed out a short laugh despite himself and opened the door to his room. Jason followed him inside—and nearly burst out laughing on sight.

Tim’s room was, in a word, a disaster.

Clothes hung over the back of a chair, comic books and school folders formed their own geological layers on the desk, wires from his computer setup trailed like vines across the floor, and his bed looked like it had been used as a battleground for at least three separate pillow wars.

Jason whistled. “Okay. Now this feels like someone lives here.”

Tim scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s the only room I let be messy. It’s warmer in here. Plus, it keeps the heat in.”

Jason nodded, walking further into the chaos. “Honestly? I hate mess. Alfred would’ve knocked me into next week if I kept my room like this. But here? This is kind of refreshing.”

Tim grinned. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jason flopped onto the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. “Alright, nerd. What’s the plan? You said movie night.”

“Star Wars marathon,” Tim declared proudly, moving to set up his laptop and connect it to a small projector. “I figured it was the best common ground.”

Jason scoffed. “You wish it was common ground. I bet you’re one of those weirdos who says the prequels are secretly masterpieces.”

“I mean—cinematography-wise, they did —”

Jason chucked a pillow at him before he could finish.

They ended up sprawled on the bed, the projector casting soft blue and white light across the ceiling as ships zipped across the stars. Somewhere around halfway through Empire Strikes Back , they started arguing over books.

“Okay, no, I’m sorry,” Tim said, sitting upright. “But The Hound of the Baskervilles is objectively the best Holmes book.”

Jason threw a handful of popcorn at him. “It’s the most overrated! Holmes barely does anything! It’s just Watson running around like a scared puppy!”

“That’s the point!” Tim gestured wildly. “It’s about atmosphere! Suspense! The gothic setting—”

“ The Sign of Four is better,” Jason said, arms crossed behind his head. “Action, actual plot twists, and Holmes is cool instead of just disappearing into the moors for twenty chapters.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “You’re wrong, and you have terrible taste.”

Jason grinned. “Says the guy who likes the prequels. ”

They argued for a solid twenty minutes before both dissolved into laughter, the kind that made Tim’s stomach hurt and his eyes sting from. Because in that moment, it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t quiet. It was a room full of life.

They watched movies until well past midnight. Jason eventually passed out with his arms behind his head and one foot dangling off the bed. Tim stayed awake just a little longer, pulling the blanket over him and glancing toward the closed bedroom door.

Outside, the manor was still cold. Silent. Untouched.

He fell asleep like that. And for once, he didn’t mind being in Drake Manor.